by Gene Brewer
Of course most of the staff knew Giselle as well, and remembered her with equal affection. They were delighted to meet little Gene, and she seemed to break out of her funk for the moment. The baby, apparently unafraid of all the strange faces peering down at him, grinned up at everyone.
I took this opportunity to wade through the cats and ask prot whether he had any objection to checking back into the hospital “for a little R and R.” Though he assured me he wasn’t a bit tired, he nonetheless seemed overjoyed by the prospect. I suggested we meet at nine o’clock the next morning. He said he looked forward to another of our “fruitful” sessions together (the hint was not lost on me).
I bid him adieu and sought out Betty McAllister to request that she find a room for him, a private one where Giselle and the boy could comfortably visit. The most I could get from her was a nod indicating she understood my instruction; she was obviously more interested in the goings-on between the patients and the Porter family. By now Milton was standing on a table telling baby jokes, such as: “Woman gets on a bus with the ugliest baby in the world. Kid’s so homely that all the other passengers are laughing at it. The woman starts to sob. Man gets on at the next stop, sees the woman crying and says to her, ‘It can’t be that bad. Have a peanut. And take one for your monkey.’”
With that I left them all and returned to my office to pull out prot/Robert’s thick file once more and ponder all the frustrations and possibilities.
The next morning, while waiting for prot to arrive, I tried to imagine what might have occurred to trigger Robert’s abrupt relapse to his sorry condition in 1990, i.e., an essentially catatonic state in which he hid from the world behind an alter ego who claimed to be from a distant planet.
It had happened, apparently, while he was bathing his four-and-a-half-month-old son. Could the baby’s naked body have brought back all the suffering and terror imposed upon him by an abusive uncle when he, Robert, was a boy of five, something his own manifestly successful sex life had not precipitated? I cautioned myself not to jump to any such conclusion, though I hoped this was indeed the case. The alternative—that there was something in his early history even more devastating than these traumatic events, and the subsequent death of his beloved father—seemed far worse. Was there something we had not yet uncovered lurking in the depths of his psyche? Was the mind something like an onion, as some have suggested, revealing a new layer whenever one is peeled back, no matter how deeply we go?
The first thing prot did when he was escorted into my examining room was to remove his dark glasses (owing to the sensitivity of his eyes to visible light I kept the lamps dimmed when he was around) and go for the fruits I had provided for him. He was not disappointed. As a sort of “welcome home” gift I had filled the bowl with a cornucopia of all those available in the hospital kitchens, already cut up into bite-size pieces, as well as a napkin and fork, both of which he ignored. It was quite something, believe me, to watch him dig in, caution thrown to the winds, sucking everything up with noisy grunts and smacking sounds. When he was finished, and obviously satisfied, I suggested that it must have been a long time since he had tasted any fruit.
“Not really,” he replied, licking the bristly beard surrounding his lips. “But I’ll be leaving for home soon, and there won’t be many more opportunities like this.”
“You mean to K-PAX.”
He nodded happily.
I remember feeling my throat tighten as I asked him when that might be.
Without the slightest hesitation he informed me that he would be departing Earth on December the thirty-first. At 11:48 in the morning, Eastern Standard Time, to be precise. “We won’t be needing any lunch,” he added wryly. Obviously cheerful and relaxed, he sat back in his chair, crossed his ankles, and placed his hands behind his head.
“Why the change of heart?”
“There’s one of those peculiarly nonsensical expressions you humans are so fond of. A carryover from your muddled past, I assume.” (He meant the history of our species, not my own.)
“Let me rephrase that. The last time you were here you refused to give me a date for your departure. Why is it no longer a secret?”
“My task here is almost finished. Everything is ‘go,’ and there is nothing you can do to screw things up, even if you wanted to.”
This smug comment annoyed me. “What ‘task’? Does it involve putting Robert back into a permanent catatonic state?”
“Really, gene, you humans shouldn’t take things so seriously. Your lives are too short for that.” On K-PAX, of course, there was no such problem: everyone lived to be a thousand.
I stared at him for a moment. “What have you done with Robert?”
“Not a thing. He’s taking a break from his miserable life.”
“Why? What happened?”
“No idea, coach.”
“Then how do you know he’s ‘taking a break’?”
“He told me before he left.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“That’s about it.”
“And you have no idea where he went?”
“Nope. He didn’t say.”
“If he shows up again, will you let me know?”
“Mais oui, mon ami.”
I was already beginning to get the feeling that I was not in control, that all I could do was make the best of things for the time being. “All right, let’s talk about you for a minute.”
“Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty—”
“Very funny. Now—where have you been keeping yourself the past couple of years?”
“Oh, here and there.”
“Prot, let me explain something. To you this whole thing might be a joke. The whole world may be a joke. But to Robert it’s not funny. I would appreciate it if you would at least be more cooperative in answering my questions. Is that asking too much?”
He shrugged. “If you must know, I’ve been all around your WORLD (prot capitalized planets, stars, etc.; entities as trivial as people were, to him, lower case). Sort of a farewell tour, you might say.”
“What was the purpose of this ‘tour’? Were you entertaining the troops?”
“A few of them. But mainly I was speaking with various beings who want to go to K-PAX with me. I’ve only got room for a hundred of you. Oh—I told you that last time, didn’t I?”
“You mean you’ve been—ah—selecting your ‘travel companions’?”
“You could put it that way.”
I casually reached for a ballpoint and some paper. “Do you mind telling me the names of some of the people on your list?”
Prot tilted the fruit bowl toward him, but it was as empty as my yellow pad, except for a little juice, which he drank up. “A: Not all of them are people. And B: Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“You know the answer to that one, my human friend.”
“You mean you’re afraid we’ll try to stop you from taking them with you, or talk them out of the trip—something like that.”
“Well, wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe,” I admitted. “But mostly I wanted to contact one or two of them to see whether they could confirm your story. About being ‘here and there’ in the world, I mean.”
“Would I lie to you, mr. district attorney? And anyway, you don’t speak giraffe, do you? Or deer? I know you don’t understand the languages of any of your sea beings—we’ve already determined that, remember?”
I could feel my frustration rising, along with my gorge, as it always did during our sessions together. “Well, how many of them are people?”
“Oh, a couple of dozen. Yours is the most unhappy species of all.”
“Do any of them speak English?” I ventured.
“A few.”
“But you won’t let me talk to them.”
“Feel free. But you’ll have to figure out who they are for yourself.”
“Any of them live here at the hospital?”
He grinned and said, “One or two, perhaps.”
&nbs
p; “I’ll tell you what: You give me the name of just one of your passengers and I’ll have the kitchen send up another bowl of fruit.”
Apparently to signify that the subject was closed, he turned to study a watercolor of Vermont in the fall. “I remember that place,” he murmured.
I jotted down a note to ask each of my patients whether they had been invited along for the ride to K-PAX, and to advise the rest of the staff to do the same. Not to help them get ready for the journey, but to prepare them for the disappointment of being left behind, jilted brides at an earth-bound altar.
But there was still the matter at hand: where was Robert and why had he retreated so precipitously? Apparently we were to be given less than two months to get to the bottom of it all. I didn’t much like the idea of being put under the gun again. “You say you’re leaving us at the end of December—any way you can extend that?”
“Sorry.”
“But you said last time you were here that there were three windows open for your return to K-PAX. Isn’t this the second one?”
“Uh-uh. The second one already slipped by.”
“So this is your last chance?”
“Yep.”
“And if you didn’t—”
“You got it. We’d be stuck here forever.”
“How did you miss the second window?”
“Robert changed his mind again. He vacillates a lot.”
I interrupted my doodling. “Robert is going with you this time?”
“If he still wants to. You know how it is. He’s of three minds on the subject.”
“So you’ve spoken to him since you disappeared two and a half years ago?”
“On occasion.”
“Was that his idea or yours?”
“Mine, for the most part.”
“Was it your idea to come back to New York this last time?”
“Nope. That was his.”
“Why did he call you?”
“I guess he needed me.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t say.” He stretched languorously, like a dog waking from a nap.
“Where were you when the call came, exactly? Can you tell me that?”
“Would you believe I was back in zaire? Of course it’s called ‘the democratic republic of congo’ now.” He shook his head. “People!”
“What were you doing in Congo?”
“Didn’t we just discuss that? You’ve really got to do something with that memory of yours, gino!”
“Bear with me, prot. What was Robert doing when you showed up?”
“Giving his kid a bath.”
“Did he finish it?”
“Nope. He handed me the washcloth and off he went.”
“So you finished the bath?”
“I dried him off and stuck a diaper on him, if that’s what you call those things. Then I put him back in his cage.”
I stared at my pad, which produced only a date and time. “Prot, can you assure me that you’ll stick around here until the thirty-first of December at—ah—11:48 a.m.?”
“Nope.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Even at the speed of light it will take awhile to gather everyone up and get going.”
“You mean you have to pick up all of your passengers one at a time? Like a bus driver? That’s pretty primitive, isn’t it?”
“The only alternative, herr doktor, would be to gather them up ahead of time. Which would create a number of other problems.”
I crossed out 12/31. “All right, when will you be leaving exactly?”
“Probably right after breakfast.”
I wrote down 12/31 again. “And you promise you won’t leave the hospital until then?”
“Nope.”
“Goddamn it, prot—why not?”
“I still have a few places to go.”
“What places?”
“I’ve got to hand it to you, gene. You don’t give up easily.”
“Thank you—I’ll take that as a compliment. So you won’t share that information either?”
“Sorry.”
“All right. Just sit back and relax. I’d like to speak to Robert now.”
“Lotsa luck,” he mumbled as his head dropped to his chest.
“Rob?” I waited. “Robert?”
Prot/Robert seemed to slouch down even further. There was no other detectable response.
“Robert, please come forward. I only want to speak to you for a second. Just to find out how you’re feeling, what’s bothering you so much. I helped you before, remember?”
Nothing.
“This room is your safe haven, just like it always was.”
No response.
“You must be feeling pretty bad. But whatever it is, you can trust me. Will you just say ‘Hello,’ so I’ll know you’re here?”
Not a hint of movement.
“All right. Don’t go anywhere. Just relax.” I carefully opened the drawer of my desk and pulled out the whistle I had called him with under similar circumstances two years earlier. I blew it.
There was no response whatsoever.
“All right, Rob, we’ll talk later. And if there’s anything you want to discuss with me, just tell one of the nurses and I’ll come running—okay? Now I’d like to speak with prot again. Prot? Are you here?”
At once his eyes opened and came to a focus on me. “Find him?”
“Not yet.”
“That’s the spirit,” he said with his maddening grin, something between genuine warmth and cynical smirk.
“How long have you had that beard?” I asked him.
“A couple of your years. I may keep it. What do you think?”
“Will wonders never cease!”
“You don’t see any connection between his and yours?”
“Why should I?”
I stared at him glumly. “Prot, I’m going to ask you a favor.”
“Very human of you, doc.”
“I’m going to ask you to help me get through to Robert. Like you did a couple of years ago, remember?”
“That was different. He wanted to come out then. I couldn’t have stopped him even if I’d tried.”
“All I’m asking is that you talk to him, do whatever you can to help him want to get whatever’s bothering him off his chest. Will you do that?”
“Sure, boss. If I see him. But I can’t guarantee anything.”
“Just do your best. That’s all I ask.”
He shrugged. “Don’t I always?”
We sat staring at each other. Finally I asked whether he had had a chance to talk to any of the other patients about their problems.
“Some of them.”
“Any thoughts so far?”
“Yes.”
“Want to give me a summary?”
“No.”
Annoyed, I tossed my pad onto the desk. “All right. That’s all for today.” I consulted my calendar, but for purposes of form only. I had already decided to give prot/Robert as much time as I could manage. I only wished there were more. “We’ll meet every Tuesday and Friday at nine. All right with you?”
“What’s the matter with Monday, Wednesday and Thursday?”
“Prot, you’re not the only resident of MPI, unfortunately.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all your patients.”
“Not really. Okay then, I’ll see you again on Tuesday. In the meantime, I’ll set up an appointment for your entrance, or re-entrance, physical with Dr. Chakraborty. Okay?”
“Why? My health is good. Don’t feel a day over two hundred and fifty.”
“Just routine,” I assured him.
“Ah, yes. I remember your penchant for routine.”
“Fine. Then I’ll see you next week.” I got up to escort him to the door.
“Auf wiedersehen!” he cried as he hurried out, apparently eager to get back to Ward Two. The room he was going to, incidentally, had been vacated not long before by another patient with a tragic history. Six months earlier
the man, who was affectionately dubbed “Mr. Magoo,” had suddenly stopped recognizing faces, including his own. Unfortunately, the problem had a physical etiology (he had been beaned by a falling brick), and there wasn’t much we could do for him except to encourage his family, friends, and co-workers to wear name tags at all times. His wife, however, rebelled against this idea and, perhaps understandably, was gone by the time he returned to their apartment.
I plopped back down in my chair and looked over my meager notes for this session. “12/31, right after breakfast,” and “Check with patients about their plans re: K-PAX,” I read, along with a half-page of undecipherable doodles, tangled blue strings in a dull-yellow matrix. I only hoped the threads winding through Robert’s mind could be unraveled and put into some kind of order before it was too late. The last time prot “departed” under similar circumstances Rob was left in a catatonic state from which he didn’t emerge for five years, when his alter ego paid a return visit. But this time he wouldn’t be coming back.
The only good news arising from our encounter was Robert’s telling prot he was only “taking a break from his miserable life,” suggesting that, when the time was right, he might again be ready to cooperate in a treatment program. But when would that be? And why was he suddenly so miserable? I only hoped we could do more for him than for the patient who had just vacated his room, though we had precious little time to do it in.
I returned to my inner office, where Giselle was waiting. I had almost forgotten she was there.
“Well?” she demanded, though it was more like a bleat.
“I’m sorry, Giselle, it looks as though we’re back to square one.”
“But why? I don’t understand.”
“Sometimes a mental illness comes like a bolt of lightning. Literally. Some little spark seems to set off a whole cascade of electrical events. Until we know a lot more about the chemistry and physics of the brain, all we can do is try to get the patient back on track by whatever means is available.”
She frowned. Having traveled down this road before, she knew the risks and probabilities as well as I. “Can I have access to him like you’ve given me in the past?”
“Of course.” I had no intention of arguing with that request, as I had before. In view of her unique position as a sort of buffer between prot (Robert) and the outside world, we both knew she could be extremely helpful to all of us. Perhaps he would utter something significant when she was around, something that none of the nurses would recognize as important. “By the way, where’s your son?”