Beyond Physical

by D Pichardo-Johansson

  “So, you’re a walking miracle.”

  Richard leaned toward her. His voice was a whisper. “By the way, I want to clarify that I have nothing against tattoos. I have a tattoo.”

  Blinking rapidly, Joy leaned forward too. “Really? You do?”

  Richard’s voice was playful. “Do you want to see it?”

  The perplexity on her face was almost comical. “Would you show it to me?”

  He smiled. “It depends. Do you have anything to show me in exchange?”

  Blushing, Joy cleared her throat and looked away. Her voice turned serious. “Okay, we’re digressing. Where was I?”

  Richard smiled wider, amused by her sudden shyness. “We were talking about me sticking a label on Cliff.”

  “Oh, yes.” She cleared her throat again. “That’s an example of entering into a posthypnotic trance and replaying in our memory an old scene, to the point that we lose sight of the present one.”

  His smile disappeared. “You lost me.”

  She explained, “Imagine that ever since early childhood, a guy wearing a red shirt hits you on the head with a stick every time he sees you. Or worse, such a thing never happened to you, but you grew up hearing your parents talk about how it happened to them. It gets imprinted in your memory. You may not remember why; but now as an adult, every time you see somebody with a red shirt on, you freak out. You go into a trance in which you are convinced that such a person is evil and is there to hurt you.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Okay, now substitute the phrase ‘wearing a red shirt’ with whatever you want—a tattooed guy, a guy who’s black, or who’s white, a gay man, an illegal immigrant, you name it. Now replace the phrase ‘hits you on the head with a stick’ with something else—‘is dangerous,’ ‘steals your job,’ . . . you get the point. From then on, you’re so convinced that all the ‘red-shirt-wearers’ in the world have the same purpose of hurting you that you will see, even hallucinate, all the proof to support your theory and will convince yourself over and over that your fear is founded.”

  Richard reflected on her words. “Interesting. So you’re saying that discrimination starts like that.”

  She nodded. “It becomes a vicious cycle. After you start acting defensively against the ‘red-shirt-wearers,’ they then sense your defensiveness and feel attacked, so they hurt you more. The cycle continues forever and ever.”

  She took a sip from her soda and said, “It takes a decision to break the vicious cycle. If you decide to truly embrace one red-shirt-wearer, to give him a chance to show his true self, I can guarantee you that you’ll discover wonderful qualities in him. Your attitude toward ‘his kind’ will change, and every red-shirt-wearer who meets you from then on will sense that love and acceptance. It will challenge his previous opinion that all of you, the non-red-shirt-wearers in the world, are evil. But it starts with one, with you.”

  Sincerely impressed, he nodded. “Fascinating theory. I wish I could apply it, but I wouldn’t know how to start.”

  She smiled. “Okay, here’s a simple technique. I call it the ‘instant bonding method.’ The next time you’re in front of someone who’s getting on your nerves and you’re about to decide you hate them, pause for a moment and try to find any characteristics in them which remind you of someone you love, or at least really like. Their eyes, their gestures, their tone of voice—anything. Do you see how sometimes people you love have tics and idiosyncrasies other people can find annoying, but you’ve learned to accept them and find it cute, because you feel affection for them? Find those in this new person.”

  He considered her method. “That doesn’t sound that hard.”

  Lunch was over; and still engaged in their chat, they returned to the Hospice House.

  Chapter 9

  Only the last patient of the day at the CeMeSH had given permission that day for Richard to be present in her session. In the meantime, instead of sitting in the waiting room, he went for a walk and found himself in the inpatient area. Once there, he decided to go back to visit Dr. Andrews.

  He received him with a smile. “Glad to see you again, Mr. Fields. Come in. Take a seat. What have you been up to?”

  He sat down. “Not much, walking around half-dead people all day.”

  Andrews raised his eyebrows. “Half-dead people?”

  Richard rolled his eyes. “You don’t want to know. People dying of old age, people dying of cancer. Gosh, they need someone to do them a favor and shoot them to get them out of their misery.”

  After a silence, Andrews said, “You talk about it as if it bothered you, but the tone of your voice sounds quite indifferent. Can you clarify to me what your real feelings are about those people?”

  Shrugging, Richard replied. “I guess I should feel sad for them, but I don’t seem to care.”

  Andrews nodded. “Is that often the case in your life? Do you often feel numb inside when you know you should be feeling something?”

  “Exactly. Numb is the word. I feel like I’m watching things behind a glass, and I see them but they can’t touch me. I guess I’ve become immune to suffering. I can’t remember the last time news shocked me or anything really moved me.”

  Andrews limited himself to a nod. “I see.”

  “Anyway,” Richard said. “I didn’t come to talk about that. Tell me. Are you willing to skip the riddles today and talk to me like normal people do?”

  Narrowing his eyes, Andrews asked, “Who are the normal people, Mr. Fields? Who decides who they are?”

  Richard stared at him blankly. “What do you mean? You’re normal if you act normal and not if you don’t.”

  “And who decides what acting normal means?”

  “Who? Everybody. It’s a consensus.”

  Andrews lifted his index finger. “You said it. It’s not a concrete definition. It’s all subjective.”

  Looking intently at Richard, he said, “Short of hurting another person, there’s no right way or wrong way to act, or look, or dress, or think. Whatever you consider right or wrong is what your consensus reality, the people in the circle you move in, sold you as the truth.”

  “You proved my point,” said Richard shaking his head. “You can’t talk normal, can you?”

  Andrews looked at him with amusement. “Mr. Fields, what would you think if I told you, ‘I’m cooking my dog tonight; come join me having it for dinner.’”

  Richard blinked rapidly. “Of course, I’d say you’re crazy.”

  “However, in some Asian countries, it’s normal to eat dogs, right? What would you do if you’re crossing the street and find a naked man making marks on his body with a razor blade?”

  “I’d take him to a mental hospital for being a threat to himself,” Richard answered, frowning.

  “However, that scene would be common in certain African tribes, right? Who says we’re the ones who are right and they’re wrong? Who makes the rules?”

  “Well, if you’re in this country, you have to follow this country’s rules.”

  “And what about the hundreds of subcultures in this country? The different costumes you’ll see in the different racial groups, sociocultural groups, and different families?”

  Still frowning, Richard shook his head. “Where are you going with this?”

  “I want you to rethink your original question from a more humble perspective. What makes you think that another human being needs to comply with your expectation of what a person needs to be like, or do, or think? What makes you think that your idea of the ‘normal way to be’ is not ridiculous for someone else? Crazy, normal, nice, mean—where are all these labels coming from?”

  There was that word again—labels. Richard chuckled. “You sound like Joy.”

  “Who’s Joy?”

  Richard erased his smile and tensed up. What was wrong with me today? The name had slipped out of his mouth.

  Andrews added, “Is Joy the lady you talked to me about?”

  “That’s irrelevant right now.”
<
br />   “I want to know what exactly she told you that sounded like what I’m telling you now.”

  Richard thought it was worth answering something to avoid feeding his curiosity about her. “Today she kept talking about how quick I am in judging people. She says that if I change my attitude about one person, that person will perceive it and have a nicer attitude toward me.”

  Andrews clapped. “I like that woman already.” He paused and then added, “Let’s acknowledge the coincidence that happened—the same topic coming from two sources—and see what message I have for you. Ready?”

  Richard rolled his eyes. “Okay, ready.”

  Andrews spoke slowly. “Every single person or situation you encounter has much more to it than what you think. Just let the experience of what’s in front of you flow into your senses, acknowledging it without trying to classify it. Just be a witness of that which is in front of you without judging it.”

  Richard sighed. “It sounds nice, but it’s not that easy. How can you do it?”

  Andrews looked at him with a hint of affection in his eyes. “Someday you’ll achieve a state of spiritual and mental evolution that will allow you to put aside everything that others have spoon-fed you, including the labels they’ve passed to you. Race, gender, nationality, profession—they’re all illusions. Someday you’ll remember that we’re none of that. We’re all eternal spirits passing through this world on a temporary trip.”

  * * *

  That night Richard had confusing dreams. A blond man wearing a business suit walked next to Joy, holding her hand. The man kissed Joy’s hand and disappeared through a door. Richard walked to the door and opened it; but instead of the man, Dr. Andrews came out.

  Andrews said, “There’s more than what your eyes can see at first. Look back into the body, the physical form of what you saw, and find the pieces hiding in it.”

  Richard woke up abruptly, gasping.

  His nightstand clock marked 5:07 a.m. No point in trying to go back to sleep when he needed to be back up in an hour. Getting out of bed, he walked into the next room, his home office. He sat on the rolling chair in front of the desk, trying to put together in his mind the pieces of the dream before it disappeared from his memory.

  He could swear that the man walking with Joy in the dream was someone he’d seen before.

  He opened a password-protected file on his laptop on the desk and went through several pages until he found the picture he was looking for. Yes, the man he’d seen in his dream was Michael O’Hara.

  He pondered the words Andrews had said in the dream.

  Look back into the body.

  Richard searched in the computer file for O’Hara’s autopsy report. He read it several times until his eyes stopped on a sentence. “Several pieces of metallic debris, apparently arising from the car’s damaged structure, had encrusted in the chest wall without penetrating it.”

  Find the pieces hiding in it. Richard reflected on that sentence. Then he picked up his cell phone from the desk where it was charging. He called a number. As he expected, it went straight to voice mail.

  “Dr. Sullivan, it’s agent Fields. I need to talk to you about Michael O’Hara’s autopsy report.”

  * * *

  Hours later, Richard sat in the forensic pathology department with Dr. Sullivan. She deposited a small Ziploc bag into his gloved hands.

  “You’re lucky that I save everything.”

  Richard looked at the bag. It contained seven small metallic pieces of varying sizes. His attention was caught by the largest piece. It was roughly oval, larger than a silver dollar. It was too smooth to be a random piece of car structure coming off.

  “This looks like a coin.” He knew O’Hara’s body and car were submerged in the brackish waters of the Indian River for hours before the search team recovered them. No wonder the coin was rusty. He tried to clean it up with his gloved nail.

  “Dr. Sullivan, I need to check out these pieces.”

  Chapter 10

  The previous weekend, for the first time in months, Richard had dragged himself to go surfing at sunrise.

  He loved surfing—a sport he’d picked up after moving to Fort Sunshine—yet he never seemed to find time to do it lately, always postponing it in lieu of working or weekend drinking. But the constant exposure to dying patients in the past weeks was having a strange effect on him, highlighting the brevity of life and reminding him to not postpone anything.

  For the past week with Joy, to compensate for their last argument, he’d worked on becoming indispensable. He brought her coffee every morning, kept track of her keys and sunglasses for her, and volunteered to put gas in her car. She, in return, had put extra effort into setting time aside for mentoring psychology conversation with him. The following days, their lunch breaks and car trips were filled with animated chatter. From psychology topics, he’d gradually shifted the chat to ethical dilemmas, trying to get information from her about O’Hara’s private views. He soon surprised himself by getting carried away in stimulating debates to the point of forgetting why he’d started. Besides surfing, his other entertainment last weekend had been exchanging emails and texts with her on their most recent topic—assisted suicide.

  Then, two days back, their interactions had abruptly turned cold. It was as if both of them had realized at once that they were starting to cross some boundary and had withdrawn.

  When the week was officially over, Friday at five, Joy and Richard said goodbye to each other without touching and rushed to their cars with urgency.

  It was a relief to be getting away from her for the next two days. His fake character and his real self were starting to blend in his mind. Keith would take over, tailing her through the weekend.

  He was putting his seatbelt on when he got a text from Samuel.

  You were right about that coin. It seems important. Come to the office ASAP.

  Minutes later, Richard entered Samuel’s office.

  “What do you have, man?”

  Samuel extracted a group of photographs from a yellow envelope. “These are high power images of the coin recovered from O’Hara’s body after polishing it.”

  Taking the pictures, Richard looked at them one by one. A series of imprints similar to hieroglyphics formed two oval spirals, converging at the center of the coin. Around the border there was another series of inscriptions. Richard was amazed that it could all fit on such a small piece.

  “Any idea about what the symbols mean?”

  “Our cryptanalysts are working on it as we speak. It seems to be a mixture of Greek and Sanskrit characters. The larger symbols in the outer border of the coin are easier to read; and so far, the only word they’ve interpreted is the word ‘Lords.’”

  “Lords?”

  “Yes. The theory is that it may be an amulet or religious insignia.”

  Richard raised his eyebrows. “That fits with the theory that he was killed by a religious sect—the Co-creators?”

  “It could be. Yet, we still have no idea what ‘the sin’ was that O’Hara was committing in the eyes of the killers. Any new information from his widow?”

  Shaking his head, he replied, “All my attempts to get her talking about her husband have bounced against a wall.”

  “We need to find a way to move faster, Richard, before these murderers attack again. You need to find other people around her willing to talk. Any ideas?”

  Richard thought for a moment. “I know that her nanny has been with her for several years.”

  “That’s a good place to start.”

  “Okay. I’ll see what I can do, starting on Monday. For now, I’m off for the weekend. I’m already late for picking up Ray.”

  * * *

  Richard and Ray rode in the car in complete silence. When they arrived at Richard’s house, Ray sat on the living room couch and put his feet on the coffee table in front of him without saying a word.

  “Did you have dinner already?” Richard asked.

  “I ate something at E
than’s house.”

  “Who’s Ethan?”

  “My best friend.”

  “I thought your best friend was Nick.”

  Ray rolled his eyes. “You’re so behind. Nick moved to Texas last year.”

  “Oh. Sorry to hear that. You guys were close.”

  “That’s ancient history now.”

  A long silence fell.

  “I hope I get to meet Ethan soon.”

  Ray didn’t answer, so Richard continued. “Are you still seeing Carrie? Is she still your girlfriend?”

  Sighing in exasperation, Ray took his feet off the table and got up from the couch.

  “Dad, I’m not five. You don’t have to pretend you’re interested in what’s going on in my life. You did your part; you brought me here. Now go pick up your girlfriend and go to the bars with her and leave me alone. I’ll be in my room watching TV.”

  The boy walked into his room and closed the door behind him. A faint sadness invaded Richard.

  Reaching for the minibar in his living room, he served himself the first drink he found and then sat on the couch, brooding.

  His mind took a trip back in time, not that long ago, when Ray and he had been best friends. His memories took him to a house full of laughter, little steps running, and soft arms hugging him. He remembered their expeditions together, riding their bikes, camping out, fishing, teaching him how to surf. Now his boy, the person he’d loved the most in his life, was pushing him away. His son had become a stranger.

  Chapter 11

  Now in his fourth week shadowing Joy, Richard wondered how much longer he could milk the excuse of the career change before she got suspicious. Luckily, she showed no hurry for him to leave and asked no questions about the length of his stay. In that instance, her tendency to trust people too much worked to his advantage.

  But that Monday, he was back to his original theory: Joy Clayton was dangerous.