Adam pulls back a few inches to study me. “What symptoms? And how serious?”
I tell him about my sudden and furious outburst at dinner. I confess the reason for changing my hair, how my perception seems inexplicably distorted. I explain how my thoughts at times are confused. That I’m scared. But I play down the hallucinations, the distracting sounds, and flashes of light. The loss of time and the voice in my head. I don’t like hiding the truth from Adam. I trust him like a brother, but this isn’t just about protecting myself. While I know he’d keep things in the strictest of confidence, I don’t want him to shoulder that kind of pressure. If my condition is indeed serious or permanent, I’ll be the one who lets the higher-ups know about it. I don’t want to throw him into a situation where he feels conflicted because of our friendship.
Adam holds silent, but concern washes across his features, maybe a few other things I can’t quite gauge. Tiny grooves form around his mouth when he says, “We need to get you an MRI.”
I nod. “That’s what I’m thinking. I was going to ask Steve Miller over in radiology, but I figured it wouldn’t be the best idea.”
“Steve’s not here anymore,” Adam says, shaking his head.
“Where’d he go?”
“He quit.”
“Just like that? Guy’s been here for over twenty years.”
“I got the info secondhand, but rumor has it there was some kind of out-of-town family crisis that needed to be taken care of.”
“So he left permanently?”
“There’s probably more to it. Anyway, I can send you to see Rob Jennings,” he says, resolve lending firmness to his voice. “Rob’s a good friend, runs an offsite neuro practice. I’ll put a call in to him right away.”
“That would be great, but if it’s okay with you, I’d prefer keeping this . . . you know . . .”
“Only between us,” he finishes for me. “Absolutely.”
“Just for right now. It may very well be nothing serious, but I’m obligated to make sure.”
“Understood.” His smile is solid and comforting, as if he knows exactly what I need to hear right now.
“I really appreciate you doing this.”
“We’re friends, and for what it’s worth, I’m still pretty confident this won’t be anything significant.”
I don’t answer because I know his intentions are good and because I still feel horrible about deceiving him.
“I’ll let you know the second I hear from Rob,” Adam says. “Okay?”
I attempt a smile, then turn to leave.
Be careful. He knows.
Knows what?
You’ll see . . .
That voice returns. The one I’m coming to know, the commanding and evil whisper that never has anything good to say.
The one I’m learning to despise and fear.
27
I’m trying not to chew on things where my mental health is concerned, not to let worry escalate, but I know too much about this subject for my own good, with a perspective both professional and personal. My training tells me that there’s nothing to indicate the car crash should have caused a traumatic brain injury, especially since I was unconscious for only a brief period, an important guideline in diagnosing neurological damage. But what if it did?
And with that thought, like a villainous blast from hell, my biggest fear since childhood comes back to haunt me with vengeance.
Like a monster.
I tried to deny it last night, but after growing up with my mother, and as a student of the mind myself, I should certainly know better. Denial only fertilizes fear, making it stronger and more virulent. Adam doesn’t know about my father—nobody does, except Jenna. Being a psychologist, it serves no benefit to make my family’s past known. Plenty of professionals in my field have mental illnesses running through their bloodlines, and some even speak publicly of their triumphs over them. But that’s not me. It never has been.
Statistically speaking, I’m almost three times more prone to suffer the same mental illness my father did, and the head injury only raises those odds. Hard as I try, I can’t hide from that fact because it’s staring me directly in the face.
I thought you weren’t going to chew on this.
I ignore the voice.
Focus on the work. I have to focus on the work. I turn my computer monitor toward me and shift my thoughts to Donny Ray Smith. Our session is fast approaching. I need to get things in order, read up further on dissociative amnesia, and organize some thoughts.
My phone goes off.
I look at the screen and see Jenna’s number.
“Hi, honey,” I say, trying to camouflage the garbage floating rampant through my mind.
“Just checking on you,” she says with a drag in her voice that I read as fretfulness, still probably trailing from last night. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah . . . fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“You know me too well.”
“It’s my job,” she says with a smile I can not only hear but see in my mind’s eye.
As we talk, I make an internal decision not to mention my conversation with Adam. It will only exacerbate Jenna’s concerns, and I don’t need to hand her any additional worry. I’ll tell her about the MRI when one is scheduled.
Another headache fires off, and it feels as if someone’s mercilessly slamming a boot heel into my forehead. With teeth clenched, I try to endure in silence, hoping Jenna won’t catch on. As the head trouncing continues, a dizzy spell sends the room swimming around me. I squeeze my eyes shut and search for balance, stability, anything, in my increasingly out-of-balance world.
After what feels like a decade of screaming misery, the pain subsides. I open my eyes. Jenna’s been talking, but I haven’t heard a thing she’s said. I check the phone screen. About four minutes have passed. Four minutes I don’t remember at all.
More loss of time. More trouble. It just keeps coming.
“Chris?”
“Huh?” I say, trying to snap to.
“Did you hear what I just said?”
“Yeah . . . Sorry. Just got distracted for a minute.”
Times four.