You cannot trust him.
“I have to talk to someone about this! I have to stop what’s happening here!”
Adam is standing at his bookcase when I come storming in. He startles and spins around. Several books fly off the shelf and tumble to the floor.
“What the hell?” He motions toward the pile of books. “Ever heard of knocking before entering?”
“There’s no time for that,” I say and make a beeline for the chair. “We’ve got trouble. Big trouble.”
Adam’s vision never leaves me as he walks to his desk, and even after taking his seat, he’s the image of watchfulness knuckled by doubt.
I rub a sweaty palm against my pant leg, then scoot the chair a little closer toward his desk. “First of all, you need to know that I played things down at the outset, because I didn’t want it to seem like I was overreacting, but since then, I’ve come across new information that’s far more definitive.” I recheck the door behind him, then lower my voice. “Adam, something very strange is going on around here, something bad, and I just don’t know who else to tell, and I’m really worried, and something has to be done before it gets—”
Adam stops me with a raised hand, and I see consternation play across his face when he says, “Chris . . . what’s happening to you?”
“I’m trying to explain that!”
“No, I mean, I’ve never seen you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Look at yourself. Your shirt is soaked in sweat, you’re all wild-eyed and running at ninety miles an hour. You’re a mess. Can you at least slow it down?”
“Adam, there’s no time to slow it down! More people are disappearing!”
He angles his head away from me.
I tell him that, in addition to Nicholas and Stanley, Melinda and Gerald have also gone missing, how all their records have disappeared. How Smithwell and St. Mary’s have never heard of our patients. Then I detail my observations of the parking lot and cafeteria, visible indications that the hospital population is substantially thinning.
Adam doesn’t respond. His eyes dart back and forth between mine.
“You don’t believe me.”
“I’m not saying that.”
“But you look like it, Adam. You really do.”
“It’s just . . . all I’m saying is, let’s bring this down a few pegs, okay? There’s got to be a logical explanation.”
“That’s what I’ve been looking for! It’s not there! That’s the problem!”
“First of all, I’m still not clear who these missing people are that you’re talking about.”
“They’re the ones from Alpha Twelve! I’ve already told you about them!”
Circumspection reels across Adam’s face as he swings the computer monitor toward him. He starts typing.
I wait and watch.
Seconds later he looks up, and at last I’m relieved to find he’s just as surprised.
“See, Adam? See what I mean?”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“Wait . . . what?”
Slowly, he swivels the monitor around, aims it toward me.
I look.
“Chris,” he says, “the people you’re talking about don’t exist. There’s nothing here to indicate they ever did.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! Their records have been deleted! Just like they were! Somebody at Loveland is trying to erase them. They’re being transported to some—I don’t know—some secret location, or maybe it’s even worse than that, but you saw those people, Adam. You saw them just like I did.”
He nervously tugs at one sleeve.
“Oh, come on, man. You did. You saw those people. You were right there with me. Gerald? The scary dude who skins people?”
His eyes narrow.
“And Nicholas? The guy who was playing with himself in his room?”
His eyes go broad.
“This is—” I shoot straight up in my chair and it flips over onto the floor. Adam slides his away from me. “—This is crazy! I can’t believe you’re even telling me this!”
“Chris,” he says. “You’re freaking me out. Please sit. And calm down.”
I reach to right the chair. I sit. “And you were right about Donny Ray Smith. He is malingering. He’s a psychopath. He was working me the whole time. I messed up by sending in my evaluation. I said he disassociated during Jamey’s murder, but I was wrong.”
“You did what?” Adam’s jaw drops.
“But I think he might know where the missing people are going, and I’m trying to figure out how. The point is, he’s dangerous to everyone. But we’re not going to let him hurt us.”
I expect satisfaction and approval, but Adam’s next reaction startles me. It’s more than hesitation, more than doubt. Pitiful sadness spiked with deep mistrust, palpable and unnerving, like overhearing a trusted friend speak badly about you behind your back.
I tried to warn you . . . He’s part of it.
“Chris,” he says, “I’m very concerned about you. Has Rob called back with the results from your MRI yet?”
“Really, Adam? Really? You’re actually going to use that against me now?”
“I’m not using anything against you. I’m just trying to say—”
“What, Adam? What is it? That you think I’m losing my mind?”
You are losing your mind.
I slam my hand down on the desk, startling him. “You’re supposed to be my friend! You’re supposed to support me!”
Adam doesn’t say anything—he’s stunned into silence.
My cell phone rings.
“I have to take this,” I say, disgust in my voice that doesn’t come close to scratching the surface of what I’m feeling right now.
Adam watches me coldly as I leave.
60
My cell rings again.
I look at the screen and my shoulders pull tight, then adrenaline kicklines through my body. So much happening right now. So much flying at me with merciless speed. I swallow hard against my angst and try to prepare for what I know is coming.
“Christopher, it’s Rob. I just got the radiologist’s report from your MRI.”
“Hey,” I say, unsteadiness rocking through my voice.
“Good news. No damage showing at all.”
My heart sinks. “That’s really great, Rob. Thanks so much again for expediting things. I appreciate it.”
“Not a problem at all. Happy to deliver good news. A lot of times, well . . . you know.”
“I do,” I say and abruptly hang up on him.
He’s Adam’s friend. You can’t trust him. He’s lying.
“No . . . I’m afraid he’s not.”
If only Rob knew that good MRI results mean my diagnosis is so much worse. That my ultimate fear is coming true, screaming at me.
That I’ve been turning into my father all along.
I’ve been praying that a brain injury would at least afford me a chance to mend my damaged mind. But there is no injury. There is just the excruciating truth. Now there can be no more hiding, no pretending. The voice in my head, the hallucinations, are symptoms of schizophrenia.
I slog down the hallway, for no other reason than to try and clear my head. Most of my life, I’ve told myself that if I could just make it past thirty, I’d have beaten the schizophrenia odds. Onset becomes increasingly unlikely after that age. Each birthday felt like a bigger celebration, but only after reaching thirty-five did I finally manage to find a measure of relief.
I should have been safe—I should have made it.
It’s the tree’s fault.
I stop walking. I clench my jaw and slam my fist against the wall.
“The tree!” I shout to nobody. “The goddamned tree!”
One turn of fate. Th
at’s all it took to reverse the tide, to push me into these relentless waters. One moment to destroy my life.
So, what now?
“I need confirmation and a diagnosis. That’s what. I need a treatment plan. Maybe it’s not as severe as—”
Are you crazy?
“Well, yeah, obviously.”
You keep trying to help them destroy you. Tell a doctor now, and you’ll get slapped with a one-way ticket to Loonyville.
I start walking again, now at a fast clip. Getting an official diagnosis would be the worst thing I could do. The consequences would be immediate and disastrous. I’d lose my license. I’d lose my work. And I’d lose any chance of figuring out what’s happening in Alpha Twelve or if Donny Ray actually poses a threat to Devon. No, I can’t seek diagnosis or treatment now, not until I devise a plan.
What’s the plan, then?
I could get my hands on some Clorazil and self-medicate in the meantime. It’s one of the most effective drugs available right now. But how? I’m not an MD, can’t prescribe meds, and I can’t exactly ask one of the doctors at Loveland to do it. Besides being unethical, it will only draw attention to my problem. And with all drugs being so closely monitored at this hospital, sneaking them would be next to impossible. Every capsule and tablet within our walls is accounted for, every single one scanned after leaving the Omnicell dispenser. Even when staff members drop a pill and have to replace it, they’re required to provide a written explanation.
So I’m screwed. I have to go on without medication or support. And now there’s yet another problem I can add to my list, this one far more urgent.
Time.
“Chris, wait!” I hear Adam say from behind me. “We’re not done talking!”
I don’t turn to look back at him. I walk faster.
“Chris, please!”
Don’t do it. He’s recording you. He’s trying to steal information from your mind. He needs to get lost. Tell him that.
“Get lost!” I yell and keep my attention aimed forward, then break into a panicky dash.
“Chris! Don’t do this!”
DO NOT answer. Lose him!
I take an abrupt turn down the next hallway, but Adam keeps after me.
“Let’s talk this out!” he shouts from several feet back.
You don’t need to hear it.
“I don’t need to hear it!” I yell.
“Chris! We’ve been friends for too long. I’m just worried about you. You’re completely misunderstanding things.”
It was no misunderstanding.
“It was no misunderstanding!”
“Chris, please. Look at me!”
You don’t have time for him.
“I don’t have time for you!”
My parting comment as I burst through the exit doors.
I make fast tracks out of the parking lot, but hitting the road is like making a mental U-turn that only drives me deeper into worry.
I lost it with Adam.
I didn’t mean to. I just got angry, and though I felt justified in it, couldn’t control myself. But he saw those people who are now missing.
Or did he?
I don’t know anymore. About anything.
Now I have to go home and tell Jenna. I have to deliver the news that will break my family. With that thought and so many others, I keep driving, vision set ahead, mind heavy with so much grief.
61
I walk through the door and into what was once my settled little world, fully aware that I’m about to throw it further out of kilter. Jenna takes one look at the tears I’m fighting back, and I can tell she already knows.
Her smile is so full of love . . . and so sad.
“Daddy! Daddy!” Devon speeds into the room, his face lit up with an abundance of exuberance at the sight of me.
And I can’t take this—not any of it—because standing before me are the two people I’ve built my life around. Two people whose own lives, whether I like it or not, I’m about to destroy.
I kneel down, and my son throws his arms over my shoulders. I press his tiny body against mine, take in his little-boy smell—a combination of bubblegum, the outside soil, and a myriad of other things that come his way as he tackles each new day—and never before have those things meant so much, because I know these are the things that will very soon slip away from me.
As he slips away from me.
Jenna has been watching us, and I can tell she’s feeling everything that I am.
For Devon’s sake, I do my best not to show the penetrating ache that cuts through me. There are limits to how much pain can be hidden, and I’m pretty sure I’ve reached my threshold. All at once, tears I can no longer hold back fill my eyes. I pull him closer, but it doesn’t seem close enough. It never will be.
We never will be.
I cling to him, to these feelings, knowing they will soon be few and numbered. After a few seconds, my little boy pulls back and looks at me with so much sadness.
“What’s wrong, Daddy?” he asks.
“Nothing is wrong,” I tell him. “Everything is just right.”
And that’s the problem, because I know that soon, everything won’t be.
Jenna walks toward us. Keeping a protective watch on me, she says to Devon, “Sweetheart, why don’t you go clean up for dinner? Then bring down that lovely drawing you did at school today for Daddy to see.”
Devon takes off toward the staircase. After watching him disappear from sight, I turn toward Jenna. She places a firm hand on my shoulder and keeps it there.
“The MRI is clean,” I say and feel her hand tighten. “It’s happening. It’s my dad all over again. It has to be schizophrenia.”
Jenna falls into a silence that speaks what she cannot say. She knows where we’re headed, to the one place both of us hoped we never would have to go. I’m unsure what to say. I feel so lost in my helplessness.
She guides me to the couch. We sit.
“Chris, we will be okay,” she says. “We can handle this.”
Her assurance breaks my heart. It kills me because as strong as I know my wife is, as hard as she tries to be that way for my sake, I can’t bear putting her through this agony. Facts don’t lie. History doesn’t lie. Even though Jenna has heard all the horrific stories about my childhood, she didn’t live through them, can’t possibly imagine the kind of emotional torment that’s about to come barreling down on us. It’s something I can’t begin to describe, with so many deep and complex layers that unless you’ve been trapped between them yourself, they’re incomprehensible.
I bury my face in her shoulder.
“We’ll get through this, baby. I promise we will,” she tells me, “and I’ll be right by your side when you go back to see Rob. He’ll refer us to someone who can help you.”
Rob.
I haven’t thought about him since our call. If I’m diagnosed, I can kiss my job good-bye. I need to make arrangements before that happens. I have to figure out who’s pulling bodies out of Loveland, but even more critical, I must ensure that Donny Ray can’t follow through on his threat against Devon.
Jenna pulls from our embrace and offers a smile of warmth and encouragement, which sends me closer to the edge.
So I do what I did with Rob, with Adam, with myself for most of my life—the thing I swore I’d never do to my wife.
“I just can’t do this right now . . . ,” I say through my cracked voice and even more broken thoughts. “I’m sorry.”
I hide from the truth by avoiding it, and with stunning precision, become both my father and mother rolled into one.
62
THE RIPTIDE OF TWO CRIPPLED MINDS
Having a parent die suddenly is a pain sharp and swift. Watching him submit to a slow death is even more excruciating. But when the mind goes before the body, it’s like at
tending a funeral every day.
Sometimes I wished my father would just die and get it over with.
At the same time, a war raged within me between anger and guilt. I’d been cheated out of what should have been a continued and loving relationship with my father, and during the moments I found strength to be truthful with myself, I hated him for it. But that only made me feel worse, because I knew he hadn’t asked for this, and that his situation was far more tragic than my own.
That I had become the victim of a victim.
The father I loved so much was becoming the complete antithesis of everything I most admired, but it wasn’t just my dad who was falling apart. I could see my mother doing the same, unplugging from the world, drifting off into some distant place. Her everything-is-fine identity was evaporating like some thin, resinous smoke, and what lingered in its wake was the grimmest of pictures: a woman broken open by tragedy, only to find out there was nothing inside, that there never had been. Now, I was caught in the riptide of two crippled minds.
My mother could hide a pink elephant behind a thumbtack, but the saddest irony of all was that my father would be the one to finally end her magical thinking. For so many years, he’d allowed her the reality of her dreams—now he was tearing down that reality. My mother could no longer dismantle the truth because the truth was dismantling her.
I began catching glimpses of who she really was. Not the passionless woman I’d always thought her to be, but instead, and much like me, nothing more than a frightened child. And like a child, instead of facing the truth, Mom simply took the path of least resistance.
With each passing day, she fell deeper into paralyzing depression. The Southern Beauty I’d always known was fading away, her face weathered by grief and rapidly advancing far beyond its years. On most days, she sat at the kitchen table, staring sightlessly out the window and chain-smoking cigarettes. It was on those days that I felt the most pity for her, because I honestly believed she loved my dad to whatever degree she was capable. My father was her everything, her only source of strength, and without him, she became nothing. She began pulling further away, avoiding Dad whenever possible, and offering little of herself to him.
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