September Rain

by A.R. Rivera

50

  -Angel

  The showers are free and I'm on my way to get cleaned up. I don't much care about washing my hair or my ass, but its part of their routine, to keep up appearances. Because if I act normal, I must be normal. Right?

  As I step onto the tiled floor of the shower bay, the female guard that went ahead to check the area for any lingering inmates, appears from around a corner. "Clear." She announces and nods to me.

  I'm not shackled. They only chain me around outsiders. I'm holding my stack of supplies: a towel, wash rag, shampoo, and a small bar of soap. The soap sucks. You can't use it to wash your private parts because the lye in it burns.

  "Fifteen minutes." The guard waves me forward.

  The shower bay is huge. It houses three wide aisles that make up six rows of showers. There are no dividing walls, no privacy of any kind. The same guard follows me in, keeping her distance as I disrobe and turn the lone knob all the way down to start the shower. The water's one temperature: a little too hot in the summer and a little too cold in the winter.

  I turn, letting the warmth wash over me, nearly jumping when I find Avery standing a few feet away from the edge of the spray line. She's in the typical orange jumpsuit, but her sleeves are hitched up and the loose material around her legs are tight-rolled. The ends of her long black hair curls from the moisture as her bright green, predatory eyes burrow into me.

  My focus stays on the drain at my feet.

  "Why do you get to wear a white jumpsuit when I have to wear pukey orange?"

  I haven't uttered a word to her since that night I fell asleep in the bathroom. Time has done nothing to curb her desire to interact, though. She's the only prisoner that can get around quarantine.

  Leaning my head back, I thoroughly wet my hair and commence washing.

  "You're losing too much weight." She sounds her usual bitchy self.

  I really couldn't give less of a shit.

  My short fingernails dig into my scalp, working in the shampoo.

  "Why aren't you eating?"

  To torture you.

  I start humming a new song I heard on the radio the other day. I didn't mean to listen, but when I heard the singing guitar, I had to take it in. It was brilliant. The front man was doing this new kind of rap-singing and talking about the gift of feeling alive. Not that I have a right to, but the song made me feel a little better for just a few minutes.

  "You're wasting away."

  I know by the sound of her voice that she's crossing her arms and step back under the hot spray to rinse my hair.

  "You can't ignore me forever." She promises, as I keep my wandering gaze averted. I still have a tendency to want to look at her.

  The shower timer runs out, shutting off the water. When I step around my company to reach for my towel, Avery shoves her shoulder into me. My feet slip across the slick floor in different directions. I catch my balance for a half-second, but fall anyways.

  The sound of my butt slamming against the tile catches the guards' attention. Avery is in the dry stall opposite me when the plain uniform woman stalks over, unaware. Looming above me, her eyes take in my wet, exposed state.

  "I slipped." I tell her, because it's the easiest explanation. She watches me get back to my feet and dry off.

  "You better start eating. I can make you, you know." Avery calls after me as I'm taken to the dressing area.

  +++

  Last Friday I finished telling my story to the review board. I assumed that today, Monday, I'd be returning to Canyon View. Instead, I've been summoned back to that damned room. I don't know what the hell they want from me. I've got nothing left.

  Lunchtime means macaroni and cheese floating down the toilet. My stomach is constantly pinched, but I like thinking of Avery holding her abdomen and complaining about the cramps.

  After they come to remove my lunch tray, two guards step in and shackle me. I'm docile as they lead me back to the interview room.

  Tight Bun Tara and Quiet Darren are sitting at the table with Mister Brandon and one other man. New Guy is sitting in a middle chair between the two familiar faces opposite my usual spot.

  On the table, there's a small paper cup containing my afternoon medication. I am seated, and take the pills with the provided cup of apple juice, like a good little nut-job, while everyone watches. I hold my mouth open and wiggle my tongue around to show that I've swallowed all everything.

  "Good afternoon, Miss Patel," the stranger between Tara and Darren says a little too brightly, "I'm Doctor Schumacher." He is thin, with white hair and gold-rimmed glasses with lenses too thick for the frames.

  As I play with the cuffs on my chair, I ask, "What kind of doctor?" even though I already know.

  "I am the psychiatrist appointed by the state to oversee your reevaluation."

  "Of course you are. Why would the state bother talking to my doctors? I've only been seeing them for the past six years. It's much smarter to get a new guy to ask the same damned questions."

  Tara turns her head to hide a smile.

  "And you're a little late." I add, "I've already told my story."

  "I know. I've been supervising from in there." He points behind him at the mirrored window. "I also have specified reports from your doctors at Canyon View, which are very telling."

  I nod, trying not to roll my eyes.

  "I've requested your presence this morning to answer a few more questions. Once we're satisfied, we'll officially conclude this reevaluation."

  Now he's got my attention.

  He holds up his hand, throwing out a peace sign. "Two things. First, I'd like you elaborate, if you will, on the presence of Deanna Midler at the motel room that night."

  "O-kay," the word comes out slowly.

  "You've been vigilant throughout this evaluation, stating several times that the events of that night were your perception at the time, and not necessarily factual. I am curious to know, Miss Patel, what are the facts as you see them? Anything you contribute to help us understand your state of mind would be of great help."

  "I don't remember much beyond what I told you. I can't even remember your name and you just told me five seconds ago."

  He tilts his head. "Doctor Schumacher, like shoe maker-one who makes shoes."

  I sigh and shake my head. He's using that rhyming trick to help me remember. He has been listening.

  "I thought I saw Deanna there, in the room with me that night," I confess, "But I was only trying to comfort myself. I know, now, that she wasn't."

  "What did you learn that made you change your mind?"

  "The dreams I have-those repressed memories. The videos, too, of me behaving . . . like that other person." I shrug. "I've been wrong about so much stuff, it just seemed reasonable that maybe I was wrong about talking to Deanna that night, too."

  "Would you say you weighed the facts you were presented with?"

  Thinking for a minute, I nod. "Yeah, that's what I did."

  "The facts are: Deanna Midler used the information Mister Haddon provided on your whereabouts to lead the police to you. She was present, but never entered the motel room as you previously thought. Do you agree?"

  "Yes."

  He smiles, not much but just enough to soften his face. "I believe that information, facts, are the most important part of the decision making process. Would you agree?"

  "I guess. But you have to follow your heart, too."

  He leans down, scribbling in the file in front of him. "I also want to ask about your references to the second victim, Mister Jacob Haddon."

  All the muscles in my body constrict at the sound of his name. This doctor's going to fucking argue with me. I know it. He's just like the rest. He's going to tell me I'm lying.

  "Throughout this process, you have repeatedly referred to Mister Haddon's state of welfare after the confrontation as being deceased and 'magically' opening his eyes to ask for help."

  ". . . Yeah." A lump rises in my throat as I look around the room at th
e other three faces studying me. I'm the only one ruffled by the turn of conversation. Was this their plan all along?

  "You believe that to be fact?"

  "It was my imagination. I said that." The lump rises in my throat, sharpening like the pointed beak of a crow pecking at my esophagus.

  "Are you aware, Miss Patel, that Jacob Haddon was, in fact, alive at that time?"

  "I've heard that before."

  In the time it takes to say those four words, the pecking crow in my throat has multiplied to a flock. Whirling inside me, the birds are a violent chorus of long beaks and giant beating wings, fighting, trying to climb up and out of my mouth.

  "Are you also aware of the fact that he is still living, to this day?"

  This is where I stop listening.

  "That's a lie." Three pecks slicing through my tongue.

  "I assure you, it is a fact. Jacob Haddon is alive, Miss Patel. The fact is that you did not kill him, no matter what your heart tells you. If you had, you wouldn't be here. We would never consider transferring a murderer to moderate security." Doctor Schumacher has a pen in his shirt pocket. I wish my hands were free so I could jamb it in my ear.

  "No." Another beak pecking.

  "According to your records, the numerous psychiatrists and physicians who've examined you these last six and one-half years all state the same: you have deluded yourself with guilt. You think that Mister Haddon was murdered by your alternate personality, Avery." His dark eyes flicker behind the coke-bottle lenses. "The facts are: Mister Haddon did sustain life threatening injuries that night. He endured forty-seven stab wounds in total, from which he has since recovered. He suffered long term nerve damage, but he is alive."

  My head shakes continuously. Fiercely. Like my neck is made of rubber. "No. Jake's dead."

  "Miss Patel, I have given you the facts, not perception. One piece of evidence to contradict your belief is that he attended your sentencing."

  "No! He's dead!" My eyes clamp shut. "You're lying! Liars! Fucking liars!"

  My fingers dig into the woolen fiber of the chair, shaking, tingling. Fucking liars.

  "Jake. Died. Because if he was alive, he would be here! He'd do whatever he had to do to get to me. He loved me; he would never leave me behind. He promised!"

  I'm panting, trying to block the fuzzy image creeping into my psyche, thanks to Doctor Shithead. "I wasn't even at my sentencing. How would I know if a dead man was there?"

  "He is not dead. He was present at your sentencing, and so were you."

  My eyes pop open wide. "What?"

  "Consider the facts, Miss Patel. You're presence and Mister Haddon's is a matter of record. You were both accounted for during court proceedings."

  I'm shaking my head, but the image won't fade. It's even clearer now, just like he's in the room with me. It's a lifeless portrait, a barely healing and still bleeding man who's too quiet. It looks like Jake in the corner behind Doctor Schumacher, but it's not my Jake sitting there with empty hands, it's just what my mind wants to see. A projection.

  It's true that my life would be much easier of Jake were alive, but he's not.

  He's not.

  I felt the life slip from his body. I held him when his spirit departed. I felt him die and I died right along with him.

  "He didn't make music. He didn't sign a record deal. He never went to California." I say to the conjured image. Realizing that I'm speaking to something no one else can see; I clamp my mouth shut.

  "Miss Patel, what makes you think Mister Haddon never went to California?" Quiet Darren asks.

  "My first lawyer had a copy of Max's deposition before the Grand Jury. He left his briefcase open on the table when he came to talk strategy. I only read the top page, but it told me enough.

  "Max said, and I quote, 'she killed my best friend. He isn't going to California to sign a record deal. He can't even play guitar anymore. She ruined Jake at the best time of his life.'"

  I sit forward, making my point. "If Jake were breathing, he would be making music."

  "It's now or never for me."

  My Jake is gone off to a better place.

  I don't know if heaven exists, or if the next life or whatever is just another plane but wherever that place is, getting there means leaving here and never coming back. So I will find my way to him. He's waiting for me. I know it deep down. Bone deep.

  I know it.

  "Take some time to weigh the facts and reconsider, Miss Patel." The white haired doctor instructs.

  "Can I go back to Canyon View, now?"