“He tried again to talk me out of it. Said he’d seen this kind of thing before- survivor guilt. The more he talked, the angrier I got, the poor man. And since I’d reached my majority, he had no choice. I returned to L.A. feeling righteous with purpose- no longer just another grad student caught up in the grind, I was a woman with a mission. But the moment I stepped into my dorm room, the enormity of everything hit me. I realized my life would never be the same, never be normal. I dealt with it by staying busy, ordering the lawyer around, moving into the house, signing papers. Convincing myself, Alex, that I was in control. I found this place- it doesn’t look that great on the outside, but they really treat her special. Elmo is fantastic, totally oriented toward one-on-one care.”
She lifted my hand to her cheek, then placed it in her lap and held it tight.
“Now you, Alex. Your entree to this mess. The night you found me holding the snapshot was soon after Shirlee had been flown out- what a job, just getting her off the plane and into a van. I hadn’t slept for days, was wired and fatigued. The photo had come in a box with other family papers; it had been in Mummy’s purse the day she died.
“I started staring at it, fell into it, like Alice down the hole. I was trying to integrate everything, remember the good days. But so angry that I’d been deceived, that my whole life had been a deceit- every moment colored by lies. I felt sick, Alex. Nauseous. My stomach was heaving. As if the photo was capturing me- eating me up, the way the pool had eaten Shirlee. I freaked out, stayed freaked for days- I was hanging by a thread when you came in.
“I never heard you, Alex. Not until you were standing over me. And you seemed angry- judging me. Disapproving. When you picked the picture up off the floor and examined it, it was as if you’d invaded me- forced your way into my private pain. I wanted the pain all to myself- wanted something all to myself. I just blew. I’m so sorry.”
I returned the pressure of her hand. “It’s all right.”
“The next couple of weeks were horrible, just a nightmare. I worried what I’d done to you and me, but frankly, I was too drained to do anything about it and guilty because I couldn’t get myself to care more about it. I had so much to deal with: my rage at my parents for lying to me, my grief at losing them, my rage at Shirlee for coming back so damaged, for being unable to respond to my love. At the time I didn’t realize that she was vibrating, trying to communicate with me. So many changes all at once, Alex. Like a jumble of crisscrossing live wires burning into my brain. I got help.”
“Kruse.”
“Despite what you think of him, he helped me, Alex. Helped put me back together again. And he told me you’d come looking for me, which let me know you cared. I cared about you- that’s why I finally forced myself to get together with you, even though Paul said I wasn’t ready. And he was right. I came on like a nympho because I was feeling worthless, out of control, felt I owed you something. Acting like a sexpot made me feel in charge, as if I were stepping out of my personality and adopting a new one. But just for a short while. Later, while you slept, I despised what I’d done, despised you. I dumped on you because you were there.”
She looked away. “And because you were good. I ruined what we had because I was unable to tolerate goodness, Alex. I didn’t feel I deserved goodness. And after all these years, I still regret that.”
I sat there, trying to take it all in.
She leaned over and kissed me. Gradually, the kiss took on heat and depth and we were pressed against each other, groping, our tongues dancing. Then we both pulled away.
“Sharon-”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “Not again. How could you ever know you’d be safe?”
“I-”
She placed a finger over my lips.
“No reason to explain, Alex. Ancient history. I just wanted to show you that I’m not all bad.”
I kept quiet, didn’t say what had passed through my mind. That maybe we could start again- slowly. Carefully. Now that both of us had grown up.
She said, “I’ll let you go now.”
We drove away in separate cars.
Back from Kruse’s house, I sat in my living room with the lights out and turned it over, again and again. Park Avenue, Southampton summers. Mummy and Daddy. Martinis in the sun-room. Genteel cardboard cutouts.
But a nasty little scrap of celluloid said Mummy had been anything but genteel. A rich man’s party girl who’d made love on film, probably used it for blackmail.
My whole life had been a deceit- every moment colored by lies.
I thought about Shirlee Ransom. Vegetative. Squeaking. Wondered if any part of the story had been true.
If she loved her twin, how could she kill herself, abandon a helpless cripple?
Unless Shirlee was dead too.
S and S, silent partners.
A pair of little girls, beautiful, black-haired. Mountains in the background. Ice cream cones in opposite hands.
Mirror-image twins. She’s a lefty; I’m a righty.
Suddenly I realized what had bothered me about the porn loop- the tip-of-the-mind incongruity that stayed under my skin.
Sharon was right-handed but in the film- stroking, kneading- she’d favored her left.
Being a sexpot made me feel in charge. As if I were stepping out of my personality and stepping into someone else’s.
Switching? Trying on a new identity?
The left hand. Sinestra. Sinister. Some primitive cultures considered it evil.
Putting on a blond wig and becoming a bad girl… a left-handed sinister girl.
Suddenly something about the drowning story bothered me- something that hadn’t troubled me six years ago, when I’d wanted to believe her:
The details, the vivid imagery.
Too complex for a three-year-old. Too much for a toddler to remember.
Practiced detail. Or a well-rehearsed lie? Had she been coached? Had her memory enhanced?
As in hypnosis.
As in Paul Kruse, master hypnotist. Amateur film-maker. Professional sleaze.
I was certain, now, that he’d known enough to fill in lots of blanks. Had died with that knowledge. Horribly, bloodily, taking two other people with him.
I wanted, more than ever, to know why.
20
Feeling infected, the carrier of some dread disease, I canceled my flight to San Luis, turned on the TV, and created some electronic companionship.
The Kruse murders were the lead item on the eleven o’clock news, complete with sweeping live minicam shots of the murder house and inset photos of Paul and Suzanne in better days. The third victim was identified as Lourdes Escobar, age twenty-two, a native of El Salvador who’d worked as the Kruses’ maid. Her picture portrayed an open-faced young woman with plaited black hair and dark, melting eyes.
Innocent victim, pronounced the reporter, lowering his voice and oozing irony. She’d fled the turmoil and poverty of her native land, fueled by the dream of a better life, only to encounter violent death amid the seductive luxury of the City of the Angels…
That kind of philosophizing meant he didn’t know much.
I switched back and forth between channels, hungry for facts. All three newscasts were identical in style and lack of substance: reporters addressing the anchors instead of the audience, wondering out loud if one of Kruse’s patients had turned homicidal, or if this was just another random L.A. bloodletting.
I absorbed predictions of runs on gun shops, starved attack dogs. The reporter cupped one ear and said, “One moment. We’re about to have a statement from the police.”
The camera shifted to Cyril Trapp, clearing his throat. His shirt was TV blue. His white hair gleamed like a steel helmet. Under the spotlights his mottled skin was the color of dirty sheets. His mustache wriggled as he chewed his cheek. Establishing eye contact with the camera, he read a prepared statement pledging that the full investigative resources of the Los Angeles Police Department would be marshaled to solve these vicious slayings. A tight smile and head shake. He said, “That’s all I’m at liberty to divulge at this time,” and walked away.