Amaya's Operator

Amaya’s Operator

S.E.Kenrose

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 S.E.Kenrose

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter One

Ocean Shores, Florida.

Thirteen-year-old Mary-Beth winced as she shuffled farther back into the closet. Her skin crawled with fear when she envisioned her banjo-eyed father drawing closer.

She regretted asking the question that had started his current rampage. What would the government want with us, Daddy? You’re just a poker player.

He had bustled across the living room and sat next to her on the threadbare couch. She cringed at his rancid breath, understanding that she had made a terrible mistake. He held her close and murmured as his tobacco-stained fingers played with her stringy hair. "First of all, your daddy doesn’t just play poker. And secondly—"

Mary-Beth didn’t have time to prepare before he hammered his wart-covered fist into her face, sending her to a place of agony and blanched light. When he had finished, when she lay moaning on the bare floor next to bottle caps and cigarette butts, wiping the blood that poured from her nose, he charged out the kitchen door, swearing as the handle fell off like it always did because he never bothered to fix the loose screw.

She imagined him racing to the tool shed to grab his hunting belt: the one with the enormous buckle. She bolted up the stairs, darted into her bedroom, slipped on the rabbit-skin rug, and landed on her tailbone with a crack. The pain radiated through her body. She paused for only a second before launching into the closet and snapping the rickety door shut. The stench of mouse droppings and mothballs in the air was palpable.

Please, Daddy, I didn’t tell them!

Come out and see what Daddy’s gonna give you, her father bellowed as he ascended the rotting stairs. The ancient treads creaked like the distant thunderclaps that accompanied the rain squall outside her bedroom window.

Ya hear me that time? I know you’re listening. Come and stop me from doing it, he growled.

For as long as she could remember, her father had communed with the spirits and imagined that the CIA had bugged their ramshackle home.

Why didn’t you run out the front door? Why up the stairs?

‘Cos I’m stupid. Just like he says.

A metallic taste swilled inside her bloodied cheeks, accompanied by the throb of her upper lip. Tears welled in her eyes as another agonizing bolt of pain seared through her jaw.

Gotta stop snivelin’ like a little fraidy-puss.

You had to go tellin’ ‘em, didn’t you? her father yelled. Probably told ‘em all about our little club an’ all. Daddy knows where you are, baby girl, and he’s coming to fix it so that you can’t tell ‘em anything else.

A slurred voice broke the silence. Sweetheart. Come out of the closet ‘cos Daddy has something for you.

Mary-Beth’s heart pumped spastically as she peered through the elongated crack in the sliding door. Narrow flakes of light flickered in from the hallway, and she peered frantically into the gloom, trying to see if her father had reached the landing and if there was something within her reach she could use to defend herself. In the dim light, the wood-paneled walls made her bedroom look spookier than a darkened funhouse. Her pulse pounded in her throat as she scanned her tagrag abode.

Oh, please, let there be something I can use. Maybe I could smash the lamp over his head like they do in the movies or what if I pull a leg from the table and use it as a club?

But all that was visible in the lightless bedroom was her mattress on the floor with a broken spring that had poked all the way through and her chipped-paint dresser that had two slots where drawers used to be. No gun, no knife, not even a sharpened pencil; she had nothing with which to protect herself.

She sat rigid with terror, her knees shivering against her chin.

Please, Daddy...I’ll do as I’m told, I promise. She tried to yell, but her voice came out as a whimper.

Ain’t gonna listen to you. He never does.

She desperately wanted to yell out to him, to make him understand: you’re just imagining things again, Daddy, that’s all.

She wanted her father to hug her again, just like yesterday and the day before.

Her hand slipped over a pool of congealed goop on the floor.

Maybe it’s fungus. Or blood. You know it’s blood. He pounded your face and broke your jaw and now you’re bleeding to death and—

Stop it, oh stop it, just go back to the island, be safe and wake up tomorrow and he’ll be gone—

Not this time. This time you won’t wake up, you’ll be dead, all chopped into bite-size pieces.

She frantically fumbled around on the squalid floor for a dry spot, not wanting to touch the goop, wincing as her fingers tapped over what might be mouse poop and cockroach exoskeletons.

A stabbing pain in her jaw brought up waves of nausea.

Daddy, please stop, I’ll help you look for the bugs, I’ll… her voice trailed off to a childish whimper.

Maybe you’re going to hell and this is what it feels like. Daddy always said if you told, the devil would come swallow you up and ‘shit you out into hell like one a them cockroaches down the toilet.’ The darkness surrounding her had been replaced with a gray blanket of light. Directly opposite the hole, a spare shirt dangled on a metal hanger.

Mary-Beth sobbed and stared at the hanger. The sirens were louder—but not loud enough. She began to doubt if they were even headed for her house at all.

The only one who can save me is me.

But all I have is a pool of blood and a stupid coat hanger.

The rusty closet rod was nestled on top of two, u-shaped hooks. One swift jerk up, and it would snap right off.

Please God, just help me stay alive. Help me convince him to stop—

You know he won’t. He’s crazy and he’s going make you beg then he’s going to chop you up into hog muckamuck with the axe.

Her breath quickened as a glacial fist enveloped her heart. She drifted away again to the island in her head. She walked barefoot over the crystalline sand that felt warmed her feet—under the palm fronds that floated in the air and sheltered her from the blazing sun. A child-size rowboat bobbed on the edge of the turquoise-blue water, just washed in with the tide. Mary-Beth walked over to the water’s edge and stared at the wooden boat, just a couple of feet away.

Never seen a boat here before. Looks empty, too.

Maybe he’s here. He found you.

That’s not possible—

Is too. You got here and so did he.

She lifted the oar from the boat and looked down the sandy beach. She couldn’t see him.

But I can feel him.

She stood up, hunched over, and grasped the oar tightly, waiting for him to appear.

A low moan traveled on the wind, carried there from a faraway place. The wind picked up and blew sand down the beach toward her. It was only a matter of time before he came there to get her. She could see nothing else but the island and carpet of blue that stretched from one horizon to the next.

He’s probably going to moan and stumble around and then he’ll fall over and go to sleep.

But you know he isn’t going to sleep. He’s getting happy thinking about chopping you up.

Her heart flip-flopped in her chest.

This time he isn’t going to sleep.

She opened her eyes. She was back in the foul-smelling rickety closet and she was grasping the oar: a metal oar.

No, not an oar, stupid. A closet rod.

In the distance, the sound of a police car siren seemed closer.

Sounds like it’s at the end of the drive. Not close enough—

They’re going to get here too late.

She grabbed the edge of the closet door and tried to yank it open. It was stuck.

Open! You stupid thing. Open! A scream exploded out of her as she kicked the closet door open.

Her father blinked with surprise. What the hell…

She raced toward him.

He stood up, looming over her like a furious grizzly bear.

She ran full throttle toward him, holding the closet rod out in front of her like a lance.

Her father grabbed the end of the closet rod before it hit him. They stood there staring at each other like two boxers waiting for the ring of the bell.

Mary-Beth trembled with fear.

What the hell you doing? he asked. You think that old rusty rod was going to hurt me? You trying to kill your daddy?

No, she said, quaking at the knees.

A lie and he knows it.

Did you tell them about our secret, Mary-Beth? Did you tell them about how we make our money?

No, Daddy. I didn’t tell them anything, I—

He yanked the pole away from her and toward him. Don’t lie to me!

It flew out of her hands and crashed onto the floor.

Please, Daddy. I didn’t tell anyone about The Operator!

He wasn’t listening to her; he leaned over to the mattress and grabbed the handle of the axe.

Eight Years Later

Dr. Nichessa Gooding peered over her Ben Franklin glasses. They looked like they would slip off their perch in the middle of her nose at any moment.

So, Mary-Beth, can you tell me a little about yourself?

Amaya dug her nails into her palms. First off, no one calls me that any more. Everyone calls me Amaya. And secondly—

God, I’m starting to sound like my father.

And secondly, why bother asking me when you can read all about me in that file you’re holding?

Amaya shifted uneasily on the familiar, worn leather couch. It had to be fifty years old, but for some reason it always smelled new.

Doctor Gooding nodded, the fine lines around her eyes becoming more noticeable as she manufactured a smile.

Well, a file is just a one-dimensional representation of a multi-dimensional person. I’d like to know who you are, and that’s why we’re both here.

A strong smell of furniture polish emanated from the cherry desk. Below it, a pristine trash bag liner hugged the inside of a matching can that shone like it had never been used. A myriad of fancy certificates on the wall all bore the name Dr. Emilio Cortez.

Why don’t you have your own office? Amaya asked.

Oh, I do, sort of, but it’s in the group therapy annex. I thought you would be more comfortable somewhere familiar.

Despite the cool breeze from the air conditioning duct, Amaya sweated like a suspect under a bare bulb. This place has never made me feel comfortable.

The doctor took a sip from a dainty teacup and placed it delicately back in the saucer. She maintained a steady, burning gaze that added to Amaya’s discomfort. Why do you feel uncomfortable?

If I knew that I probably wouldn’t be here. Aren’t you going to ask me about my name change? Like everyone else does.

Doctor Gooding relaxed her shoulders. Hmm. Amaya is a pretty name. Where does it come from?

I found it in an old poem I read, Amaya said.

Really. What was it called?

My Lady of the Night. It’s Japanese.

Aah, isn’t that the one about the forlorn poet searching for his true love?

Amaya twiddled one of the leather buttons. The worn surface revealed a patch of wood underneath. She shot a glance at Doctor Gooding, and then returned her gaze to the button. You’ve heard of it?

I read a lot of poetry in my spare time.

I don’t. I just came across it on the web. I thought it sounded… As far from my past as possible.

…unique. I thought it sounded different.

If I recall correctly, it was a provocative work, Doctor Gooding said in a soft tone. I’ll have to look it up again.

Bet you’ll look it up again. Probably writing it down in your notes now. Going to look see if the poem might give you an insight into what makes me tick.

So why did you change your name? Doctor Gooding asked.

It was Dr. Cortez’s idea. He said I should try and forget my past. Move on with the future.

Hmm. Did he now? Doctor Gooding said, jotting down notes.

The scratching of pencil lead against paper mimicked the clawing sounds of a feral cat desperate to escape out of a living room door.

Yeah. I’m someone different now from what I was back then, Amaya said, twirling one of her earrings.

It came loose and fell onto the couch. She retrieved it and jabbed at her earlobe, trying to find the hole.

These damn things are always falling out. Don’t know why I wear them anyway.

Doctor Gooding’s burnt-sienna eyes fixed on the side of Amaya’s head. Are those real pearls?

Amaya shuddered at the visual audit. I don’t know. My father gave them to me when I was little. Said they’d make me look like a lady.

I see. What was the occasion?

Amaya scowled at the doctor. The occasion was the only time in my childhood that my father was decent to me. Does that answer your question?

Always the same dumb-ass questions. Think they can psychoanalyze thirteen years of bad parenting with three sessions and a bottle of pills.

Doctor Gooding maintained steady eye contact. Hmm. Yes, it does. Do you have any questions for me at this time?

My friend said you could help, Amaya said. That’s why I’m here. I didn’t want to come. He said it would be a good idea to at least try it.

Your friend?

Yes. John.

Doctor Gooding scrutinized her notes. Does he live here?

Yeah. He takes care of me. Watches out for me. He’s just a friend, nothing more.

Not my type, by a long shot.

I just want something to take the edge off my nerves, Amaya said. You know it’s not just for nerves, so why not just come out and say it?

Doctor Gooding riffled through Amaya’s file. Two jeweled hair ornaments wobbled at the top of the doctor’s gray bun like Martian antennae.

"Well, I can’t promise anything. The research I’m part of involves experimental drugs that have not yet been fully tested for efficacy. It’s possible that this treatment might help, but in order to gain the maximum from this trial you have to want to improve your situation. So tell me, do you want to get better?"

If you mean do I want people to stop thinking I’m crazy and do I want to get off some of the anti-anxiety meds, then yeah, I want to get better. She’s the same as the rest of them. Words mean nothing to these people.

Amaya had nothing to lose. Sometimes, her life was simple and uneventful: other times, she would be so overcome with unexplained terror that she couldn’t calm down even with a double dose of medication. She hated the rubber band of panic that tightened around her ribs, detested the loud noises that made her jump like she had touched a live light bulb socket, and loathed triple-checking over her shoulders every moment just to be sure he wasn’t following her.

Doctor Gooding tapped her pencil thoughtfully. Amaya, people don’t think you are crazy. You have a treatable disease called schizophrenia.

If it’s so treatable then why do I feel panicky and paranoid half the time? And if I have schizophrenia like you say, then why don’t I hear voices? Why haven’t I thought up some convoluted conspiracy theory about the world?

Amaya, most mental health issues are on a continuum. Doctor Gooding held out her arms as if to boast about a big fish. She shook her right hand. Here, a person might exhibit few signs. They may even appear to be normal. She shook her left hand. But on the other end of the spectrum, we have something completely different.

The nuthouse, Amaya said.

Doctor Gooding smiled thinly and lowered her arms. Schizophrenia itself is a complicated disease. No two people are the same, and that’s why it is so hard to treat. Especially in a case like yours where there is a history of trauma and a possibility of contributing factors such as post traumatic stress.

They’ve been telling me that for years. The exact same stuff. And no one wants to listen to me. Can I ask you a question, Doctor?

Well, that’s why I’m here. Go ahead.

Do I look like I have schizophrenic catatonia to you? Am I sitting here holding a normal conversation in clean clothes with brushed hair, or am I rocking back and forth spurting out conspiracy theories? My diagnosis doesn’t seem to make much sense when you are staring me in the face, does it? Bet you were expecting something a little different. Amaya’s face flushed hot.

Doctor Gooding raised an eyebrow, apparently surprised by the outburst. Hmm. I wasn’t expecting anything. I’ve treated schizophrenics who were so logical in thought that they could almost persuade you that the mosquito abatement policy was really a government plot to dispense mind-controlling drugs to the population. And I have also treated patients who are so far into their delusions they have to be spoon fed and permanently restrained.

So which one am I?

I’m not trying to categorize you, Amaya, or even give a diagnosis. That would be your regular doctor’s responsibility, Doctor—

Cortez.

They had told her a long time ago that her aversion to older men was due to the sweatshop conditions she had been forced to endure under the watchful eye of grown men. She remembered rolling her eyes at the first therapist who suggested the idea. Go figure. Doesn’t take a genius to work that one out.

She had requested a change of psychiatrist a long time ago. They gave her all the reasons why she had to stay under his care. And as she had walked away, she had heard the medical receptionists snicker. One of them had mumbled, ‘All the crazies hate their doctors.’

I don’t need categorizing again, Amaya said. I want to know if you can help.

Well, that’s up to you. Simply put, if you are willing to try a new avenue, then I would like to try and help.

Explore a new avenue. I’ve only heard that a thousand times. What makes this different? Why do I get the feeling that I’m wasting my time here?

Why do I get the feeling that I shouldn’t be here, that something bad is going to happen to me—

Stop it. Maybe you need to take another pill when you get home.

Amaya glanced at the gold-cased clock on the desk. It’s ten o’clock. I should be painting right now. I always paint in the mornings. Nothing worse than missing a painting session to waste my time talking about nothing to a busybody who knows nothing.

Well, now. You like painting? What do you paint?

What does she care? She looks so prim and proper I bet she’s never picked up a paint brush in her life for fear it would splatter her ritzy suit.

The beach.

Ah. Somewhere you used to go?

I still go there.

Doctor Gooding leaned back in her seat. She wrinkled her brow slightly and raised a finger to her chin. I see. Can you tell me where this place is?

Just somewhere peaceful.

Well, now. It’s peaceful? Why?

People like you can’t screw with my head there, Amaya said. I can’t be messed with. I’m alone.

I see. Do you want to be alone?

Yes.

You can be alone in lots of places: a comfy chair in Starbucks or a seat in a darkened cinema. Nowadays you can stand in line at Walmart customer service and be ignored for hours. So what’s so different about this beach?

Nothing. It’s the only place my poet can find me. If I never go there he’ll stop looking for me.

Amaya gazed out of the window. Birds cawed outside in a frenzy like scavenging seagulls around a garbage heap.

Doctor Gooding slurped her tea again and placed the cup back down with a resonating tinkle.

Amaya crossed and uncrossed her feet. She crossed them again then stopped when she became irritated by the scratch of pencil lead on paper. She took in a deep breath.

I hate being stared at. They used to watch me all the time, make sure I didn’t steal some of the product.

Aha. I can understand that. No one likes to feel like they are being watched. But my job here is to observe and make notes.

Amaya whipped her head away from the window and glared at the doctor. Yes, but do you have to stare the whole time? I wish you wouldn’t, it reminds me of—

Don’t worry. Daddy’s going to be in here watching the whole time to make sure nothing bad happens to you…

Reminds you of what? Doctor Gooding asked.

Just something when I was younger.

Amaya returned her gaze to the window.

The black-a-vised sun was barely visible behind the charcoal clouds. Amaya felt sure the summer afternoon storms would start before lunch.

Well, why don’t we begin there? What was your childhood like?

Amaya rolled her eyes. "My whole childhood was written up by the Times Union when I was thirteen. It’s in the file."

Doctor Gooding picked up the file, flipped through the papers and retrieved the article.

The piece was ingrained in Amaya’s memory. She had seen it dozens of times.

Dr. Cortez had placed it in front of her. How does reading it make you feel, Mary-Beth? Do you remember anything? Who were the other people involved?

She had told him she didn’t know who the others were. She didn’t know anything. She just wanted to forget. But he had been persistent, talking about the events for months. And every so often he would bring it up again. Finally he had ceased the constant questioning and Amaya had felt immense relief. Finally he listened to me. I told him I didn’t want to talk about it. He would still broach the subject occasionally. But she never wanted to talk about it. There was no point in rehashing something that only caused her pain.

Doctor Gooding scanned the news article that had been tucked into the front pocket—an obituary announcing the death of Amaya’s childhood.

Nov 21st. Meth Lab busted in Ocean Shores. One man was shot and two others arrested last night in a joint effort by The Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office and the Drug Enforcement Agency to shut down an Ocean Shores methamphetamine lab. Hank Templeton, 41, was shot during the raid and killed instantly. Robert James Wentworth, 42, and Raymond Herschel, 57, were arrested at their Ocean Shores residences. A police spokesman stated that further arrests are likely. Relatives told the Jacksonville Times Union that Templeton had a daughter,