Cycling to Asylum

by Su J. Sokol

  “We can raise the dosage a little and then we’ll see. That’s why it doesn’t pay to try to be heroic with these types of injuries. You just end up paying for it later. Take a breath … Good.”

  “Janie,” I gasp.

  “She’ll be in later. It’s still early in the morning.”

  “Please …”

  “Just a few more minutes, you should feel some relief. Try not to move.”

  I can’t stop shivering. I close my eyes, but it doesn’t help. In my head, I keep on imagining Janie at the mercy of that sadistic cop. I open my eyes. I have to do something, but I can’t think. The doctor’s talking to me again.

  “Laek, I’m going to leave you for a few minutes to talk to another doctor about your pain medication. Meanwhile, I want you to try to relax, take deep breaths. As soon as the pain has receded enough, you’ll be able to sleep a little. I’ll be back, just lie still.”

  I nod, still shivering. He puts his hand on my shoulder, then leaves. Good. I need to be alone. To plan what I have to do. But all I can think of is how, despite everything, I’ve done exactly what I’ve always dreaded. I’ve brought trouble down on Janie.

  I’ll have to flee, go underground. Or leave the country without her, without the kids. It’s the only way they’ll be safe. But even with me gone, they could find them. Like they’ll find me. I should leave the hospital now, hide. I try pulling myself up and it’s then that I notice the strap across my shoulders, across my hips too. I’m tied down, like a prisoner. I fight the rising panic, try to breathe like the doctor told me, but I can’t get enough air. I struggle against my straps, ignoring the pain. If I fell off the bed again, I wonder if it would kill me. An idea enters my head. If I were dead, they’d eventually leave Janie alone.

  My thoughts are going round and round. There’s no way out. I can’t put her in danger. The pain is dulling now, my limbs and my mind growing slow and heavy. I have to decide, before I can sleep. Go off the grid. Or flee. Each choice has its own risks. My breathing is slowing. I remember this feeling well. This oblivion. I’m not afraid of it. No, it draws me deeply.

  I close my eyes. I’m in Prospect Park again. Siri’s explaining something about baseball to me. “Sometimes, there’s more than one way to make the out, Daddy. Like when there’s a runner on third, and the batter hits a grounder to the shortstop. You could throw home, but that might not work—there’s no force play. Or you could throw to first, which wouldn’t be as good as making the out at home, but you’d be surer to succeed. Coach says you always need to go for the sure out, not the best out.”

  I know what the sure out is here. But no, I’ve already decided. I’ll go underground again … or maybe flee the country.

  As I fall deeper and deeper into a profound sleep, my mind is still struggling with making the best decision. But my body has already decided differently. It will take the sure out.

  SIXTEEN

  Janie

  This time, when Dr. Metcalfe called to ask me to meet him downstairs, I put him off. Each time I’ve met with the doctor, the news has been worse. The first day at the hospital, when I learned that seven of Laek’s ribs had been broken, I felt like I’d been kicked hard in the stomach. The doctor had reassured me, saying that Laek was young and strong, that the tear in the lung had been repaired, and that the internal organ damage would all heal in time. Then, when Laek fell out of bed, Dr. Metcalfe told me it was a minor setback. Instead, Laek had to be heavily sedated and later took a turn for the worse. The third long conversation was scarier, because it was obvious that the doctor was concerned, even though he claimed that developing pneumonia is not uncommon with these types of injuries. During our latest conversation, when Dr. Metcalfe spoke to me about morphine tolerance and addiction, I could see that he’d left behind all earlier optimism about Laek’s recovery.

  I sit beside Laek and take his hand. He lies motionless under the sheet, head turned away from the door. His skin, ordinarily warmer than mine, is cold as ice. His breathing is slow and shallow. I put my hand on his cheek, but he doesn’t stir. I will not give in to despair. I won’t.

  Maybe if I could warm his hand, it would be a good sign. I put it in-between my own hands, much smaller than his. His fingers are long and slender. A beautiful hand, really; he could have been a pianist. As much as he loves music, Laek doesn’t know how to play any instruments. I rub his hand up and down, in long, slow motions. I put his hand against my breast, my cheek. It already seems warmer. I rub it some more, kiss it, put one of his fingers into my mouth, suck each finger in turn. My saliva is hot, wet. I dry his hand on my shirt. It’s definitely warmer now, even a little pink.

  I look at Laek’s face, searching for some reaction or change. Does he feel that his hand is warmer, that I’m by his side? I sense something behind me. Dr. Metcalfe’s standing by the door, a sad smile on his face. Has he been standing there, watching? I can’t bring myself to be angry at him. Blaming the doctor would be convenient, but I honestly can’t reproach any of the treatment decisions he’s made and I can tell that he, too, is deeply upset by Laek’s deteriorating condition.

  “How does he seem to you?” Dr. Metcalfe asks.

  “Aren’t I supposed to be asking you that?” He doesn’t respond. “I’m scared.”

  “Yes. He’s not doing well. Failing, in fact.” Strange choice of words. Like Laek got a bad grade on his midterm or something. Can he retake the test?

  “We can’t give up.” I hold Laek’s hand tighter.

  “I’m nowhere near giving up. Laek’s the patient I think about when I leave the hospital each day and wake up each morning. I’ve read everything in his medical file—which isn’t much, by the way—examined his case from all angles, done research. I’m not telling you this so you’ll be grateful or have false hopes. Or even so you’ll decide not to sue me.”

  I smile at his attempt to joke. “So why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I’ve reached a certain conclusion, or at least I strongly suspect something, but I want you to understand it’s after giving it a lot of thought.” He looks over at me and I nod for him to continue. “The injury that Laek has suffered, I don’t want to understate it, yet as bad as it was, well, he’s young, unusually healthy and strong. So why isn’t he recovering? Why is he getting weaker instead?”

  “Well, there was the fall.” I wonder why I feel like arguing with him.

  “Yes, but how did that happen? It’s strange that, as painful as it was for him to move, he managed to throw himself out of bed.”

  “I don’t know. But the pneumonia—you said that can happen sometimes when there’s a bad chest injury, that secretions can get stuck in there and cause infection.”

  “That’s why we increased the morphine level so he could cough. And then did it again when his tolerance went up. That tolerance and quick addiction. It tells me certain things.”

  “Like what?”

  “First of all, that he’s used morphine before, a lot of it. And that there are many things that have happened to Laek—medically—that aren’t in his file.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “So the other conclusion I’ve reached, or rather, the question I’d like to ask …”

  He stops and looks at me and I suddenly feel even more afraid. “What?”

  “Janie, do you think it’s possible that Laek … that he doesn’t want to recover? That … Do you know, for instance, is there any history of mental illness or depression? Any suicide attempts, talk or thoughts in the past of killing or hurting himself?”

  Though I didn’t see this question coming, I can’t say I’m surprised. In all fairness, it’s a legitimate question. I stroke Laek’s hand, finally turning it palm up, to gently caress his wrist with my thumb. His bracelet tattoo—is it a vine of thorns or barbed wire?—doesn’t completely cover the white scar stretching all the way across. That scar has been there since before I met him and I’ve often wondered what could have left such a thick, ragged line.

>   Even at nineteen, I knew what I was getting into when we held each other in that small park on Avenue D by the Projects and I was caught by the intensity of light and dark in his eyes. It was probably a conceit on my part, thinking I could hold all that darkness back, away from Laek. Still, I can’t keep myself from protesting.

  “You don’t know him, what a joyful person he is. The smallest thing—like a beautiful sunrise, a surprising act of kindness—practically sends him into a state of ecstasy. He glows, and his smile … And he never sweats the little things. Sure, he gets sad sometimes. He’s just more sensitive than other people. But he has me and his friends, so many friends; and he loves his work, his kids … If you knew how much he loves his children, what a good father he is, you wouldn’t, you wouldn’t suggest …”

  “Janie, I’m not suggesting anything,” he says gently. “I’m only asking, because if there’s a psychological aspect to Laek’s case, a mental health aspect, there may be other approaches we should be taking.”

  I close my eyes, feel the tears that had been welling up fall down my cheeks, as I remember the last thing Laek said to me before he had to be so deeply drugged that we could no longer hold conversations. I’m sorry, Janie, he’d said. Please forgive me.

  “What kinds of approaches?” I ask the doctor. “Our daughter, she’s away at camp. Do I need … Should I make arrangements to have her sent back home?”

  “There’s a little time before you need to think about that. There are still things to try.”

  As he speaks to me about his ideas, one thought keeps repeating in my mind. That promise I made to Laek in the park sixteen years ago that I wouldn’t leave him. But now he’s leaving me. For a moment, I’m filled with anger, and it’s such a relief from the fear and despair that I hang on to it as long as I can. But then another thought enters my mind—that he hasn’t actually left me, that he’s only lost. A strange thought—Laek, who never gets lost in the physical world, who’s always there to help me find my way. Now I have to find him, find him and bring him home. Wherever home ends up being. Because I know now I failed him in not seeing that we could still be home together somewhere else. I lift Laek’s hand to my lips, kiss it on the wrist. It’s still warm.

  I talk to the doctor about my own ideas and he approves. I call Magda and tell her which photos of the kids to bring from the apartment and where to find my old acoustic guitar, the wood mellow and smooth from my student days. I can’t go and gather these items myself because the most important thing I’ve been given permission to do is to stay in this room with Laek day and night until, one way or another, he leaves it.

  We’ve also decided to decrease the amount of morphine. Controlling his pain is medically necessary, otherwise he won’t be able to breathe deeply and clear his lungs, but the dosage is now so high that it could backfire into respiratory depression. It was a hard decision, but decreasing the morphine is the path of hope. And if pain is needed to pull him out of whatever oblivion he’s sunken into, so be it. We’re fighting for his life.

  *

  We’re alone now, Laek and I, the photos by his bed, my guitar in my arms as I strum softly. I’m finally seeing the first signs of the decrease in the morphine as he rolls his head from side to side, his breathing more labored. I pull my chair closer and take his hand in mine.

  “It’s OK, baby, I’m here.” He settles down, seems to fall back into that state that looks more like a coma than sleep to me.

  Time passes and he’s still lying there, cold and lifeless. I need to do something, to break through somehow. I get up and look out into the hallway. The hospital seems abnormally quiet, the lights dimmed. I take off my shoes and slip into bed with him. I wrap my arms around him, heedless of hurting him. If only I could warm him up, help him to feel that he’s not alone.

  I stroke his hair, kiss his face. I should leave him in peace. This is crazy, climbing into his hospital bed as he lies here so badly hurt. I try to imagine life without him. My stomach twists with the thought of so unbearable a loss, my insides loose and jagged with pain. I can’t stop the tears so I press my head into the crook of his neck, wetting his cool skin. I lie there crying, my body against his. After a time, I doze, exhausted from the vigil and the crying and feeling some comfort from his body close to mine. I wake a few hours later and reluctantly leave the bed. He seems warmer, but no closer to consciousness.

  It’s starting to get light outside. I hear activity in the corridors—the night life of the hospital is at a close. It feels like the end of a kind of purgatory. I pick up my guitar and begin to strum it softly. The music I’m playing is soothing, but maybe soothing is not what’s needed. I think for a minute, choose one of my group’s own tunes, rebellious and angry but also filled with hope. I play, loud enough for him to hear, but not loud enough to disturb the other patients.

  I look up. Diffused sunlight filters through the institutional windows. I keep playing, watching Laek. A small horizontal rectangle of sunlight stripes his face. He stirs, turns his head. I’m by his side in an instant. I rest my hand on the far side of his face, to keep it turned in my direction. I take his hand and start speaking to him.

  “Laek, listen to me. I know where you are. You’re trying to go to New Metropolis. But we have to go together. I’ve worked it all out. We’re gonna go, I promise, but you need to wait. The kids and I, we’re coming with you. Wait for us, please. Come back.”

  He tries to turn his head away but I hold it, willing him to open his eyes, to look at me. I feel him squeeze my hand, watch him struggle for a deep breath. Then his eyes open. My own fill with tears. I let him pull his hand from my grasp. He lifts it up the few inches to my face.

  “Janie.” He moans softly.

  “I’m here. It’s OK.”

  “Don’t… don’t let him get you. I saw him …”

  “Shh. It’s OK, baby. You’re safe.”

  “Janie … Can’t let him …” He starts to close his eyes again.

  “No! Stay with me now. Don’t close your eyes.” I hold his face firmly in my hands, my own face close to his. His eyes fly open again.

  I keep talking to him, encouraging him to take deep breaths. He tries to fill his lungs, shudders with pain. I cradle his face, gently but firmly preventing him from turning away.

  “Please, it hurts. Let me … Let me go …”

  “No! I will never let you go. Now breathe!” He does, but his eyes flutter as he starts slipping away again. I hold his head, talk to him more about the plans we need to make.

  “It’ll be after Siri is finished with camp. We can all go up and get her, then continue north. But you need to start getting stronger, getting better. We can’t make it without you. I don’t know the way. We’ll be lost.” Laek starts to tremble.

  “Keep breathing, baby. You need to keep trying to breathe.”

  “I couldn’t, I couldn’t bear it … I saw him … and I thought … you’d be safer …”

  “I can’t lose you. You need to understand that. I can’t do this without you. All the light would be gone, all the music. Please Laek, we promised, we promised to stick together.”

  He puts his hands over his face, trying to hide his tears. I pull them away.

  “It’s OK,” I whisper. “You can let go. I got you.”

  He cries for a short time while I hold him, then his body relaxes. His breathing is still shallow, but regular and stronger. I pull the blankets over his shoulders, smooth his hair. His eyes snap open again.

  “Janie.” he says, sounding scared and very young.

  “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  He relaxes again and falls into a deeper sleep. Something about the sequence of the words I spoke tugs at my heart—a kind of déjà vu, like something right has come around again, full circle.

  SEVENTEEN

  Simon

  I never thought I’d be sick of pizza. Ever since Mommy’s been staying at the hospital with Daddy and I been staying with Henry, it’s all I get for dinner
. And I’m beginning to wonder if Henry and I are totally identical twins after all. Like, ’cause he’s not vegetarian and that’s why his mom doesn’t know what to cook for me.

  “Aren’t you hungry, honey?” Henry’s mom asks.

  “Not really.”

  “You’d tell me if you weren’t feeling well, Simon?” I nod. “Or even if you’re just … homesick, or need someone to talk to?”

  “He’s got me to talk to. Don’t be all worrying, Mom. Come on, Simon.” Henry pulls me by my arm and we race downstairs to the playroom.

  “Listen, little brother …” Henry calls me that sometimes, even though I’m only nine months younger. He says I could be his younger brother in real life because nine months is long enough to grow a new baby. “I got something you need to hear. About your daddy.”

  “What? Tell me!”

  “I know what happened. It was a cop who done that. Beat him with a phaser stick.”

  All of a sudden I have a stomach ache. I pick up one of Henry’s hyper-battle droids.

  “Put that shit down, Simon, it’s for babies. I thought you should know what happened, that they did a beat-down on him. Even with him being white and all.”

  “There are lots of black cops too.”

  “Stop acting like you dumb when you ain’t. You know how it is, or ought to. Don’t matter the color of the cop, just the color of the one getting beat.”

  “How do you know what happened?”

  “Remember when we were doing homework and I had to pee? I heard my mom talking.”

  “Did she say … did she say anything else?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like was he gonna die or something.”

  “Nah, your daddy’s too tough for that.”

  I reach for the droid again, but pull my hand back. “Let’s play holo-cube.”

  “Not yet. We got some preparing to do if you wanna avenge your daddy. But first you gotta take care of your own self.”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “I mean Keri. Showing him you ain’t gonna take his shit no more. Then after that, you’ll be ready to go after the one who done your daddy.”