Delirious (23 page)

“Well, that just might be the dumbest thing I’ve heard yet,” Charlie muttered.

“It’s not healthy to spend too much time by yourself on the floor,” Dr. Shapiro said.

Charlie let out a loud laugh. “And you think getting jumped by this psychopath is healthy?”

Charlie turned and pointed down the other end of the corridor, but the grizzled old man who had shadowed him moments before had vanished.

“Yes, I see,” Dr. Shapiro said.

“Great,” Charlie sighed. “Now you think I’m seeing things.”

“Actually, believe it or not, I was coming to find you, but it wasn’t for that. We’ve signed you up for group in the morning. This is your first night in the hospital, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And how have you been adjusting so far?”

“Oh, it’s been a breeze.”

“Great,” Shapiro said, either missing or ignoring Charlie’s sarcasm. “Well, I was going to ask you to come to my office to talk—”

“And who are you?” Charlie asked.

“Right. I’m Dr. Alan Shapiro.”

“No. I know that,” Charlie said. He did nothing to hide his hostility. “I mean
who
are you and
why
do you want to speak with me?”

“I’m your psychiatrist.” Shapiro rubbed his thumb back and forth against his index finger.

Nervous habit,
Charlie thought
. Not a good thing for a psychiatrist.

“You mean psychiatrist du jour, don’t you?”

“I’m sorry … I don’t …”

“It’s nothing. When does that door unlock?” Charlie pointed at the door to his sleeping quarters.

Shapiro looked down at his watch. “Ten minutes more. I think it might be a good idea if we touch base, to check and see how you are feeling. Why don’t you come down to my office for a minute?”

“No need. I’m feeling fine,” Charlie said.

“This can be a tough adjustment. I understand that.” Shapiro seemed to completely misjudge Charlie’s apprehension. He looked down at his notes. “According to the records I have here, it says you haven’t been very forthcoming or open with the staff. You know, it’s important that you talk to us, Charlie. We can help. We’re here to help you.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you people. I’m not sick. I don’t belong here. This place is going to make me crazy.” Charlie waved his arms about to drive his point home.

“I see. Have you had any thoughts of hurting yourself?”

“Before I got here or after?”

“I’m just trying to help, Charlie.”

“You want to help me?”

“Yes, I do,” Shapiro said.

“Open that goddamn door,” Charlie said.

Shapiro took a step back. “There is no need for that type of language, Charlie.”

“I’m just making my point, Doc,” Charlie said.

Fumbling with a large oval ring that held several dozen different keys, Shapiro unlocked the door to Charlie’s room.

“You’re only hurting yourself, Charlie. It’s important that you begin to open up to us so we can help you to heal faster.”

“Funny thing is, Doc, before I came here, I wasn’t even sick. Now, you have a good night.”

Charlie stepped inside his room and closed the door behind him. The only blessing was that his roommate was locked out as well. That meant a good fifteen minutes of privacy. Charlie’s twin-size bed was more like a cot, with fake wood paneling on both ends to mask the cheapness of its construction. In the corner, next to a pine armoire, which held a small dresser, was a small desk with a black vinyl chair. On the adjacent wall hung a rectangular mirror.
You can write your crazy thoughts in your diary while looking at your crazy self in the
mirror,
Charlie had thought when he first saw the desk. The bathroom was a white tile masterpiece. A toilet, sink, stall shower with a yellowing shower curtain. Almost all the
inmates
on the floor had a beard, or at minimum a decent amount of growth on their faces. Razor blades, Charlie concluded, were a rare commodity.

His body fell hard onto the thin mattress of the tiny bed. The sheets were stiff and smelled of powerful detergents. The nappy blue blanket itched at his skin. He stared numbly up at the ceiling, his hands interlocked behind his head. His eyes felt heavy. He had no idea what time it was. It could have been eight o’clock in the evening or midnight, for all he knew.

The pressure and stress of his first day at Walderman had been building. Charlie let down his guard, and his eyelids drooped. The door to his room locked only from the outside. It made for a disconcerting sleep, but he couldn’t resist—his eyes shut as if willed by another force. And then he slept.

C
harlie dreamt that a shadowy figure snuck up behind him while he was working at his desk at SoluCent and placed a plastic bag over his head. He thrashed about, fighting suffocation. But the nightmare turned real when he awoke in his hospital bed to discover that he couldn’t breathe. Something calloused and rough had covered his mouth. It took a moment for his conscious mind to make the connection that it was somebody’s hand pressing down hard over his mouth and nose.

Charlie’s legs and arms flayed for a moment as he struggled for air. The fingers of his assailant parted, allowing him a small air passage to breathe, but only through his nose. Charlie let out a muffled scream that was no more effective at sounding an alarm than a loud shout into a pillow. Opening his eyes did little to orient him to his attacker. The room lights were off, the door was closed, and the room enveloped in darkness.
What’s happening to me? Who?

Charlie’s thoughts were scrambled and disjointed. Adrenaline coursed through his body, but even with that added boost of strength, he was unable to throw his attacker off. Whoever this was, he was remarkably strong. Still able to breathe through his nose, Charlie caught a scent of something strangely familiar to him—the smell of old socks and running clothes. He could see only the shadow of the man’s face but knew who it was. On his cheek he felt the daggers from the man’s unkempt fingernails.

“The queen wanted me to give you a message,” the man said.

Charlie tried to force his attacker’s hand from his face, but the
pressure tightened. The man pressed the full weight of his body against Charlie’s chest, pinning him to the bed.

“I want to tell you something,” he whispered in Charlie’s ear. “Do you promise not to scream?”

Charlie could give only a muted and unintelligible reply. The man’s breath was hot on his face and smelt of a sour, vinegary egg mix, which caused Charlie to cough.

“Do you promise not to scream if I take my hand away?” the man asked again. He lifted his hand an inch off Charlie’s mouth to allow him a chance to respond.

“What the fuck!” Charlie yelled.

The man’s hand moved back, covering Charlie’s mouth and this time pushing even harder against him. Still unable to see him clearly, Charlie knew that their faces were no more than inches apart. Charlie could feel the man’s beard against his skin.

“Listen to me,” the man’s hoarse voice said. “The queen wanted me to tell you that my favorite song should be your favorite song, too. Do you want to guess what song it is?” He pulled his hand away from Charlie’s mouth again, presumably to allow Charlie an opportunity to answer.

“No! Get away from me! Get away!” Charlie shouted.

“Fine. I’ll go,” the man said.

Charlie felt the compression on his chest lessen. He rose from the bed with catlike swiftness. His attacker, perhaps anticipating Charlie’s reaction, had moved to the door and turned on the light as soon as Charlie was standing. Charlie failed to cover his eyes in time and was blinded by the sudden change in room light. When his vision returned, Charlie scanned the room but saw no sign of his assailant. His roommate was there. Sound asleep on his bed, undisturbed by the attack, he snored loudly even with the lights on. Charlie walked shakily over to the bathroom, weak-kneed. Something caught his eye. He paused a moment to look at the mirror suspended over the desk. On it, written in crayon, in large block lettering was a message:

YOU’VE GOT A FRIEND. JAMES TAYLOR.

—GEORGE

The sweet melody of James Taylor singing that familiar line played in Charlie’s mind. It made him shudder to the core.

T
he last time Charlie had attended a group therapy session, it was at the behest of his mother, in support of his brother. The experience had left a single impression—it had made him hate the idea of insanity. Now here he was, attending his own group therapy session, sitting in a circle on a small blue-and-red plastic chair, drinking coffee served in a Styrofoam cup. He was one of a dozen patients participating in the group session, no different from his crazy brother, Joe. The only saving grace was that George, his attacker from the previous night, was not among the patients in this session.

Charlie hadn’t reported the incident to any of the floor supervisors. He figured this was something best kept quiet. His plan, from the moment he was committed, was to do his time and get out. The state could only mandate that he stay in lockdown two more days—seventy-two hours total. It would take a court order to keep him locked up a minute longer. The last thing Charlie wanted to do was to suggest the possibility that he still suffered from the paranoid delusions they believed were part of his illness. George could deny the attack ever took place. Then it would be one person’s word against another’s, and neither had much to offer in the way of credibility. The best offense, Charlie had often suggested to his former Magellan teammates, was sometimes a great defense. Vigilance would be his lifeline for the next forty-eight hours—and that meant not sounding an alarm. Two short days until freedom. The adaptability and cunning needed to survive he had in spades.

Waiting around for group to begin was almost as unbearable as
the idea that he was even in a group therapy session in the first place. As with everything he did at Walderman, Charlie tried to keep as low a profile as possible and sat in his chair, eyes forward, hands clasped in his lap. Charlie watched through the corner of his eye as the patient seated next to him rocked back and forth in his chair, and another to his right chewed on the tips of his fingers. When he pulled his fingers out of his mouth, Charlie nearly gagged at how raw and damaged they were.

He thought about taking advantage of the lull preceding the start of group to try and call Joe again. It was bad enough that he’d disappointed Joe by refusing to go with him to his progress meeting tomorrow. Disappearing without a word was inexcusable, and each minute his guilt worsened. Combine Charlie’s absence with their mother’s coma and Joe might be bordering on hysteria. Since his lockup, he had made only one attempt, after the attack last night. He’d got only the answering machine. The lie he’d left in his message wasn’t even scripted. It was inconceivable to think of confessing to Joe where he had spent the hours since going missing. Instead he’d concocted a story about a last-minute job opportunity in California. In his message he’d asked that his brother call him back on his cell phone, even though it had been confiscated, with updates on their mother’s condition. He’d added that he planned to return in a couple days, and told Joe to call if he needed anything. He had left clear instructions for Monte’s care but wasn’t worried about that. Joe and Monte had bonded since they’d moved in. Mrs. Cummings would be the only person with anything to worry about—Joe would be far less vigilant than Charlie about keeping Monte away from her precious Maxine.

Charlie was surprised that his brother didn’t pick up, but figured Joe might be working the overnight at his security job. Whatever the reason for his not answering, the good news was that Charlie could be away from his brother guilt free. Joe would have no reason to doubt him, and thanks to the HIPAA, Charlie’s medical secrets were safe. The few weeks that he had spent living with Joe was proof enough that he was far more self-reliant than Charlie had given him credit for. If anything, Joe was probably more worried about Charlie not having come home last night than Charlie was worried about Joe being on his own. Charlie would try his brother again after the group
session. And, of course, he’d say that he was calling from somewhere in L.A. He wanted to get an update on their mother and Monte, too.

That would be the last call Charlie would make before getting out of Walderman, he promised himself. As much as he despised the idea of group therapy, using the phone in the common area was in some ways a more humiliating experience. There was only one community phone, and that meant a congregation of people, all vying for talk time and eavesdropping on each other’s conversations. The lack of privacy was embarrassing and demoralizing.

The man chewing his fingers let out a cry of pain, loud enough to make Charlie jump.
There is never any privacy in this hellhole.
Here a person’s darkest moments were on view for all to see.
Nowhere to hide,
he thought. Not in their rooms, when the door opened every fifteen minutes for a room check. Or in the halls, where crazy men talked incessantly to themselves; or in the common area, where others paced back and forth, some rocked in the chairs, some sat stone-faced and cross-legged on the floor. This was a nightmare Charlie had experienced only through the eyes of his brother but had never truly comprehended. If this place, Charlie thought, couldn’t make a crazy man sane, it could certainly do the opposite.

Time had no meaning, but he suspected they had been waiting a good ten minutes without a group leader. At the moment Charlie decided to stand and leave, a woman entered the room.

His heart sank. It was Rachel. She greeted the group with a cheery hello. Charlie thought she took extra care not to acknowledge him differently from the others, but the two made brief eye contact. It was enough for him to know that she appreciated and understood the special circumstances. It was helpful, but no less heartbreaking.

“How’s everybody today?” Rachel asked the group.

Most of the men spoke simultaneously, some trying to raise their voices above the others.