THE BOOK:
The next morning I woke up feeling the same way as you do now. I was certain what I had seen was real. Obviously, I did not believe that it was really I who had helped a patient escape, nor did I believe that you really were the one who had fled. I suspected that the dream had used our faces to fill in the blanks of a possible incident that had transpired long ago. My head was full of questions. Had there really been an escape? Had a doctor aided in the process? I was going to find out.
That day, after finishing my shift at the hospital, I went down to the Records Department and inquired with the woman who worked there being any reports of missing patients.
After completing a few searches, the woman explained that there was nothing on file. She added that she had been employed with the hospital for 20 years and had never heard of any “missing” or “escaped” patients during that time.
I informed her that the incident may have occurred even further back than 20 years. She said that if that was in fact the case then there wouldn’t be any record of it in their system. The files on hand only went back two decades. She then advised me to check the county library for newspaper articles that might have run a story. I thanked her and left, thinking to myself that she was probably correct. Unless, of course, the hospital had covered it up. (I hadn’t told her about the possibility of a doctor being involved.)
That same afternoon, I stopped off at the library and asked the man working there the exact questions I’d posed to the woman in Records. He gave similar replies, saying that he had lived in Jessup County for 52 years and had never heard of an escaped mental patient.
I asked him about the library’s stock of old newspapers and he directed me to the section of computer terminals and old fashioned machines designed for reading microfilm. Then he showed me their selection.
On microfilm the possibilities were endless. There must have been thousands of articles, going back nearly a hundred years. It could take weeks before I found what I was looking for (assuming it was really there to begin with).
I decide to take a different approach. I asked the man if he knew of any articles concerning the history of Shepherd’s Pass.
He said he had plenty and in less than five minutes, I was sitting at the microfilm machine, reading the countless articles. Most of them were simply the coverage of a raging debate that occurred over a month-long period in the Jessup County Hall of Justice in which the decision to permanently close the road was underway. City officials were claiming that the tax money spent on labor for maintenance wasn’t merited. There were only a few farmers who used the road as means to transport their goods across the county and what the hell did their opinions matter anyway? There was also speculation that the local townspeople regarded the road in a highly superstitious manner, but the articles didn’t go into any further detail.
Two hours passed as I searched futilely for a more thorough explanation of the road’s ultimate closing and I was about to give up and abandon the entire project when suddenly I heard a familiar voice – that of an elderly woman - speaking to me from over my shoulder.
“You won’t find anything helpful there.”
I turned around. It was old Mrs. Clarkson. I knew her well. Everyone in Jessup County did. She was very active in the church, though that was not how I knew her.
Mrs. Clarkson had a severe case of arthritis and refused to take pain medications. I had seen her on the emergency ward of the hospital many times when I was on the floor counseling burn victims or people who had been in serious car accidents. I had heard her many times complaining to her church member friends (who had forced her to come to the ER) when the pain caused her joints to lock up and she was unable to move her fingers. She would shout loud enough for the entire staff to hear that medications were “of the devil” and that we were committing unholy deeds, forcing her to take injections to alleviate her suffering.
“If God wants to take away my pain He will,” she had said to the doctors and nurses who continually persisted with offering her pills.
They had suggested that I attempt to console her, perhaps persuade her to see through her religious hysteria, but it was useless. She adamantly refused my services, claiming that psychiatry was most certainly “of the devil” and that I was unquestionably an equivalent of The Antichrist.
Only now here she was again, standing beside me, insisting that my search was useless.
“How do you know what I’m looking for?” I asked.
“I know,” was all she said in response.
“Ok then,” I said, deciding to humor her. “Where do you suggest I look?”
“In fiction. Where else? Come. I’ll show you.”
Confused yet somewhat intrigued, I followed Mrs. Clarkson to the other side of the library, passing several rows of bookshelves, the titles changing from non-fiction “How to” and “The Complete History of” into “Faust,” “Canterbury Tales” and “Catcher in the Rye.”
Mrs. Clarkson directed me all the way through “classic fiction,” made a left turn and finally stopped near a laminated sign: Short Story Fiction, Collected Works.
“Here is where you’ll find your answers,” she said to me.
I smiled patiently. “I’m afraid you don’t understand, Mrs. Clarkson. I’m looking for information about-”
“I know what you’re looking for,” she said, cutting me off. She took a step closer to me, staring deep into my eyes, wanting me to know how serious she was about whatever she would say next.
“Sometimes the truth hides in places where you wouldn’t expect to find it,” she explained. “Sometimes you must keep an open mind. Even a man like you, a man who’s strictly after logic can eventually grasp what I’m talking about. In fact, I know you will. Now, here…take this book...”
She reached out to the nearest shelf and selected a hardcover between two sizeable novels. Had she not pointed it out, I probably would have skimmed right past it (that is, if I were looking for a book of short stories) because of it’s nondescript cover: plain white, no unique designs or formatting.
Mrs. Clarkson winced with a sudden pain. The effort from simply lifting the book had triggered her arthritis. I helped by taking the book with both hands.
“No, no, no,” she said and snatched the book back from me, opening it to its middle pages. I kept one hand on the cover to help her support the weight.
That’s when I noticed the book’s title: The Other Stories.
I was curious, but more concerned about Mrs. Clarkson’s pain. Whatever she was looking for I had doubts of its usefulness. Obviously her age was affecting her behavior. Perhaps she was even showing signs of-
“Here,” she said, breaking my train of thought. “Story Two. Don’t bother with the others. They’re of no concern to you.”
I gently took the book from her again and right away caught my attention: THE ROAD OF THINGS TO COME
My interest perked considerably as I scanned the first few paragraphs. Then - about halfway through the second page - my heart skipped a beat. There it was. Two simple words that forced me to shiver: Shepherd’s Pass.
I looked up from the book and frowned at Mrs. Clarkson. “What is this? Who wrote this story? How’d you find it?”
Mrs. Clarkson stepped back. “Just read,” she instructed. “But be careful…that book is of the devil.”
“Then why are you showing it to me?”I asked.
She didn’t answer.
She just turned and walked away.
QUESTIONS UNANSWERED:
“What else was in the book, doctor?” Simon asks desperately, still standing.
Grover rises from his chair and nervously paces the room. “There were two stories in one,” he pauses to consider this. “It’s difficult to explain.”
Simon relaxes and takes his seat on the bed. “Please, Dr. Grover. I have to know.”
Grover swallows hard. “The first one was about a psychiatrist who worked right here in County Hospital…back when it first
opened in the early 1960’s. He was secretly doing research with a patient that believed he could see into the future. And over the course of their time together, the doctor came to recognize that his patient’s claims were true. He also believed that the road offered the key to a consciousness exchange, a kind of spiritual transference… “
“Go on,” Simon says eagerly.
Grover stops pacing and position himself against the chrome sink. “One night the doctor is lying in bed and that’s when he has a vision.”
Simon nods expectantly. “And it’s the same vision you had, isn’t it Dr. Grover?”
The doctor hesitates, but finally concedes. “Yes. The exact same…”
“When did you have it?”
“Last night.”
“Tell me.”
Grover takes a deep breath and softens his tone. “I saw a man…”
THE FINAL VISION:
He was standing in a doorway, watching me. I was lying on a bed in a great deal of pain, unable to move. I didn’t know where I was, I just knew that I was in danger.
The man in the doorway was dressed in a lab coat and wearing a surgeon’s mask. He had something hidden behind his back and as he entered the room I begged for him to “stay away”, but he only moved closer. When he reached the foot of the bed, he raised his hands and that’s when I saw the syringe.
The man looked at me then glanced at my left arm. He placed the needle to my skin and prepared to make an injection. Suddenly I felt a terrible drain of energy. I fought hard to stay awake, but eventually the drowsiness took hold. The last thing I remember was the man removing his mask, but I never saw his face.
RESURFACING:
“Now do you see?” Grover asks. “There’s something going on here that doesn’t add up.”
Simon nods silently.
Grover continues. “In the next chapter, the doctor awakens from the dream and goes straight to the hospital. Then, just as I envisioned, he helps his patient escape. The scenes in the book are virtually identical to the scenarios in my mind: the doctor taking out the guard, stealing his keys, going to the patient’s room, helping him escape...”
“And then what?” Simon cuts in. “How does it end, Dr. Grover?”
Grover tenses in his seat. “They drive out to the road and instantly disappear. The following morning a search team locates the car. The vehicle had been in some kind of accident. They found the car flipped upside down in a ditch. The doctor was still in the driver’s seat…but the patient was nowhere to be found.”
“Taken by the road,” Simon adds wearily.
Grover nods. “That’s what the book implies, yes.”
Simon leans back, drifting into his own thoughts. When he speaks again, there’s a strange sort of confidence to his words: “The book is a dictation of our dreams.”
Grover agrees. “You see why I’m so desperate? I need to know everything that you know about the road…about everything.”
“If there was more to my vision, Dr. Grover, I swear I don’t remember it.”
“But you believe the story is true?”
Simon searches Grover’s face. “Don’t you?”
The doctor shrugs, dejectedly. “I don’t know what to think anymore. I tried to tell myself that this whole thing is symbolic, that it’s simply about the struggle between two halves of the same mind; the doctor representing the rational side, the patient representing the irrational. The road is simply the line that separates the two.”
“But you don’t really believe that, do you?” Simon asks suspiciously.
“What’s the alternative? That we’re both crazy?”
Simon sits up, angry. “The alternative is that the story is real. Remember Doctor, I know what’s out there on that road. I’ve been there.”
“So have I!” Grover snaps. “There isn’t anything!”
“Not for you. Or so you think. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that the road is not a barrier…it’s a gateway.”
Grover eases forward. “A gateway to what?”
Simon’s confidence fades and he draws back in defeat. “If I knew the answer to that I don’t think I’d be in here…”
The doctor contemplates something. “Do you think if you went back there…you might be shown more?”
“Do you?” Simon replies.
Grover closes his file and stands from his chair. “I don’t know…but I’m willing to find out.”
Simon looks up at him. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying our session’s over.”
The doctor places his chair back into the corner and opens the door to the room. He stands in the entrance and motions for Simon to join him.
“Let’s get you out of here.”
Simon rises to his feet, then pauses. “Something’s still missing. There’s a connection we haven’t made.”
Grover frowns. “And what’s that?”
Simon turns away, his dreary expression darkening his eyes. “The golden apples…”
…OF THE DEVIL:
The discharging of patient “Fielding” takes less than hour. Many forms are signed, both by the doctor and by Simon. A 30-day supply of medications is quickly dispersed and personal belongings are then accounted for. When Simon finally exits the facility he is exhausted. He sets his suitcase on the pavement and quietly surveys the outside world.
The overwhelming display of activity beyond the parking lot is almost too much for him. There are several men and women conversing with one another as they exit their cars and head for the administration building near the back of the main clinic. Simon watches their hurried pace then switches his focus to a nearby construction site across the street where workers in orange vests take measurements of the broken asphalt and drink hot coffee in Styrofoam cups. Some of them work silently, others laugh and tell jokes.
Grover studies his patient, who turns to study a row of eucalyptus trees lining the foreground of a freshly cut lawn that acts as a perimeter within the secured lot.
Simon is recalling his supervised walks, the ones taken twice a week, guided by the hospital’s security team who followed in him from a respectable distance as he’d wander the designated area of a gated courtyard. The trees planted in that recreation area never moved to a breeze, because a cement wall protected the yard from any and all wind.
But out here, amidst all this freedom, the branches of eucalyptuses sway peacefully, leaves flapping as the gusts continue to strengthen in force.
For Simon this is unquestionably the greatest sign that his stay in the ward has at last come to an end. It isn’t long before tears start to swell and he is moved to stance of inward relief.
“Are you all right?” Grover asks, mildly concerned,
Simon slowly nods and picks up his suitcase. “Lead the way, Dr. Grover...”
Three minutes later, Simon is in the passenger’s seat of Dr. Grover’s silver Lexus GS Hybrid. The doctor is behind the wheel maneuvering out of the parking space. Once they exit the hospital grounds, Grover heads east down a stretch of avenue that allows them to travel a more scenic route of the neighborhood. He explains to Simon that they should make time for him to adjust to his new surroundings. Simon agrees and stares quietly out the window, watching the three-storey houses (freshly painted with beiges and bright yellows) that pass his line of sight.
“Everything looks so different…none of this was here before.”
How long has it been? He can’t seem to remember. And the more he tries to focus on the concept of time the more his ability to conceive it fades, until he is no longer capable of discerning ten years from ten minutes.
“You really want to us to go back?” Simon asks suddenly.
Dr. Grover makes a sharp left and speeds through an intersecting street. “Don’t you?”
Simon draws a short breath then gradually exhales, evoking sadness that quickly envelopes his sense of relief. “I just want to be free of this.”
The doctor nods. “Well, I can’t th
ink of a better way to get closure than to face what’s been haunting you.”
Simon gaze narrows. “You don’t have to pretend like this is strictly for my benefit, Dr. Grover. We both know that this really about all the- Oh my god…”
Grover turns, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
Simon is silent. Something out his window has absorbed his attention. And all at once, he starts to tremble.
“Simon, talk to me…”
Simon opens his mouth, struggling to formulate words. “That sign back there…”
The doctor glances at his rearview mirror, forehead creasing. “What sign? You mean the street sign?”
Simon smiles, he’s speaking to himself now. “My God, how did I not see it coming?”
Grover is unnerved. “Simon, are you alright? Should I pull over?”
Simon ignores the question and continues talking. “I didn’t know…I didn’t make the connection…I just didn’t know…”
“Know what?” the doctor shouts frantically. “Simon! Talk to me.”
Simon cranes his neck, still smiling. “Would you like me to tell you what’s happening, doctor?”
“Yes!”
Simon begins to laugh. “That story? The one you say you read? It isn’t fiction.”
Grover takes another turn. “What are talking about? Of course it is. I told I looked into it. There are no records of any missing patients…”
Simon raises a finger, a gesture of demonstration. “That’s because the story didn’t happen here.”
There’s a pause.
“You’re not making sense, Simon.”
Simon sighs. “You said it yourself. The book is two stories, intertwined. Remember?”
Grover says nothing. His eyes focus on the street in front of him. The Lexus has slowed to 20mph. Traffic is rushing by from both sides, the driver’s staring angrily.
“Dr. Grover? Do you remember saying that?”
“I remember,” he says at last, but his tone has changed, he seems coy, almost menacing.
Journalstone's 2010 Warped Words for Twisted Minds Page 25