Lizard People

by Charlie Price

  “Hubie?”

  My best friend. He’s a junior at Sierra High and works on—”

  “What is his last name?”

  “Ludlow.”

  “And your mother’s been admitted here several times but now she’s with her family in another county?”

  “Yes. And the Ludlows are like my temporary guardian.”

  “No father?”

  “Yeah, but Dad’s missing in action. That’s a whole other story.”

  “Can we have him come in?”

  “No. But even if some of it’s not true, we can still use the mental information. You guys can. And I can help.”

  “Let me see if I have this right. Your name is Ben Mander. You’re seventeen years old. You’re a junior at Sierra High, like Hubie.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that the Ludlows out in the waiting area?”

  “Yes. They brought me over here. Should you check if Marco’s back yet?”

  “Could you clarify something for me? Are you Marco or Ben right now?”

  She was a really good listener, but I guess I had confused her. “Ben,” I said. “I’m Ben.”

  “Okay, Ben,” she said, giving me a warm smile. “I have an idea. Let’s put questions about Marco aside for a few minutes, and I’ll go check with the Ludlows about how they’re doing. Would that be okay?”

  “Sure. But they don’t know much of what happened.”

  “That’s all right for now.” She smiled, stood up. “I think they could probably fill in some background.”

  “Sure.”

  “You can make yourself comfortable in this room,” she said. “I’m going to close this door. You can rest and I’ll be back in about ten minutes. Is that okay?”

  “Yeah. I could probably use some more rest.”

  “Got it,” she said. “So, I’ll be right back?”

  “Sure.”

  I could hardly wait to tell the whole story. I knew these hospital guys would get it. They’d already met Marco and my mom, and even me.

  You couldn’t give this kind of story to just anybody.

  The Doctor Is In

  They tell me I slept like a rock. I awoke to an old woman jostling me. It took me a few seconds to understand who she was and where I was.

  She stood quietly by the door while I struggled to pull myself together. Marco was gone. I had thought he was a faker. A fraud, moving from town to town and spinning his pathetic lies. And then I believed he was crazy. And then I had thought maybe he was really telling the truth, and he had gone back to 4000. But the thought that shoved me off the table had nothing to do with Marco. My stomach dropped and my eyes filled.

  “Am I crazy?” I asked the nice woman standing at the door. I covered my face with my hands.

  I heard the woman’s soft footsteps as she crossed the room and waited beside me. When I settled down, she spoke. “Would you like a snack?”

  “What time is it?”

  “A little after three, Friday afternoon. I can bring you some juice and a sandwich, if you want it. Either before or after, I can help you get a shower.”

  I looked at myself. I was still wearing Marco’s vest. I couldn’t stop an impulse to rummage in his pockets, looking for anything he might have left for me … Lint. Great.

  “I’d like a shower,” I told her, “and I need to wash my clothes. I don’t want to put on those pajamas and slippers.”

  “You bet,” she said. “Mrs. Ludlow came back a bit ago and left some clean things. If you want to come with me and start your shower, I’ll get them ready for you.”

  The halls of a locked unit feel different when you’ve slept there. I saw two or three people wandering back and forth. One was muttering. In the nursing station, I recognized the large woman who had escorted my mother last month. The man with the curly hair was sitting at a counter, writing something in a plastic binder. I was too embarrassed to look at either of them directly or say anything. Had it finally happened? My worst fear?

  The shower was a tiled stall, small, clean, no windows. The older woman handed me generic soap and shampoo and a worn white towel.

  “Leave your old clothes in there on the floor,” she said. “I’ll bag them for you when you’re done. Knock when you’re ready to come out, and I’ll hand in your clean things. Any questions?”

  Oh, did I have questions. At that moment I was empty inside, except for rows and rows of questions.

  After the shower, I walked my room, back and forth in that ten-by-twelve-foot rectangle. Ate my snack. There was another bed beside mine, but I didn’t have a roommate. Yet. I didn’t want to go out in the hall again. I was too ashamed. Mom! This is how Mom felt! I thought about what it would be like to see Mrs. Ludlow. I knew she would understand. But Hubie? What if he thought I’d gone nuts? No more guy friends. Tears came back. I walked them off. I get it. This is like my cell. I’m a prisoner. But it’s my mind. My mind has bars around it and I can’t get through them, can’t get back to the real world.

  The older woman looked in my door. “The doctor would like to see you in a few minutes. Is that all right?”

  I nodded. Might as well get it over with.

  The office was tiny, just room for a computer table, desk, and two chairs. The end windows looked out on a tree-filled courtyard. Sitting, was a tall, blunt-featured, muscular woman. Today she had on a dark blue dress with a gold medallion pinned below her shoulder.

  “Dr. Bhuspodi!”

  “Hello, Ben. Didn’t expect to see me?”

  “No, uh, I … you’re Mom’s doc.” I guess I had been expecting a nameless man, another cog in the mental health system.

  “True, I am your mother’s doctor, and I can assure you that whatever you say to me is completely confidential. I would never discuss your stay or your treatment with her or anyone else without your permission. However, if you would like me to remove myself from working with you, I will have Dr. Aziz from Adolescent Services work with you instead.”

  “No. No, I’m glad to see you. I was just thrown off for a second. I mean, it was unexpected. You know.”

  She smiled.

  “Am I crazy?” Am I going to be asking people that question the rest of my life?

  “Actually, that you ask that question at all is a very good indicator of mental health,” she said. “Most young people, if they have a break, deny that anything is the matter. They can’t examine their thoughts from a rational perspective.”

  “Is that what’s going on? Have I had a psychotic break?”

  “Well,” she said, “let’s examine that. Why don’t you tell me what’s been happening?”

  As soon as I began, I started to rev up again! I took a couple of deep breaths to see if I could stay cool enough, organized enough, to give her a clear picture.

  I reminded her about Mom’s school episode, and her Lizard freakout at home a week or so later. I told her about Vinnie and the meth and Officer Dullborne. I told her about the Mander Board and Care and said Mom was now living with her half brother in Manteca. Throughout this part, she nodded occasionally. It seemed like she knew most of it, probably from Betty Lou’s reports. So far, so good.

  “I met Marco Lasalle right here in the hospital waiting room.” I thought maybe Bhuspodi straightened up a little in her chair. “He said his mom was getting admitted, just like my mom was, the same day as Mom’s school blowout.

  “Marco was from out of town, possibly a little older, and when I ran into him again, here, a week or so later, he looked kind of messed up. He said he had a story he would tell me. Turns out the story was about the year 4000 and a wormhole, you know, a time portal, and looking for a cure for mental illness. He went back and forth between here and the future, using the wormhole under an oak tree in his backyard.”

  As I listened to myself tell this, I couldn’t believe how ridiculous it sounded. Who could ever possibly believe it? I glanced at Dr. Bhuspodi to see whether she was incredulous. Nope. Quiet. Placid even. Just listening.


  “I didn’t believe him. I didn’t. I thought he was crazy. I just got wrapped up in his story. It had details he couldn’t possibly have known about my mother’s ideas and my life, who I worked for and stuff. And when he told this story, he was like a Buddha. Like in meditation. Serene. But on the outside, he was getting more and more scuzzy. You know, dirty, bad breath. And he didn’t have any furniture.” Slow down. “4000 was so advanced! They—”

  “What if you’ve been deceived?” she asked, leaning back in her chair.

  “You mean Marco? I mean, sure I—”

  “What if someone convinced you of things that aren’t true? That aren’t possible?”

  “You’re wrong! He … You mean 4000? I know. It seems impossible, but it’s beautiful there. People don’t have to fight anymore. They’ve got things figured out and they … Mom … Mom could be well and I wouldn’t be so…” I didn’t want to cry and weaken my argument. I wiped my nose on my arm and she handed me a box of Kleenex.

  She waited while my breathing settled.

  “Has anyone but you ever seen Marco Lasalle?”

  What! “What? What do you mean?” Scrambling. “You have! The hospital has!”

  Dr. Bhuspodi was now writing from time to time in a medium-size spiral notebook.

  “Lasalle. Marco Lasalle.” How could I be any clearer?

  “And if I told you that no one named Lasalle has been evaluated on this unit in the past six months?” she asked.

  “I saw him here! I visited him here twice. I know the curly-haired man. I mean, I don’t know him, but I’ve talked to him. He’ll tell you.”

  “I spoke to him. He said he’s seen you at the unit two times lately. That each time you were upset, and that the last time you practically ran out of here.”

  “No,” I said. My voice was too loud. “I was visiting Marco.”

  “Could that have been the day you were pacing the front hall and the nursing staff asked you to stay away from the door at the end?”

  I realized I had been standing in front of her desk this whole time. I sat. “Marco,” I said. “They asked Marco to stay away from the door.”

  “Have you ever experienced stressful times in your life when you, what should we say, dissociate and don’t recall what you have done for a few hours or a day or so?”

  “Not that I remember,” I said, realizing how foolish that sounded.

  “Does the name Overland mean anything to you?”

  “Like cross-country? Like no roads? Bushwhacking?”

  “I don’t mean the word, I mean the name.”

  “Uh, that trail? That pioneer thing? Or you mean some jeep or something?”

  “No, like Mark Overland. Do you know a Mark Overland?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because staff said you talked with him a couple of times.”

  “You’re saying that was Marco?”

  “Ben, I have no idea who your Marco Lasalle is. And I can’t talk to you about Mark Overland. I’m just asking you questions to better understand what you’re telling me.”

  “Are you saying Marco Lasalle was really named Mark Overland?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know who Marco Lasalle is,” she said. “It could be just a name someone used with you. Has anyone else you know seen Marco Lasalle?”

  I shouldn’t have eaten the sandwich. It wasn’t sitting well. “I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, other than you all. Nobody I know, I guess.”

  “What if Marco Lasalle isn’t real?”

  “He is real!” I looked for a wastebasket in case I had to heave. “I came in wearing his vest.”

  “Hubie Ludlow told his mother he thought that could have been yours. The vest. He believes he’s seen you wearing it or something like it during the last year.”

  “Wait a minute. Wait a minute, please.” I couldn’t look at Dr. Bhuspodi. Why would Hubie lie? He hated Marco. He was jealous of my friendship with Marco!

  “What if Hubie’s lying?” I looked up for Bhuspodi’s reaction. I thought I could detect just a tinge of what … sadness?

  “You think Hubie Ludlow is lying about your clothing?”

  “He was jealous! Jealous of me and Marco. He was worried. Worried that Marco was going to drag me down with him.”

  Dr. Bhuspodi was silent.

  2027

  Ben Mander. Dr. Ben Mander. The only wrestler I ever knew personally. I heard him speak today at the annual Frontiers in Mental Health Conference in downtown Boston. He looked great, spoke articulately about new directions in mental health treatment and recovery. I was there in my capacity as a director of Doctors Without Borders. I’m a doc now, too, and go all over the world.

  Ben. Seeing him up on the dais, waiting to deliver the keynote address, took me back twenty years to his tough time junior year, with his mother and whoever that strange guy was. WWF had us all worried there for a while. He kind of went into a nosedive when he had to send his mom away. Luckily, my mom and Dr. Whatever-her-name-was put him back together.

  4000. That was quite a story! Ben got fairly lost in it. None of us ever did find out what that other guy was really doing. The hospital records didn’t have anybody named Lasalle. Mom’s buddy Winona said Ben talked to a guy named Overland who went AWOL from the unit and never turned up. Any real info about him was protected by confidentiality.

  Ben’s hospital discharge plan specified that he stay with us, and that actually turned out to be a lot of fun. Once Ben got a little sleep and some decent food, he went back to being the fun, goofy fishing addict I had always liked so much. He had a “crazy” rep for the rest of the school year, and Hube was his only friend.

  But Ben’s life sort of normalized once he started winning wrestling matches his senior year. Before I left for California Berkeley, I made him a spandex headband that said Madman Mander in sparkly metallic red letters. Hube told me Ben wore that right up to the starting whistle in every match. I guess he was pretty good. He might even have won something at the state tournament.

  When I came home that first Christmas break, Ben was hanging out with a senior girl who acted in all the school plays and, according to Hube, rarely wore any color but purple. Around then, they started all going places together, Ben and the girl and Hube and Sarah.

  I laughed, sitting there in the audience, remembering the outfits I used to wear and thinking about the pillbox hat, forties rayon dress, and seamed nylons I had on today. Guess I haven’t changed too much.

  I knew from my mom that Mrs. Mander didn’t return to Riverton. It seemed her half brother, Arvin, in his generosity, had expected his wife to do all the work to accommodate their new guest. After a few months taking care of Ben’s mom, Arvin’s wife filed for divorce.

  Mrs. Mander had to go to a Manteca halfway house. I guess that’s where she started making greeting cards with Hopi designs, and I heard she sent one to Ben every week, telling him she loved him.

  Ben’s father moved back in with Charlene and went back to selling pumps. Hube said Ben saw his dad in the stands at wrestling matches. They weren’t speaking.

  According to the bio in the conference program, Ben had gone on to college and majored in psychology. He wanted to fix people. He said he didn’t realize till later that he was fixing himself at the same time. He got a Ph.D. in psych first, and then his medical degree, which led to specialization in psychiatry.

  Ben wound up creating a foundation to study innovative treatments like neurological implants to deliver psych medication. One part of the foundation is the Norene Mander Fund, named for his mom. They raised money to endow an urban apartment/office complex where people stabilizing from mental illness live and work together with artists and professionals. Ben’s groundbreaking article in Science magazine a couple of years ago charted a course for mental health research that will probably be followed into the next century.

  I am so proud of him, of all he’s accomplished so far. When he finishes his last presentation today, I’m going to go up and introduce my
self. See if he still remembers ol’ Z. See if he will introduce me to that good-looking bushy-haired advisor who coauthors some of his work.

  Also by Charlie Price

  Dead Connection

  Text copyright © 2007 by Charlie Price

  A Deborah Brodie Book

  Published by Roaring Brook Press

  Roaring Brook Press is a division of Holtzbrinck Publishing

  Holdings Limited Partnership

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  First edition September 2007

  eISBN 9781466892736

  First eBook edition: February 2015