by David Wind
The man turned away, but the woman, her eyes swimming with pity, opened her purse and slipped a five-dollar bill into his palm. “Thank you,” John whispered and walked away.
Two blocks later he found an open liquor store, and bought a half-pint of gin. “Don’t drink it in front of the store,” the clerk ordered while putting the bottle into a paper bag.
Following the clerk’s instructions, John left without a word, pocketing the dollar eleven of change, and continued toward the train tracks. A block later, at Claire’s command, he stopped at a deli and bought a buttered roll, which left him eleven cents.
He ate the roll on the way to the tracks. When he reached the overpass for the LIRR, he slipped into the shadows below, nodded to two of the men sitting there, and found a spot away from them. As he passed them, he glanced at them but couldn’t see them clearly in the semi darkness of the overpass.
This had always been a safe place, one he’d found after the teenagers had beat him and tried to drown him. It was a place where no one had ever bothered him. He’d been lucky in that he’d only been beaten that once, but he knew the odds were against him. With that thought, he glanced at the two who he’d passed a moment before. He shifted so his back was to them.
Hunkering over to hide what he was doing from the other two, he slipped the bottle from his pocket and took a long slug of gin. The alcohol burned the back of his throat, and when it eased, he let out a soft sigh.
“Stop, John. You’ve done this long enough. Get rid of the bottle. Get some day work.”
“Leave me alone!” He used his left hand to swat her floating face. The hand went right through it.
A shadow crossed over him, making the underpass even darker. He looked up. The two men who’d been sitting at the other side were standing over him. He knew everyone who came here, but these two were strangers...newcomers to the spot. “Watcha want,” he asked, not really caring.
“Some of what’s in that there bottle,” the taller one said, nodding at the clear bottle in his right hand.
Fear rose lightning fast, sending a bitter coppery taste flooding his mouth. “It’s mine.”
“Yeah, I see. Share it or lose it.”
“Get away from me.”
The shorter man stepped closer, bent lower, leveling his eyes to within inches of John. “This here is my house. You a guest in my house, man. You share or you lose.”
“Not your house! Everyone’s house!” John turned away from him, scrunching down to protect the bottle. Claire’s lips rubbed against his ear. “John, get out of here, now!”
He tried to get his feet under him, tried to stand up, but the shorter man pushed him back.
The fear grew, paralyzing him. Not again, he begged silently, please, not again.
The taller one kicked him in the side. He screamed when the man’s boot broke two of his ribs. The shorter man grabbed the bottle at the same instant, ripping it from his hand.
The taller one kicked him again, the toe of his boot smashing into John’s cheek, spraying blood everywhere as it fractured his cheekbone and split his skin. John groaned. Claire urged, “Run,” once again.
When the taller one turned to the other and took the bottle, John rolled over, scrambled to his feet, and ran out from under the overpass. He slipped on some rocks, stumbled, and rolled down the embankment, landing on the sidewalk where his head slammed into the cement and the snap of his forearm breaking, brought on the welcome darkness and surcease of pain.
<><><>
John woke slowly, the pain vibrating through his face and chest. He tried to sit up, but couldn’t. He opened his eyes: only one opened, the other was covered. He reached up with his left hand and traced the bandage from the corner of his mouth to his forehead. The light pressure of his exploration set off a rippling, stinging bolt of pain.
He sucked in a deep breath, and then groaned at the stabbing pain in his lungs even as he stared at his right arm secured above him, a cast from his wrist to his elbow. The walls of the hospital room were a minty pale green, the ceiling a grayish white. To his left, lights danced on several monitors, reporting the findings from the wires attached to John’s free hand, chest, and legs.
He ran his tongue across his lips. Pieces of dry flaky skin came away. His stomach hurt with need, his legs twinged with cramps. He needed a drink. He tried to get some saliva up to moisten his lips but couldn’t. I have to have a drink...now! Need it now!
“About time you woke up,” Claire said.
“Dear God, go away...leave me alone unless you have some gin.”
“Now why would I do either?” Claire smiled at him from where she floated near the ceiling.
“You’re dead, that’s why. Go!” He shook his head, and the pain flared again.
“Where am I?” he asked aloud.
“I’ll tell you where you are if you tell me who you’ve been talking to,” came a voice from the doorway.
He looked to where the voice emanated from and found a tall woman with dark blonde hair standing within the doorframe. “What the hell... You wouldn’t believe me.”
She stared at him, her hazel eyes probing his face. “Try me.”
“My wife. But she’s dead.”
“I’m Doctor Lowenstein and you are at the Brookville Psychiatric Hospital.”
“What the—”
“Do you remember falling?”
He closed his eye, pushed at his memory, and then remembered what had happened. “I didn’t fall. I was beaten and robbed.”
“By who?”
“Whom,” John corrected inanely. “Two bums. They broke the rules of the safe place. They stole my bottle and beat me. That’s all I remember.”
“You don’t remember waking in the hospital and screaming for Claire? Do you remember hitting the nurse who was taking care of you? Do you remember the policeman you punched?”
“Hit?” John shook his head. “Can I get a drink?”
“Water? Juice? Coffee?”
John grimaced. “Gin.”
“Not likely,” the psychiatrist said.
“You sound like Claire.”
“She sounds smart.”
“She doesn’t sound like anything, she dead.”
“Oh, then you’re like a...a psychic? You speak to the dead?”
“I speak to Claire; she speaks to me. I’m not a psychic.”
“Then you’re crazy?”
“I’m not crazy!”
“What are you?”
“A homeless drunk. Please, please, just one drink, that’s all.”
“A drunk or an alcoholic?”
“Does it matter?”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. That’s yet to be determined.”
“What the hell kind of doctor are you?”
“What the hell kind of drunk are you?” she retorted.
“Listen to her, John.”
John looked up at the ceiling. “Shut up, Claire! Stay out of this.”
“What did she say?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Some. What did she say?”
“For me to listen to you.”
“Like I said, a smart woman.”
“When can I leave?”
“Don’t you want to know how badly you’re hurt?”
“Will that help get me a drink?”
The psychiatrist smiled broadly. “You never know.”
“How badly am I hurt?”
“Your cheek is fractured, your eye socket as well. You have several broken ribs, but you were lucky, your lung wasn’t punctured. Your arm is broken just above the wrist; they operated and had to put in three screws to piece it together. You have a concussion; and, oh, you’ve also got a hell of a cut on your scalp. You were dehydrated and are suffering from malnutrition. That’s about it.”
“Okay. I’ll take that drink now.”
“Do you really think I’m giving you alcohol?” Without waiting for an answer, she suggested, “How about some orange juice?”
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“No.” John glared at her, then turned away.
“Understand, Mr. Edghes, you were found unconscious, injured, bloody, and drunk. No identification. The cop had you taken to the hospital, where you proceeded to hit the policeman and then the nurse who was trying to help you, all the while you’re carrying on a heated argument with a dead woman. After the doctors fixed you up, you were transported here, after the judge at your hearing...the one you were not able to attend because of your condition, committed you to our care for thirty days of observation, pending a full psychiatric exam to determine your ability to function and to face the charges placed against you by the police. In other words, you are my guest for the next month.”
John nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I understand. Can I have that drink now?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Claire whispered from her place near the ceiling.
He looked at her. “Don’t be dead.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Brookville Psychiatric Hospital
After two years of gin as his main meal, the withdrawal was more painful than his injuries. Three days after he’d awoken in the psychiatric facility, which was five days after the police had found him, his arms were secured to his sides so he couldn’t hurt himself. He was strapped to the bed as well, preventing any movement. They’d put in a catheter, and then an intravenous line in his arm so the saline solution would keep him hydrated.
The delirium tremors hit him hard. Not even close to an acid trip, the DT’s shook him as if every fiber of his body was made of guitar strings, being wildly plucked by some crazy-ass rocker running riffs that wouldn’t stop. Every nerve in his body vibrated in tune with whatever hallucination flared in his mind. During the worst of the withdrawals, physically, his body shuddered like a jackhammer, sometimes bouncing inches off the bed despite the restraints.
John spent the first day of the DT’s fighting off the giant ants charging him from every corner to eat his uncovered eye. And when he’d finally fought them off, another hallucination rose up to take control, like the three wolves who were stuck deep in his abdomen, doing their best to claw their way out by tearing open his stomach. Finally, they gave him a shot and he passed out. He woke to a giant cockroach sniffing his penis. Its antennae twirled while one pincer moved toward his scrotum, while the other began pulling out the catheter.
Just before the pincers could tear his organs into pieces, Claire appeared over the cockroach—a polo helmet on her head with the straps hanging, large pink heart sunglasses, and dressed in a yellow coverall with hip-high boots—and hit it with a huge misshapen croquet mallet. “Leave him alone! He’s mine! Leave him alone!” she screamed over and over while she beat it until it ran away.
Then she floated to his ear. “Keep working, John, keep working to get better and I’ll watch over you while you do. Keep trying, my baby.”
His breathing eased. He smiled at her, but said nothing.
“Good, John, breathe softly, breathe gently. You’re safe now; go to sleep so I can watch over you. Go to sleep.”
With a smile tilting the corner of his lips upward, John closed his eyes and followed Claire’s instructions by falling into a deep and, for the first time in two years, dreamless sleep.
<><><>
Day 10, Brookville Psychiatric Hospital
The morning started the same as all the others, except for the fact that John didn’t have a headache.
He stared at Dr. Elyse Lowenstein for several seconds before saying, “Every minute of the day,” in response to her question about how badly he wanted a drink.
“It’s expected. Your body is addicted to the alcohol.”
“It’s a painkiller.”
“No, it’s an addiction.”
John stared at his shrink, studying her intensely. A tall woman with dark blonde hair, she appeared to be in her thirties, but he couldn’t tell if it was mid or late thirties. She had endlessly deep and probing hazel eyes that made him think and rethink his answers before speaking, like an IRS investigator during an audit.
“No,” he argued after a moment more of thought. “My mind is still fuzzy, but damn it, I’m not an addict.”
“Most alcoholics say that.”
He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. “It was Claire. She keeps chasing me. She keeps telling me—”
“—keeps?”
He exhaled sharply, shook his head. “A figure of speech.”
“Stop it, John. You’ve gone through the first step of withdrawal. You are and will continue going through a full detox, which will help your body and your brain recover. There’s no more booze in your system. The only painkiller you’ll get from here on in is Advil, you’re as clean as possible in the short time you’ve been here; however, if you can’t be straight with me, you’ll lose in the long run. Remember, we only have twenty days left before your court appearance. So, are you in or out with the truth?”
He stared at her, weighing her words. She met his stare with open eyes and a calm face. He took another fifteen seconds to remember going through the DTs, to remember how Claire had defended him, and how she’d promised to watch over him. “The truth. I’m in.” He paused, then smiled for the first time. “But you’re not going to like it. And I’m not an alcoholic, not an addict.”
<><><>
Day 12, Brookville Psychiatric Hospital
Breakfast came and went and, following the schedule the psychiatrist set yesterday, he exercised in the gym, first stretching painfully unused muscles, then walking on the treadmill for fifteen minutes. After the treadmill, he sat in the steam room for ten, showered, and dressed in the uniform of the day, pajamas.
He’d started his exercise routine yesterday, with a ten-minute walk. He’d barely been able to finish. When he sat down afterward, he shook his head sadly, realizing just how out of shape he was. Yet, that didn’t make any difference. He had no choice right now. He was being forced to stay sober and he’d do whatever was necessary to get out, so he could go back to forgetting. He desperately wanted to forget.
Today was only a little better, but better was okay. He was far from steady on his feet, there was some pain from his broken arm when he exercised, and his mind tended to wander. He found it strange that the only time it didn’t wander was when he talked with Claire. But he wasn’t stupid, and he knew his life would be changing again if he let Dr. Lowenstein do her job.
“You have to,” Claire said.
“Why?”
Before Claire could answer, the door opened. Claire disappeared the white uniformed attendant entered the locker room. “You ready?” Kirby asked.
Nodding, John buttoned the pajama style shirt of his patient uniform. “Lead on, Sir Kirby, lead on.”
Kirby nodded, turned and did exactly that, with John following behind the six-foot, two-hundred-pound man.
Two turns later, Kirby opened Dr. Lowenstein’s door and stepped aside so John could pass. Once inside, and with the door closed, John sat on the club style reclining chair and waited. Three minutes later the rear door opened and Elyse Lowenstein came in and went to the chair across from him.
When she settled in, she smiled at John. “Good morning.”
“What makes today a good morning?”
Lowenstein studied him for a moment before giving him a quick smile. “Well, John, let’s see what makes a good morning from my perspective. The sun is out, the sky is clear, and the air is crisp and sweet smelling. How’s that for starters?”
John shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I can’t go outside, can I?”
“That’s on you, not me and you know that. Now, how are you feeling today...physically?” One eyebrow arched as she fell silent.
John shrugged. “Not great but better than yesterday.”
“Urges?”
John snorted. “Of course.”
“For what? Booze? Sex? Escape?”
John hoped the sound he made passed for a laugh, but he doubted it. When he caught his breath, he shook his head. �
�Escape? Sex? You’re joking. Only one thing, gin.”
“What about Claire? Did you talk to her today?
He ran his tongue over his lips. “Yes.”
“About what?”
“You. She wants me to listen to you; I want a drink.”
“Don’t you find it ludicrous?”
“Find what ludicrous?
“Your conversations with Claire.”
“Why would I?”
“Because you’ve told me she abandoned you, left you, quit trying to live and deserted you. Am I right?”
“You nailed it, Doc.”
Lowenstein’s face shifted momentarily. “Then why do you keep talking to her?”
John shrugged. “It’s not me; it’s Claire. She starts, she always starts first. I can’t just ignore her.”
“Do you know what Claire represents to you?”
John’s eyes narrowed; his mouth went dry. “Represents?”
Lowenstein nodded once. “Yes. What does she represent for you? I need you to answer that question.”
John looked from her to his hands. “What are you looking for?”
“Not me, John, you. What are you looking for? What does Claire’s constant presence mean?” She paused, waiting, but he did not look at her. “Look at me, John.”
John’s head snapped up. He stared hard at her. “How the hell would I know? She has a mind of her own and does what she wants to do.”
“Really, John? I thought she was dead.”
The knife slid into his belly. It went in slow, deep, and then twisted. Bending forward, he grabbed his stomach with both hands and fought against the pain. “That...isn’t...right.”
“Oh, but it is,” she maintained.
He tried to stand, but couldn’t. “Why are you doing this?”
“Why are you doing this?” she echoed.
“Doing what?
“Exactly.” Leaning slightly forward, she held his eyes with her own. “What are you doing?”
“I...I don’t understand.”
“Of course you do. You just don’t want to see it.”
“See what?”
“Stop. John, we’re done for today, maybe for tomorrow as well. Our next session will be when you tell me why you’re doing this.”