“Do you know what happened?” I say.
The doctor clears her throat, and they exchange glances.
“I’m afraid I can’t talk to you about that,” Officer Benson says.
He leaves.
*
I ask Sam who Leonard Reynolds is, and he looks at me without speaking for a while.
Then he asks where I heard that name. I tell him about the visit from the police officer, and his lips get tight, and he marches down the hall toward the Nurses Station. I watch him make sweeping gestures with his hands, and I can hear him shouting. I can’t make out the words, though.
I go into the TV room, and Lou is there, watching some cooking show. The chef is processing lean cuts in a blender.
“Have a seat,” Lou says.
I remain standing.
The chef pours the meat mush onto a countertop and uses cookie cutters to make little shapes. He places these on a cookie tray, and slides them into an oven. 40 minutes pass in a matter of seconds, and he takes out the meat shapes.
“Delicious meat cookies!” the chef says. He puts on some sprinkles. They look just like regular cookies.
Lou glances at me, and grins. “Look good, don’t they?”
He changes the channel. A TV preacher appears, staring me right in the eyes.
He’s saying, “The Christian person’s job is to spread God’s message as effectively as we can. But we have our work cut out for us. It’s almost impossible to transfer an idea perfectly from one mind to another. Language is not sufficient.”
Lou turns off the TV. “You know,” he says, “I’m all religions. Christian, Muslim, Buddhist. Atheist, even. I’m whatever I need to be.”
I don’t say anything.
The preacher is right. Words don’t mean what I thought they meant. They’re like simple tools I’ve forgotten how to use.
Sam is returning from the Nurses Station as I leave the TV room. He’s red in the face.
“Sam?” I say. “What are my shoes made of?”
“Leather.”
“I know, but—leather from what animal?”
“Cows.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know for sure?”
“What else would they be made from? Come with me, Sheldon. I brought you something.”
We go to my room, and he takes out the framed photo that I keep on my bedside table at home. It’s a picture of Mom and me. He places it on the desk near my bed.
I bend closer and study it. Mom is smiling, but the smile doesn’t touch her eyes. I never noticed that before.
*
The next time Sam visits, Theresa is with him. I’m sitting in the common area, and I see them come in and stand at the threshold, looking around the room for me. Theresa has her hands in her back pockets, and when she sees me, she smiles. It’s strange to see her in here again. She looks healthy and beautiful. This time, I’m the only one who’s a mess.
They walk over. “Hi, Sheldon,” she says.
I stand up. “Hi.” I want to touch her—make sure she’s real. But I don’t have the courage.
She hugs me.
I look at the floor. “You shouldn’t have come here,” I say. “You shouldn’t risk—”
“I’m not risking anything.”
Looking at her, all I want is to narrow my realities down to one. I want the old reality back—the one in which I take it for granted I’m not in Hell. In which it’s easy to believe everything is as it seems, because what else would it be?
Looking at her, I want to get a job, and start writing again, and not be such a mess all the time.
For most of her visit, she holds my hand. I don’t say much, and neither does she. When it’s time for her to go, she gives me another hug.
“Theresa, I—I love you.”
She pulls back and looks at me, her hands on my shoulders.
“Let’s not talk about that right now, okay?”
I lower my eyes. She puts a hand on my cheek.
“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll come back and visit you soon. I want to help you get through this, Sheldon. I want to help you get better. After that, we’ll talk about everything else. Okay?”
“Okay.”
She kisses me on the cheek, and leaves. Then it’s just me and Sam.
“See, Sheldon?” he says. “You have people who care about you. I’m not going anywhere either, you know.”
I answer by hugging him, too.
“Thank you, Sam.”
The metal trolley arrives, bearing supper, and Sam stays while I eat.
“Are you and Frank together, now?” I say.
He nods. “He left his wife. He still talks to his family, but he lives with me, now.”
“I’m happy for him,” I say. “That seems better.”
“It’s been hard,” Sam says. “But I think he feels more comfortable with himself.” He chuckles. “I learned something weird about him, the other day—his first name isn’t actually Frank. That’s his middle name, which he goes by. His first name is Sam. Crazy, hey?”
*
I have the old dream, about the day my mother died. This time it’s different, though. This time, I’m driving the car that hits her.
I wake up panicking. I get up, and the horrible feelings left over from the dream follow me into the hall.
I ask to speak with a nurse. She lets me into a private room and follows me in, closing the door behind her.
“What’s wrong, Sheldon?”
I close my eyes. Through my eyelids, the fluorescent light looks red.
I say, “I had a dream. I think—I think something terrible happened. Before I was admitted.”
“And what’s that?”
“I don’t know. I—”
“Yes?”
In my mind’s eye, I see streaks of blood on a windshield.
“Sheldon?”
My eyes are wide. My breath catches. I draw my knees close to my chest, and I stare into space.
I remember.
I remember saying “Holy fuck,” and Gilbert remaining completely silent.
I remember sitting in the Hummer for what seemed like forever, and finally, Gilbert opening his door and getting out. Stumbling as he did.
“Sheldon?” the nurse says. “Would you like to go to your room?”
I remember opening the passenger side door, my heart pounding with terror, my mind screaming don’t look run away pretend it didn’t happen.
I remember seeing the torn, motionless heap that, moments ago, was a boy, surely no older than 16. I remember earphones trailing from his ears, connected to nothing—his phone lying on the asphalt several meters away.
“Would you like me to call Sam?” the nurse says.
I remember hearing the car door close, and looking back, making eye contact with Gilbert through the blood-spattered windshield.
Him backing up, driving past the corpse, and disappearing around the next turn.
*
Sam is here. He says the police will have more questions for me once I’m released from the psych ward, and I’ll have to appear in court. I give a slight nod. I’m staring at the desk that’s next to the bed across from mine. My eyes feel dry.
A nurse comes in. “How’s he doing?” she asks Sam.
“Still pretty upset.”
She nods. “Would you like some Ativan, Sheldon?”
I look at her hands, clasped at her midsection.
“It’ll help with your anxiety,” she says. “We’ll only give you a small dose.”
One of her thumbs is rubbing the back of the other hand.
“Will I get you some?” she says.
I look at her chin.
“No,” I say. I want to say: I need to feel this—I deserve to.
But I don’t, because nothing is worth saying.
“What’s that?” she says. “I didn’t hear you, dear.”
“He said no, thanks,” Sam says.
�
��All right. Let me know if you need anything.”
She leaves.
Gilbert is gone. The police officer said they don’t know where he is.
I’m the only one left who knows about Eric, and no one will believe me, now.
“Would you like to go out into the garden, Sheldon?” Sam says.
I look out the window. It’s raining lightly.
“Okay,” I say.
We walk down the hall. Sam tries to push open the door, but it’s locked. He goes, and returns with a nurse. She sticks her key in the lock.
We go out and sit on the wet bench. We gaze through the chain-link fence at the busy road beyond.
I look up. A crow is perched on top of the fence. I think it stares back at me, but I can’t be sure.
Its head twitches. It caws, and flies away.
THE END
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About the Author
Scott Bartlett was born 1987, in Newfoundland, Canada, where he currently lives.
Scott’s fiction has won several awards, including the H. R. (Bill) Percy Prize for Royal Flush, as well as the Percy Janes First Novel Award and the Lawrence Jackson Writers’ Award for Taking Stock.
His short fiction has received recognition as well. His story “The Proletarian” placed 2nd in Grain Magazine’s Canada-wide Short Grain competition, and “Author’s Note” was shortlisted for the 2014 Cuffer Prize.
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Dedication
To anyone who has suffered from mental illness
Acknowledgments
My Mom read this book three times at various points during the revision process and provided valuable feedback on its development. So thank you to her, for that and for the endless support she’s given me since the day I decided to be a novelist, eleven years ago.
Thank you also to my Dad, who gave me feedback on an early draft and who has also been extremely supportive.
Thank you to my friend and fellow writer Matthew Daniels, who gave extensive feedback on an early draft as well as the second-to-last one. Matthew and I have been swapping feedback on each other’s work for years, an arrangement for which I am very grateful.
Thank you to the Newfoundland and Labrador Arts Council, who gave me a grant to write Taking Stock and who awarded it the Lawrence Jackson Writers’ Award. The NLAC’s logo can be found at the bottom of these acknowledgments.
Thank you to Samuel Thomas Martin, who provided very encouraging and helpful feedback as adjudicator for the Percy Janes First Novel Award.
Thank you to the Writers’ Alliance of Newfoundland and Labrador, for accepting me into their excellent Mentorship Program. Successful applicants are assigned a professional writer with years of experience, who then offers extensive comments on a manuscript over a five-month period. Thank you to Sara Tilley, who was my mentor. Her comments helped me view the manuscript from angles I hadn’t considered, and Taking Stock benefited tremendously from her careful scrutiny.
Thank you to Michael Winter, who provided feedback on the first chapter as Writer in Residence at Memorial University of Newfoundland.
Thank you to Lezlee Coombs, Danielle Tucker, and Raven Warren, who made editorial contributions on the first draft.
Thank you to my beta readers for helping me develop the final draft. They are Sandra Bos, Melanie Jensen, Agnes Mason, Andrew Mercer, Nicole Parsons, Kyle Rees, Eben Viljoen, Kimberly Walsh, and Sam Westcott.
Thank you to the many people I’ve connected with through my website, Twitter, and Facebook, who read my stories, write reviews, and help spread the word. I couldn’t do this without you.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
About the Author
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Taking Stock Page 27