With his outbursts becoming more frequent and unruly—and despite Mom’s resolve to deny and detach—there was no other choice but to get him medical attention. Soon after that came the bombshell diagnosis: adult-onset schizophrenia. As for my mother, her early-onset now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t was progressing just as steadily, which only made things worse. She added pain on top of more pain, and I was the one feeling all of it.
Dad’s speech was frequently disjointed, rambling, and nonsensical. He had also developed a peculiar giggle that began as a barely audible grunt and culminated with a high-pitched titter.
“What’s so funny, dear?” my mother asked one day as we all drove from the grocery store.
He gave no answer, but from my place in the backseat, I could see his reflection smiling in the window glass. Then the grunt started, and I knew what would soon follow.
Apparently, so did my mother. “Oh, Christopher!” she said, loud enough to cover my dad’s cackling, “look at all the pretty heliotrope on that fence! I do love the heliotrope. They have a glorious aroma, just like cherry vanilla pie. Brings back so many happy memories of my life as a girl. Nature has such a wonderful way of showing us beauty!”
And sometimes irony, too.
My father quietly stared out the window and watched his world go by—whatever that was—smiling and shaking his head.
I couldn’t have smiled, even if I’d wanted to. I felt too torn over which was more worrisome, his madness or Mom’s continued and unshakable avoidance of it.
Just as I was about to look away, I saw my father’s reflection change in the glass. His smile disappeared, and his eyes narrowed as they stared directly at me, mouth moving silently with slow precision, as if he wanted me to read his lips.
Get out, or I’ll kill you.
Terror shot up my spine as we turned onto the next road. Outside, the scenery changed, a dark row of trees further clarifying my father’s reflection. There was no mistaking his sentiment: angry, hostile, and filled with vitriol.
A few seconds later, his smile returned, but this one raised goose bumps all over me. Never before had I seen him look at me with anything other than kindness and love. Now this impostor, this alien, glared at me with hatred and contempt.
As our car continued down the road, I tore my attention away from his evil gaze and stared instead at my sweaty palms. Tears rolled down my cheeks, prompted by fear and heartbreak.
I looked up and out through the front windshield, but all I could see was the unavoidable truth.
Danger ahead.
42
I try to reject the empathic feelings that Donny Ray is prompting.
I’m not supposed to have those. They compromise objectivity, stand in the way of diagnostic progress, which is crucial if I’m going to do my job effectively. And this particular patient, more than any other, is an extremely important one.
But it’s difficult to ignore what I’m positive I saw, and yes, what I felt. Everything I witnessed from Donny Ray—the implicit fear he showed when his father entered the conversation—rang true as a product of deep, intrinsic, and profound mental suffering. Human emotion, pain so commanding, so visceral, and so very powerful. Pain I can relate to on a personal level. While the fear Donny Ray had of his father was likely very different from the fear I had of mine, I can still understand it. I know how it feels.
But maybe I can make our commonality work in my favor and uncover what others might have missed. I just have to climb outside of myself, to separate my own feelings from his. To use my personal experience as a stepping-stone to facilitate a better and more complete understanding of what’s happening inside Donny Ray’s mind.
I pass through Alpha Twelve, and it’s like the mental clarity I worked so hard to regain earlier has tripped a fuse. My steps fall out of synch, then awareness jerks them to an abrupt standstill. At first I wonder if I’m seeing double because, at this point, it would not be the unlikeliest of scenarios, but a quick survey of my surroundings sinks the theory, and I know that I’m staring at not one, but two open doors. Nicholas’, and now Stanley’s.
Something very bad is definitely going on.
I move toward Stanley’s room, look inside, and it feels like an instant replay of the other day. Same scenario, different patient. The place is stripped, not a single sign of human habitation.
Another one, gone.
That sleep of death, Christopher.
I practically fly to the nurses’ station. Melinda managed to knock me off guard last time, but this time she’ll be no match for my resolve.
She looks up from her computer screen, appearing more startled than compliant, but, once again, oddly detached.
“What happened to Stanley?” It’s not really a question—it’s a demand.
Melinda gives the hallway a negligible glance, then goes back to her work. “He went to St. Mary’s Hospital.”
“What for?”
“He had a heart attack.”
“Two patients gone from this unit. In just a few days.”
She offers nothing.
“And again, I haven’t been notified.” Obvious, I know, but I’m making a point. “Why is nobody telling me these things?”
Still typing. “It just happened this morning. Maybe the news hasn’t reached you yet.”
“Like it didn’t reach me the other day?”
No answer.
“What time did you say this happened?”
“I didn’t,” she mutters and punches more keys. “About three a.m.”
“I feel like information is being intentionally kept from me.” Anger burns through my throat. “This isn’t right. I want answers.”
“I don’t have any.”
“Find them,” I say, getting louder. “And while you’re at it, find out why Nicholas was sent all the way the hell out to Montana.”
Melinda reaches for a notepad and scribbles something.
I storm away.
But when I head back through Alpha Twelve, those two open doors stare back at me like menacing signposts. I’ve got no idea where they’re pointing, but I do know one thing.
It’s no place good.
43
My cell rings as I head back toward the office, “It’s your lucky day, partner,” Adam tells me.
“Man, could I ever use one of those.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. What’s up?”
“Dr. Rob found an opening in his schedule. Can you get there by two?”