by Dina Rae
Tom pulled up a flimsy chair and sat down next to Henry. “Son, everything is going to be alright. We’re going home.”
Still mute, Henry robotically got up from his seat and pushed in his chair, allowing Tom to lead him out of the room. He limped on his right leg where the ice pack was taped. Tom tried to steady him by putting Henry’s arm around his shoulder, but Henry was skittish. He acted as if he didn’t know his own father and limped down the hallway to the exit. Officer DuBois gave Tom a clipboard of release papers before they could leave.
“My son is acting like a zombie! You must know something!” yelled Tom.
Officer DuBois gave Tom a cold glare, and then said, “Haiti can be a scary place to those who are not from here. Best go home and try to forget. Sorry this had to happen while you were doing good for our country.”
“So that’s it? Case closed? Get the fuck out of Haiti…”
“Tom, let’s go,” Keith interrupted.
Officer DuBois looked down at the floor. Eye contact had become difficult. “I have all of your information right here. If we get a lead, we will immediately contact you back in the States. I’m sorry about your stay.”
“This is bullshit! You know something!” Tom shrieked, lunging towards the cop. “Please tell me what you think might have happened. I deserve a fucking theory, at least!”
“Walk away, Mr. Novak,” warned Officer DuBois.
“How do I get my son back?” Tom wailed.
“Tom, you wanna make things worse than they already are? C’mon. He’s alive and he’ll eventually snap out of this…state that he’s in,” Keith reasoned while blocking himself between the two men. Tom calmed down knowing Keith was right. They all went back to their missionary camp.
Tom awakened his wife. He was scared. Reality zapped him like a Taser gun. “Jess, I got him. He’s safe now.”
“Am I dreaming?” she groggily questioned, half sitting up from the inside of their tent.
“No, but…”
“But what? He’s dead? Oh God, what’s wrong?” she asked, now wide awake.
“No, he’s alive, but he won’t speak. He’s sitting right over there. In the corner,” Tom said as he pointed his flashlight in Henry’s direction. He sat alone at the table, staring into darkness.
Jessica burst out of her air mattress and threw herself around Henry. He shook her off in fear.
“Oh baby, who did this to you? Oh…you’re hurt…Bruised all over…Talk to me, Henry. I’m your mother. What’s wrong?” Jessica cried and then began to let her emotions take over. “Henry, where are you, Henry? Come back to me! Tell me you’re fine!” Henry did not respond, just kept on staring. “What the hell is a matter with him? This is all your fault, you son-of-a-bitch!”
There, she finally said it, thought Tom. He cried while she threw her fists at his chest in anger. Once she was done hitting him, she sank into his arms and they both cried together.
“He’s alive. We’ll get the best medical help in the world…We’ll get him back. Let’s go home,” Tom promised.
Chapter 37
Frustration overwhelmed them as they watched their son stare into infinity. Seconds turned into hours. Jessica and Tom were soon joined by Natalie. Henry’s reticence made them incapable of planning their way home from Haiti. Keith and his wife made flight reservations, packed their belongings, and drove them to the airport. Although mute, Henry stayed with them. He hobbled through the airport with his ankle swelling up to the size of a softball. Jessica kept giving him pain medication which he willingly swallowed. Despite these encouraging signs, they questioned whether Henry had recognized them as his family.
After the plane landed and they were safely home, Tom and Jessica took Henry straight to their local urgent care. They were put at ease once they learned their family physician was scheduled.
“He’s got a nasty sprain in that ankle,” Dr. Duvall said after examining the x-ray. “This should have been immediately treated. At the very least wrapped. Let me get you a pair of crutches. Keep it iced as much as you can. Come back next week for a follow-up. And these bruises should be healed by next week. See these lines?” Dr. Duvall pointed to Henry’s torso and arms as he passively sat on the padded table of the patient room. “These are not scratches, they’re cuts. Someone, maybe even Henry himself, took a very sharp blade and sliced up all of these gashes. They are shallow enough not to need stitches. Put plenty of ointment over these. What happened?”
“We don’t know. The police claim not to know either. I’m sure they have an inkling, though. Notice how he flinches when you touch him. Something bad must have happened. I wish he would talk to us. He must know who we are,” Tom whispered.
“This is the worst case of post-traumatic stress I’ve ever seen. I’m going to refer you to Dr. Gold. He’s up in Eau Claire. A good hour ride, maybe more, but he’s the best in northern Wisconsin. I’m so sorry. And here you were trying to do something good. Set an example for your family. Show your…”
“Thank you, Doctor Duvall. If there’s nothing else, I’ll get Dr. Gold’s information from your receptionist,” Jessica interrupted. His kind words and pity angered her, making her feel all the more helpless.
***
Several days later, Dr. Gold squeezed Henry into his busy schedule. Jessica had always been suspicious of psychiatry, viewing the occupation as the ultimate scam. She found their methods to be touchy-feely nonsense that didn’t work. Medication was over-used in coercing their patients into a submissive haze. They claimed credit when their patient got better while demanding more therapy when nothing seemed to work. This elaborate con job justified their outrageous fees the sick and the desperate were too eager to pay.
Jessica and Tom took Henry to Eau Claire for his initial appointment. The drive was an hour and fifteen minutes long. Henry still had not spoken a word. Strangely, Tom and Jessica had gotten used to his silence, speaking freely as if he wasn’t there.
“You honestly think Dr. Gold can bring him back?” Tom asked as he adjusted the cruise control.
“No. The only one who can bring him back is God, and He may already have him,” Jessica answered.
“Your negative attitude is not helping. I realize you think all psychiatrists are quacks, but this guy is our only chance. Correction. Our only human chance. So maybe we should just say what’s on our minds,” Tom challenged.
Silence.
“Alright, Jess. I’ll go first. I think Henry wandered off, probably looking for one of those hounfours. He thought he might get to see a service. Someone with a knife tried to rob him. Henry would not back down, so he got slashed up for defending himself. Then he got lost in that refugee camp. It’s practically a city of its own. You know how he gets when he’s frustrated. Maybe he freaked out. Maybe his temper tantrum caused someone to hit him, wanting him to shut up. And then he finally got away, spraining his ankle in the escape, somehow making it to Port au Prince.”
“You know everything. Guess that’s what happened then,” Jessica chided. She refused eye contact, preferring silence in lieu of conversation.
Tom, however, wanted an argument. “I already know this is my fault. Can you just say it? You said it once in Haiti when you were temporarily hysterical. Say it again. Tell the quack what a horseshit father I am because you’re so God-damned perfect!”
He baited her well. Jessica hated it when he used the Lord’s name in vain. She also hated being called perfect. Both of their mouths erupted, spilling out hateful accusations and resentments. Too wrapped up in rage, Tom quit paying attention to the road and floated the SUV into the other lane of the highway. A horn blared so loud it made his vehicle vibrate.
“Shit!” he shrieked, swerving to avoid a head-on collision with a semi-truck. He quickly regained control of the car. The near death experience didn’t even phase Henry, but it did end their argument. The rest of the ride was driven in peace.
Once in Eau Claire, they easily found Dr. Gold’s office. It was located on a bus
y street that once was residential. He had an enchanting sign posted on the front lawn of a charming Victorian house. Tom parallel parked the car a few yards away while Jessica helped Henry with his crutches. Tears streamed out of her eyes. “I knew this would happen.”
“Finally, the ‘I told you so.’ Guess I deserve it,” Tom grimaced.
“No, you don’t, Tom. I knew. I dreamt it before the trip. You had to shake me awake. I didn’t remember it until we walked into that hounfour with Officer Moliere. The smell, the altar…A similar one appeared in my dream. Don’t you see? Henry wasn’t jumped. He was used as a sacrifice…”
“Enough! Stop it! This is my fault and will always be my fault. And if he doesn’t come out of this trance, then I’ll be reminded of it for the rest of my life. I’m so sorry. For him, for you, for Natalie, and yes, for me. Can you ever forgive me?” Tom said while they stood on the wrap-around porch of Dr. Gold’s office. Henry appeared oblivious to their wide range of emotions. He just balanced on his crutches and watched the cars go by.
Jessica couldn’t help her hysteria. “Maybe we need to see a shrink even more than Henry.”
“Not a bad idea. We can’t stand here like this. We need to go in,” Tom answered, hugging her.
Minutes later an attractive, well-dressed older woman came outside and ushered them in. “There, there now. We’ve got plenty of Kleenex. Come on in and cry it out. That’s what we are here for. You’ve got to be the Novak family. And this must be Henry. I’m Moira, Dr. Gold’s secretary. I’m also his mother. You are a little bit early. Sit. He’ll be with you shortly. Can I get you some coffee? Soda?”
They declined the offer and sat down on the couch with Henry. Moira returned with a clipboard of paperwork which Jessica volunteered to fill out.
“He could be so much worse. Everything could be so much worse. Forgive me, Father. I have my son back and he’s alive,” she muttered in prayer. Turning to Tom, she shared the clipboard. “Look at some of these questions. Delusional. Refuses food, water. Refuses to urinate in toilet. Random laughter. Well, all of these are getting checked no.”
“But what about this section?” Tom pointed.
“Let’s see. No eye contact. Nonverbal. Lacking emotion. Guess we’re in the right place.” Once she finished the form, she glanced at her cell phone. 2:25 p.m. She pointed to the phone and rolled her eyes at Tom. Twenty-five minutes late. He nodded in aggravation.
Henry arose and limped over to the clearly labeled washroom located on the other side of the waiting area.
“Look. He knows how to read. Something is going on up there,” Tom said.
“Yeah, maybe this is just shock. I really like this guy’s office. Got a homey feel to it-hardwood, antiques, paintings. This must have been the parlor at one time,” Jess said as she surveyed the waiting area.
“Don’t mean to eavesdrop, but this used to be my parents’ home. I didn’t have the heart to sell it, so Dr. Gold thought he could use it as his office. I helped the architect with the renovations,” Moira interjected.
“It’s lovely, Moira. You know what would be even lovelier? Meeting your mysterious son,” Tom suggested.
“Oh dear. It’s nearly 2:30. Let me go back there and see what the hold-up is.” She disappeared in the back of the first floor, returning seconds later with Dr. Gold. They waited for Henry and went through the door into his office.
Jessica figured she was standing in the former dining room, kitchen and den that now worked as an enormous office space. The home’s charm continued. She could see the beautiful carved stair case leading to the second storey and wondered what the doctor did with the extra space.
Dr. Justin Gold was young, well under forty, if not thirty, too young for the glowing referrals Dr. Duvall gave him. His classical chiseled features could have opened doors in Hollywood. His mannerisms were austere, brusque, and void of empathy. The charming house and mother didn’t fit, making Jessica all the more protective.
Everyone sat down in the overstuffed chairs while Dr. Gold flipped through the questionnaire Jessica had just filled out.
“To reiterate what you’ve marked down, your son seems to be in a catatonic state, yet eats, pees, drinks, follows you both,” Dr. Gold said. “Did you register him for school this fall?” Tom shook his head. “Good. This is going to take a while. Dr. Duvall thought post-traumatic stress. He’s probably right. My diagnosis might change as I get to know him better. What about friends? Familiar places? How does he react to them?”
“Don’t know if you saw that I marked he has Asperger’s?” Dr. Gold nodded. “Well, he has one friend, but the boy doesn’t even know we are home. I’m reluctant to tell him. I don’t want the boy to feel awkward. Like he’s expected to help us,” Jessica explained.
“You’re going to need all the help you can get. Call the boy. Have him come over. You observe Henry’s reaction. Also, take him to familiar places like school and wherever else you go. Again, observe his reaction. Moira will give you an observation form for me to use and file. It gives me a better idea of what he responds to. Dr. Duvall and I thoroughly discussed Henry. I am well aware of the preceding events. Will he take medicine?” Jessica nodded. “Good. Let me try a few simple reflex tests.” The doctor tapped him with a small rubber mallet. Henry shirked away with fear in his eyes. “Okay, maybe not. This boy was abused. I’m going to write you a script for Zyprexa. It’s an anti-psychotic. Only temporary. Until he recovers his speech. Anything for you? Maybe an anti-depressant?” Both Tom and Jessica shook their heads. “Well if you change your minds, I’ll fax it over to your pharmacy. This has got to be hard on the whole family. I see he’s got a sister. Would she like to come in?” Again, they shook their heads. “She might need someone to talk to. I want to see Henry three times a week for a month. Then we’ll reevaluate.”
“What kind of therapy does he need?” asked Tom.
“I’m going to begin with EMDR. That stands for Eye-Movement-Desensitization and Reprocessing. It’s helpful when one’s coping mechanisms shut down, as they did with Henry. The treatment works when one stores their traumatic memories instead of processing them. Lots of eye moving exercises for him to focus on which will hopefully lead to speech. Once we get him to talk, then I will move onto psychotherapy.”
“And if it doesn’t work?” Jessica asked.
“There are lots of treatment options, but this isn’t going to work overnight. Be patient. You’ll get your son back,” the doctor said, trying to sound sympathetic. Jessica doubted his sincerity.
Tom and Jessica left the doctor’s office with Henry trailing behind.
Once on the road, Tom asked, “So what do you think?”
“Seeing is believing. Never even considered a shrink for Natalie. Maybe get one that’s more local. I am trying to have an open mind about all of this. Let’s get him his meds, let him limp around school and church, and I’ll call Jake tomorrow.”
Chapter 38
Lucien spent half of his life stealing the life forces of the dead. Decades later, through much introspection, he saw his reality: death was the only gift his life had to offer. Why did he fight it? Why did he ruin everything good for it? He didn’t fear the dead or the loas, and he didn’t fear pain. It was the afterlife that made him tremble.
Lucien had always prided himself for being superhuman, god-like. But now he was not so sure. T.J.’s ti-bon-ange was taking over his mind. His precious loas, especially the Baron, deceived him. He wasn’t special or chosen or powerful. He was a weak man who had been used as an earthly portal. He longed to be free, despite the circumstances.
Lucien thought back to his youth, remembering the first of many wrong paths he chose throughout the years. His ego elevated to an all-time high once initiated into the Bizango Society. He was so young, barely twenty. His uncle saw his ambition and talent beneficial to the brotherhood. He wore red and black garb with pride and painted his face in honor of various ceremonies. He watched Philippe, the bokor of the society, with awe as he
brought forth possession and healed the sick.
As the years passed, Lucien no longer admired Philippe, but saw him as primitive, incompetent, and a drain on the brotherhood. His brethren were in need of a bokor with real power, and Lucien believed himself to be the best man for the job.
By the time he was thirty, Lucien’s status rose through their ranks and his duties increased. He was one of the most trustworthy members. After making some discreet attempts at ruining Philippe’s reputation, an opportunity presented itself one evening at Black Mass.
The Bizango brethren were celebrating with family, dancing, drinking rum, and allowing themselves to be possessed. The night’s sacrifice, a wild boar, slept in a cage next to the altar. Lucien was responsible for administering a mixture of poison and analgesic for the boar that would keep the animal alive but unconscious throughout the ceremonial slaughter.
Philippe drank too much, making sabotage even easier. Lucien gave the boar a fraction of the mixture, making the boar sleepy without being sedated. The animal peacefully lay while Philippe recited incantations for the evening’s sacrifice. Once finished, he slit into the boar. Blood oozed from the animal’s side and it groggily lifted his head. Not noticing the animal’s slight movement, Philippe placed both hands in the animal blood and wiped it on his head, reciting another incantation. He finalized the incantations with his blessing, prepared to finish off the sacrifice.
After a few slashings, the boar was wide awake. It flipped over during one of Philippe’s deep incisions and became aggressive, devouring him alive in seconds. Other brethren defensively stepped in and impaled the animal.
Relying on his brethren’s egos, Lucien used flattery, claiming they killed a djab or devil, a feat few were alive to brag about. He swore he saw the boar’s eyes turn red. He proved to be very persuasive. By the end of the night, everyone believed Philippe brought his misfortune on himself by making a mockery of Black Mass. The community claimed Phillipe’s death was predestined by the loas.