The only thing left to do now is hit the “Send” button.
After all the years I’ve been doing this, after the multitude of evaluations I’ve completed, I always have the same reaction right at this moment. I second-guess myself. I waver. Never once, not even for a moment, have I taken the weight of my responsibility lightly, and this is no exception.
I know I’m right—that’s not the problem—still, I fully recognize the impact of this one action. Donny Ray will go back to court, and even though his fate will be left for judge and jury to decide, my diagnosis will significantly impact that process.
I look up at the clock. Deadline fast approaching. Time almost up.
I think about Adam’s doubt, but with the blue dress connection now complete, so too is the link to Donny Ray’s pathology. Adam was right in one respect. I don’t have to play cop. Whether Donny Ray was forced to cover up his sister’s murder is in fact irrelevant where my diagnosis is concerned.
And with that comes another confirmation. Adam shouldn’t have doubted my professional judgment, should have known me well enough to trust my abilities. He insulted me, and I feel confident now that his motivation was indeed fueled by professional jealousy.
Adam wants you to fail.
He threw a thin shroud of concern over his question about my MRI results, but the shadow it cast on our entire friendship has left that connection severed.
A swell of anger and sadness surges through me, then with more force than necessary, I punch the “Send” button.
57
Evaluation sent. Job done.
On the way to Alpha Twelve, I have time to process what pressure and a looming deadline wouldn’t allow before now.
Adam didn’t believe me, but I believe Donny Ray.
As a professional, I got what I needed, but as a human, I can’t help but feel as though in the process, I only inflicted more pain on a wound that never healed. I took something from Donny Ray Smith. Another piece of his already-fractured psyche.
I want to give it back.
Or at least try. I’m fully aware that telling him my decision won’t cure his ache—that kind never really heals—but maybe, even in some small way, my news will help.
Hold on. What the . . . ?
I peer down the hallway of Alpha Twelve. Except for the rooms that Nicholas and Stanley once occupied, every door is closed and secured. What in God’s name was Adam talking about when he told me patients are never confined to their rooms? Come to think of it, weren’t all the doors locked tight when I came down to the consultation room earlier?
Adam is jacking with your head.
I march forward with an angry huff, intent on giving Donny Ray the good news.
You’re not supposed to share that information with patients.
“You think I don’t know that? It won’t hurt anything.”
I reach Donny Ray’s room. Evan stands outside with an expression I can’t quite gauge.
“Still thinking out loud, Doctor?” he asks.
A glance over my shoulder tells me that, while I wasn’t within his line of sight, my voice probably carried farther than I would have liked.
“I’m just under a lot of stress right now, Evan,” I mutter, then motion for him to unlock the door.
He does, and I distractedly march past him.
Inside, Donny Ray sits up in bed and stares out the window, hands woven tightly in his lap, one thumb moving back and forth over the other as if soothing an old and persistent injury.
I step forward. He turns his head toward me and tries to smile, but the corners of his mouth betray him, pulling it downward. I grab the chair in front of his desk and spin it in his direction, then take a seat. Donny Ray waits for me to speak.
“I want you to know that I fully realize how much it took to tell me what you did, and I appreciate your efforts, and . . .” I stop myself, because this all sounds so obvious and in the scheme of things, so meaningless. “I’ll just get right to the point. I’ve completed your evaluation, and it’s with the court now.”
Donny Ray nods, tension and uncertainty rapidly amassing into worry.
“It’s my opinion that you suffered from dissociative amnesia after Jamey Winslow went missing.”
His mouth drops wider as comprehension gathers. “I didn’t think you would . . . I never thought anyone would . . .”
“Believe you?”
He closes his eyes and nods.
“It’ll still be up to the courts to decide if you’re not guilty by reason of insanity.”
“But it’s not about that. It was never about that.”
I look at him curiously.
“It’s about the truth. It’s about knowing that somewhere in your mind the truth is hiding out, and you can’t find it, because there are all these reflections, and they’re blinding you. We helped each other find the truth.”
Maybe we can both find it.
Donny Ray’s statement on the day we met—one that no longer causes confusion.
The door opens. Evan pokes his head inside and says, “Dentist’s appointment in ten minutes. I’ll be back to get you in five.”
Donny Ray acknowledges Evan, then gets out of bed and walks behind the wall that separates his living area and washroom. Seconds later, I hear the sink running and check my watch: it’s getting late. Now that the anxiety from this evaluation is out of the way, I’m hoping my mind will stop slipping so quickly. I scoot the chair back into place, shove closed a bottom drawer, then move toward the door.
But a few steps out, I stop to look back over my shoulder, then return to the drawer and pull it open. I reach for the book tucked off to one side and feel it tremble in my hands as I read the title.
Shakespeare’s Hamlet.
I swallow hard, open it to the bookmark, and four words scream back at me. Four very ominous and telling words.
That sleep of death.
The room curls in around me and my vision gets murky and my chest pulls so tight that I can barely draw air. I spin around to find Donny Ray standing there. In one swift move, I drop the book out of view.