Pretty Girl Thirteen. Liz Coley

parking lot at school. She remembered sitting next to Livvie in the Suburban and talking about Greg and how excited she was to have a for-sure date for homecoming. Everything was crystal clear in her head—the first day of hiking in, the campfire songs that first night, ghost stories in the leaders’ tent, then s’mores and off to bed without brushing teeth anyway. Angie told Dr. Grant about waking up early and wondering whether anyone had started the breakfast fire. She remembered eating thimbleberries and looking for a private place.

      The doctor listened intently as Angie’s narration came to a sudden stop. She raised her brows with encouragement. “Go on.”

      But there was nothing else, like a door had slammed. The hollow silence echoed. Angie glanced around the office in dismay.

      Over the doctor’s shoulders, she noticed a pair of pine knots in the paneling. They watched her, like dark, staring, narrow eyes peering out of the wood. She tried to look away, but they nailed her with a rising sense of panic. Strange and familiar. The breath froze in her lungs. Trapped. The roar of storm winds filled her ears. Through the swirling gale, someone screamed, “Quick. Hide!”

      And then the room was perfectly quiet.

      “Angela … Angela?” the doctor asked. “Hide from what, Angela? What was in the woods?”

      Angie stared at Dr. Grant. “Hmmm?”

      Dr. Grant leaned forward. “You said, ‘Quick, hide.’ Hide from what?”

      “No, I didn’t,” Angie said. “I said, ‘Thimbleberries.’ That’s what was growing in the woods.”

      The doctor’s blond eyebrows pulled so tight they nearly touched. “After thimbleberries. It was quite clear. You became frightened and you yelled, ‘Quick. Hide.’ Who were you talking to? I thought you were alone.”

      Angie plucked another petal and dropped it on the carpet. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      “Hmm. Okay. Maybe I misheard,” Dr. Grant said. “So you gathered and ate the berries. Then …?”

      “Then I was walking home.”

      “All the way from the campsite to home? You knew the way?”

      Angie shrugged. It was hard to care. “I guess. I don’t remember.” Three more petals hit the floor. “No, I don’t know the way. But I realized I was nearly home, just at the end of our street. My feet hurt a lot—I must have walked a long, long time.”

      “Did you notice anything else unusual?”

      Angie picked at the only thorn on the smooth-stemmed rose. “You mean besides it was September instead of August? Besides it was three years later? Besides I was taller and thinner? Besides I was wearing strange clothes instead of my pj’s? Anything unusual?” Her voice climbed the scale with each besides. “Nah. Not a thing.”

      “So everything had changed. Instantly.”

      A rising sob squeezed the back of her throat. “Everything except me. I’m still me when I close my eyes. I don’t know who’s been living in my body for the last three years, but I assure you it wasn’t me.” She waited for the doctor to say how silly and unreasonable that sounded.

      Dr. Grant didn’t even blink. “So where do you think you were?”

      “A rocking chair,” she answered reflexively. Then, “I don’t know why I said that. I have no idea.”

      Steepling her fingers under her chin, the doctor pursed her lips. “Curious. Angela, I think I would like to get your mother’s permission to try hypnosis. We may be able to push past the thimbleberries. How would you feel about that?”

      She felt—well, she wouldn’t call it hopeful. She was just being open-minded, that was all. “If you think it’ll help, go for it. I don’t see why you need Mom’s permission, though. I’m the one who needs help here.”

      “I’m glad you see it that way, Angela. I’m glad you understand that you need help. Still, I am going to pop out and advise your mother.”

      While she was out, Angie moved to the couch. Not knowing what to expect, she figured that if she fell over when she went under, it might as well be soft.

      Dr. Grant smiled without comment at Angie’s relocation. “Mom’s on board. Are you ready?”

      Angie nodded, wondering about the device in Dr. Grant’s hands. The doctor touched a switch, and Angie watched the light travel back and forth. It was vaguely annoying. Back and forth. Back and forth.

      “Am I supposed to feel different yet?” Angie asked.

      “Patience. Relax. Just breathe in and out,” Dr. Grant said in a swaying voice. “In and out. Imagine a pine tree, a perfect pine tree.”

      Angie let an image creep into her head, a perfectly symmetric dark green tree, like the kind a little kid draws. Like a Christmas-card tree.

      “There’s another one beside it,” the doctor said. Angie imagined another tree, taller.

      “Now there’s a woodsy smell,” she added. “Can you smell it? Breathe in and out, very slowly. In and out. In and out.”

      Angie did. She breathed slowly, and caught a hint of pine and wood smoke. “Yeah, I think I can smell something.”

      “Now add five more trees.”

      She saw them. Unreal.

      “Can you take a step toward them?”

      In her mind, Angie stepped closer to the trees. She stood and turned around in a circle, slowly. The knots in the paneling watched her relentlessly.

      “What are you looking for, Angela?” the doctor asked. “What do you see in the trees?”

      “No. Stop,” a loud voice said.

      “Angela, Angela.” The doctor had a hand on her arm.

      Angie blinked. The light was gone, and she was sitting in the beanbag chair. “How … when?”

      The doctor had an extremely serious expression on her face. “I think we have an unexpected complication,” she said.

       That’s when she told you about us. That’s when the doctor said, “I think we’ve found the explanation for your amnesia.”

       Of course, you wanted to know more.

       Dr. Grant had a textbook open on her desk. In large, bold type, the section was headed with the words DISSOCIATIVE IDENTITY DISORDER (DID). “I strongly suspect that your mind is carrying several alternate personalities—multiple personalities you developed to help you cope with the trauma of being kidnapped. We call them ‘alters’ for short.”

       “That’s crazy!” you said. “You’re telling me I’m insane? Schizo? Delusional?”

       “No, no. Not at all. The word is ‘dissociated’—pulled apart.” She hurried to reassure you. “Alters experience things that are too hurtful or frightening for you. They form a protective barrier between you and what’s happening. That way you don’t have to remember. They’re the brain’s ultimate survival mechanism.”

       She was so right. We gave ourselves a pat on the shoulders.

       But you laughed. “That’s ridiculous. Why do you think I have multiple personalities?”

       “Well, for one thing, there’s the long time period of lost memory.” Dr. Grant leaned over to collect the fallen petals from the floor. “For another, I’ve just spent half an hour talking to one of them. She calls herself Girl Scout. She’s worried about you.”

      Part II