“What’s that, doctor? What did you just say?”

Sharon: “Partners. I suggested that you and Jana are something more than just sisters. Or even twins. Perhaps you’re partners. Psychological partners.”

J. is thoughtful, silent, starts to smile.

Sharon: “What’s funny, J.?”

“Nothing. I suppose you’re right- you usually are.”

Sharon: “But does it make sense to you?”

“I suppose so, though if she is my partner, she’s certainly a silent one. We never talk. She refuses to talk to me.” Pause. Her smile widens. “Silent partners. What business are we in?”

Sharon: “The business of living.”

J., amused: “I suppose so.”

Sharon: “Would you like to talk more about that? About being a silent partner?”

J.: “I don’t know. I guess so… Maybe not. No. She’s so rude and unpleasant, I really can’t tolerate being around her. Let’s change the subject, if you don’t mind.”

J. didn’t show up for the next session, or the next. When she finally reappeared, two months later, she seemed composed, claimed her life was going great, she just needed a tune-up.

Sharon resumed hypnotherapy, continued her attempt to get the “twins” to meet. Five more months of frustration, during which Sharon began thinking of herself as a failure, wondered if J.’s needs couldn’t be better served by another therapist, “one with more experience, perhaps a male.”

But Kruse encouraged her to continue, advising still more reliance on nonverbal manipulation.

Another month of status quo and J. disappeared once again. Five weeks later she materialized, bursting into the office while Sharon was seeing another patient, calling that woman a “fucking wimp,” telling her, “your problems don’t mean diddly,” and ordering her out of the office.

Despite Sharon’s attempt to take charge of the situation, the other patient ran out crying. Sharon told J. never to do that again. J. became Jana and accused Sharon of being “an evil and selfish cunt. You’re a fucking manipulating cunt out to get everything I own, everything I am. All you want to do is bleed me fucking dry!” After threatening to sue Sharon and ruin her, she stormed out of the office.

And never returned.

End of treatment. Time for the failing therapist to ruminate.

A hundred-page discussion section. A hundred pages of Monday-morning quarterbacking. The end point: Sharon’s realization that her attempt to reconcile J. and Jana had been doomed to failure at the outset because the “twins” were “intractable psychic enemies; the triumph of one necessitated the death of the other- a psychological death, but one that had to be so vivid, so decisive that it might have been a literal demise.”

Instead of seeking integration, she realized now, she should have worked at strengthening good J.’s identity, teamed up with the good twin to destroy the “destructive, flagrantly disturbed Jana.”

“There’s no room,” she concluded, “in this young woman’s psyche for any type of partner, let alone the conflictual, silent partners represented by the splits of her personality. The nature of human identity is such that the business of living is, must be, a solitary process. Lonely at times, but enriched by the strength and satisfaction that comes from self-determination and a fully integrated ego.

“Alone, we’re born; alone, we die.”

One hell of a case. If there had ever been a case.

I knew J. I’d made love to her, danced with her out on a terrace.

I knew Jana, too, had watched her throw strawberry daiquiris against a fireplace, wiggle out of a flame-colored dress and do with me what she wanted.

A chapter on the psychology of twins, yet never once had Sharon acknowledged in print that she had a twin. Her own silent partner.

Denial? Deceit?

Autobiography.

She’d delved into her own tormented psyche, created a phony case history and passed it off as doctoral research.

Working it through. Some sort of avant-garde therapy?

Just like the porn loop.

Kruse had been her chairman.

It stank of Kruse.

But what of Shirlee? The real silent partner. Had Sharon abandoned her to a silent, dark world?

And who the hell was “Jasper”?

And deep thanks to Alex, who, even in his absence, continues to inspire me.

Demure, passive, ladylike “J.” Old-fashioned views about sex and romance… though she’d been sexually active with a man she cared deeply about… the relationship ending after intrusion by Jana.

I hefted the dissertation. Four hundred-plus pages of soul-dredging, pseudoscholarship. Lies.

How the hell had she gotten away with it?

I thought I knew a way to find out.

26

Before I left, I called Olivia’s office.

“Sorry, darling, system’s still down. Maybe by the end of the day.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll call you later.”

“One more thing- that hospital you were looking for in Glendale? I spoke to a friend of mine, used to work at Glendale Adventist. She said there was a place on Brand named Resthaven Terrace that closed down just recently. She used to consult to them, doing their Medi-Cal management.”

“Closed down completely?”

“That’s what Arlene said.”

“Where can I reach Arlene?”

“St. John’s, in Santa Monica. Assistant director of social services. Arlene Melamed.”

She gave me the number and said, “You’re really hot to find this Shirlee gal, aren’t you?”

“It’s complicated, Olivia.”

“It always is with you.”

I called Arlene Melamed’s office and used Olivia’s name to get through her secretary. Seconds later, a woman with a strong voice said, “Mrs. Melamed.”

I introduced myself, told her I was trying to trace a former patient who’d been at Resthaven Terrace.

“Treated when, Doctor?”

“Six years ago.”

“That’s before my time. I didn’t start there until a year ago.”

“This patient had multiple disabilities, needed chronic care. She could very well have been there a year ago.”

“Name?”

“Shirlee Ransom, two e’s in Shirlee.”

“Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell- not that that means much. I wasn’t doing any casework, just paper shuffling. What ward was she in?”

“One of the private rooms- back of the building.”

“Then I certainly can’t help you, Doctor. I worked only with the Medi-Cal cases, trying to get the billing system in shape.”

I thought for a moment. “She had an attendant, a man named Elmo. Black, muscular.”

“Elmo Castelmaine.”

“You know him?”

“After Resthaven closed he came to work for me at Adventist. A very fine man. Unfortunately we had budgetary problems and had to let him go- he didn’t have enough formal education to satisfy Personnel.”

“Do you have any idea where he’s working now?”

“After the layoff he got a job at an old-age home in the Fairfax area. I have no idea if he’s still there.”

“Do you recall the name of that place?”

“No, but hold on. He’s in my Rolodex. He was such a nice man, I’d planned to keep in touch with him in case something came up. Ah, here it is: Elmo Castelmaine, King Solomon Gardens, Edinburgh Street.”

I copied down the address and number and said, “Mrs. Melamed, when did Resthaven close?”

“Six months ago.”

“What kind of a place was it?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Who ran it?”

“A corporation. National outfit called ChroniCare- they owned a string of similar places all over the West Coast. Fancy-looking operation, but they never got their act together running Resthaven.”

“Clinically?”

“Administratively. Clinically they were adequate. Not the best, but far from the worst. Business-wise, the place was a disaster. Their billing system was a complete mess. They hired incompetent clerical help, never even came close to recovering most of the money the state owed them. I was brought in to straighten it out, but it was an impossible assignment. There was no one to talk to- the home office was out in El Segundo; nobody ever returned calls. It was as if they really didn’t care about turning a profit.”