The Eumenide

Consuelo woke up slowly, and looked at the alarm clock. Almost noon. Dr. Young—Anna, she corrected herself—must have known how bad she felt, and let her sleep. She forced herself to sit up on the side of the bed, carelessly threw on a bathrobe, and shuffled with eyes still half-closed toward the bathroom. As she passed the desk in her bedroom the edge of her robe brushed against a crisply folded piece of paper. The note fluttered behind the desk and fell to the floor, unnoticed.

After freshening up, Consuelo put on a clean white dress and went downstairs. She searched every room, puzzled. Where was Anna? Didn’t she say she’d be staying home with her today? Maybe she’d been called out on an emergency. After all, the doctor had other patients besides her. Still, she couldn’t help but feel—abandoned.

Consuelo ate lunch, then decided to clean the bedrooms. Returning upstairs, she noticed that the door to one of the two rooms that were always locked was open just a crack. She hesitated, wondering if it was right for her to look inside. Finally, curiosity won out.

It was a nursery. Blue wallpaper with a pattern of brightly colored balloons covered the walls. A large wooden crib dominated the room. It was filled with small toys and stuffed animals. One of the latter looked vaguely familiar. She picked up the smiling purple dinosaur with a green chest, trying hard to remember something. Then she squeezed the toy’s left paw—but nothing happened. Wasn’t it supposed to play a song?

On a chest of drawers was the picture of a baby boy, perhaps one year old. He smiled out at her from the frame with big blue eyes. As Consuelo stared at the photograph his face seemed to blur, the skin turning a little darker, the eyes a deep black. Then the illusion was gone.

Carefully replacing the stuffed dinosaur where she’d found it, as Consuelo started to leave she saw a key on the floor. It unlocked the door of the adjacent room.

This one was almost a duplicate of the bedroom she was using. Except the furniture was smaller, just the right size for a little girl. It too held stuffed animals and toys. Mostly dolls, but there was a child’s plastic doctor’s kit too. And another photograph. At first Consuelo thought the little girl had black hair, long and straight.

But her eyes were playing tricks with her again. The girl in the picture had blonde hair, short and curly.

Consuelo walked pensively down the stairs to the family room. For many minutes she sat on the couch in the deathly quiet house, trying to dredge up memories. And deal with the terrible feeling of loss and guilt deep within her.

The clock on the mantle chimed two o’clock, startling her out of her trance. Hoping more sound would distract her from her thoughts, she walked to the entertainment center and turned on the radio.

A voice said, “—Now hear Haydn’s oratorio, The Seven Last Words of Christ on the Cross.” Then an orchestra began to play dark, foreboding music. Its mood of hopeless grief and impending tragedy fitted her own perfectly.

So engrossed was she in the music that it took her a few seconds to realize the doorbell was ringing. Half way to the front door Consuelo stopped, hesitating. Anna wouldn’t want her to answer the door, concerned that it might be someone who wanted to hurt her. But, she told herself, I can’t hide and live in fear the rest of my life. Head held resolutely high, she turned off the security system and unlocked the door—

There was no one there. No sign anyone had been there—except for the small brown envelope atop the “Welcome” mat. Consuelo picked it up, closed the door, and walked back to the family room.

The envelope was addressed to her. Inside was a silver disc, with two words written on it in black.

PLAY IT.

Consuelo turned down the radio, turned on the television, inserted the DVD into the player, and pressed the “Start” button. Returning to the couch, she waited.

Suddenly pulsating synthesizer music filled the room, accompanied by the applause of an unseen audience. The TV showed a brightly colored studio set with two smartly-dressed young people sitting on plastic chairs. The amply-endowed woman on the left exposed a pearly grin to her male co-host, then looked at the camera. “Thank you for joining us on ‘America’s Most Hated Criminals!’ ”

The woman’s face turned serious. “Our first story tonight is about motherly love gone horribly wrong.”

The scene switched to a picture of a chubby, laughing baby girl in a high-chair. “Consuelo Lopez should have been destined for a happy life. The only child of two well-to-do physicians, she grew up in a fashionable suburb near Chicago.”

A montage of photographs flashed on the screen. A shy seven-year-old standing straight and tall in her crisp white First Communion dress and veil. A gangly raven-tressed girl, blossoming into young womanhood, at her Confirmation. A confident teenager, sitting at a long table captaining her high school debate team.

The narrator said, “Consuelo was raised with all the advantages a pair of loving, doting parents could give her. She was a favorite of the nuns who taught her in high school. A model student. Senior class president. Editor of the school newspaper. Valedictorian. A devout, religious girl who even considered entering a convent.

“Then it was on to college for Consuelo, with new achievements and honors.” More photos. In one she was in her dorm room, with her smiling parents on either side of her. “Phi Beta Kappa. Summa cum laude. A straight-A student, graduating with a degree in biology.

“Then, medical school.” Stock footage of earnest young people in white lab coats working in a laboratory. “In her first three years, Consuelo again excelled in her work and studies. A bright future as a healer of human suffering seemed assured for her.”

Suddenly the perky music on the TV took on a sinister tone. “But then, tragedy struck.” The picture in her dorm room with her parents returned. “Her father, a prominent heart specialist, suddenly died himself of a heart attack.”

A computer-animated black “X” superimposed itself on Papa.

“Consuelo had been very close to him, and took his death hard. Her grades plummeted. She became unreliable and apathetic, even hostile to those who tried to help her. Finally, after she made a careless mistake that nearly caused a patient’s death, she dropped out of medical school a few months before she was due to graduate.”

The camera showed the studio set again. The grinning young man with blow-dried hair asked his co-host, “What happened next, Peggy Sue?”

“Well, Todd, Consuelo’s life fell apart.” The TV showed a filmed sequence in a dingy smoke-filled tavern. Seated on a stool at the bar was a young Hispanic woman who didn’t really look like her at all. Her scarlet lipstick was smeared, and she was wearing too much mascara. The word “Reenactment” flashed briefly at the bottom of the screen.

“We interviewed some of those who saw first-hand what kind of ‘career’ Consuelo now began. They all said the woman who once considered becoming a nun plunged into a cesspool of alcohol and promiscuity.”

The actress drained a glass of dark-colored liquor, then added it to the other empty glasses scattered in front of her. A fat, sweating man in his late fifties sat on the stool next to hers. The eyes in his pudgy, familiar-looking face lingered lasciviously on the firm breasts beneath her tight white blouse. Then he whispered something in her ear. The actress shrugged apathetically. The man placed some money on the counter, winked at the bartender, and led the woman out the door.

There was a close-up of Peggy Sue’s painted face. “But after a year of this sordid behavior, Consuelo seemed to get her life back together. She renewed her acquaintance with a former medical school classmate, a promising young doctor training to become a surgeon. He and Consuelo rented a house and moved in together. A year later their daughter Maria was born.”

The picture of a plump, giggling baby girl in a highchair filled the screen, “Now the woman who had almost become an M.D. settled into the role of ‘housewife,’ tending to the domestic needs of her lover and their child. A few years later their family had a new addition.” The next photo showed a two-year-old girl with long black hair gamely struggling to prop up her six-month-old brother for their portrait.

“But this happiness was not destined to last.”

More stock footage. A night scene of police officers outside a small white house, the red lights of their cars flashing. “Shortly after that picture of their children was taken, Consuelo’s lover told her he’d fallen in love with another doctor at the hospital where he worked. She was the daughter of a prominent local surgeon, and he was planning to marry her after they finished their training. A neighbor, alarmed by the violent arguing and threats Consuelo was screaming, called the police. They arrived just as the door of the house burst open and her boyfriend ran out, pursued by Consuelo—a long, sharp butcher knife held high in her hand.

“Perhaps loving her daughter ‘not wisely but too well,’ Consuelo’s mother used her influence and money to bail her out of jail. But as soon as she was free, Consuelo betrayed that trust—and ran away. No one knows where she went for the next year and a half, or what she did.

“After Consuelo disappeared—a fugitive from the law—her lover abandoned their two children, relinquishing custody of them to her mother. For the next seventeen months that woman lovingly raised the children in her own home. Then, with his new wife insisting that it was the right thing to do, the children’s father changed his mind. Telling Consuelo’s mother that he and his wife loved the children, that it would better for them to have two parents, he finally convinced her to give them back to him.”

Another filmed vignette. The small white house at night again, this time brightly decorated with flashing multicolored lights, a plastic Nativity scene in its snow-dusted front yard.

“Then, on a foggy Christmas Eve, several months after her ex-lover was married, Consuelo returned to the house they’d shared.”

The scene dissolved to the interior of the darkened house. The camera, simulating an eye-level point of view, moved furtively past the tall Christmas tree in the living room. It stopped in front of a door. A woman’s hand reached out and opened it. Illuminated by a lamb-shaped night light, a small dark-haired girl and her little brother slept peacefully in their beds. Both wore smiles of angelic innocence, as visions of what the morning would bring danced in their heads.

The hand pulled the door closed and locked it. The camera moved swiftly to another bedroom. There, a man and woman slept tightly entwined on their bed, unaware.

Then the camera showed the actress from the bar scene. She held a long sharp butcher knife in one hand. Her eyes blazing with rage, she plunged it down again and again, its gleaming blade dripping ever more heavily with blood. After a few muffled screams, the night was again silent.

Nonchalantly dropping the knife, the woman returned to the living room. She piled the gaily-wrapped packages on the floor closer to the Christmas tree, then splashed them with fluid from a can labeled “Gasoline.” A cigarette lighter flashed in her hand. The tree burst into flames—

Video of somber-faced individuals stepping carefully in the charred remains of the house early Christmas morning. One of them picked up a small stuffed dinosaur, a few patches of purple still showing on its singed covering.

The scene dissolved to Peggy Sue’s face. “When the firefighters arrived, they found Consuelo Lopez sitting on the sidewalk outside the burning house, watching it collapse like a funeral pyre. Clutched in her bloodstained hands was this picture.” She held it in front of the camera. It was the photograph they’d shown before of the two smiling children.

A quick shot of Todd’s face. “What happened next, Peggy Sue?”

The picture of a gray-walled prison appeared. “Consuelo’s lawyer tried to get her off by pleading ‘not guilty by reason of insanity.’ But that desperate ploy was undercut by Consuelo’s confession in court that yes, she killed them, and she was glad she did! She was convicted of murder and sentenced to life in prison.”

Consuelo’s head jerked up. It sounded like the front door closing. Before she could decide whether it was her imagination or not, the TV program caught her attention again.

Peggy Sue’s face showed outrage. “But it’s possible that, someday soon, Consuelo Lopez will walk free among us again. Recently a group of doctors have tried to reopen her case. They claim she was ‘mentally ill,’ not fully responsible for her actions—and not just someone who deliberately, methodically, cold-bloodedly committed a vicious and senseless crime. No, these doctors say she had a ‘neuropsychiatric defect’—whatever that is—when she brutally murdered her former lover, her rival for his affections—and her own children. And that they have a ‘cure’ for it.”

A familiar face came on the screen. The caption at the bottom said, “A. F. Young, M.D. Psychiatrist.”

Anna said, “Ms. Lopez has always been genetically predisposed to development of a variant of borderline personality disorder. For most of her life, it was like a hidden time bomb, with no sign of its presence—until the right type of stresses set it off. But now we know enough about this kind of mental illness to cure it permanently, so she would never feel compelled to hurt anyone who ‘abandoned’ her again.”

Dr. Young’s voice faded away, replaced by that of Peggy Sue. “But is that really true? Was Consuelo really programmed, like a robot, to kill? Or was it her own evil choice? Let’s hear from a real expert, with more impressive credentials.”

A gray-haired woman appeared on the TV. Her caption read “M. T. Aguilar, M.D., Ph.D. Professor of Psychiatry. Author of many books on personality disorders and criminal psychology.” Reflexively Consuelo looked at the nearby bookcase, and noticed the books she expected to see were missing.

Her face harsh and severe, the gray-haired woman said, “It would be wonderful to think Consuelo could be ‘rehabilitated’ just by giving her the right kind of medicine. There is, I admit, a chance the experimental treatment planned for her could work. But what I’m afraid will happen is the doctors treating her will let their good intentions impair their scientific objectivity. They’ll see only what they hope to see, and pronounce her ‘cured’ when she really isn’t. She’s already demonstrated a conscienceless insensitivity to the suffering of those who loved her. It would not be beyond her capabilities to calculatingly pretend she was ‘well’—until, at a time of her convenience, she was ready to kill again.”

The older woman’s voice turned threatening. “However much one might wish to help her, the first priority must be to make sure Consuelo never hurts anyone else—ever again. If that means she must stay in prison for the rest of her life—or even more drastic measures—then that’s what must be done!”

Peggy Sue said, “And what about Consuelo herself? How does she justify what she did?”

Another video clip. Consuelo recognized the interview room in the prison. She saw herself sitting defiantly in a chair, sneering at someone offscreen. A voice—Dr. Young’s—asked her, “Why did you kill Jason and his wife?”

The woman in the chair took a long drag on a cigarette. “That son of a bitch used me. I did everything I could to make him love me. And what did he do? He dumps me for a ‘nice, respectable girl.’ ‘Somebody I can marry,’ he said.”

She sneered. “A slut who was spreading her legs for him when I couldn’t, because I was having and taking care of his goddamned kids!”

“But why did you kill the children?”

The woman’s face softened. “Well, what kind of life would they have had? No father. A mother in prison, or maybe dead in the gas chamber. They’d never be able to escape that shame—abandoned by their own parents. How could they possibly grow up happy? It was better that way. Quick, just a moment of pain and suffering, and not a lifetime.”

Her eyes hardened. “Besides, those two little bastards were half him, too.”

The picture froze on that hate-filled look, then shrank into a corner of the screen, directly over Peggy Sue’s left shoulder. The latter said, “Soon, if the doctors who claim they can brainwash her have their way, Consuelo Lopez will be back on the street. Perhaps she’ll come to live in your neighborhood!”

Consuelo jumped slightly, startled. This time she thought she heard a noise from the kitchen. But, listening carefully, all she heard was more babble from the TV.

“The question is, who is Consuelo Lopez? An innocent victim of fate, as one so-called ‘expert’ thinks?” The picture in the corner changed to that of Anna, then quickly dissolved to that of the gray-haired woman. “Or, as a more qualified authority believes, will she always be nothing more than a ruthless, cunning criminal?”

Peggy Sue looked directly at the camera. “Audience, you decide!”

Then, beaming with self-satisfaction, she continued, “But you know what the ironic thing is, Todd?”

“No, what is it, Peggy Sue?”

The insert of the gray-haired woman expanded to fill the entire screen. “The ironic thing is, Dr. Aguilar is—”

The recording ended. The only sound in the house was the oratorio on the radio, playing faintly in the background. The prayerful words intoned by the chorus, accompanied mournfully by the orchestra, reminded Consuelo of the otherworldly atmosphere of a cathedral.

There it was again! A shuffling noise in the kitchen. It couldn’t be her imagination! Fearfully, not knowing what to expect, Consuelo walked into the kitchen—and stopped, paralyzed with shock.

The gray-haired woman stood by the stove, tall and erect. Her dark eyes bore deeply and unwaveringly into Consuelo. Without saying a word, the very cast of the woman’s face accused and condemned her.

Consuelo stammered, “What do you want? Why are you here?”

The older woman glared at her with disgust. The corners of her lips curled, silently telling Consuelo that those were very foolish questions.

Consuelo pleaded, “I know I did all those terrible things! But I swear, I don’t remember doing them! All those years, from just before Papa died to six months ago, are a blank! I don’t remember being that evil person! I hate her and everything she did, too! Those beautiful children! How could anyone—how could I have done that to them!”

Consuelo’s eyes misted over. “How can I make up for what I did? I’d give up my own life if it would bring them back! How can I convince you how sorry I am? Tell me, how!” Wiping bitter tears from her cheeks, Consuelo sobbed, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

The other woman raised her arm. Consuelo cringed at the accusing index finger pointing at her. Finally the finger drifted down, pointing at the kitchen table. Then the gray-haired woman spoke two words.

“Prove it.”

Consuelo stared uncomprehendingly at the objects on the table—and then suddenly, it was clear to her what two choices the gray-haired woman was offering her. The brown plastic medicine bottle. Or—the gun.

It was a .357 Magnum, just like the one Papa taught her to shoot when she was in college. Consuelo looked wide-eyed at the older woman. It was as if she could hear her accuser’s thoughts.

As long as you live, I will never let you forget what you’ve done. As long as I live, I will never let you rest. There can be no forgiveness for you. The blood you’ve spilled cries out to me, and I will avenge it. The hell you burn in for all eternity will be no worse than the one I will create for you while you still breathe.

A mini-movie flashed through Consuelo’s mind. She saw herself picking up the gun. Pumping bullet after bullet into the jerking, bleeding body of her gray-haired tormentor!

Then the image dissolved—destroyed by a feeling of utter self-revulsion. What kind of person am I? Am I capable of that crime, too?

No, there was only one choice she could make. Of all the people on Earth, the gray-haired woman standing there had the best right to judge her, to decide how responsible she was for her sins—and condemn her to death.

Consuelo read the label of the plastic medicine bottle. “Depresade, 25 mg, QTY 50.” It was filled to the top with green-and-black capsules. Whatever else they’d erased from her mind, she still remembered those pharmacology lectures in medical school. Fifty capsules would be more than enough.

Consuelo picked up the bottle, went to. the kitchen sink, and filled a glass with water. The first capsule tasted bitter. But after a few more, they began to taste almost sweet. Soon it became an unwavering rhythm of two capsules in her mouth, a sip of water to help swallow them, then repeating the cycle.

Clutching the now empty medicine bottle in her hand, Consuelo walked her last steps, back into the family room. As she passed her, from the corner of her eye she saw the face of the gray-haired woman one last time.

It was smiling.

Consuelo lay down on her back on the couch, and waited. Her blurring gaze alighted on a small knickknack sitting on a nearby shelf. The porcelain figurine of the smiling little boy who seemed about the age her son would have been now, if he had lived. She tried desperately to remember holding her little baby boy to her breast, perhaps singing him a lullaby.

She couldn’t. Dr. Young and the others had done their work too well. They’d tried to help her, by destroying all those bad memories from her past. But, even if there were fewer of them, they’d destroyed the good ones too.

No matter. She was a murderer. A suicide. Doubly damned. Soon she would have all eternity in hell to remember everything. She imagined Satan laughing at her, telling her he didn’t believe in “neuropsychiatric defects.” She had sinned, she was responsible for what she’d done. No one, nothing else was to blame except her.

The clock on the mantle chimed three o’clock. Consuelo felt herself becoming more drowsy. Closing her eyes, she folded her arms on her chest. The medicine bottle in her hand slipped through her fingers and fell to the floor.

From a greater and greater distance she heard the sacred music in the background fade away. Then, with a final soft melody full of prayerful resignation, it was gone…