“Oh yes!”
“French laws can be stringent—”
Her eyes flip open. “There isn’t a single country on this planet where my crime isn’t against the law.”
“How come you walk free, then?”
“Because…” Her hand flies to her mouth, as if to stop herself from saying too much.
Just like before, I choose not to egg her on.
“Because my parents covered it up,” she says through the hand. “And ever since they’ve been protecting me, obtaining the medication I need and looking out for me.”
Her words give me an itchy, tingly feeling, like I’m on the brink of cracking a code. Mismatched pieces of a mysterious mechanism start clicking together. I still haven’t grasped the device’s purpose, but I begin to see how it works. I begin to understand Stella’s dependence on her parents and her overreliance on them. Their control of all aspects of her life, including her engagement to their sidekicks’ son. Stella’s exaggerated sense of indebtedness and her denial of how mean and crazy they are.
All those things that make Stella who she is and define her are the consequences of what she just revealed. Yvonne and Jean-Claude covered up her crime. A crime she must’ve committed in a fit of madness.
There’s just one little cog that doesn’t seem to work with the rest. I’ve seen quite a lot of Stella over the past two and a half weeks. But not once have I noticed the slightest sign of such a serious and incurable mental illness as DID. Not a hint. Not the faintest whiff.
The treatment she’s on must be doing an amazing job.
“Your meds, what are they?” I ask.
“I’m on fluoxetine and clonazepam. The former is an antidepressant and the latter, an antianxiety drug.”
Essential pharmacology was part of my training both in the military and as a bodyguard. I know a thing or two about those common drugs.
“Do you have nausea?” I ask her. “Diarrhea?”
She shakes her head.
“Are you often dizzy? Do you sometimes feel like you’re drunk even if you haven’t had any alcohol? Are you sometimes unsteady on your feet?”
“No, never.”
“How long have you been on those meds?”
“Six years,” she replies. “Since my crime.”
“Lucky you!”
She seems taken aback. “Why would you say that?”
“Because you haven’t had any of the common side effects of either drug in six years.”
“Then, yes, I guess I’m lucky that way.” A slight frown touches her forehead. “Is it rare to not experience any adverse effects?”
“I don’t know how rare that is,” I admit.
My gut tells me that in six years of uninterrupted use, she should’ve had at least one complication or a bad reaction. And there’s something else. She doesn’t have that dispassionate, detached air that I’ve seen in people on antidepressants. Her emotions are undiluted. Far from being desensitized, she’s hypersensitive.
But personal observations and gut feelings aren’t science. It is also true that some people are simply less prone to side effects than others. Maybe Stella is one of them.
Her inquiring look makes me regain my focus.
“Do you feel disappointment, pity, or disgust?” she asks. “Which one prevails, now that you know the truth about me?”
“Neither.”
