“Not a problem. Send me a tan.”
Charlie laughed again. Joe enjoyed hearing his brother laugh. It didn’t happen often enough.
“You know, if you’re so independent, Joe, can you explain why I’m living with you?”
“Because,” Joe said, “that’s what Mom wanted.”
“Well, maybe she doesn’t know how independent you really are.”
“Oh, she knows,” Joe said. “But you read her will, Charlie. I told her I’d be fine on my own, but she insisted. She’s had a rough go of it. Who am I to deny her some peace of mind? Besides, as much as I dislike you, I’ve sort of gotten used to having you around.”
Again there was a long pause. Joe noticed it but didn’t know what to make of it.
“It’s been better than I thought for me, too, Joe.”
“So I’ll see you Sunday?”
Joe heard a loudspeaker crackle on Charlie’s end of the line. He could make out only some of the words, but those he could understand he found surprising.
“Dr. Alan Shapiro? Carver Seven?” Joe repeated what he thought he’d heard from the loudspeaker’s announcement. “Charlie, that’s weird. You’re in L.A.?”
“Joe, I have to go….”
Charlie sounded rushed, and Joe sensed the change.
“Believe it or not,” Joe said, “there is a Dr. Alan Shapiro at Walder-man. And a Carver Seven wing in the Mercer building. I should know. I volunteer on Carver Seven once a month to teach basic computer skills. Isn’t that a strange coincidence?”
Before Charlie could respond, Joe heard another voice. This time the voice didn’t come over a loudspeaker. It sounded to Joe like whoever was talking was standing right next to Charlie.
“The queen has no oven!” Joe heard someone shout through the phone. “You must hang up now and go see the queen.”
“Charlie? Charlie, are you there?” Joe said.
The line went dead. Monte trotted back into the room. Barked loudly, seemingly annoyed that Joe had hung up without giving him a chance to speak. He began gnawing on Joe’s right shoe. Something about the other man’s voice bothered Joe. It was familiar, too, in the same way Shapiro and Carver Seven were familiar. Joe tried to place it but couldn’t.
He went back upstairs and sat at his desk, staring at his computer screen. Blogging required the diligent posting of new material, but his current effort was only half done. Joe had never imagined anybody would read his blog and was truly amazed how quickly it had grown in readership. At first readers were interested in Joe’s early posts about his musicogenic epilepsy. It endlessly fascinated his readers that a song could put someone into a trancelike state. He had been at first a bit apprehensive to write about it. After all, his condition had nearly got a neighborhood kid killed.
Joe, fifteen at the time, had never been in a fight with the neighborhood bully, two years his senior, before. Surprising he hadn’t, considering Joe’s frequent and sudden violent outbursts and the bully’s hyperactive mouth. If doctors had known Joe was suffering from seizures triggered by music, and had been for two years before that fight, it might never have happened.
Joe had been in one of his trances when the bully made the unfortunate decision to taunt him. Charlie and a few other onlookers had overheard the bully blame Joe for their father leaving. The bully had continued, threatening to hurt Joe’s mother with a jackknife he’d pulled from his back pocket. The fight had lasted three punches, but it was enough to send the bully to the hospital for a week. Brain swelling had nearly killed him. Joe had disappeared for several days after, before the police eventually found him.
Readers loved to ask whether all music triggered the symptoms or just that one Miles Davis song. They wanted to know how he kept from having more seizures. Joe answered every question sent to him. The epilepsy itself, he wrote, was the underlying condition, but the seizures could be caused by a number of factors, emotional stress being one of them. The seizures, he explained to his readership, were triggered by the emotional association of jazz music with his father’s memory and the specific tonal qualities of his father’s favorite song, “So What” by Miles Davis. The two turned out to be a deadly mix for someone with Joe’s rare condition. The good news was that once diagnosed, and after exhaustive treatments, he was eventually able to stop taking any epileptic medicine. By far the most popular question posted to his blog was if he had ever heard the Miles Davis tune since completing treatment. He was happy to report that he had not, but made the point that he felt confident that if he did, he could listen without it triggering an episode.
Many also inquired about his ability to drive. Again he was happy to report that he had been seizure-free long enough to get his driver’s license. Life had been normal only a few years until Joe got sick again, this time diagnosed with schizophrenia. Several readers asked if the epilepsy was a precursor warning of Joe’s later mental disorder. Joe had asked the same, but the question was neither answerable nor relevant. Disease number two had arrived uninvited and was there to stay.
Many of his blog subscribers were schizophrenic like him. They had bonded in the virtual world. It was a way for them to stay connected. It was an outlet to share their unique challenges and at the same time feel no different from anybody else.
To keep his readership engaged, Joe kept a faithful update schedule. A blogger couldn’t afford to go stale, not when the competition for readership grew fiercer every day. Mostly he wrote about mental health issues and policy. He did exhaustive research before each post. But tonight he couldn’t write a word. He kept waiting for the phone to ring, praying that it would be his brother calling back.
Joe kept repeating the names to himself over and over again. Shapiro. Carver Seven.
Then Joe’s mouth opened. He bolted up from his desk again, moving as fast as his large, heavyset frame would allow. Grabbing the keys to his car, Joe stepped outside in the cool fall air, started the car, and fired up his InVision system. It was late, but he didn’t have a moment to spare. He would use his InVision system to scan for traffic problems and find the quickest route.
“Please select your destination,” InVision said.
Joe pushed a single preset selection button.
“Route selected,” InVision confirmed. “Scanning for low traffic areas. Now calculating route. One moment, please.”
Joe had already pulled out of the driveway. The tires of his thirteen-year-old Camry seared the blacktop with a screech of rubber.
“Turn right in one hundred yards,” InVision directed.
Traffic must be light. It’s taking me the fastest route there, Joe thought. Turning right, as instructed, Joe began the familiar drive toward what he jokingly referred to as his second home—Walderman Mental Health Hospital.
Chapter 33
Joe couldn’t believe his eyes, but there was no denying what he saw. It was his brother; it was Charlie, sitting alone in the common area on the secure floor. The admitting nurse had told him where his brother was being treated. Another patient sat near Charlie, but the two were not speaking. The man had a long beard and wild, stringy hair that fell past his shoulders. His wizened face was etched deep with lines, which showed years of hard living and suggested a certain wisdom and kindness. The face was familiar, perhaps someone Joe recognized from his volunteer work on the floor. But with all the chaos and confusion of the moment, while trying his best to temper the anxiety growing within, Joe simply couldn’t focus enough to make the connection. Charlie and Joe held an uncomfortable stare for a moment—each perhaps trying to adjust to the situation and allow time to validate that it was even real. Then Charlie looked away.
Joe approached.
“Charlie, what is going on?” Joe asked.
Charlie didn’t answer.
“I thought you said you were in L.A.,” Joe said.
“I lied,” Charlie said. His voice sounded wounded.
“I don’t understand any of this.”
The old man with wild hair stood an
d approached Joe. He extended a hand, and Joe took it without hesitation.
“I’m George,” the man said. “George Ferris. Is this your brother?”
Joe’s face became illuminated with a jubilant and starstruck enthusiasm. “The Dr. Ferris?” Joe asked.
“I suppose. Unless there’s another,” George said. His words were hurried, and his voice was gravelly, bordering on hoarse. “I’ve been trying to apologize to your brother for my behavior. I sort of hung up his call for him. He won’t accept my apology, and I won’t stop giving it until he does.”
“I heard a rumor you were here. I was going to come find you and introduce myself. I’m a big fan,” said Joe.
George simply nodded. Charlie’s jaw dropped open.
“I’ve been here ten days now,” George said. “I’ll be here a bit longer. I’m not ready to leave just yet.”
“Doctor?” Charlie asked. He looked at George with wary eyes.
“Doctor of computer science, actually,” said George.
“Also a writer and brilliant philosopher,” Joe added.
“I don’t understand,” Charlie said. “You’ve been talking nonsense to me since I got here. You keep saying something about a queen and an oven. You even assaulted me!”
“Yes, well, I’m sorry about that, too,” said George. “I don’t always have control of my thoughts and actions, Charlie. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? My medication and treatment program haven’t been working well for a few weeks now. I decided to check myself in for a tune-up, if you will. I truly apologize if I frightened and upset you. I assure you, that wasn’t my intention.”
“Then what was your intention?” Charlie asked.
“I think I just took an interest in you because you seemed so desperately in need of a friend,” George replied. “I really meant the best. Unfortunately, I approached you at moments when I should have kept my distance.”
“And attacked me,” Charlie added.
“Yes. Regrettable. But after that night in your room and our last run-in, I asked for an increase in my medication. It seems to have helped. I’m better able to organize my thoughts now. Well, at least some of the time.” George gave a toothy smile, and Charlie nodded.
“So, Charlie,” Joe said. “That’s George’s story. Why don’t you tell me yours?”
Chapter 34
They moved out of the common area and into an adjacent room, one reserved for group meetings and such. They sat on folding chairs arranged in a circle so each could see the other. Charlie stared into George’s eyes. The eyes that just the night before had seemed haunting and menacing had softened into something far gentler.
“I was brought here,” Charlie said.
“And why were you brought here, Charlie?” George asked.
“Somebody thought I was dangerous,” Charlie revealed.
“And are you?” George said.
“No,” Charlie said.
“But they locked you up here for a reason, didn’t they? You can’t get out of here. Somebody decided this was best for you,” George said.
“Who? Who thought you were dangerous, Charlie?” Joe asked. “I need to know what’s going on.”
Joe rose from his seat and began pacing back and forth. Charlie took in a deep breath.
“Joe, you know how I asked you for Rachel’s contact information so I could speak with her? And how you and I got into that fight in your practice studio? Well, there are some things you don’t know,” said Charlie.
“Things I don’t know? Like what?” Joe asked.
“Like that I was fired from my job. I didn’t resign like I had said,” Charlie confessed.
“Fired?” Joe stopped pacing and took a few steps toward Charlie. George stood and put a hand on Joe’s shoulder.
“And that’s just for starters,” Charlie said. “They … these doctors I mean, believe I’m delusional.”
“Why would they think that?” Joe asked.
“Because I chased after a woman who I believe is real but nobody else has even seen. And also, I had that list. The one we fought about.”
“That list …,” Joe said but stopped himself, deciding not to say anything more.
“Well, I told Rachel about it. She was concerned that not only was I paranoid but I might be a threat as well. So when I went chasing after this woman, security at the Mount Auburn ER thought I had lost it. They shot me up with Haldol and locked me up in here.”
“The Mount Auburn ER?” Joe said, more surprised by that than by Charlie having been administered a chemical restraint. Charlie could see that his brother was becoming disoriented. He noticed Joe’s breathing growing heavier and beads of perspiration forming on his brow.
“If I didn’t comply, Rachel was going to notify Simon Mackenzie about my list. It would have meant the end of my being able to salvage my reputation and career.”
“Are you sick, Charlie? Do you have what I have?” Joe moved away from George and approached his brother. “You’re all I have left without Mom. I know that I said that I didn’t need you, Charlie. But I lied when I said it. I still need my brother. I do!”
Tears ran down Joe’s cheeks. Charlie could tell that his brother was not angry, but frightened. Same as he was. Joe lowered his chin to his chest, but the tears continued to flow. His massive upper body convulsed with sobs, which he tried valiantly to contain.
“I’ll always be your brother, Joe,” Charlie said.
Charlie didn’t think about what happened next. The moment happened before Charlie even knew what he was doing. He opened his arms wide, inviting his brother to come toward him. Joe leaned forward, and Charlie grabbed his brother’s broad shoulders, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close. In response, Joe lifted his arms to embrace Charlie in return. Joe’s cries continued until Charlie could no longer contain his own.
“I’m scared, Joe,” Charlie said. “I don’t want this to be my life. I don’t want this at all.”
George kept his distance and watched the brothers embrace.
“None of us ask for this, Charlie,” George said after a moment. “But it’s what we do with what we are given that truly defines us.”
Charlie looked up at George as Joe pulled away.
“Tell me, what do I have to do?” Charlie asked.
“If you have the courage to face this head-on, you can find out and treat it. But only if you’re willing to be open to all possibilities can you find out,” George said. “You have to free yourself from the guilt of what might be. It’s not your fault.”
“Charlie, you have to listen to him,” Joe said. “You have to trust.”
Charlie wiped the tears from his eyes and thought a moment.
“Tell me, where do you want to start, Charlie?” George asked. “It’s up to you to decide. Your brother and I can help. We understand.”
“You’re telling me that I have to free myself of guilt before I can move on?” Charlie asked.
“That’s what I’m saying,” George said.
“Then there is only one place I can start,” Charlie said.
“And where is that?” George asked.
“In Arlington. With a dead body.”
Chapter 35
It was just after sunset. The red and blue lights from the police car strobes danced about Charlie’s face in an uneven frenzy. Before now this sort of police activity and chaos had been the exclusive property of TV shows and movies. They were as much spellbinding to him as they were terrifying. His wrists were bound together by plastic handcuffs, and his hands hung uselessly down the front of his waist.
It had taken several phone calls and a mountain of paperwork to secure Charlie’s temporary release. Charlie had agreed to be restrained and under the close supervision of Walderman staff, making approvals easier to obtain. If it weren’t for the call to Walderman from Randal Egan, a special agent with the FBI, Charlie doubted anybody would have believed his story, let alone allowed him to leave Walderman under guard. Charlie’s one demand, a
greed to by the FBI, was that he be allowed on-site when Arlington police retrieved the body, else he wouldn’t provide a name or address.
Charlie understood that tipping the police to a dead body’s whereabouts was tantamount to implicating himself as the perpetrator of the crime. In discussing his situation with Joe and George, Charlie had conceded that the truth about Gomes would eventually come out. But he had another reason for wanting to see the body again, one that he kept to himself. Soon, Charlie would have the answer he needed.
The commotion, although heightening his anxiety, also had the welcome benefit of distracting him from the constant throbbing pain in his wrists from the handcuffs. All he could do was watch and wait as more police and eventually an ambulance arrived. The lights from the ambulance were flashing, but the siren was hauntingly absent. That was to be expected, given what he had told the police was waiting for them inside the apartment.
Randal had been acting on Charlie’s behalf as the go-between with the Arlington police.
“Why do you want to see the body?” Randal had asked.
The two had spent over an hour on the phone, making the arrangements.
“I need to see it for closure,” Charlie had said.
Now that he was finally here, Charlie was even more sure of his decision. After all, Gomes’s murder was the key link in a long chain of events that had concluded with his involuntary commitment to Walderman. Embracing the possibility that he had committed the crime without memory would be impossible without first seeing the body removed. Charlie needed to witness it for himself and had told Randal as much.
Thankfully, Randal had deep ties and long-standing relationships with many local law enforcement officials. Without those connections, the probability of a committed patient witnessing a crime scene would be nil. Luckily for Charlie, the Arlington chief of police and Randal had been to several law enforcement conferences together and over the years had forged a cordial friendship.
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