Memories Never Die

by C Thomas Cox

  I stood up, and this time she didn't stop me. Placing my arm around her shoulders, I said, "It's okay, Claire. I'll be fine." I assumed her sadness was either due to her worry about my physical condition or, more likely, about my mental state. Perhaps she felt that, at her age, she was no longer capable of caring for me, and her anxiety got the best of her. I was wrong.

  "Jim," she said as she turned her tear-streaked face toward me. "We need to talk."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Once we both sat, Claire pulled the smartphone out of her pocket, tapped the screen a few times, and replaced it. Within seconds, two uniformed police officers rounded the corner of the house and stood beside us. I shivered.

  "What's this all about?" I stammered. Did they somehow find out about Half-Ear? If so, were they here to protect us?

  "They're here for my safety," she said. "They've been parked at the end of the driveway, waiting for my text."

  I gaped. We both needed protection from Half-Ear.

  Before I could determine what she meant, she took several deep breaths and continued. "Honey, your episode in the driveway was your worst yet." Now that she confirmed that she still believed an episode caused my injuries, why the cops?

  I glanced down at my hands, though, just to confirm that my injuries were the worst part to which she referred. Although the dozens of episodes I experienced soon after the war terrified me, none had ever caused me physical harm.

  She shook her head. "Your injuries are the least of my worries."

  I must've looked as clueless as an Army recruit the morning of his first day of Basic Combat Training. Though I had no idea to what she referred, I knew that it was likely the secret she had discussed with Gene.

  "I didn't want to tell you until you felt better," she said. The way she hung her head reminded me of her reaction when she learned breast cancer had finally defeated her mother. She couldn't look at me.

  "What is it?" I reached to take her hand, but she pulled away.

  Without looking up, she asked, "Don't you remember?"

  I considered telling her the truth -- that I hadn't experienced an episode on the driveway at all. The fact that she requested police protection nearly forced me to do so. Unfortunately, my pride stuck its ugly foot in my path and tripped me before I could do so. Instead, I simply shook my head, hoping that I could explain away her fears -- once she revealed them -- as a misunderstanding.

  "That stick...the one you said you were going to throw to Scout. You don't recall any other reason you picked it up?"

  I was sure that sweat began to bead on my forehead. The conversation was taking a turn that made me more than a little uncomfortable, but I couldn't come up with a way out. Glancing up at the muscular, uniformed officers didn't help. "No," was all I could manage.

  At last she looked at me, and I couldn't bear the pain I saw in her eyes. If she reflected such agony while I was supposedly asleep in my recliner, no wonder Gene had comforted her. "When did you last see Scout?"

  Finally, a question I could answer honestly. "While I was lying on the driveway, just before I passed out. He was standing above me, drooling." I chuckled, recalling his perpetually-smiling face hovering over me, oblivious to the pain I was suffering.

  "You really don't remember, do you?"

  "What, Claire? What is it that you think I don't remember?"

  "Scout," she said with a look of horror straight from an Alfred Hitchcock shower. "What you did to Scout."

  I bolted upright. Now she was the one who was having psychological issues. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  The larger officer -- he must have been six-foot-two and approaching two hundred thirty pounds -- strode toward me. Although his proximity rattled me, I wasn't concerned about my well-being. After all, I wasn't going to force him to take action by striking Claire. I've twice upset her enough that she threw hot tea at me, but I've never laid a finger on her.

  Claire held up her hand to indicate he needn't yet take me away, and then continued. "When I arrived home, I found you at the end of the driveway, bloody, unconscious, and clutching a stick in your right hand." I nodded. "A bloody stick that must've been at least two-feet-long and five-inches-thick."

  "Probably blood from my hands," I offered. I didn't even try to argue the dimensions.

  She shook her head. "It was covered -- coated -- with blood. Blood that matched the blood of Scout's lifeless body lying beside you."

  Oh my God! "That bastard!" I closed my eyes, clenched my fists, and involuntarily tightened every muscle in my body. "Now he's gone too far!"

  "Is the bastard the bear that you told Gene about?" Sarcasm dripped from her lips like the blood that she claimed coated the wood. She extracted my smartphone from her pocket and displayed the picture of Yen Nguyen's house. "Or perhaps the bastard is the owner of this house?"

  When I looked up, both officers stood between me and Claire. I could barely see her between their thick thighs. The big one glowered at me as though he was the fictitious bear.

  Tears started to cascade down my cheeks as I realized that everything was falling apart. My beloved pet was dead, my lie was uncovered, and my marriage was -- at the very least -- in question. Fearing your husband enough to enlist the cops will do that. All because I was trying to protect Claire from an enemy that I was confident was prepared to kill one or both of us.

  Knowing Claire would never believe me if I continued to lie, there was only one option left. "I'm sorry for not telling you earlier, honey. I'm so sorry." She looked away. "I didn't want to scare you. And I didn't want to involve Gene in what was really going on." I glared at the officers, and they moved an inch further apart. "This guy with half an ear...the guy from the baseball game. After the game, I saw him twice. Once trailing me while I was driving -- I swore he was going to rear-end me. And once here, in the driveway."

  Claire finally looked at me. Rather than empathy, the tension on her face and the fire in her eyes revealed her disgust. "It's true, Claire. He must've tracked me down. He nearly ran me over!"

  She retracted her lips from her gums like Scout used to do. Before Half-Ear... "Let me guess. This Half-Eared guy is the one who killed Scout, too."

  I nodded. "I didn't see him do it. I had blacked out by the time he returned. But he must've."

  "And then he placed the stick back in your hand."

  "He must've been trying to frame me."

  "And why, might I ask, did he kill your dog?"

  "No idea. Something's wrong with him. He's nuts." I wiped the sweat from my brow with my shirtsleeve. "But he definitely has it out for me -- and for anyone related to me. That's why I asked Gene for the gun." I was sure that Gene had already told her, since she knew about the bear. "To protect you, me, and, I hoped, Scout. Before it's too late. It's already too late for Scout."

  "It's too late for us, Jim. I should've realized that years ago. It's just too much for me...all of it."

  I leaned toward her. "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying us...our marriage. Maybe it's too late. I'm sorry, but I can't continue to support you as you work through the episodes. Episodes that are getting worse. Delusions that caused you to kill our dog and blame some mysterious foreigner."

  "But they aren't episodes. Sure, maybe the one in the backyard. But that's it, I swear. This was real."

  "You thought the one in the backyard was real, too."

  I sighed...never a good thing to do in the midst of an argument with your wife. "You just don't get it, do you?" she said, standing and stomping her slippered foot. "You're not all there, Jim.” She shoved her index finger against my forehead. “You're just not. And even before...before you took this latest turn...our marriage wasn't exactly thriving. Sure, we occasionally went for walks or ate together. But even then, we barely talked. And you're out all the time fishing, umpiring, and doing God knows what else. I'm certainly not making you happy."

  "It's just not true, Claire! You're my life. I was just trying to protect you...no m
atter what it took. You didn't need to suffer along with me...I need you!" I jumped to my feet and started toward her. But I learned straightaway that was not a good idea.

  The two officers grabbed me by the shoulders, cuffed me, and dragged me to their cruiser. I pleaded with them -- and with Claire -- to understand. They ignored me. Claire turned and dashed into the house. No one would listen to the truth. No one believed me when I warned them that Claire was in danger.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Oak Ridge Psychiatric Hospital is situated on a ridge high above the Susquehanna, several miles south of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Although the administrative offices offer scenic vistas out of their eastward-facing windows, heavy tinting makes any view from the remaining windows difficult. And tempered glass makes escape through them nearly impossible.

  Once known as Oak Ridge Lunatic Asylum, the stone-built institution has accommodated some of Pennsylvania's most dangerous -- and clinically insane -- criminals. From rapists to murderers, the newly convicted who are too crazy to suffer their life sentences in prison enter daily through Oak Ridge's locked doors. After revealing my secrets to Claire, I found myself in Oak Ridge as well.

  The two officers who cuffed me outside my home drove me to the facility. During the winding, hour-plus drive, I kept begging them to station a police presence outside of my house. I was sure that Half-Ear -- he was the one who should have taken residence in Oak Ridge -- would come back. And, whether he would set out to harm my wife or not, she could easily become collateral damage in his attempt to destroy my life. Any man who kills a dog with a stick has the disposition to kill an innocent old woman in cold blood.

  The police, however, ignored my pleas. Kicking the back of their seats did not attract their attention. In fact, they did not speak to me for the entirety of our trip. Even after we drove through Oak Ridge's gates, they remained silent. Not until they uncuffed me and threw me through the doors -- and into the waiting arms of the mental health workers -- did they say, "Welcome home, nutcase!"

  Though I was glad to see them leave -- defeated as their joint rejection of my petitions made me feel -- I wasn't thrilled with my new surroundings. A PTSD patient with occasional episodes didn't fit the description of Oak Ridge's typical clientele, and I was unsure that I could live within the building's secure confines.

  The mental health workers didn't wear the white slacks, white button-down shirt, and bowtie that I expected -- I guess mental health care has advanced since Nicholson starred in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest -- but they treated me just as poorly. They grabbed my arms and escorted me – without any protest from me, I might add -- to the Blue floor. All floors were named after colors in an apparent effort to confuse us. I guess if we didn't know the numbers associated with our floors, we couldn’t determine how far we were from the ground. This could impact whether we attempted to escape -- or commit suicide -- by jumping.

  The Blue floor, as I came to find out, was inhabited by the non-convicts. Folks who posed a danger to society, but who had yet to suffer through the legal system. Folks whose supposed inclination to harm themselves or someone else resulted in "involuntary commitment" as requested by a medical professional. In my case, that medical professional was none other than Dr. Arnold Zimmerman.

  After his brief examination -- as requested by my worried wife after my accident -- he determined that I was delusional. Since I supposedly killed my dog, Arnie took it upon himself to decide that I was likely a danger to my wife as well. I found out later that she agreed. Hence the cops in my driveway waiting to take me to Oak Ridge at my first sign of aggression.

  My private room -- or cell, as I came to call it -- was the place that I would supposedly come to love. A place where I could finally confront and defeat the PTSD that had plagued me. And Oak Ridge was an inpatient facility that would provide the cure that an outpatient psychiatrist could not. At least that's what the first visitor to my ten by ten home claimed.

  "You must be James!" the smiling thirty-something brunette said as she burst through the door -- just minutes after the initial escorts dropped me off and locked me in. After deadbolting the door without averting her gaze from me, she continued. "I'm Anita Spangler, one of the psychiatrists on staff here, and I've been expecting you." She held out her petite hand. As I took it, I noticed for the first time the small camera in the room's upper corner. "Purely for your own safety, Mr. Richmond. If you stumble or feel ill, one of our staff members will arrive within minutes." It was a lie, of course. But I nodded anyway, knowing full well that security was watching me for any signs of hostility toward staff members. After suffering through the ignorance of the police who drove me to Oak Ridge, I wasn't up to protesting.

  She gestured to the bed and I sat. Its simple metal frame -- bolted to the sterile rubber floor, of course -- and less than plush mattress, reminded me that I wasn't at the Ritz Carlton. She sat in the lightly-upholstered armchair that was similarly attached to the floor. "Before I go any further," she said, "I'd like to thank you for your service to our country. Time served on the front lines is commendable!"

  Although the smile from her glossed rose lips appeared genuine, she was doing her best to soften me up. But, unlike the responses she received from the psychos in the building, a compliment or two wasn't going to garner my trust. I didn't react. She kept smiling anyway.

  "I want you to know that everyone at Oak Ridge is on your side. Just like any hospital, we all want you to get better. Just like the body, the mind sometimes just needs time -- and a little help -- to heal."

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said honestly. Although my disorder didn’t necessitate inpatient confinement, I believed that many mental disorders did. Besides, there was nothing to be gained by arguing. The last time I did so, the cops cuffed me. I had to think of another way to protect Claire.

  “So tell me how you feel right now.” I looked around the room for a clock that I knew wasn’t there. How long had it been since they took me away? “You look anxious. Do you feel anxious?”

  “Yes…I mean no. I-I’m just not sure…I guess I just don’t know how I feel.” I inhaled, and then exhaled as slowly as I could. “I was forcibly taken from my home. That’ll really shake a man.”

  She nodded. “You’re right, James…can I call you James?”

  “It's Jim...if you don't mind.”

  “Okay, Jim. You’re right.” She rested her palm on the back of my hand. “You’ve gone through a lot today. And I’m probably asking you too many questions too soon. Sorry that I overwhelmed you. I've given you too much to handle in your state.”

  Something about the way she said state, however, was different than the initial segment of our conversation. Impatience. Irritation. Condescension. Those were all words that accurately described the emotions she conveyed in that one word. More than anything, though, was the loathing that her tone expressed -- that she was better than me. That she was better than this place, this government institution that housed those of us who were not quite right. That, perhaps, she deserved to be on the leading edge of psychiatric research rather than stuck in the slums of government bureaucracy.

  Whatever she felt, however, demolished my resolve to mindlessly go along with the healing words she convinced herself she was piping. That one word forced lava -- lava that was previously bubbling just below the surface -- to erupt. "My state? My state!" I jumped to my feet. "You don't know a damned thing about my state!"

  She stood up and backed toward the door. "I-I have to run to an appointment."

  I took half a step forward and thrust my finger toward her. "No! You're going to stay here until you hear what I've been through...what's really going on."

  She shuffled her feet until her back rested against the door. "A half-eared man is after me...he threatened me at a baseball game, trailed me when I was driving, nearly ran me over, and killed my dog...and now that I'm here, he's going after my Claire!" I paused for a second to catch my breath. I wanted to make sure she understood befor
e she left the room. "It's fine if you keep me locked up, but someone needs to protect Claire!"

  She slid two steps to the side, and through the door burst the two men who greeted me upon my initial entrance into Oak Ridge. I discovered later that somewhere in the midst of my explanation, she had clicked a device in her pocket that alerted security that she felt threatened.

  Those men -- whom I affectionately renamed the Oak Ridge Boys -- grabbed me by my shoulders and shoved me onto my bed. Meanwhile, Anita Spangler escaped through the door and shut it behind her.

  Unlike the first time we met, I wasn't in a submissive mood. As they turned to leave, I climbed back to my feet. "You don't understand! My wife's life is at risk. I don't belong here. I'm not a danger to anyone!"

  They both rotated in unison, like the rollers through which sheet metal is flattened. "No one thinks they belong here -- at first," the ginger-haired brute on the left said with a chuckle. This forced his Rollie Fingers mustache to curl even more than usual. "Just relax...after a few months you'll understand."

  "What?" I retorted, desperately gripping his shirt. "Months? But he'll kill her by then."

  The six-foot-two bruiser to my right slid behind me, wrapped his arms around my belly, and tried to pull me away, but I gripped the other man's shirt as tightly as I could. It was no use, of course. I was no match for their size or their youthful strength.

  As my fingers slid from the shirt, my right elbow was propelled backward by the combined force generated by me losing my grip and the jumbo mental health worker yanking me backward. The end of my ulna landed flush against his nose.

  I backed away and held my hands up to declare my innocence. "I'm so sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to." I couldn't afford any more trouble.

  He yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and squeezed it over his newly misshapen nose. Although it absorbed the fresh blood, he was too late to prevent some of it from dripping to the floor beneath.