Blood Child (3 page)

S
even universities in Central Florida have psychology departments; after about an hour on the phone, I found a professor who was free for the afternoon and was willing to meet regarding PTSD. Sure, I could have looked up the information online, but getting an expert as a source for my article would add to its credibility. Plus, the smell of my temporary home was getting to me. I needed air. Dr. Margaret Harrell had doctorates in both psychology and neuropsychology. She had also published recently on PTSD, a bonus.

Her office was located on campus, but I was meeting her at a local coffeehouse called the Golden Lion Coffee Lounge. Maybe she had googled my name while we were on the phone and didn’t want to be seen with me on campus, but then why meet me at all? I was paranoid, probably, but with good reason; frequent drunken decisions can burn a lot of bridges.

The café was the usual offbeat hole-in-the-wall. Local art lined the walls, and secondhand sofas gave the place that just-past-college vibe. It was cool and in the now, with just a hint of hipster, which meant the place was too cool for working folks. I was eyeing the chalkboard menu when the door opened.

The good professor was in that glorious stage of womanhood when it is nearly impossible to determine age accurately. A PhD might place her in her late twenties to early forties; judging by her online biography or curriculum vitale, she had been in academics for a while, so I estimated her to be in her mid-to late thirties. She was a petite woman with cocoa skin and chin-length braids. My eyes and thoughts began to travel lower.

Focus and breathe
, I could hear Anthony whispering in my mind. I was here to interview her, not to seduce her. Old habits die hard, especially when they were exhilarating ones.

Apparently, she had googled me, because when she noticed me watching, she got up and came my way.

“Please get this gentleman whatever he wants.”

A slender man with lean muscles, a clean-shaven head, and a T-shirt with a T. rex swallowing a rainbow nodded and set to work without asking me for an order.

“Cro, you are being rude. Ask him what he wants.”

“Don’t need to, I know what he needs. Here, try this.”

She rolled her eyes the way only a friend can, with both amusement and annoyance at the same time. Bemused, I took the offered concoction. It smelled strong and exotic. The taste was extraordinary. True to his word, it was exactly what I needed. The dredges of my hangover were washed away by the caffeinated goodness.

Cro smirked as Dr. Harrell led me to a table.

“I take it you are a regular.”

“Actually, I am one of the owners, which is why I suggested it. It’s slow here. My office, however, is a different story. It is too close to graduation. The seniors are beginning to get on my nerves.”

We both chuckled. I remember being one of those students harassing my professors for better grades, extensions, or just plain mercy. I didn’t recall any of them being as intoxicating as Dr. Harrell.

“Amazing barista you have. This is quite the concoction.”

“Please don’t let him hear that. His ego will go through the roof. So how can I help you?”

“Yes, how would you know if a person was actually suffering from PTSD and if her memory loss was related?”

“The person would be given a series of tests, as well as an examination of his service record. He would also need to be treated by someone who has experience with PTSD. Not all military doctors and psychologists have the necessary training to properly diagnosis it.”

“What if the person isn’t a veteran?”

“There would still be a series of tests and interviews with psychologists experienced in treating PTSD. However, even with a diagnosis, there is no way to determine if it was directly caused by a single incident or a series of them, but it is possible. And it is also dependent on what happened prior to the traumatic event. Adding to that, many victims have other disorders with similar or overlapping symptoms. Neurology and psychology are not exact sciences; we learn new things every day. Sometimes, unfortunately, we learn that we were wrong.”

“So how would you determine if a person is telling the truth about losing her memory?”

“There are lots of ways to determine if a person is lying.”

“Such as?”

“Mr. Clark, are we discussing a particular person?”

“Yes. I am working on a piece, and I believe one of the individuals involved could be suffering from PTSD.”

“Why don’t you tell me a little, and I can give you an opinion. But without meeting them, I cannot diagnosis them.”

“Understandable. She is a victim of both physical and sexual abuse and may have witnessed the murder of her family.”

“The abuse alone could cause memory loss as well as PTSD, depending on the severity of the incident. Was this person suspected of committing the crime? A person experiencing abuse over a number of years will develop different survival mechanisms,; memory loss among them. A woman in Pennsylvania was diagnosed with PTSD after working as a state social worker for thirty-five years. In her case it wasn’t just one incident, but many over the course of her career.”

“So she could be telling the truth?”

“What makes you think she isn’t?”

“Twenty-three people, including her own brothers, were murdered, and she claims to have no knowledge of any of their deaths. It seems impossible—”

“Oh my God, are you talking about Emily?”

“You know Emily Bath?”

“Yes, she is a friend, a good friend.” She made the last two words linger as an accusation and pulled out her phone. “Hollis,” she said a second later, “this is Maggie…I am fine. Look, I am sitting with a reporter who is asking about Em. Yes, that’s his name…OK, will do.” She disconnected the call. “Hollis is on her way.”

“Um, who is Hollis?”

“You didn’t meet Hollis yesterday?”

“No.”

“Oh, she is Em’s personal assistant.”

“Why does a teacher need a personal assistant?”

“You’re kidding me, right? Do you know how much work the average teacher does? If the average teacher could afford one, they would all have them. Did you know that a century ago, most families had servants to help them with their day-to-day activities? Like laundry, dishes, and child rearing—”

Cro cut her off by sitting a cup of herbal tea down in front of her, along with a fresh cup for me, and mouthed the word
PMS
as he left. The good doctor didn’t fail to notice it and threw a napkin at him.

“Hollis is a friend too, I take it.”

She sighed, nodded, and sipped her tea.

“Sorry, we are all really good friends. Hollis and I are pretty protective of Em. You aren’t the first reporter to ask about her. After the deaths of her family, reporters were popping up everywhere. Most, though, have done their homework and know we are friends.”

“I am going to go out on a limb and say that most of the others didn’t speak with Em first.”

“True…here is Hollis.”

Maggie looked relieved when a young blonde walked in. Hollis looked younger than Em
;
she was dressed rather conservatively for someone her age, especially living in Florida. She had on a long-sleeved floral top with a blue pencil skirt and tights. Poor girl must have been dying in that outfit. Most Floridians I had seen her age were wearing as little as was fashionably tolerable.

“Mr. Clark, a pleasure to meet you. Emily was terribly sorry she couldn’t meet with you today. She wanted me to tell you that she wasn’t putting you off.”

“Migraine?” the other woman asked, the concern painted on her face.

“Afraid so, Maggie. She says it is all right with her if you want to continue talking with Mr. Clark. I am sorry if Maggie was a bit abrasive with you. She didn’t lecture you on how teachers are overworked, did she?”

Maggie’s red face answered for me.

“I am sorry. The college cut her budget, and she lost her graduate assistant. She is just a tad bitter.”

“No, I am not.”

“Why don’t you both call me Ty?”

Ignoring me, Maggie continued to ask Hollis questions. Apparently, Maggie was concerned that Em’s therapist was pushing her too hard again. Hollis denied it and told her Em felt it was time to deal with her past. She didn’t want to hide any longer. One of the most important lessons for any reporter to learn is how to listen. If you master it, you sometimes uncover gold. This conversation was looking very shiny.

“Why now?”I inquired.

“Why what?”They said in unison.

“Why deal with the past now?”

“I don’t think that is—” Maggie retorted.

“Maggie, Em wants us to talk to him. She is done hiding. Em’s boyfriend, Aaron, broke up with her because he felt she wasn’t being honest with him. They had been dating for over a year when he found out about the incident in New York.”

“She didn’t say anything about it at all to him?” I couldn’t hide my astonishment. So much for being a cool and collected reporter.

“She doesn’t talk about it with anyone except us and Patricia, her therapist. We both knew her before Atalik died. She was never comfortable talking about that psychopath.”

“She told you both about the abuse?”

“Yes,” they said in unison. The next two hours, both women talked frankly about their friend, never hesitating to share their opinions about her father and his wife. Atalik and his surviving wife were a perfect match, according to them, in the sadism department. It had taken Em the better part of three years to even talk about her father, and she only opened up to them because they found Em hiding in the back of the closet after a visit from Atalik and his wife.

Maggie had met Em when she was teaching at St. Mary’s University, where Em received her second PhD. The two had become inseparable. When Maggie moved to Florida to accept a position at Rollins, she asked Em to come along, suggesting it would be a way to start over. She knew Em’s father had been abusing her, but there was nothing she could do at that point because Em was an adult.

The signs were all there, even if Em didn’t come out and say it directly. It continued throughout Em’s academic career. Her father would either come to visit her or send someone to bring her home. Em was withdrawn after the visits, but never to their knowledge refused a visit or summons. The move to the blistering heat of Florida was initially undertaken to escape her father. It was a chance for her to have a life outside his influence; her academic drive was fueled by her desire never to live under his roof again. She, unlike her brothers, was expected to return to the manor on a regular basis. She had hinted on more than one occasion that he was set on her returning permanently after she finished her next degree. Only the Evil Ant, Em’s nickname for her stepmother, prevented it. Ant always intervened to prevent the immediate and permanent return of the most beloved child. When Em was home, she was all Atalik focused on; sharing was never Ant’s strong suit.

Maggie gave her a place to stay while she figured out what to do with her life. She couldn’t continue going to school, since Atalik had cut her off as soon as it was clear that she had really moved. When she didn’t return after six months, he showed up on their doorstep with Antoinette in tow. They were both genuinely shocked when Maggie refused to let them in. His attempts to see Em alone failed entirely while they lived together.

Eventually, she found a job as a teacher and began working at different alternative education programs around Orlando. It was her calling working with kids who had, unbeknown to them or her employers, shared similar horrific backgrounds. She never told them about her past, just knew how to work with them, how to inspire them to listen. Learning their intended lessons was another story.

One of the benefits of working for those “tough” schools was that they had even better security than a regular school. There was no way for her father or any of his people to just walk in off the street. It provided the safety net she needed to be able to function. Unexpected visits from Atalik and/or Gerald would leave her unable to go to work or even leave the little orchid house in which she now resided.

They would also set in motion weeks of nightmares. Em would wake up screaming, drenched in sweat. No matter what Maggie or Hollis did, she wouldn’t talk about them. Thus Patricia entered her life.

Patricia, Em’s therapist, helped get her back on her feet—at least at first. After a while Maggie feared Em was relying on her too much. Patricia took a special interest in her young client, calling her on weekends and even making house calls.

After a month of treatment, Patricia was all Em would talk about. She stopped having nightmares, but seemed completely codependent. Both Maggie and Hollis felt that Patricia was trying to use Em somehow, but could do nothing to prove their suspicions. Maggie suspected Patricia was writing a book on Em. HIPAA laws would prevent her from publishing it using Em’s name, but nothing could stop her from publishing it as a work of fiction. Two best sellers already on the market were fictionalized accounts of the massacre, not to mention the Lifetime and Sci Fi Channel movies. Hollis just didn’t trust dear Patty. It is pretty much the only thing the friends disagreed on.

Em had met Hollis at one of the facilities where she taught. Hollis was a success story: a teen mother who graduated high school and went on to college. They remained in contact and became friends. Em sometimes baby-sat Hollis’s son, Jayden, and for a brief period, they lived with her in the little orchid house. That was how Hollis met Atalik.

Upon returning to the house with Jayden in tow, she discovered the door wide open, the keys jingling as the breeze hit them. Em’s car was parked out front, but she was nowhere in sight and didn’t answer when called. However, the most expensive floral arrangement she had ever seen was placed squarely on the dining-room table, with a note from Atalik telling her to please come home. Jayden was a toddler by then and found his “Auntie Em” hiding the back of her closet in a catatonic state.

She spent three days in the hospital, completely unresponsive to any stimulus. Atalik came to visit twice while Hollis was sitting with Em; both times he barely acknowledged Hollis’s presence. The nurses finally asked him to leave after the second visit, when one of them was taking Em’s blood pressure as he entered the room. Her pressure spiked, and her vital signs were all over the place. The nurse yelled for everyone to clear the room. Hollis went, but Atalik remained, only moving to a corner, his eyes never moving from his daughter. When two additional nurses and a doctor arrived, he was asked to leave or be escorted out by security. He left, and her blood pressure and vitals returned to normal. Although he didn’t attempt to return to the hospital, doctors and nurses were convinced that under no circumstance should the count be allowed in his daughter’s room. He had given everyone the heebie-jeebies. Em woke up the next day.