by David Wind
“Doing what?”
She stared at him, keeping silent while the seconds dragged on and John’s eyes pleaded for understanding. Finally, she said, “Keeping Claire alive.”
<><><>
Day 16, Brookville Psychiatric Hospital
The pain in his legs was almost debilitating. Sparks shot up from his heels to his thighs, but he kept walking, kept fighting the treadmill. He’d hit the one-hour mark and had kept going. The pain was now more of a relief than a hindrance. He sought the pain, used it like he had the gin, to obliterate anything within his head.
“Stop!” The authoritative voice belonged to Thomas, one of the two physical therapists who worked with him every day. John opened his eyes and saw the physical therapist standing in front of the treadmill. “Now!”
John pushed the cool off button. The machine dropped from 3.9 to 2 miles an hour. “What’s the problem?”
“I told you a half-hour.”
“I thought I could do more.”
“Sure, you can,” Thomas said, “as long as you’re willing to cripple yourself. Your long muscles are atrophied. I see the pain in your face as plainly as if you were screaming! Listen to me John, or I will stand next to you every minute of every hour you are here. And trust me, you don’t want that.”
“No problem,” he said as sarcastically as he could.
The therapist stared at him for a full thirty seconds before saying, “Good. Now, steam then shower. Ten minutes in the steam. No more, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
When the therapist walked away, John watched his every step.
Forty minutes later, John was in Dr. Lowenstein’s office, staring at the shrink who was staring back at him, her chin resting on steepled fingers. He noticed how the blue green nail polish on her fingernails contrasted with her skin. He liked the effect.
“I’m still waiting.”
“For what?” John asked, playing dumb.
“The same thing I waited for yesterday and the day before and the day before.”
John released a sibilant rush of air from between pursed lips; he shook his head slowly. “I still don’t understand.”
“I think you do, but I’ll say it once more, why are you keeping Claire alive?”
John shifted on the chair. Shook his head once, but said nothing.
“There are fourteen days left. On the fifteenth, we go to court. There, you will either be committed for an indeterminable time, or you will go to jail for assault on a police officer and on the nurse—you won’t survive jail, it’s not a drunk tank. John,” she continued, her tone softening, “You were an accountant, and from everything I could learn, a damned good one. Think about what you are doing, and come back tomorrow.”
John stood, but before he could reach the door, Lowenstein added, “And John...” When he turned to her, she smiled. “Don’t forget to say hello to Claire for me.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Day 20, Brookville Psychiatric Hospital
He stared at the ceiling, trying to understand why he was where he was. Not the hospital or the location; rather, his mental state. He wondered, too, why Lowenstein was bothering with him. He couldn’t care less about himself. All he wanted was oblivion. Claire wasn’t coming back, and he had nothing left.
“I can’t come back, because I haven’t left,” she said from somewhere overhead.
“You left me, and you damn well know you did.”
“I had cancer! You know, the big C! I didn’t have a choice, did I?”
“Yes, you did.”
“You don’t believe that any more than I do.”
“Leave me alone,” he snapped.
“Really. Leave you alone? How do I do that?”
“Figure it out, just leave me alone.”
“I can’t, John. I can’t leave you alone. You know that better than anyone.”
“I need a drink.”
“To force me away? Great logic, but look where it landed you...the funny farm.””
“Stop it!”
“Make me!”
John sat up, wiped a hand across his eyes, and groaned. “I can’t keep doing this.”
“Then don’t: talk to Lowenstein.”
Standing, he went into the bathroom, peed, brushed his teeth and washed his face. His mouth was still sore from yesterday’s dental visit. A toothache had sent him to the institution’s dentist, who had filled the cavity and then cleaned the two years of neglect from his teeth and, discovering three more cavities in the process, set up a second appointment for next week.
A low and short grunt of a laugh escaped. He might as well get the medical and dental benefits while he was here.
“Good thinking, John; while you’re at it, perhaps you can get a lobotomy as well—that should get rid of me.”
John smiled. “Great idea, I’ll ask Lowenstein to sharpen her icepick later.”
Claire frowned at him and disappeared.
Three chirps rang from the speaker over the door, signaling the first meal of the day. John picked up the fresh pajama uniform and prepared himself for the rest of the day, his conversation with Claire heavy on his mind.
<><><>
He made it fifty minutes before the cool down, with only slight twinges of pain from the walk. His breathing had eased as well. The only thing not working was his mind, which was filled with a weird muddy darkness making real thought impossible.
Ayleen, today’s physical therapist smiled at him and patted his shoulder. The opposite of the other therapist, Thomas, Ayleen was a petite and vivacious black woman in her mid-thirties. “Good job. Do a fifteen-minute steam before your shower. Kirby will be here to take you to see Doc Lowenstein.”
“I can’t wait,” he mumbled, to which Ayleen laughed.
<><><>
They’d been sitting quietly for almost twenty minutes. John in the chair facing Lowenstein, the doctor sitting with her hands clasped in her lap. When their appointment started, Lowenstein had asked the same question she had every day. Now she waited.
At the twenty-one-minute mark, John moistened his lips. “I...I told Claire to leave me alone.”
Lowenstein’s intense hazel eyes stayed fixed on his. “What did she say?”
“It boiled down to no.”
“Just no? No reason?”
He started to shake his head in the negative, paused, and then smiled. “She told me to get a lobotomy.”
Lowenstein couldn’t contain her chuckle. “C’mon, John, give us both a break here. There’s a reason you keep her alive. And you do keep her alive, John, you, no one else!”
Someone snuck up behind him and put a rope around his chest and jerked it hard and tight. His breath squeezed out of his chest in a single swift explosion. Then the pain spread across his chest and a second later his head spun. He tried to breathe but couldn’t. He grabbed at his chest, scratching at it, fighting to pull off the rope. His vision hazed over. He struggled to speak. “C...can’t...breathe,” he gasped, trying to draw in air.
Lowenstein was out of her chair and next to him in a flash, her fingers pressing to his carotid, timing his pulse. She looked in his eyes, then, slowly, in a low soothing voice guided, “Breathe, John, breath slowly, easily. You’re having a panic attack. Your mind is playing with you. Be easy, breathe, John, breathe.”
It took almost three minutes for John’s heart rate to settle and his chest to relax enough for him to take a deep breath. He thought he was going to pass out. When he was finally able to speak, he said, “I thought...Sorry. How did you know it was a panic attack, not a heart attack or worse?”
Lowenstein shook her head slowly. “You’re not the first one to do this here. And, don’t be sorry; believe it or not, you just made progress, John, a lot of progress. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
<><><>
Day 21
It was never dark enough in his room in Brookville. There was always the nightlight from the door, an incessant haze of yellowish white light filte
ring in from the hallway through the square frosted glass window centered in the door.
But that didn’t matter, because it created just enough shadows in the dust motes drifting around the room to keep his mind off the dark thoughts that shut out the weak light entering the room.
He knew even that escape wouldn’t last long. And sleep was something that did not come often or well. Since he’d detoxed, and without his gin, he’d been unable to sleep more than two hours at a time. Tonight, was no different, he thought, except that right this minute he was more than certain it was closer to morning than evening. He wished it wasn’t true, because morning meant another round of exercise and Lowenstein.
He thought about yesterday morning’s shrink session, and how his chest had constricted to the point where he was certain he was having a heart attack. As frightened as he’d been, he was also disappointed it was only a dumb panic attack and not the killer heart attack he wanted and prayed for.
“Too bad.” He knew he didn’t deserve to be able to breathe. He didn’t deserve to be alive. He should be dead, and buried, his body rotting in the ground. He should have contracted cancer! Claire should have lived.
He cried then, uncaring of his loud sobs or the tears splashing onto his pillow. His sobs grew louder, his body wracked by the sobs until, without realizing it, he fell into a deep undisturbed sleep.
<><><>
John woke suddenly and looked around. The lights were on, which signaled the new day. He remembered waking several times last night, and how the last time had affected him to the point of agony and tears.
Sitting up, he stretched his arms out and then swung his legs to the floor. He bent his head and, with his elbows on his thighs, pressed his head on his hands. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep this up.”
He lifted his head and searched the room. There had to be something! He was sure there had to be something there to help him. What? His eyes darted everywhere, seeking, searching. Looking up, he stared at the corner of the window sill. Yes!
“What are you thinking?
He turned to Claire and saw the worried look on her face and the way her teeth nibbled at her lower lip. “Not now. Go away! Leave!”
“John, what are you thinking?”
“I’m taking care of things.”
“How?”
“You’ll see.”
“John, you’re frightening me.”
“You’re dead. I can’t frighten you.”
“Then why am I frightened?”
“Go away.”
Standing, he took the lone chair in the room, and moved it to below the window. He climbed onto it, pressing his palms to the wall for support. Then leaving his right hand on the wall because of the cast on his forearm, he reached up with his left, to where the corner of the metal window frame stood out a quarter inch.
He lifted onto his toes, pressed his wrist to the metal, and ripped his skin across the corner. There was a sharp lance of pain. He looked at his wrist. Only a little blood came out. He lifted onto his toes again and pressed the same spot to the metal corner. A snap of pain told him he was at the right spot. Pushing hard and pressing forcefully against the metal, he drew his arm back and forth on the sharp edge of the window. It took a half a dozen strokes, but this time the blood pulsed out in waves that matched the beat of his heart.
Stepping down, he ignored the blood and returned to the bed.
He laid down, let his arm hang to the floor, and closed his eyes.
“See you soon, my love.”
“John, what have you don—”
<><><>
Day 23
The first thing he was aware of was that he couldn’t move his arms. Opening his eyes, he blinked furiously against the harsh overhead light. He turned to look at his arms. They were encased with wide wristbands and secured to the bedrails.
“Damn,” he whispered.
“Dumb ass,” Claire whispered back.
John closed his eyes so he couldn’t see her. “I told you to leave me alone.”
“What did she say?”
His eyes snapped open at Lowenstein’s voice. He twisted his head to the left and saw the doctor sitting there. “Nothing.”
“What did she say,” Lowenstein asked again.
“She called me a dumb ass.”
Lowenstein stared at him intently without speaking. Ninety seconds later she nodded. “She’s right.”
“She’s dead.”
“Apparently not...at least not in your mind.”
“What is that supposed to mean? I’m crazy? I’m psychotic?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Psychosis, according to a Google definition, is a severe mental disorder in which thought and emotions are so impaired that contact is lost with external reality. I like that definition because it’s plain and simple; however, it also lets you out because your external reality has not been lost, just...ah...occasionally misplaced.”
“I talk to my dead wife.”
“You do.”
“That doesn’t make me crazy?”
Lowenstein shrugged. “What do you think?”
“I don’t really give a damn.”
“Sure, you do. You’ve been trying to kill yourself since the day Claire succumbed to her cancer. You came pretty close with this try, but you fell short.”
John glared at her for almost a solid minute. “What the hell kind of a shrink are you?” John asked, the bitter aftertaste of some sort of medication burned his tongue.
“Question already asked and answered. Now, what in the hell do you really think you were doing?”
“It wasn’t obvious?”
“Killing yourself? That was obvious. The why of it, though, is still a mystery.”
“I wanted to be with her.”
Lowenstein leaned closer to his face—so close he could smell her breath, which was scented with wintergreen. Her hazel eyes probed deep into his. “But you’re with her every day, aren’t you? You talk to Claire all the time. You see her and hear her. What more can you want?”
“To be with her!” His words came out loud and brusque this time. “Wherever she is, I want to be with her.”
Lowenstein straightened up. “Nah... You promised me you would tell me the truth. Do it now, because I’m about to walk out of here, and if I do, when you go to court, my report...well.” She paused, shrugged then leaned forward. “I don’t need this...this crap, John. Tell me what you really want, or let me go take care of someone who is asking to get better.”
John let her words bounce around in the dark endless cavern that was his mind. The panic started again, deep in the very center of his head. Little electric shocks spread everywhere. Iron bands clamped around his chest, then tightened. His heart pounded so loud he could hear it echo off the walls. He remembered what she’d told him. Closing his eyes, he breathed deep and slow. The panic eased.
He looked at her, balancing his needs with her words. A tear spilled from his right eye, it rolled from the corner of his eye, and tracked to just below his ear. “I...” He gulped some air and spoke. Each word became a lone sentence. “I. Want. The. Pain. To. Stop.”
The psychiatrist said nothing for several breaths. She reached out to wipe another tear from the corner of his eye with the tip of her index finger. “Good for you, John. Now, just maybe, we can make some progress. Rest. I’ll see you in the morning.” She rose, started out, and then stopped when he called to her.
“My wrists—”
“—are fine just the way they are, and by the way, you tried to kill yourself two days ago. You’re down to seven days before court.”
<><><>
Day 24
They released his hands from the restraints at ten the next morning, and then brought him to Lowenstein’s office. The psychiatrist was seated in her chair, and he fitted easily into the one across from her. He held her gaze, stared into her eyes, and nodded. “Okay.”
One eyebrow rose. “What does ‘okay’ mean?”
John
shrugged. “Okay, I’m here. Let’s get this done.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. She stared at him for a long intense moment. “Get what done?”
John held her stare, his lips were dry again, but he didn’t want to move, not even move his tongue to moisten them. Get what done? The words, like a train rumbling through his mind, emphasized his never-ending pain, “Get me done... Get me fixed...” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I need your help.”
Lowenstein blinked, then nodded. “Good, John. There’s a lot of work ahead, but together, just maybe, we can do this. Now, tell me about...”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Room 1701, Nassau County Courthouse, November.
Sitting in thoughtful silence, John looked around the courthouse. It was exactly like all the courtrooms he had been in before, only this time he was the star, not the accounting expert. They’d been in the courtroom for under five minutes when the judge entered and took his seat.
The bandage was gone from his face, revealing the fading purple into yellow bruises, running along the cheek from mouth to eye, that hurt whenever he moved his mouth. The skin beneath the cast on his arm itched, and whenever he tried to scratch it, the pain radiated up his arm, but those were only physical pains, and he handled them easily.
John’s attorney leaned toward him. “Judge Gallagher is a stickler for the letter of the law, so whatever happens will be up to your doctor.”
After the judge sat, he and the clerk had spoken in whispers, he’d nodded and the clerk stepped forward. “Case number 20A -1872396, Nassau County v. John R. Edghes, charges filed: drunk and disorderly, assault, battery, resisting arrest, assault on a policeman. The defendant will please rise.”
John stood, as did his lawyer. The judge leaned forward. “How do you plead, Mr. Edghes?”
The lawyer spoke first. “We plead not guilty by diminished capacity, Your Honor.”
The judge stared at John, his eyes going over him from head to toe. “Mr. Edghes, do you understand that today’s proceeding is to determine your mental state at the time of your arrest, and if you are now capable to stand trial?”