“It’s an avenue Mitch is exploring,” said Grace. “He’s not sure. But I’m certain of one thing: Penny’s trying to tell us something. Something she’s too afraid to come right out and say, or something she’s repressed, and she won’t let us in unless we find the keys.”
Navarro appeared nonplussed. “I thought Dr. McHugh wasn’t sold on Penny having DID,” he said.
“He’s not, at least not yet. He still thinks the alters could be make-believe, meaning she’s aware of all of them at all times, which is different from the truly distinct personality states of DID.” Grace shuffled Penny’s artwork back into the portfolio. “Either way, he’s helping us, and that’s what’s important.”
Navarro, who was helping Grace put the artwork away, held up a drawing of Penny’s—one of Grace’s favorites, a girl in a yellow dress wearing a blue hat.
“That he is,” he said, studying the picture, his voice a bit distant. “And we can use all the help we can get.”
* * *
After finishing his call, Mitch reentered the interview room, acknowledging Eve with a slim smile—one she did not return.
“I hope you brought a pair of sunglasses,” she said, peering up at the lights blazing overhead. The white-walled room with matching linoleum flooring amplified the brightness. Eve directed her attention to the plastic container of drawing supplies on the floor. “What’s all that?” she asked impatiently.
He hauled up the box, set it on the table, removed the lid, and gestured to the contents within.
“I want to try a little experiment.”
Eve groaned. “I’d much rather do a maze with a hunk of cheese at the end. Is that why we’re here in this room—aka the sun—and not our usual spot?”
Aware how Eve might try to dominate and direct the conversation, Mitch maintained a neutral expression.
“What I’m asking of you is simple,” he said. “I’d like you to draw something for me.”
“Draw?”
“Plenty of supplies to choose from,” he said. “Have your pick.”
Without further prompting, Eve thrust her hands inside the box and began sifting through the contents in a manic way. She shoved aside stacks of colored paper, yellow containers of Play-Doh, safety scissors, glue sticks, and eventually settled on two items that held some special interest for her: a large box of crayons and a sheet of white construction paper. She smoothed out the paper with her hands. For a time, she sat quite still, intently studying the open box of crayons as though she’d never seen such a glorious array of colors. After that period of silent consideration, she selected a blue crayon and put the tip to the paper.
On the paper, she wrote in large capital letters: THIS IS DUMB! She gave a throaty laugh that held all the drama of a silver screen starlet.
“Eve,” Mitch grumbled dejectedly, letting it be known he was expecting it to be someone else.
“Oh, Dr. Mitch,” Eve said in a placating tone. “You sound so disappointed to have me around. And here I was thinking we were becoming pals.”
Mitch gave a loud exhale. “Eve, please, this is important. I want you to draw something … anything at all that interests you.”
She brushed the air with a wave of her hand. “Chillax. You’re way too serious.”
She pointed at Mitch before her focus switched to the wall behind him. He didn’t turn because he knew exactly what she was looking at.
“Is someone watching us through the mirror?” she whispered in an overly dramatic way, as if they were both part of some nefarious plot. “Are you going to get fired if this doesn’t work?”
“No,” Mitch said, in a loud voice to encourage Eve to stop using her hushed tone. “I won’t be fired. And chances are if I can’t help you, you won’t be a patient of mine here anymore. You’ll be in prison, Eve, for murder. For life. Do you hear me?
“Now, if you’ll work with me, there’s a chance—a slim one, I’ll give you that—that I can be of some service. But I can do that only if you help me by taking … this … seriously.” He slowed the cadence of his speech to drive home the last three crucial words.
Eve’s expression turned a bit more somber as she appeared to contemplate Mitch’s plea. “Okay, Doc,” she said, throwing her hands up in the air in a show of surrender. “Let’s get on with it then.”
From the container, she took out a second sheet of white construction paper, picked up a green crayon, and began to draw, her hand moving back and forth in a rhythmic motion. After a few more hurried strokes, the pace of her hand movement slowed down, seeming to become more purposeful. She continued making those slow, intentional crayon strokes for a time, eventually lifting her head to meet Mitch’s alert gaze. Right away, he detected something different about her: a calmness, almost a childlike wonderment, that hadn’t been there moments ago.