The Antarcticans

by Suriano, James

  Gavin’s house phone rang. He walked over to the wall in the kitchen and picked up the receiver.

  “Pastor Pennings?” a voice asked.

  “Yes. Who is this?” Gavin said.

  “Oh, hey, Gavin, it’s Frank.”

  “From church?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s going on?” He wasn’t sure what to say since he wasn’t officially affiliated with the church any longer.

  “One of the kids in my youth group said I should reach out to you. I know you’re busy with your son right now, but are you planning to be at the youth group event Saturday night? I have you listed as one of the speakers. And I don’t mean to pry, but it seems like you’ve been MIA for a while. Anything I can do?”

  “Yeah, sorry, no, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it. Everything going okay at the church?”

  “Everything’s fine. Your being away gives me and the other assistant pastors a chance to step up to your duties and lead. But you know how it is—there’s nothing hard about praising the Lord every day. He’s leading all of us in your absence. We’re all hoping you can work your differences out with the church deacons and come back.”

  “Ah, okay, well, I’m not sure that’ll ever happen after what I’ve done.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Pastor Pennings? Does the missus need anything? I know your son’s illness must be really hard for you. I’ve been praying for all of you every chance I get,” Frank said.

  Gavin was breathless for a moment as he contemplated the reality that he wasn’t a pastor any longer. “No, it’s okay. I appreciate the prayers, Frank. I’m praying the Lord steps in here soon to get us out of this mess.” He cringed when he said that because it felt forced and disingenuous.

  “I never doubt that for a second, Pastor. Talk to ya later.”

  Gavin shook his head and placed the phone back on the hook. That life seemed so far away, almost as if it had happened to someone else.

  The house was immaculate. He could imagine Noila running around the house getting everything in order. He wandered through the empty house looking for clues as to what he should do next. He stopped in the kitchen and stared at a tile in the backsplash behind the sink that he had looked at a thousand times in the past. It was two stick figures, drawn in purple and red, with triangles and circles in their hands. Joshua had drawn it when he was five. His kindergarten teacher had gotten the good idea to have all the kids create a piece of art that could be incorporated into their homes. Joshua had chosen a ceramic tile. The first tear that rolled down his face felt coerced from his bank of sorrow. Then a tidal wave crested over him, held for a minute, and crashed. It pushed him to his knees as tears flooded his eyes. The circumstances of his world were crushing; his threaded web of beliefs was tangled and overloaded by how quickly and heavily each new problem descended on him. He reached for the sink, but his hand slipped, and he crumpled to the floor. His body shook, and he clasped his hands and looked to the ceiling. “Lord, help me. I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” He gripped his hands tighter, digging his nails into his fists.

  “Help me!” he yelled through his choked sniffling.

  The house was quiet: a tick-tock from the kitchen clock, a car door closing in his neighbor’s driveway, a child squealing with delight, palm fronds brushing the living-room window. More tick, more tock. Then the phone rang, not the house phone but the phone on the table, the phone with the golden emblem. Gavin’s heart dropped in his chest, his grief suspended by surprise and a sprinkling of dread. He jammed his head against the cabinet; then the phone rang again. He rammed his head harder into the wooden door. The ringing didn’t stop. Over and over it continued. Finally he crawled into the dining room and reached for the tabletop, where he had left the cell phone. He fumbled the phone, and it fell to the floor. He pressed the green button flashing on the screen and pulled the phone to his ear again.

  “Be at the dock in twenty minutes.” He didn’t recognize the voice.

  “Is this…?”

  The caller disconnected.

  Gavin chucked the phone against the wall and pulled himself into a ball, his thick, dark hair dragging through the shag carpeting. He counted to sixty then stood up, walked to the small credenza at the end of the room, slid the door open, pulled the cork from the Scotch, and put the bottle to his lips. He swallowed three mouthfuls hard, his throat protesting against the strong alcohol. He slammed the bottle on the dark wood and left the top open. He wiped his eyes, pushed his hair into place, and pulled his car keys from his pocket.

  “Here I come,” he said.

  …

  Gavin arrived at the same Dragon, but the mood of the ship had changed. Armed guards met him as the helicopter set down on the ship. They looked around nervously and escorted him to the covered elevator to bring him below deck. The top deck had been cleared of furniture. The swimming pool, which had been adorned by planters and beds and thick cotton shades, was now a flat runway with two fighter jets parked. The edge of the deck around the entire ship was lined with guards, all standing firm, all with high-powered laser rifles.

  “What’s going on?” Gavin asked one of the guards.

  The guard nodded to him and urged him to keep walking.

  Leo met him inside the ship and handed him his room assignment. “Apologies for my not being able to provide you the same room, but I think you’ll find this room with a view more suitable.”

  Some of the corridors had signs posted, indicating only certain people were allowed down them. The air was tense, and people on the ship were moving briskly about. The carpets, which had given the common areas a welcoming feel, had been replaced with textured black rubber. When Gavin got to his room, he found a printed note on Dragon stationary, the words in embossed gold, explaining the current heightened security posture the ship was in and listing areas of concern. Most important was that if the ship’s alarm sounded, guests should return to their rooms and not come out until they were notified it was safe to do so.

  The door chime rang. He opened the door to a woman in her seventies, her silver hair cropped short. She wore huge tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses, fitted black pants, and a tan turtleneck.

  “Hello, Gavin. I’m Dr. Sagona. I’ve been waiting for you. I’m sorry I missed you last time you were on the ship. I know you just got in, but would you have some time later? I thought we might have some things in common. I hear you’re great researcher of the Christian religion.” Her tone was soft and inviting; she spoke with the intelligence and grace of a lifetime of education.

  “Sure. Just let me get settled in. Do you have quarters here or an office?” He abruptly shot his hand out to shake hers.

  Dr. Sagona looked down at it then put her hand up as if she were going to give him a high five. “I don’t shake hands,” she said unapologetically. “I’ll send my details to your room, and we can get together when you’re free.” She turned on her heel and walked away.

  Gavin’s first call was to Dr. Cristofari to schedule a time to see Joshua. She sounded surprised when he called. A few minutes later, she met him at the door to the clinic.

  “Is something wrong? You sounded surprised to hear from me,” Gavin said.

  “Let’s get to a private area before we discuss your son’s condition.”

  She led him through the corridor to Joshua’s room. After they entered, she sealed the glass doors behind them. Gavin walked over to Joshua and reached out to touch him. He looked back at Dr. Cristofari to make sure it was okay.

  “Go ahead. It won’t affect his mental state,” she said.

  Gavin pulled Joshua’s hand into his and held it, rubbing his fingers, “Hi, son. I hope you can hear me. Your mom and I love you very much. Whatever’s going on right now with you is okay. It’ll always be okay.” Gavin didn’t believe his own words, but he was intent on reassuring Joshua and hoped he could hear him.

  He stepped away from him and leaned toward the doctor. “Has something not gone as you expected?”<
br />
  “Joshua is a very strong young man—his mind, that is. He holds very firmly to the things he believes are important and right. While we might consider that a good thing, it makes the transition process we’re attempting to move him through difficult, because he won’t decouple from his identity.”

  “What’s the next step then?” Gavin asked.

  Dr. Cristofari pushed a few stray auburn hairs away from her face. “What we’re doing is experimental, and every case is different. I wish we had a second step to move to. I’d hoped that just exposing him to the treatment longer would break him away from the personalities he’s experiencing. But it isn’t working. I’ve been talking with some of the other psychiatrists. Without getting into too much medicine speak, they suggested we insert something familiar into his world to coax him onto the path he needs to follow in order to be completely—and excuse the word, as it sounds a bit cold—reprogrammed.” She buried her hands in the pockets of her lab coat.

  “What exactly are you suggesting?” Gavin was agitated and confused.

  “Who’s the disciplinarian in the family? Your wife or you? Who would Joshua be more apt to listen to if given a command from either of you?” she asked.

  “Definitely me. My wife is like apple pie with him.”

  “Well, then, it’s an excellent thing that you’re here and his mother isn’t.” She activated a panel on the wall and brought up Joshua’s file. An image appeared on the screen. “This is Joshua’s brain. I’ve identified two areas where he has structural abnormalities, likely causing his hallucinations. It’s interesting because we often see these in artists, musicians, and authors. Those with an innate intense creativity. But in this case, the abnormality crosses the threshold from a creativity that can be harnessed and, for example, put into a painting, to hallucinations that are out of control.” She looked at Gavin to make sure he was following her explanation.

  “Are you doing surgery to correct these brain abnormalities? What kind of treatment are you giving him?” Gavin expressed concern.

  “In a way yes, but likely not how you think about surgery. There are no knives or cutting and stitching. The experimental treatment shows the patient images, which convince the brain that certain images aren’t real and display subtle cues, which can serve as tests for the patient to differentiate reality from fantasy. We then teach him or her how to use the tests subconsciously to weed out fact from fiction.” She pulled up another set of images.

  “But it’s not working, right?” Gavin asked.

  “I’m afraid not. Joshua is so attached to one of his internal personalities that we can’t find a test to get him to believe at a subconscious level that the personality isn’t real.”

  An image of a Margie appeared on the screen. She was sitting in a circle with the Samson twins; a wicked-looking man with pointy teeth and smoke rising from his leathery scaled skin; a tall skinny Caucasian man with a green Mohawk and multiple piercings, rings, and tattoos who was smoking a cigarette; and three gray human shapes that lacked faces or defining features.

  “What’s that?” Gavin looked horrified.

  “These are the personalities we’ve been able to decipher from Joshua so far. Our technology allows us to reconstruct images he’s producing based on the mapping of electrical currents and neuron activity in his brain. It’s possible there are more, but these are the main players. We’ve been successful at temporarily quarantining all but one of them from Joshua’s brain.”

  “Let me guess. That one there.” Gavin pointed to Margie.

  “Exactly. Can I ask why you picked her?”

  “It resembles a caricature of his grandmother,” he said.

  “Ah…” Dr. Cristofari looked away from the screen and to Joshua. “Mr. Pennings, I’m at the end of my science. I need your help now.” She stared into Gavin’s eyes, waiting for a response.

  Gavin shook his head. “Me? What can I do? I barely understand what you’re talking about.”

  “I can put you inside Joshua’s mind with him. I can transform you into one of his personalities. You’ll have to convince him to let go of Margie. If he holds on to her, I’ll never be able to section off that part of his brain and close it down. She’s a conduit that continues to allow the other personalities to come through. And it’s getting worse. He’s safe here because we have him restrained and sedated, but if the personalities battle, it’ll be a war that will tear Joshua’s mind and body apart.” Dr. Cristofari looked concerned. She whipped her auburn ponytail around and looked toward the wall. Gavin thought he saw her eyes watering.

  “You’re talking about these personalities as if they’re people, invaders, something outside of my son. Isn’t it possible they’re demons?” he asked.

  “Call them what you like, demons, evil jinns, maybe Satan himself. To me they’re a physical structure of his brain gone awry,”

  “You don’t have a faith, Doctor?”

  She let out a frustrated sigh. “That’s a complicated question and really has little to do with treating your son. I suggest we focus on him now.” Her annoyance with Gavin was beginning to show. “When are you available to go through the preparation? We’ll need at least a day to do that, potentially two.”

  “I want to help Joshua get better. I want that more than anything. But does this pose a risk to him? I can’t imagine what you have to do to put me inside his mind.” He crossed his arms.

  “The procedure isn’t difficult. It isn’t even experimental. There’s very little risk to you,” Dr. Cristofari replied.

  “I’m not concerned about me. I’m concerned about Joshua. What risk is there to him?”

  “The risk of doing nothing is far, far greater than anything this technology can do to him. From what I understand, this is your last stop in looking for solutions.”

  “I have some other ideas if this doesn’t work, a few people he hasn’t talked to yet. I’ve got a whole congregation praying for him as well. You never know what God can do.” He smiled warmly.

  “Mr. Pennings, are you going to help your son or not? While Joshua’s under no obligation to stay here or receive any treatment whatsoever, my professional opinion is that this is the best course of therapy for him.” Her face started to get red.

  “No offense, but you said the same thing when we first came aboard the ship, and you were convinced that a little of your…reprogramming”—he put his fingers in the air to simulate quotation marks—“was all he needed. And we see where that got us.”

  Dr. Cristofari threw her hands up in the air. “I’m done with this conversation. When you make a decision, you know where to find me.” She stormed out of Joshua’s room and down the corridor, mumbling about how stubborn nonscientists could be.

  As Gavin took Joshua’s hand again and prayed with him, he broke down in tears. He pulled up a chair beside his bed and spent the night in the room with him, falling asleep while holding his hand. When he woke up, the room looked the same; the lighting was the same. Being inside the belly of the Dragon was like being in a Las Vegas casino—he never knew what time it was because there wasn’t any outside light, and clocks were scarce. He needed to think just for a day about what it meant to be inside his son’s head. He went to the ship’s gym for a workout then got himself ready and rang Dr. Sagona to see if she had time to see him. It was late morning, and she said she was free.

  Her office sat on one of the upper decks, and its walls were covered in black wooden drawers. There were two large tables with dim green lights hanging over them from long cords from the ceiling. Each table had some other specialized lights and equipment Gavin didn’t recognize. Her back was to him, since her desk faced the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the ocean.

  She didn’t turn around when he came in. “Isn’t it grand?” she asked.

  “What’s that?” Gavin asked.

  “The view of course. I’m stunned every time I walk in here.”

  “Yes, it’s…” He looked out over the ocean. “…quite i
mpressive. You must be an important part of the operation.”

  “I’m an agent of the Vatican. On secondment here.” Dr. Sagona gently closed the leather-bound book on her desk then picked it up and carried it to a cabinet in the wall. She pushed a button next to the cabinet, and the drawer opened. A puff of chilled air escaped the cabinet as it opened. It reminded Gavin of the drawers at the mortuary where dead bodies were kept. “Lucifer has a collection of rare religious texts,” she said. “Until I came here, I wasn’t aware they existed. His collection is unrivaled in the world. These drawers preserve the originals perfectly. Depending on the paper and ink that was used, we can select the best temperature and humidity to maintain the copies for as long as possible.”

  “Why use the originals? Why not just scan them then look at them on a computer?”

  She smiled to herself, as if she’d heard this question many times. She pressed the button again, and the drawer disappeared into the wall. “I thought you said you were a man of the Word?”

  Gavin nodded. “Yes, I do consider myself a man who follows God’s word.” He leaned on one of the islands that were covered in thick marble.

  “I see. In the original texts, it isn’t simply the written words that are important to understanding the meaning of the texts, since everything is contextual. We lose some of that nuance in the excessive, chattering age we live in. Everyone is texting, e-mailing, scanning—it’s an endless barrage of inputs and outputs that everyone can produce and no one understands. But the pieces we understand most in the midst of all this noise are those for which we have context. And while we don’t always recognize the contextual aspects of our instant communication, they’re there.

  “This is no different in our historical work. But the context is what often is missing when we examine the past. We tend to read history with twenty-first-century eyes. We believe everything makes perfect sense to us. But if we step back and imagine someone reading our writings a century from now or, in the case of most of these books, two to three thousand years from now…well, emoticons and ‘How R U?’” She traced an R and a U in the air. “Their meaning would be lost. So the words we can read over and over again, even understanding their literal meaning, and we’ll still have an incomplete picture. You see, the words live in these books. They’re part of the page, and locked within those pages, within the molecules of ink, are the historical clues to what was happening in that time. The dictionary meaning of the words only goes so far. To understand the breath of these words, I need to stand over the original texts, breathe in the millennia of time, and feel what the writers were trying to say.” Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing deeply.