by Dilloway, PT
Higher Power
By P.T. Dilloway
Copyright 2012 P.T. Dilloway
Published by Planet 99 Publishing at Smashwords
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Chapter 1
Dr. Perry wanted him to touch her face as soon as the door closed. When he hesitated, she said, “Max, please, I want us to trust each other. We can’t do that if you think I’m some disembodied voice. Like Charlie on Charlie’s Angels.”
“What?”
“It’s an old television series. They remade it into a movie too. You never saw it?”
“I didn’t watch a lot of TV.”
“Well, never mind. It’s not important. What’s important is establishing trust. I’m here to help you, Max.”
She put her hands on his shoulders, fingernails digging into the knitting of his sweater. From the smell of her hands, she must have painted the nails this morning. Or she might have gone to a beauty shop; doctors could afford such luxuries.
Dr. Lee had made a point of explaining to Max during one session how much his watch cost. “These are the kind of items people can buy when they put their minds to achieving great things,” Dr. Lee said. Max leaned back in his chair and remained impassive. He didn’t want to listen to another lecture about why he should leave the relative safety of Gull Island Psych for the “real world” as the doctor called everything outside the hospital’s windows.
“I’m not ready for this, Doctor,” he said.
“Nonsense. I’m not asking you to go steady. This is all professional. Now, give me your hand.”
“I don’t—” Before he could finish, one of her hands released his shoulder and took his free hand. When he resisted, she laughed, the sound like a cartoon donkey.
“You’re just like my brothers. They can take apart a carburetor or gut a deer without flinching, but they tense up if a stranger touches them.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s not your fault you were born with a missing chromosome.” When he said nothing, she added, “That was a joke. I’m kidding.”
“Oh.”
“Now come on, let’s get this over with. I’m in no hurry, but I’m sure the state doesn’t want me to bill them for an entire day’s worth of therapy.”
She placed his hand on her left cheek. As he traced the contour of the cheekbone, he noted the way the skin bulged as though she were holding in a breath. He swept his fingers across puffy lips still tacky with make-up. “Did I smear it?”
“Don’t worry about it. Go on.”
He jiggled a loose flap of skin beneath the jawbone before running his fingers up to her temple. The hair there felt stiff; she must have it pulled away from her face. Her eyebrows were plucked and shaped into flattened arches. His thumb brushed against the cool metal of her glasses frames. He skimmed the nearly flat plane of her nose. “My eyes are brown. If that helps you at all.”
“Yes,” he said. Of course brown had dozens of shades, but he imagined them to be a yellowish-brown, like his mother’s. She wasn’t Mom. Mom died. This was a doctor.
“Something wrong?”
“No. I’m trying to be careful.” He wiped his hand along her high forehead, feeling the skin there warm to his touch. “Nervous?”
“A little,” she said. “Have you done this often?”
“Twice.” On his parents as they lay in bed, already cold and unmoving. Dead.
Her hair felt as dry as the grass of McAlbee Point in the summertime. She wore a velvet headband to keep the hair out of her face, the kind he remembered the girls in school wearing. The top of her headband came up to his shoulders. That made her what, five-four? “The box says it’s Saharan Sunrise. Like a strawberry blonde, I guess.”
He followed the doctor’s hair to where the ends turned inward at her shoulders. He smelled a mixture of rose, sandalwood, and something else. Freshly-cut grass? Maybe she had a window open behind her, although he couldn’t feel any air coming in. He let his hand drop. “Is that all? You don’t want to feel my boobs?”
“What?”
“I’m joking.”
“Oh.”
“Well then, let’s get to work. Have a seat, unless you want the janitor to bring up a couch from the basement.”
“A chair is fine.” He tapped one set of chair legs with the tip of his cane and then found the other set. With his free hand he searched for the back of the chair and felt the fan-shaped surface. He lowered himself slowly into the chair, giving himself time to adjust in case he missed, as happened during the first session with Dr. Heathcoate at Washington Juvenile. After sinking into the leather, Max rested his cane between his legs and leaned forward.
He listened to her chair scrape back from the desk and then creak beneath her weight. Given the pudgy cheeks, double chin, and her height, he put her at around two hundred pounds. Give or take five pounds. The other patients at Gull Island Psych had always enjoyed having Max guess their height and weight. He learned to use his cane to tap the contestant’s shoulders and head as if knighting them. Audio clues like heavy breathing or how a chair creaked when they sat down gave him an idea about the person’s weight. Harvey Feldman—in for schizophrenia—would call out like a carnival barker, “Step right up, folks! Meet the amazing Max the Great! You’ll be astounded by Max the Great’s phenomenal psychic prowess!” Sometimes Harvey would go on like that until one of the orderlies took him away to the isolation room. Max never enjoyed the game, but he played along until he could get within an inch and five pounds with one try.
The chair scraped again and then Dr. Perry cleared her throat. “Now I think we can trust each other. We’re not strangers anymore. So I’m going to make a deal with you. I’ll do my damnedest to make sure your transition is successful, but you have to do something for me. Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I need you to want this transition to be successful. If you don’t want to reintegrate into society, then it’s never going to happen. All my fancy degrees and psychological know-how are useless if you don’t want to help yourself. So, do you want to be successful?”
“Yes.”
“Then say it.”
“I want to be successful,” he said, but his voice made it sound uncertain, like a question.
“That’s good to hear. That’s the first step.” Papers shuffled on her desk and then she said, “I’ve reviewed the files Dr. Lee sent over. You’ve made a lot of progress in the last two years. It’s remarkable.”
“Thanks.”
“Dr. Lee thinks you’re ready to handle the outside world and so do I. But we’re going to take things slowly. No one expects you to function independently right away. It’s going to take time. That’s why you’ll see me three times a week—Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday—for the first couple months. When you’re feeling more comfortable, then we can reduce the number of sessions.”
“OK.”
“You’ll stay at Midway House for the first three months. Mrs. Garnett will keep track of your progress and let me know about any problems. The three of us will get together at the end of the three months and decide whether you’re ready to live on your own.” A pen scratched on paper and Max wondered what the doctor had written. “It’s not going to be easy. There’s a lot you need to learn to do for yourself. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, but
if it makes you feel better, none of my brothers have mastered those skills either.”
She paused, as though waiting for Max to laugh or make a comment, but he didn’t. The one thing he knew about doctors after twenty years was no matter how friendly they acted, they never saw him as anything more than a problem to be fixed. He’d made the mistake of trusting Dr. Heathcoate’s overtures of friendship at Washington Juvenile and regretted it ever since. As jovial as this Dr. Perry seemed, she didn’t care any more about Max than some complete stranger.
She must have tired of waiting for his reaction, because her voice turned colder when she continued. “In addition to playing house and seeing me, you’ll need to find employment.” Something—a folder?—slapped against the desktop. “I think I’ve found a job perfect for you. Dr. Lee says you can play the piano. Is that right?”
“Yes. My dad taught me, but I don’t play much anymore.”
“I’m sure you can pick it up again pretty quickly. Like riding a bike.”
“Maybe.”
“The reason I bring it up is Pastor Robbins over at Holy Redeemer Lutheran needs someone who can play. The last pianist, Mrs. Caulkins, started when people still came to church in horses and buggies. She’s finally retiring, so the pastor needs a replacement. You’d be playing the piano for the regular services and other events. The pay isn’t much, but this is just a starter job. You know, get something on the résumé and a reference for later. Are you interested?”
“I guess.”
She clucked her tongue. “I don’t like the sound of that. Are you interested or not?”
“I’m interested.”
“Good. Tomorrow you can go over to the church and Pastor Robbins will give you the grand tour. You should know that I usually go to the late service on Sundays, so I’ll get to hear for myself how you’re progressing.”
“Oh.”
“Well, I think we’ve got just about everything settled for today. You can even go back to Midway House a little early. Unless you have any questions?”
“No.”
“I know this seems different and a little scary, but give it time. You’ll see there’s nothing to worry about.” The chair creaked again and then she came around the desk. She thrust a card into his fingers. “You call me anytime. If you have a question or just want to talk, or heck, if you want to tell me about the Mariners game, give me a call. I’ve put my office, home, cell, and pager numbers on there in Braille. Basically, if you can’t get a hold of me I must be dead.”
“Thanks, Dr. Perry,” Max said. He slipped the card into his pocket and rose from the chair.
“You can call me Lindsey. I’ll see you on Wednesday. Let me know how things go with Pastor Robbins.”
“I will.” Max closed the door behind him. Then he started down the corridor the way he’d come.
Why couldn’t the doctors see he didn’t want their help? He didn’t want to live in the “real world” with its dangers. He wanted to hide in his cell, the thick walls giving him absolute privacy. Not like the paper-thin walls of Midway House.
His first night there, he’d been sleeping when he found himself in the dream of Sheila, the girl in the room next to his. She suffered from anorexia and had once tried to kill herself. In the dream she went to her closet, but instead of clothes hung a row of flabby stomachs. She took one down and went to the mirror to try it on like a blouse. Max pulled out of her dream before she woke up screaming and then moved his bedding into the opposite corner of the room.
Mrs. Garnett didn’t understand why he’d asked to move the bed and he doubted this Dr. Perry would either if he explained. In twenty years, no one had ever believed him. “It’s a delusion you conceived to transfer the blame for your parents’ death onto yourself,” Dr. Lee had explained once. What had happened to his parents was no delusion; he’d watched them die.
He stopped in the middle of the hallway. A smell like urine mixed with a lemon-scented antiseptic hung in the air, potent enough to give him a headache. He didn’t remember this odor from earlier; he must have taken a wrong turn. He’d counted the number of steps and memorized the turns on his way in, but after the session in Dr. Perry’s office he’d been distracted. At Gull Island Psych he’d never gotten lost; orderlies were always nearby to lend assistance. Now he would have to find someone to ask for help and listen to the stranger’s patronizing tone, making him feel like an invalid.
Then he heard voices begin to shout medical terms he didn’t understand. The shouting headed towards him along with the ominous rumbling of a gurney. The sound of the wheels on the tile floor reminded him of hiding in the pantry, listening to the paramedics take his unconscious parents away, though it was much too late to save them.
He ran his hands along the wall as the voices drew closer until he found a door handle. He fumbled with the knob and then yanked open the door, throwing himself inside to wait for the gurney and medical team to disappear. Before he could turn around to find out where he’d gone, there was a flash of light and then he could see again.
Chapter 2
As many times as it happened, he never could prepare for the moment when the world exploded into shapes and colors. He always thought back to when he was six, before his sight began to dim. After he finished piano practice with Dad, he skipped into Mom’s studio to watch her paint Farnsworth Cove outside the window. Sunlight fell all around Mom, giving her an angelic glow that froze him in place. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything that might spoil the moment, so he waited silently in the doorway as she painted.
When she finally noticed him, a smile came to her face. “How long have you been there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to help Mommy paint?”
“OK.” She picked him up and set him on a stool in front of her easel. On the canvas he saw the cove with a sailboat coasting along the peaceful waters. “It’s pretty.”
“You think so?” He nodded. “I hope my dealer agrees.”
Then she dipped her brush into a light blue spot on her palette. “This is robin’s egg blue. For the sky.” She pointed to a green-blue spot on the palette. “That’s turquoise, for the water. And this white is for the clouds.”
The world around Max now looked like one of Mom’s paintings. Max floated through a robin’s egg-colored sky. He drifted through fluffy clouds of the same white. Below, the water stretching in every direction was the exact same turquoise as on Mom’s palette. He almost called out Mom’s name until he remembered she had died and he was in the room of a stranger.
He wondered what kind of dream this was. A flying dream maybe, but then where was the dreamer? Max saw no sign of anyone. He was about to give up when he saw a sliver of beach ahead. He dipped closer for a better look. Against the white sands, he saw a woman dressed in black. He went lower until he was hovering over her right shoulder. Of course she could not see or feel him unless he chose to show himself. He existed in the dream as only a ghost.
The woman was more beautiful than any he’d seen in anyone’s dream before. Her blue eyes and sandy hair fluttering in the breeze reminded him of an angel his mother had painted and hung over his bed to ward off nightmares. Everything about this woman—legs, hips, and breasts—was in ideal proportion. She was perfect except for the tears running down her reddened cheeks.
She clutched a framed picture in her hands, hugging it to her chest. The tears, the photo, and the black clothes made him suspect someone close to her must have died. He could easily slip into the space between her body and the picture to see for whom she mourned, but he decided not to intrude on her grief. Yet she was so captivating that he couldn’t leave either. He continued to hover over her shoulder as she cried.
When she did pull the picture away from her body, he saw a family portrait. The young woman stood next to an older couple he assumed were her parents. In the foreground, a boy with an almost identical face to the young woman wore a green cap and gown and held up a diploma. The boy must be her brot
her.
The sky darkened as the clouds changed from white to gray and then to black. The water became choppy with waves almost knocking the young woman from her feet. She remained standing in the same place, oblivious to the growing storm around her.
“Danny, I’m sorry,” she said. Danny must be her brother. Another wave swept onto the beach and sent the young woman stumbling. The picture slipped from her grasp, washing out to sea along with the wave. “No, come back!”
She took off her black sandals before plunging into the water in search of the photograph. Max walked along the roiling surface of the water, but he couldn’t see where the picture had gone. The young woman kept swimming anyway, her limbs thrashing against the current.
He wanted to shout for her to turn back, but couldn’t. He couldn’t interfere in her dream. Even the slightest change might lead to terrible consequences, as had happened to his parents. He wouldn’t risk the same thing happening to this beautiful young woman.
Before he could leave her dream, he saw the ten-foot wave heading towards her. She didn’t see it until it was too late to do anything but scream. Then the water smothered her, pressing her down until Max lost sight of her. Wake up, he wanted to tell her. This is all a dream. Wake up.
Instead, she bobbed to the surface, coughing and spitting up water. She tried to swim back to the shore, but by now the current had become too strong. The beach disappeared from sight, leaving only the endless sea. The waves began settling, but still the current carried her farther away from the beach.
The young woman possessed only the strength to keep her head above water. “Someone, help me,” she said in a hoarse voice barely more than a whisper. “Please, help.”
Max floated next to her, knowing he could save her in so many ways. He could summon a rescue boat to pluck her from the water. He could scoop her up and fly her back to the shore. He could evaporate the sea and leave her standing on dry land. None of those ideas would take a lot of effort for him; he’d done far more in the dreams of others and regretted the tragedies resulting from his interference.