Just then the door opened, and Adam turned to see Dr. Mendelson.
“All right, Jane. I think that’s enough. Can you and I have a word outside?”
But Jane wasn’t finished. She stepped closer to Adam like a little girl tormenting another child on the playground. “You met your dream girl, didn’t you, Adam? Isn’t that’s just soooo sweet? Your long-lost childhood friend? Your fairy-tale fantasy? Your little pixie dream girl—”
“You think I’m making her up?” Adam looked incredulously at Dr. Mendelson. “Is that what you fucking told her?”
Dr. Mendelson held up both hands. “Let’s all calm down. Adam, we need to get you back home where we can sort this all out in the right environment—”
“I didn’t fucking make her up!” Adam kicked the chair next to him in frustration.
“Sheriff?” Dr. Mendelson shot into the other room.
“Beatrice is waiting for me right now!” Adam yelled. “I was supposed to be at the docks half an hour ago!”
Jane laughed. “Right! So you can sail off together? Grow up, Adam. Start taking some responsibility for your life! This isn’t just one of your stupid fantasy games.”
“Jane! Please step outside and get yourself some coffee. I’ll be out in a minute,” Dr. Mendelson said sternly.
“I don’t know what the hell he told you,” Adam yelled, pointing at Dr. Mendelson. “But Beatrice is real! I’ve spent the past three days with her! I’ve been on her boat. I’ve met her father.”
“Oh, really?” Jane said. “You mean the whacko who just happened to write that dumb book you’re obsessed with! How likely is that? Give me a fucking break!”
Adam looked at Dr. Mendelson, speechless.
“Okay, Jane.” Dr. Mendelson moved toward her. “You’ve said your piece. Now it’s time to back off.”
“Back off?” The veins in Jane’s neck were bulging. “What about me? Am I supposed to just stand here and take this crazy shit? I’m his wife, goddamn it. I’m his wife!”
“Heeey, buddy.” Everyone turned. Blake was in the doorway. “Thank God you’re all right. We were all so worried—”
“Fuck you, Blake!” Adam had regained the power of speech. “Fuck you!”
“Sheriff! Get in here, please!” Dr. Mendelson called past Blake. Then, turning back to Adam, he put his pacifying palms back up. “Okay, let’s all just settle down.”
“NO! You all think I’m crazy? Well, I’ve got news for you. I’ve finally figured out what’s going on, and you’re the ones who are crazy!” Adam pointed at each of them in turn. “You! And you! And you!”
“And you’re the one who was going to commit suicide,” Jane screamed back. “But I guess you didn’t have the balls to go through with it!”
Just then the sheriff appeared in the doorway, fumbling with what looked to be some kind of medieval bondage device. Adam’s eyes went wide in disbelief. “What the hell is that?” The sheriff started toward Adam with the restraints.
“It’s going to be all right, Adam,” Dr. Mendelson said.
With the table in the way, Blake found himself awkwardly stuck between the sheriff and Adam. “Out of the way, son!” the sheriff commanded. But it was too late. Adam saw his opportunity and went for it, shoving Blake into the sheriff so that both men tumbled back. In that instant Adam slid over the table, reached the door and darted out. In the next room, he spotted the plastic tray with his car keys, grabbed them, and ran.
Flying into the waiting room, Adam was greeted by a wide-eyed woman behind the reception desk with two jars of canned pears held up, ready to throw at him. Adam made a move for the front doors. The receptionist stayed frozen in place, her eyes moving from Adam to the back room, where she could hear shouting. By the time she looked back, Adam was gone.
CHAPTER 25
NOYO HARBOR
Running without shoelaces is not easy, but Adam did his best while at the same time trying to orient himself. The ocean was somewhere to his right. The main part of town was down and to the left. Then he spotted the water tower he had climbed, and he knew where he was. Main Street, where his car was parked, was not terribly far off.
A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that the sheriff had just emerged, followed by Blake and Dr. Mendelson. Luckily there was no sign of the deputy or the patrol car that had driven Adam to the station. Seeing Adam, the sheriff began to give chase while fumbling with the walkie-talkie on his belt.
Adam turned onto a side street. Halfway down he decided to ditch his shoes, jump a low fence, and cut through someone’s backyard, giving him a more direct path to Main Street. On the next street over, Adam found himself in the middle of a small farmers’ market. He did his best to move briskly through the thin crowd without appearing too frantic. Glancing over his shoulder again, he saw no immediate signs of pursuit.
“Did you ever find your friend?” said a familiar monotone voice.
Adam jerked his head around. Dynamic Dave stood a few feet away, next to a stand of organic rutabaga. “Your lady friend?”
“Oh, yeah. Hi. I did. Thank you. Thanks again for your help.”
“Well, that’s good I was able to help you find your friend.”
“David, honey, come stick with the group,” said a woman directly behind Dave. She appeared to be in charge of some people, who were all wearing bright blue Windbreakers. Adam also noticed that they all seemed to be . . . challenged. As in, mentally challenged.
“That’s Adam Sheppard,” Dave said to the woman as they walked off. “Grandson of Anne Beers, who lived in Little River from 1956 to . . .”
Wait, is Dynamic Dave autistic or something? Adam wondered. There was something disturbing about this possibility, but before Adam could give it any more thought, he saw the sheriff, who had not followed Adam through the yard but instead ran all the way around and was now directly in front of Adam at the end of the block. Luckily the sheriff was noticeably out of breath and had yet to spot Adam.
Adam shrugged out of his jacket, stashed it behind a farmer’s van, turned, and walked briskly in the opposite direction. Just past the other side of the farmers’ market, he could see Shandell’s Organics, the place where he had first met Dynamic Dave. There was a walkway on the far side of the building, Adam recalled, which connected directly to the back of the Mendocino Hotel. If he could just make it there without being spotted, he’d be able to reach his rental car.
Just then a patrol car pulled up at the end of the block, right where Adam was heading. The deputy was driving, and Dr. Mendelson was in the passenger’s seat. Adam was boxed in.
Trying to stay cool, Adam kept walking. He had only a little ways to go before he could make a move toward the side path.
“There!” Dr. Mendelson spotted Adam. The deputy jumped out of the car and started running toward him.
Adam shot a glance over his shoulder. The sheriff had also seen him and was closing in fast. Adam made his move, quickly darting to his right between two booths, and by the time the deputy and the sheriff got there, he had already disappeared down the path.
He reached his rental car with his chest heaving, his body shaking from exertion. Fumbling with the keys, he started the ignition and threw the car into reverse. Shifting into drive, Adam caught a glimpse of the sheriff running down the walkway alongside the Mendocino Hotel, walkie-talkie in hand. Adam nailed the gas.
While driving, Adam had time to acknowledge the sharp throbbing behind his eyes—a migraine headache so stupendous it seemed to obliterate everything beyond the first 50 feet of highway. It wasn’t until he was approaching the bridge to Noyo Harbor that he noticed flashing lights in the distance behind him. A new dose of adrenaline kicked in. The patrol car was far enough back so that he could make it down to the harbor before they did. That was all that mattered now; it was all Adam could focus on. Just make it to the harbor. Just make it to Beatrice’s boat.
Reaching the opposite side of the bridge, he swerved recklessly down the steep incline toward the harbor. Avoiding p
otholes, Adam drove straight toward the entrance to the private docks, wanting to get as close as possible before skidding to a halt. He could hear the approaching siren as he jumped from the car. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the patrol car was already speeding down the hill from the bridge.
Just make it to the boat, Adam kept telling himself.
Two men were inside the guard booth talking. One he recognized as Hank, the guard Beatrice had made a deal with to moor her boat. The other man was wearing a dark blue uniform, not a cop, but some kind of official. They both turned and looked out the windows when they heard the approaching siren, just as Adam hobbled toward them.
Hank picked up a clipboard and slid open the help window. “Hi, welcome to—”
Adam didn’t stop.
“Excuse me. Hey, you need to sign in. Hey, fella—!” Hank called after Adam.
Just get to the boat. Get to the boat.
Directly in front of Adam, at the main loading dock, there was a large ship that Adam hadn’t seen there before. Coast Guard, maybe? A cluster of men were standing out in front of it, joking around. They wore the same uniforms as the man with Hank in the guard booth. As Adam got closer, he noticed Department of Homeland Security was printed on their jackets. With his head down, Adam made his way quickly past them toward the metal ramp that led down to the private docks.
“Hey, fella, you need to sign in!” Hank was now hurrying after him. Out of the corner of his eye, Adam saw the men in uniform turn and look at him. Adam’s barefoot hobble turned into a sprint. Something sharp dug into the ball of his left foot, but he could only acknowledge the pain and keep going.
Just get to the boat, get to the boat . . .
Seagulls flew from his path as Adam rushed down the pier toward the farthest moorings. Behind him he could hear Hank’s heavy footfalls. The siren beyond had reached a peak volume and then suddenly cut off. Adam turned onto the last aisle of boats and was greeted by a violent glare of sunlight reflecting off the water. The throbbing pain in his head ignited and extended down into his body. Adam kept pushing forward, through a wall of pulsating light—light that was trying to hold him back, trying to keep him from reaching the second to last slip, where . . . Adam slowed to a stop.
“What the hell is wrong with you, fella?” Hank had come to a halt at the end of the aisle. He was winded and had a hand up to block the sun’s glare as he slowly approached Adam. “You need to—”
“Where’s the boat!” Adam demanded. “Where did she go!”
“Stop him!”
Hank turned to see who was yelling. The sheriff, followed by his deputy and Dr. Mendelson, were hustling down the metal ramp onto the private docks. Following them was a group of curious Homeland Security agents.
Hank looked back to Adam, who was now pacing back and forth on the opposite side of the slip like a mad dog, barefoot and limping, holding his head with his hands.
“Where is Beatrice’s boat?”
Hank looked confused. “Who?”
“Beatrice!”
“Adam, you have to stop right now!” Dr. Mendelson yelled.
Hank turned again. Dr. Mendelson was now leading the pack.
“Where is it, Hank?” Adam pleaded. “You had a deal with Beatrice—a deal so she could dock her boat here!”
Hank shrugged. “Hey, fella, I’m sorry but I don’t know who . . .” He turned back around just as Dr. Mendelson and the other men arrived. “I don’t know what this guy is talking about,” Hank said.
Eyes focused on Adam, Dr. Mendelson asked Hank, “Has there been a boat here at any point in the past three days?”
“Nope. Not for the past couple weeks.”
“There haven’t been any boats here at all?” Dr. Mendelson asked again.
“I can show you the log, if you want.” Hank turned back to Adam. “Sorry, fella, but there’s been no boat. Not in that slip.”
Adam’s entire body began to shake uncontrollably. He reached for one of the wood pilings to keep himself upright.
Dr. Mendelson took a wary step toward Adam. “It’s okay, Adam. It’s okay.”
“No!” Adam’s face was pale with disbelief. “You made me late. If I’d been on time, she’d still be here . . . she’d . . .”
“She’s not real, Adam,” Dr. Mendelson said gently. “None of it is. You imagined it all.”
Adam’s mind raced, scanning for evidence that Beatrice had really existed. The cliffs at night, Pete’s magic bottle of wine, the woman at the entrance of the alcove, wisps of red hair escaping her giant parka, flashes of her porcelain face above a lighter flame—yes, it was her, it was real. “Her boat, it’s called Paradiso 9. Get the Coast Guard to check it out. She’s real! I know she’s real!” Adam screamed hoarsely.
“Adam, Beatrice exists only in your mind. We’ve checked, and no one has seen her but you.” Dr. Mendelson’s voice sharpened as he attempted to get through to Adam.
Adam kept running through mental snapshots. His internal display fired off picture after picture: Beatrice walking along Highway 1 with a shovel. Beatrice down in the sinkhole. They spoke in the cemetery; she remembered him; they sat in his car, only a hand brake between them. He had driven her to this harbor—just over there, rain on the windshield, her dream about the crushed butterfly. And that night, on the deck of her boat, she’d stood in a white dress like an angel, like Dante’s Beatrice, his guide to paradise. But Beatrice is not an angel; she’s real! She’s flesh and blood. And they had made love. And Adam had met her father, and they had made an arrangement to travel together. It had all been so perfect. Like a dream.
Like a dream? . . . Or really a dream?
A rising panic threatened to sweep Adam away. “No, it was real, it was all real . . .”
“You have been off your medication, Adam,” Dr. Mendelson pressed in his reasonable, reassuring voice. “You have been under tremendous stress. The areas of your brain responsible for creative thinking, imagination, and dreams have gone into overdrive, blurring the line between fantasy and actual memory. You think you remember events, but they never actually happened. Beatrice is like one of your video games, Adam. She feels real, but she isn’t. And there’s nothing wrong with that. You just have to learn to accept the difference,” Dr. Mendelson continued. “No one else saw this woman, Adam. No one but you.”
“I met her father. I met Virgil Coates! And I didn’t make him up; Virgil Coates is a real, living person.”
“Virgil Coates?” Dr. Mendelson snapped. “I did some research into that disgraced fanatic. You’ve been reading his delusional, pseudospiritual garbage—which has provoked in you nothing but a false hope for things that simply do not exist. You have been staring at his picture taped inside your book, and so your mind naturally incorporated him into this fantasy you desperately wanted to believe was true.”
“No, I met him. I did.”
Adam scrambled to re-create the image of Virgil Coates in his mind. But the memory of the old man sitting across the fire was quickly receding. Fading into the darkness around him, until all that remained were his burning, compassionate eyes, like sparks thrown up from the fire pit, like two smoldering coals beneath the logs. Now all Adam could see was himself alone in the woods, staring into a dying fire. All that was left of Coates was a voice warning him of the currents of his past. Was this the test Adam had to face? Were all these people lying to him? Trying to trick him, pull him back into their version of reality? Or was that voice not Coates’s but Adam’s own, warning of a truth so unbearable that his conscious mind refused to face it. The truth that Dr. Mendelson was right, that Beatrice lived only in his own . . .
No, no, no!
“You have a condition, Adam,” Dr. Mendelson continued. “A disorder. It is genetic, it is chemical, it is in your blood, and it is not your fault.” Dr. Mendelson’s voice was gently reeling him in. “It’s not your fault, Adam. What else were you to do, as a boy, living alone with a grandmother who was unable to take care of you for days on end?
What else could you do but go inside yourself and create a fantasy, an imaginary friend named Beatrice who could save you from all that traumatic loneliness.”
It was a lie. Adam loved his grandmother. He loved his childhood. It wasn’t traumatic; it wasn’t abusive.
Adam pushed over the rickety filing cabinet of unreliable memories in his mind and went for that secret hiding place in the floor, to those deep childhood impressions, the ones that had so recently revealed themselves. They were his salvation, his last hope. He had to see his grandmother’s house again. The living room. The cast-iron stove. His grandmother in her chair, himself as a boy again at his window, looking down at a yellow grass field that led to the redwood grove. And there she was! Beatrice. There she was, absolutely real.
But then the image began to shift, blur, and distort. Beatrice’s white dress was blending in with the milky warps of the old glass window. And now her hair was starting to flicker, to become flashes of sunlight filtered through the red hummingbird feeder. And her eyes, her emerald-green eyes, becoming nothing more than sunlight refracted through a piece of jade sea glass on a windowsill, feeding the lonely heart of an abandoned six-year-old boy.
“NO!” Adam’s chest heaved with wrenching sobs as his body sank against the dock’s wooden piling. “Why? Why are you doing this to me? I’m not crazy. I’m not.” The sunlight dancing on the water in the empty slip was now so blinding that Adam was unable to keep his eyes open any longer.
“You’re going to be all right, Adam. I promise.”
Eyes shut now, Adam saw himself lying at the bottom of the sinkhole, wrapped in a white comforter, looking up at the stars. He could no longer see Beatrice next to him. All that remained of her was a voice whispering inside his head. Anything we give our attention to, anything we dream, can become real.
By the time Blake and Jane arrived at Noyo Harbor, Adam had been escorted from the docks to the backseat of the patrol car. Prying him away from the piling by the empty slip required the sheriff, the deputy, and two large Homeland Security agents. However, once torn free, Adam’s body went limp. He offered no resistance as they fit him into the sheriff’s restraints and led him back to the parking lot.
What Lies Beyond the Stars Page 25