Judie, Leo, and Marie came in a few minutes after the kids. Marie carried a bouquet of flowers and box of chocolates wrapped in ribbon that read, “Get Well Soon.” Leo came ready with jokes. He joked he was going to buy me a helmet and make me wear it around the house. Sure, it was a dry joke, but it was effective. Though deep in his eyes, I could see the dark cloud of worry every time he looked at me.
I spent the rest of my visit with the kids trying to look animated, for their sake. But my smile was a fragile mask, ready to crack. Their smiling faces took me back to that horrific scene last night. I looked at Beatrice and saw that brutal crater and exploded skull where her beautiful face now was. And my little Jip with that hole in his forehead and that trail of “stuff” hanging out the back of his head. But I closed my eyes and hugged them close, covered them in kisses and wiped my tears with the back of my hand before they could see. I had the same flashbacks looking at Marie, who spent most of our visit on the other side of the room, talking with Leo and Judie. I still got goose bumps at the hallucination of those men dragging her and the woman slapping her, humiliating her, maybe just moments before executing her, too.
But I kept it all inside and played my part perfectly. The children would spend the night with Judie and make homemade pizzas in funny shapes for dinner. They’d play Monopoly and watch a Pixar flick. And after a few days, Dad would come home because the doctor said that he had to spend a couple of nights in the hospital. Daddy was fine, there was no reason to worry. I wish I could believe it myself.
At around eight, they said goodbye. Judie, the kids, Leo, Marie, all of them. Leo was the last one to leave the room. I don’t know if he hung back on purpose or not.
“Leo,” I said, as he reached for the door. “Can you hang on a minute?”
He stopped as if he’d been waiting for this moment. He walked over to the hospital bed with a heavy smile.
“What’s up, Pete?”
“Two things. First, thank you. Thank you for bringing me here.”
“Not at all, lad. Although you did hit me with a pretty solid right cross,” he laughed.
“I’m sorry, Leo. . . . I was out of my mind. The second thing has to do with . . . what I saw that night.”
His face darkened.
“Pete, I don’t think I want to hear this.”
“I know you don’t. I wouldn’t, either, Leo, but I can’t live with not telling you this. Listen to me. Maybe I’m crazy, and all this is just a hallucination. We’ll know eventually. If in two months I’m in a loony bin with my arms in a straitjacket, you can forget we ever had this conversation, okay? Just promise you’ll send flowers and hide a flask full of whiskey in the vase.”
Leo allowed a smile.
“C’mon, Pete . . .”
“No, really, listen to me. Until that moment, until the doctors decide I’m crazy, I want you to do me one favor, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Do you own a gun?” I asked.
Surprise, if not shock, washed over his face.
“What?”
“A revolver, a hunting rifle, anything.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Whatever you have, get it ready. Load it, keep it close to your bed, okay? In every single one of my visions . . . they’re armed. You’ll need some kind of firearm . . . if it turns out I’m right.”
“Okay, okay, lad,” Leo said, glancing at the door. “I’ll think about it.”
“And if you see a van pull up to your house—a dark red van with chrome rims and two men and a woman inside—don’t let them anywhere near you. Okay? Shoot first, ask questions later, Leo. Will you do that? Promise me you’ll do it, for Christ’s sake.”
“Okay, Pete, I promise.”
I took a deep breath and sighed.
“I hope this is all just craziness, Leo. . . .”
Marie came in looking for her husband. Leo shook my hand and held it, and he gave me a look I couldn’t quite place.
“Take care of yourself, Peter.”
I nodded.
Marie came close again, and the two of us stared at one another for a long moment.
“Take care of yourselves, Marie.”
“We will, Pete.”
For a second, I thought I saw a flash of terror in her eyes.
FOUR
THE YOUNG PSYCHIATRIST with the curly hair and the little round glasses was named John Levey, and we spent the entire next morning talking in his office. He asked his questions, and I took my time answering, neither one of us in a terrible rush. I talked to him about my divorce, why I’d left Amsterdam, about my job and my kids. I talked to him about everything he wanted to know. I held nothing back, and tried to act normal, civilized, and inoffensive. . . . After all, he held the keys to my freedom: return home . . . or to the psychiatric ward.
We talked about my visions. He had spoken with Kauffman the day before, so he was aware of my episodes. But he wanted to hear my version of events. I told him everything while trying not to be too “emotional.” I told it as if I were simply recalling a dream. The young doctor—dressed in a green Lacoste cardigan over a yellow collared shirt, corduroy pants, and Burton Derby shoes—took occasional notes and studied his pad. College boy, through and through. A young man raised among important men who tolerate zero mistakes. But he had his hands full with this case. It was clear he had no idea where to start with me.
He tried out several diagnoses, from a persecution complex to paraphrenia to paranoia. He mentioned great emotional stress (say, from a recent divorce, problems at work . . . sound familiar?) or low self-esteem. People in these situations, especially highly intelligent ones, construct a subconscious illusion. Something that helps them make sense of their new circumstance. A coping mechanism for their pain. But sometimes those fantasies estrange us from reality.
“Do you think that’s what happening to you, Peter?”
“Oh, certainly, John, it’s a possibility!”
Thirty-three-year-old John Levey wanted to nail this diagnosis. He needed all the books he’d studied at his very prestigious university to make sense, so I let him believe it. I even took the three pills they forced on me so I could return to my room. Maybe this is how it starts for crazy people.
Crazy Pete . . .
That night, with my head floating because of the medication, I considered the real possibility that I was losing my mind.
Nuts. You’re going to end up absolutely nuts. Hell of a way to play out your days. At some “facility” somewhere. One of those lost souls who staggers around aimlessly in a hospital gown down a maze of hallways that smell like disinfectant. Ten pills a day. Mind numb. Chemically castrated. Shattered. Wandering the lovely gardens. Sitting on a bench all day watching the birds, talking to the flowers. An early retirement. Maybe it wouldn’t be all bad. You wouldn’t have to compose music anymore. There’d be no more successes, or failures.
These doctors, they were talking about visions, dreams, sleepwalking, and I was ready to believe them—to believe anything. But deep down, I was sure, I mean absolutely certain, about what I had seen, heard, and felt. What I had experienced had left bruises on my body and scars on my psyche: the fear, the sheer terror I felt as those people broke into my house, and the horrific result. It was all real. These weren’t nightmares or lucid dreams or astral voyages. I had seen it. And suddenly, just like that, it all disappeared. It was like some sick joke. Like that loony cartoon toad, Michigan J. Frog, who sang (vaudeville-style) and danced only when he was alone with his owner.
Crazy.
Maybe there was no going back now. The lightning strike had broken something irreparably, and no one could see the damage. But think about all the things science can’t explain! There was a word for that unknown gray area.
Crazy.
Society had a place for these kinds of people. And unless I managed to unravel this enigma, it was the only word that would ever describe me.
Crazy.
Between the pills, lunch, and a
restless night, I fell asleep in the early afternoon. I took an impossibly long nap, and by the time I woke up, it was nearly nighttime. I looked out the window, and the tree outside was shaking in a stiff wind, its branches tossed into the air. The wind whipped and the sky had darkened.
I called the nurse, and it took a few minutes for the young blonde with the bored blue eyes to come into the room.
“We’re understaffed today,” she said, excusing herself. “I’ll bring your dinner in a minute.”
I told her not to worry about dinner and asked her instead what time it was. She said it was six-thirty at night. Thunder crashed in the distance.
“Is there a storm coming?”
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “One of those big summer thunderstorms. The weatherman had originally said it’d be a clear night. But, there you go.”
“A storm . . .” I repeated to myself.
“I’m sorry?”
“Uh, nothing, sorry . . . Is Dr. Levey in, by any chance? I’d like to talk to him.”
“No, Mr. Harper,” she said. “I think he went home at about five-thirty. But he’s on call from home. Do you need something?”
“No, no, never mind. It’s not important. I’d like to call my kids. Would you hand me my cell phone? It should be in my jacket pocket.”
The nurse opened the closet and rifled around my coat until she found the phone. She brought it over and asked whether I wanted beef or fish for dinner. I said beef.
When she’d left, I called Judie at her store. It rang ten times, but no one picked up. It was almost seven and she’d probably already closed up shop. But she was supposed to be at the hostel with the kids. Or was she? I tried calling her cell, but she didn’t pick up there, either. Where the heck could she be?
I started to worry. And now I was just thinking about Dr. Levey and his stupid little prep-boy smile, leaving me stranded in this goddamn place as if it were some kind of Club Med.
And now, this damn thunderstorm.
It’s just a thunderstorm. It’s totally normal for this time of year.
I started to wonder what would happen if I got out of bed, got dressed, and tried to walk out of the hospital. Would they sound the alarm? Sic the cops on me? Dr. Ryan had said that they were keeping me under “strict surveillance.” And that my kids were with Judie only because it was “more humane” than sending them to live with protective services. No, it was better not to do anything stupid. I tried Judie’s cell phone again, and this time it didn’t even ring. The error message said the user wasn’t available or had traveled outside the coverage area.
“Where the hell are you, Judie?”
We went for a drive, that’s all. Maybe to Monaghan, since we never ended up going. Or maybe they’re eating popcorn down by the port. Relax, Peter. . . .
I spent the next half hour in bed worrying, listening to the wind and rain pound the windows, thunder rumble in the distance, the storm still a few miles off shore. I could swing by Clenhburran real quick, just to look things over, I thought. Take a drive, get some air, make sure everyone’s okay, then come back tonight. Judie could drive me back. They probably wouldn’t even notice I was gone. After all, the nurse was complaining that they were short staffed.
Then I felt the phone begin to vibrate in my hands. Good, it’s Judie. Thank God.
“Hello?”
“Peter?” The voice wasn’t Judie’s. It wasn’t Leo or Marie, either. It took me a second to recognize her.
“Imogen?”
“The very same, dear. How are things going?”
Caught off guard by the phone call—from Imogen, of all people—I only managed a “good, fine.”
“Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. I was scouting some property in Scotland, and I just got back from London. You don’t want to live in a castle by any chance, do you? I found the most amazing renovated tower only twenty miles from Edinburgh. . . . Anyway, that’s not why I’m calling. I’ve finally got what you asked me for.”
“What I asked you for . . .” I said almost to myself.
“Yeah, about your house. You wanted to know if anything strange had ever happened there. The ghost your friend said she saw?”
“Oh, God, right. I’d forgotten all about that.”
Thunder rumbled.
“Well, I didn’t find anything about a ghost. But I talked to the realtor who used to represent the property before me, and she told me a pretty interesting story. Remember when I told you about the German guy who had rented the house before you? The guy who studied migratory birds? One of those scholarly, university types who wouldn’t know how to fry an egg? Well, he had a weird story about your neighbors, the ones on the others side of the hill. He said somebody had broken into his house, and he was sure it had been them. Laurie, the other agent, asked him if he wanted to file a report with the police, but he said no. Said he looked, and he wasn’t actually missing anything, it was just more of a feeling, like someone had been rifling around in his house. One time, from one of his hides, he had seen them meeting with some quote-unquote ‘strange’ people. No idea what he was talking about. He’d paid for six months but left after five. He didn’t even ask for his deposit back. Have you seen anything like that?”
It took me a minute to say anything. My heart started pounding in my chest, and my mouth suddenly went dry as I started to struggle for breath.
“No . . . I . . . I don’t know,” I said, finally.
“Are you all right, Peter? Listen, if the house is a problem, we can switch you somewhere else. It won’t cost you anything. There are other houses in the area. Well, not a ton, because it’s the high season, but I’m sure we can find you something.”
“No, it’s okay, Imogen. Thanks. Thanks for everything. I . . . I have to go now.”
I hung up the phone and realized how stupid I’d been.
Everything fit. All the pieces started falling into place. I knew it was time. . . . This would be my last night on Tremore Beach.
FIVE
I WAITED for dinner to arrive. The nurse’s name was Eva, and even though she was in a rush to push the dinner cart to every room along the long hallway, I managed to engage her in conversation a minute. It turned out another nurse, Winny, was on her honeymoon, and Geraldine was sick; and although Luva was supposed to be on call, she had rung to say one of her daughters had caught a stomach bug and was throwing up all night. So she was all alone to cover the floor. “This place is an organizational nightmare. Everyone disappears at once, and one person is left to cover the whole damn place.”
I told her not to worry about me. What was the medication I had to take again?
“One tablet of olanzapine and one of these blue ones before bed. I guess I could leave them for you here. After all, it’s already past eight. . . .”
“Sure, don’t worry. I’ll take them right after dinner so I won’t forget.”
The second Eva closed the door, I jumped out of bed and started getting dressed. Thank God no one thought to take my clothes or shoes home, or that would have nixed my plan. But everything was in a plastic bag in the closet, along with a coat and some extra clothes Judie had brought from my house. When I was ready, I threw the hospital robe on over my clothes and left the room.
I paced up the hallway in no rush whatsoever, looking bored. I peeked in the open doors to see other patients watching television in their rooms, visiting with guests who spoke animatedly as they stared off into the void. With my three-day-old stubble and my dirty, long hair, I looked like just another patient as I paced along in my robe. People looked pityingly at me as I walked by, and I returned their sorrowful gazes.
When I reached the lobby, I found the admissions desk empty.
Outside on the steps to the entrance, a man was smoking. He was a lanky guy with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. I asked him for a cigarette, and he grumbled as he handed it to me.
“Tobacco ain’t cheap, buddy.”
I smoked in silence, waiting for my ill-humored f
riend to buzz off. Meanwhile, I looked out at the street and saw it was nearly devoid of traffic. How the hell was I going to get to Clenhburran?
The wind picked up and started to howl. I recognized this sound. This furious whistling. Soon, the funnel clouds would arrive with their army of lightning bolts. But there was still time.
“Looks like a nasty storm,” I said, trying to strike up a conversation, but the guy pretended not to hear me. He just kept smoking his cigarette.
A few minutes later, like a gift from the heavens themselves, a taxi appeared over the rise, heading toward the hospital, and stopped right outside the entrance. I still had the robe on, and Mr. Grumpy was still nursing his cigarette. What to do? If I tried to hail the cab in my hospital robe, I was sure to arouse suspicion.
The passengers got out, and the driver looked at us through the window.
“Need a taxi?” he called out.
I was about to say something when my smoking buddy waved him off before I could open my mouth.
The taxi disappeared back to wherever it came from. And just a few minutes later, so did my curmudgeonly companion. I sat alone on the steps, finishing my cigarette. I glanced back inside and noticed the admissions desk was still empty. I decided it was time to act. I whipped off the robe and stashed it under a nearby bench. Finally looking like a normal citizen again, I headed for the road.
There was a bus stop out front. The number 143 bus went from Dungloe to Clenhburran. But there was no telling when it would next be by. Waiting for a bus in Ireland on a Sunday is like waiting for a miracle.
I decided to hitchhike. It was common for people in that part of the country to catch a ride for a few miles. The hospital was close to Dungloe, and almost all the traffic came from that direction. But I figured eventually I’d stumble on someone going in the other direction toward Clenhburran.
The Last Night at Tremore Beach Page 20