It sounds very familiar to me: disappearing at random, never showing up when expected, having to beg him for answers…
Mrs. Scott goes on with a sorrowful expression. “Chris is extremely bright, and school has always been very important to him. But during this change, his behavior at school became so bad and erratic that we had to have a conference with the principal to keep him from being expelled.
“They told us that Chris’s behavior was atrocious. He had disobeyed teachers, walked out of class when he felt like it, picked fights with other students. Normally, our son didn’t even like to argue; he had taken boxing lessons when he was younger but never initiated confrontation, so we couldn’t believe what we were hearing.” She sighs, takes a cleansing breath, and continues. “They described him as being a completely different person from the boy they had taught years earlier. We knew he was acting differently at home, but we never guessed it had gone to this extent…” She drifts off and Mr. Scott comforts her.
“We thought at first it was just a phase,” Mrs. Scott continues, “and he was being a normal, rebellious teenager. At home, his behavior wasn’t nearly as bad as what his teachers described.” A pained expression takes hold of her face. “When we confronted him about it, he broke down; he told us he didn’t know what was going on, and that something was happening to him. He told us he’d get urges to do or say things, and that he had no control over his own actions. He then admitted that he was having blackouts. That he’d wake up in the morning and, in the blink of an eye, hours would pass and he’d have no idea where he’d been or what he’d done. If you can imagine someone telling you that, it’s the scariest thing you could ever experience, especially when it’s coming from someone you love. If you could have seen the fear in his eyes when he told us about this… he was terrified, and so were we.
“We told him we’d have him see a therapist. That we’d find out what was going on with him. That next day, he was gone. We looked everywhere for him, all around town, neighboring counties, but we couldn’t find him. Five days later, he came home. He was driving a car that cost more than our farm’s annual income, and he didn’t remember getting into it. And there was over twenty thousand dollars in the trunk,” Mrs. Scott recalls, shaking her head at the thought of it.
“We had no idea what we were dealing with up until that point,” Mr. Scott finally joins in. “Chris had never given us any problems at all, let alone problems as serious as what we were dealing with then. Our son was so afraid of what he was doing when he suffered these losses of time, and so were we. He had us lock him in his room. We turned to the only person that we knew could help us—my stepfather, Dexter Crestfield Sr..” Mr. Scott clenches his fists at the name.
“He provided Chris with the best psychiatric help money could buy. We hoped it would make Chris better. After three sessions, the doctor called us in to speak with her. She told us Chris was exhibiting a form of Dissociative Identity Disorder, a kind that she’d never seen before. Most cases are caused by a traumatic event that the person can’t handle, thus creating an alter who can. But in Chris’s case, there was no specific traumatic event that happened. It was as if his personality was always divided, like this alter was growing with him,” Mr. Scott says, a look of frustration on his face. “The doctor told us she’d met Chris’s alter during the first session, which was uncommon. She explained that it usually took many sessions to get the alter to come forward, but this one confronted her immediately.”
He waits for a response from me. I sit quietly, absorbing what I’m hearing and waiting for him to continue.
Mrs. Scott picks up where her husband left off. “You have to understand that we’ve never faced problems like these. We had a hard time believing what we were hearing, and I know you do too. Even if she was the best in her field, we still had doubts. But seeing is believing. His doctor told us to sit in on a session with her and we’d meet him. We were skeptical the entire time, but she hypnotized Chris, or what she called bringing him to a state of unconsciousness, and she asked for his alter to come out. That was the day we met Cal.”
“I was never a firm believer in the mental problem mumbo-jumbo until I came face to face with it,” Mr. Scott says, looking down at his hands. “This person looked like our son, sounded like our son, but he was nothing like our son. He was… mean, cocky… nothing like our son. He also had a temper, and he had no interest in the life that we had built for him as Chris, or the life that Chris had built for himself. He made it clear that he was in no way our son and that he had no intentions of having anything to do with us. He had big plans for his life, bigger plans than farm life.”
I look into Mr. Scott’s eyes, and I can almost see hatred there. I start to feel my stomach knot. This life, these people don’t fit Cal at all. But this can’t be true. This can’t happen. Out of all of the people for this to happen to, why me? Why the person I fell in love with? I close my eyes; even as crazy as this all seems, it sort of makes sense.
“We were afraid he would hurt someone or do something that would land Chris in jail. We couldn’t control him, so we decided to send him to live with my stepfather’s son, Dexter Jr.,” Mr. Scott says. “You’ve met the Crestfields, so you know what that meant.”
I can’t help but clench my hands tightly at the name. The thought of how long Dexter kept me in the dark sends flames of anger through my veins.
Mr. Scott notices my discomfort and continues, “It’s not an association I claim proudly. A name I chose not to take, even with its privileges, but it was a good fit for Cal. And we knew with them, he’d have everything he wanted and wouldn’t have to harm people or steal, endangering our son’s life. Of course, Dexter Jr. was one of the people that Cal actually liked. He didn’t care for us much. When Chris would regain control, he’d come home, and when Cal took over, he’d just leave. Two years ago, my wife received some news that was life changing for our entire family.”
His wife takes his hand, squeezing it. “I was diagnosed with stage three cancer. We asked Dexter Jr. to tell Cal. Shortly after that, Chris regained control and came home, and he didn’t leave again.”
I try to wrap my mind around everything I’ve just heard. I think back to two years ago, and suddenly, I see in my mind’s eye the last night I spent with Cal, when he left me after getting a phone call from Dexter. It dawns on me that it could have been at that moment. My thoughts are jumbled, but my heart still goes out Cal, knowing what he had to be going through at that moment. He hadn’t had anyone to comfort him or help him through what he was dealing with.
“I’m really sorry that happened to you.” I try to remain sensitive, but my mind is still reeling. “This, this can’t be true.” I whimper, head in my hands as I sit, taking in all of the information I’ve just heard.
I try to convince myself they’re lying, but what these two people are telling me coincides perfectly with everything that’s happened. I feel a hand touch my shoulder, but I pull away, willing myself not to believe what I’m hearing. I don’t want to accept this.
“If this is true, if I happen to believe all this, why didn’t anyone tell me?” I ask out of frustration at the situation. “You had to have known about me! Dexter knew about me. I sat in his house. I ate dinner with him… he became my friend! And no one told me!” I look them both in the eye.