2nd Sight: Capturing Insight

by Ben A. Sharpton

  “He’s right over there talking with your…” When he looked up, Chris was gone. So was Amy. “I don’t know where he went.”

  “I’m gonna have to put an ankle bracelet on him to keep track,” Jeff slurred. “He may try to sneak back across the border.”

  “What? He’s not undocumented, is he?”

  “Hell if I know. That’s HR’s problem. And you know HR never makes mistakes,” he quipped.

  Scott ignored the dig, but tucked the thought away in the back of his mind.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Come in, Scott,” Dr. Blackwell said while he pounded on his keyboard. “Let me make just a few more notes and then we can get started. By the way, did you take a cab this morning as we discussed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Just leave a receipt and I’ll reimburse you. We’re going to try a little medication today and I don’t think it would be wise to drive.”

  “Whatever.” He pulled up the padded arm chair. It was much nicer than the office chair he used back in Bell. In fact, all of the office trappings were nicer. An ornate clock sat atop a walnut bookcase which matched picture frames strategically placed along the walls. What was absent were pictures of anyone but Dr. Blackwell. It gave him the feeling he was being watched from various locations around the office. Several had adorned Scott’s desk—photos of Grace, he and Grace and even Gumby reminding him of the important things in his life. He wondered what the important things were in Dr. Blackwell’s life.

  “Now, how are you today,” Dr. Blackwell asked, peering over the top of his glasses. The two men went through the daily routine of checking in and comparing notes. “Now, Scott, I want to try a light dose of Alprazolam. It’s a mild sedative, often used to help people with anxiety disorders or panic attacks.”

  “But I’m not anxious.”

  “Of course not,” the doctor responded. “However, it is my belief that the Alprazolam, Xanax is the trade name, will work to relax you and allow you be more receptive to the visions that you have. Worse case, you’ll feel very relaxed and go home to a nice nap. It’s a very common medication that is used all over the world with very few side effects.”

  “What are those side effects?”

  He dismissed his concern with a wave of his hand. “Drowsiness, dizziness, maybe a skin rash. But in the small dosage I’m administering, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

  Scott rolled up his sleeve as the doctor filled a syringe with liquid from a small medicine bottle. He tensed his muscles just before feeling a stab from the sharp needle.

  As Dr. Blackwell administered the drug, he said, “Just relax and allow your mind to wander.”

  Scott leaned back in his armchair and felt the medication take effect. He began to feel comfortable and then…content.

  Dr. Blackwell tapped out some notes on is laptop. After several minutes, he turned back to Scott. “How do you feel?”

  “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “The sedative is taking effect?” Dr. Blackwell asked Scott.

  “Yes, it is.”

  The doctor looked up from his glass-covered desk and called out to the receptionist in the other room. “Debbie. Are you ready?”

  “I’ll be right in,” the thin brunette called back.

  Scott had seen Debbie every day for the last week, but had not taken time to say more than hello to her. He stood, reached out a hand which she took in hers. “Hi,” Scott said. She returned the greeting.

  Debbie carried a notebook and pen and sat in the other arm chair. A strong whiff of peppermint drifted from her smacking lips.

  “You won’t need the pad,” Dr. Blackwell instructed.

  She set the pad and pen on the floor beside her chair.

  “What should I do?” Debbie asked.

  “Just sit still for a while.”

  “Sure. Whatever.” She chewed her gum more quickly.

  “Um, would you mind?” The doctor asked, pointing to his own cheek.

  “Oh, not at all,” she answered, looking about nervously before tearing off a piece of paper and depositing the gum onto it. She wrapped that up and set it on top of the steno pad.

  “Now, Scott, reach across and take Ms. Taylor’s hand. I want you to focus on relaxing. Ignore all distractions. Concentrate only on Ms. Taylor.”

  Scott obediently took the receptionist’s hand in his own and willfully forced his mind to focus on the receptionist. He stared at her like a physician might scrutinize a patient, which only made his head hurt.

  “Close your eyes. Let go. Let it happen. Allow your mind to focus on Ms. Taylor.”

  He obeyed, but felt nothing.

  “Scott,” Dr. Blackwell interrupted.

  Opening his eyes, Scott looked to the doctor.

  “Listen to Ms. Taylor…with your mind and your heart.”

  Returning his attention to Debbie, Scott closed his eyes and began to sink into a state of semi-consciousness.

  He heard voices. Someone was talking. Children were pointing. Laughing. He was on a school playground, covered with snow.

  “Tell me what you see.”

  “I’m…I’m at a school—the playground. There are children pointing at me and laughing.” Scott began to shiver. “I’m cold. I’m not wearing a coat.”

  “Is it winter?”

  “Yes, I think so. The sky is gray, like it gets just before a snowfall. My new coat is on the ground. Some children are stomping on it.”

  “Excellent. Can you see anything else?”

  Scott felt Debbie’s hand tighten. “They’ve also taken my lunchbox. They’re laughing at what my mother packed. Someone said they thought I brought two lunch boxes each day because I was so fat.”

  “Yes. Go on.”

  Her hand dripped with sweat. “They are calling me names. Fatty, Piggy. More children are coming and a crowd is gathering. Someone else is coming. I think it’s a teacher.”

  “No,” Debbie said, snatching her hand away. “It’s the school principal.”

  Her voice and actions pulled Scott back into a semiconscious state.

  “Do you remember this event?” Scott heard Dr. Blackwell ask.

  “Yes,” Debbie replied.

  “Okay, Scott. Let this episode go.”

  Scott did as he was told. The images faded with the sounds. He looked around the office, feeling as if he’d just broken the surface after swimming underwater. He noticed Debbie was clenching her hands together in her lap.

  “So the event actually happened?” Dr. Blackwell spoke to Debbie.

  Her hands were shaking and her voice followed suit. “Yes. It happened when I was nine or ten years old,” she replied. “The boys called me names. They pushed me around the playground and pulled off my coat.”

  “Were there teachers around?”

  “No. The teachers were inside.” Her voice trembled.

  “What happened then?”

  “They called me names, as he said. I was a bit overweight at the time. They said I was fat.”

  “Do you consider that to be a major event in your life?” Dr. Blackwell asked.

  “No shit. I hated myself. I stopped eating. I taught myself to stick my finger down my throat after meals to throw up.”

  Scott stared at the thin lady. He understood her. He sensed she struggled with bulimia and it somehow made sense. He felt a surge of embarrassment.

  “Months of therapy and behavior modification eventually taught me to like myself again,” she said. “It took a long time.” She turned to Scott. “Your retelling of that event brought back one of the most painful times of my life.” Tears welled up in her eyes and began to roll down her face, mussing her makeup. Pain burned in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Scott said. “I didn’t know…”

  “No,” Dr. Blackwell interrupted. “That was perfect. You were able to view a complete event in another person’s life. Tell me. How did the images appear? Were the sounds clear?” He leaned forward on his elbows, lapping up the
information like a hungry dog eating dinner.

  “It was much more vivid than my hallucinations—much clearer,” Scott said. “It was as if I was experiencing a story—someone else’s story—while it played out. It was realistic, as if I was there, but as if I shouldn’t have been there at the same time.”

  “And you were in control, right?”

  “That’s correct. When you told me to stop, I was able to stop.”

  Debbie was wiping her eyes with a tissue.

  “Are you okay?” Scott asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “It hurt. I haven’t thought about that in a long time.”

  “But accurate, right?”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “On target.” She rose from the chair slowly and returned to the front office, leaving her stenographer’s pad and pen, as well as the wadded-up chewing gum, behind.

  “I must collect my notes,” Dr. Blackwell said, turning his chair and typing details into his computer. “Please relax for a bit, Scott. I will call a cab for you in a few moments. You must rest the remainder of the day.”

  Scott did as he was told. In a few moments, the cab arrived and he stood up, preparing to return home. “Bye, Dr. Blackwell,” he said.

  “Tomorrow. I’ll see you tomorrow at the same time.” He never looked up from the computer monitor.

  When Scott walked by the receptionist’s desk, Debbie was no longer there.

  ***

  Dr. Blackwell had insisted that Scott take a cab to the office the next day, as well. “At least until we have the correct dosage of alprazolam,” he’d added. When Scott arrived at the doctor’s office, he noticed Debbie wasn’t at her desk. Instead, an older lady occupied her seat. She was not chewing gum.

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m Scott Moore. I have an appointment with Dr. Blackwell.”

  “He’s expecting you,” she said cheerily. “Go right on in.”

  He knocked on the doorjamb and called out, “Hello? Dr. Blackwell?”

  “Yes, Scott,” Dr. Blackwell said wiping his hands on a towel as he stepped from a restroom in the corner of his office.

  They shook hands.

  The doctor turned to his desk, pumped some hand sanitizer onto his palms, and rubbed them together. “How was the night?” Dr. Blackwell asked.

  “Very good. I can’t remember when I’ve slept so soundly,” Scott answered.

  “I am so excited about our progress. I believe we made some great advances yesterday.”

  “I noticed Debbie wasn’t at her desk. Is she all right?”

  “I’m sure she will be fine. She decided this job wasn’t what she was looking for.”

  “Did she leave because of yesterday’s incident?” Scott asked. “It felt kinda creepy.”

  “It doesn’t really matter why she left.”

  “It does to me,” Scott argued. “Recalling the story seemed to hurt her.”

  “Her memory of something that happened long ago hurt her,” Blackwell countered.

  “Do we have the right to dredge up such painful memories?” Scott stared at Dr. Blackwell, sensing they had reached an impasse.

  “She was well compensated for her pain,” Blackwell said. “Did you meet our new receptionist, Elizabeth?”

  “I said hi,” Scott said.

  “Are you ready to start?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  “Today, I’ve invited two gentlemen to join us. I would like to apply a slightly higher dose of Alprazolam—we’ll use a pill this time—and I’d like you to read each of them.”

  “Are they here?”

  “They should arrive in a few moments,” he said. “I’d also like to try this experiment ‘blind’, if you will. I won’t tell them what we’re about.”

  “But won’t they feel weird when we hold hands?”

  The doctor chuckled. “I want you to simply shake hands with them when they enter the room. Some research indicates a simple touch may trigger psychometry.”

  “What?”

  “The ability to see experiences—stories as you call them, that other people have,” Dr. Blackwell said in a professorial tone. Scott half-expected there would be a final exam.

  “It’s your show.” He accepted a small white pill and a glass of water and started to ease back down in the arm chair. He welcomed the relaxing effect of the medication as one might welcome a familiar song or a gratifying phone call. He closed his eyes, but could hear the doctor moving around behind him, greeting the others as they entered the office.

  After a moment, the doctor said, “Scott. I have two gentlemen here in the office with us.”

  Scott stood to greet the two men. One was middle-aged, with rugged features and short, almost crew-cut short, hair. The other was thin and pasty and quite a bit older than the first. They shook hands and exchanged greetings.

  “Follow the same procedure as yesterday and tell me what you can,” Dr. Blackwell said.

  He sat back in the chair, closed his eyes and relaxed and allowed himself to “listen” with his heart and his mind. Their stories appeared even more clear than Debbie’s. “This is interesting,” he said. “I see a dark area, like a theater, but without seats. Two or three images are suspended before me, like choices or selections. Like a menu. I’m going to choose the one on the left.”

  “Continue,” Dr. Blackwell said.

  Scott heard soft music playing in the background. It sounded like an old AM radio. He blinked his eyes several times to counter the effect of bright lights overhead.

  He was in a store—a hardware store. Most of the racks and shelves seemed new. A display announced, “Now! A Cordless Power Drill” in bright letters.

  “I’m in a hardware store. There’s a polished vinyl floor and the shelves all look new. There are a few balloons and a small crowd of shoppers.”

  “Go ahead,” the doctor said.

  “Now, I’m holding a dollar bill and shaking someone’s hand. I set the dollar bill in the bottom of the register, which, by the way, is not computerized—it’s one of the old style registers.”

  He left that scene to view another and stood before a casket in what appeared to be a funeral home. “I hear organ music. I’m at a funeral,” he announced. “There’s a young woman with black hair and glasses in the coffin. I’m gripping the side. Now someone is escorting me to my seat. Everything’s blurry—I’m crying.”

  He heard someone in the room clear his throat.

  “Now, I’m going to focus on the other gentleman,” Scott said.

  “Very well,” Dr. Blackwell said.

  “There are several images to choose from. Scott could hear the click-clack of typing. He thought it came from the doctor’s desk, but he couldn’t be sure.

  The typing sound faded and was replaced by another. “I hear alarms, a loud bell, and sirens. Shouting. I’m in an older neighborhood, moving fast. There’s a fire. Hot. I’m running inside the house, upstairs. More shouting. I’m in a bedroom, a child’s bedroom. It’s smoky, but I don’t smell the smoke. I’m wearing an oxygen mask—some kind of breathing apparatus. Someone’s hiding in the corner, coughing. He’s calling for help.”

  He returned to the dark room and moved toward another image.

  Scott saw himself gather up a child in a blanket and turn to run down burning stairs and out the front door. Someone took the child from him and he stumbled to a fire truck to catch his breath.

  “Now I’m seeing something else. It’s windy. I’m standing on a ledge, high up—a mountain. I see a huge canyon, like the Grand Canyon. The sun is playing off the ridges in the distance. It’s…inspiring.”

  He was back in the black room, again. He chose another of the images and approached it.

  Loud country and western music surrounded him.

  “I’m talking with an attractive redhead in a bar, a country-western bar. She has a pretty smile. It’s crowded.” Within moments, he felt himself moving back and forth to the music, yet he knew he still sat in the chair.

  “The location
has changed. It’s quieter. The same woman is here, but we’re in someone’s home. I feel like it’s not familiar.” He made a conscious effort to back out of that scene and into another.

  “I’m seeing something else, now. It’s another fire. Loud noises—alarms, bells.”

  He was in a house, no, a larger building. It was a church.

  “I’m in a sanctuary. Pews, red carpet. It isn’t a large church. It’s hot. I feel like I’m choking—can’t get enough oxygen. The fire is above me, around me. Chunks of the ceiling are falling all around. I’m scared.”

  He entered the last scene window and everything was quiet. “I hear music in the background, but it’s very faint. Wow. I smell a strong odor—urine, antiseptic.”

  He looked out over the same canyon he had seen earlier.

  “I’m at the canyon again. I’m holding up my hands and my skin seems dried out and wrinkled. I’ve got blemishes, scars, moles. My fingernails are yellow.”

  The canyon began to move away.

  “Wait. I’m not outside. The canyon is a photograph in a picture frame. Looking around the room, I see it is fairly empty. A window is against one wall. Very little furniture. A lamp on a small bedside table. The picture frame sits beneath the lamp.”

  “Okay, Scott,” Dr. Blackwell’s voice said. “Come on back now.”

  Scott felt himself move out of the dream-state, past both sets of ‘scene windows.’ He looked around to see Dr. Blackwell, smiling like a papa holding a newborn babe. He turned to look over his shoulder to see the two men sitting in the back of the room. He motioned them over as he came from around his desk. All four men sat together in a circle, kinda like a group therapy session.

  “How do you feel, Scott?”

  “Good. Great. Rested, actually.”

  Then he turned to the two guests. “Gentlemen. Did anything sound familiar?”

  The thin older man spoke first. “Well, his first impressions seemed to be about me,” he said. “I used to own a hardware store. I remember opening day and making my first sale. I was proud of that store.”