Delirious (25 page)

Joe considered answering the phone on the fourth ring to be a bad omen. For him it was a guarantee that the news on the other end of the line would not be good. It was superstition that kept him from checking the answering machine as well—the three-ring rule still in play, awaiting messages wouldn’t be bad news, so long as he didn’t check. He couldn’t remember a single instance when he had answered the phone on the fourth ring. If he couldn’t get to it by the third ring, he usually didn’t answer the phone at all. His brother had called his habits stupid, but Joe couldn’t remember a time when Charlie had answered the phone on the fourth ring, either. Not once.

“Hello?” Joe was out of breath.

“Joe, it’s Charlie.”

“Charlie!” Joe shouted with both surprise and delight. “Where have you been?”

At the sound of Charlie’s name, Monte started to bark excitedly. Standing on his hind legs, he pawed at Joe’s thighs, as though demanding his turn to speak. Joe shushed him and shooed Monte away with his leg.

“I’m out of town on business. Did you get my message?”

“I didn’t check,” Joe said.

Charlie laughed. “My bad. I forgot you wouldn’t have checked the machine.”

“I was worried about you,” Joe said. “Are you doing okay?”

“I’m fine,” Charlie said. “What have you been doing?”

Joe thought a moment. He took careful stock of the last several days. He had practiced his drums both mornings, fed Monte, and taken him for walks. He’d visited his mother at Mount Auburn both days as well. Of course, yesterday was Thursday, and that meant it was chocolate day. Joe always brought chocolate for the nurses on Thursday. Not to mention a truffle that he bought for his favorite nurse, June.

“I’ve been fine, Charlie. Monte is, too. But I was worried when I didn’t hear from you. Is there a chance you’ll make it back to town in time to come with me to my progress meeting tomorrow?”

“Sorry, Joe, but I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Charlie said. “I had an unexpected job opportunity come up. I caught the first flight to California. I tried to call you late last night, but you didn’t pick up. Were you working?”

Joe thought. After visiting his mother, he had gone to Walderman for an appointment and a prescription refill. Then he’d gone home and watched TV and fallen asleep just after the eleven o’clock news. The funny thing was, he couldn’t remember what he’d done between leaving Walderman and going home. It wasn’t overly concerning, but he had recently changed his dosage of Risperdal. If anything, it was another reminder of how much he missed his mother and her vigilance in monitoring the side effects of his medication. He’d meant to ask Rachel about the terrible nightmares that kept haunting him at night, but had forgotten. Maybe the lack of sleep was catching up with him. Maybe that was why his memory was fuzzy lately.

“I wasn’t working. I never work the overnight on Thursday. Remember we had had pizza together last Thursday? What time did you call?”

There was a pause.

“I can’t remember,” Charlie said.

“Well, where are you now?” Joe asked.

“I’m … I’m still in L.A. I should be back sometime Sunday evening.
Are you okay on your own until then? Can you keep taking care of Monte?”

“Charlie, I’m your older brother, remember? I’m fine if you move to California. I’m not an invalid. And I’ll gladly adopt your dog. He’s been great. A bit eager to visit the Cummingses, though. I guess he’s got eyes for Maxine.”

Charlie laughed. “You can call it eyes if you like. Anyway, sorry for the short notice on this California trip.”

“Not a problem. Send me a tan.”

Charlie laughed again. Joe enjoyed hearing his brother laugh. It didn’t happen often enough.

“You know, if you’re so independent, Joe, can you explain why I’m living with you?”

“Because,” Joe said, “that’s what Mom wanted.”

“Well, maybe she doesn’t know how independent you really are.”

“Oh, she knows,” Joe said. “But you read her will, Charlie. I told her I’d be fine on my own, but she insisted. She’s had a rough go of it. Who am I to deny her some peace of mind? Besides, as much as I dislike you, I’ve sort of gotten used to having you around.”

Again there was a long pause. Joe noticed it but didn’t know what to make of it.

“It’s been better than I thought for me, too, Joe.”

“So I’ll see you Sunday?”

Joe heard a loudspeaker crackle on Charlie’s end of the line. He could make out only some of the words, but those he could understand he found surprising.

“Dr. Alan Shapiro? Carver Seven?” Joe repeated what he thought he’d heard from the loudspeaker’s announcement. “Charlie, that’s weird. You’re in L.A.?”

“Joe, I have to go….”

Charlie sounded rushed, and Joe sensed the change.

“Believe it or not,” Joe said, “there is a Dr. Alan Shapiro at Walder-man. And a Carver Seven wing in the Mercer building. I should know. I volunteer on Carver Seven once a month to teach basic computer skills. Isn’t that a strange coincidence?”

Before Charlie could respond, Joe heard another voice. This time the voice didn’t come over a loudspeaker. It sounded to Joe like whoever was talking was standing right next to Charlie.

“The queen has no oven!” Joe heard someone shout through the phone. “You must hang up now and go see the queen.”

“Charlie? Charlie, are you there?” Joe said.

The line went dead. Monte trotted back into the room. Barked loudly, seemingly annoyed that Joe had hung up without giving him a chance to speak. He began gnawing on Joe’s right shoe. Something about the other man’s voice bothered Joe. It was familiar, too, in the same way Shapiro and Carver Seven were familiar. Joe tried to place it but couldn’t.

He went back upstairs and sat at his desk, staring at his computer screen. Blogging required the diligent posting of new material, but his current effort was only half done. Joe had never imagined anybody would read his blog and was truly amazed how quickly it had grown in readership. At first readers were interested in Joe’s early posts about his musicogenic epilepsy. It endlessly fascinated his readers that a song could put someone into a trancelike state. He had been at first a bit apprehensive to write about it. After all, his condition had nearly got a neighborhood kid killed.

Joe, fifteen at the time, had never been in a fight with the neighborhood bully, two years his senior, before. Surprising he hadn’t, considering Joe’s frequent and sudden violent outbursts and the bully’s hyperactive mouth. If doctors had known Joe was suffering from seizures triggered by music, and had been for two years before that fight, it might never have happened.

Joe had been in one of his trances when the bully made the unfortunate decision to taunt him. Charlie and a few other onlookers had overheard the bully blame Joe for their father leaving. The bully had continued, threatening to hurt Joe’s mother with a jackknife he’d pulled from his back pocket. The fight had lasted three punches, but it was enough to send the bully to the hospital for a week. Brain swelling had nearly killed him. Joe had disappeared for several days after, before the police eventually found him.

Readers loved to ask whether all music triggered the symptoms or just that one Miles Davis song. They wanted to know how he kept from having more seizures. Joe answered every question sent to him. The epilepsy itself, he wrote, was the underlying condition, but the seizures could be caused by a number of factors, emotional stress being one of them. The seizures, he explained to his readership,
were triggered by the emotional association of jazz music with his father’s memory and the specific tonal qualities of his father’s favorite song, “So What” by Miles Davis. The two turned out to be a deadly mix for someone with Joe’s rare condition. The good news was that once diagnosed, and after exhaustive treatments, he was eventually able to stop taking any epileptic medicine. By far the most popular question posted to his blog was if he had ever heard the Miles Davis tune since completing treatment. He was happy to report that he had not, but made the point that he felt confident that if he did, he could listen without it triggering an episode.

Many also inquired about his ability to drive. Again he was happy to report that he had been seizure-free long enough to get his driver’s license. Life had been normal only a few years until Joe got sick again, this time diagnosed with schizophrenia. Several readers asked if the epilepsy was a precursor warning of Joe’s later mental disorder. Joe had asked the same, but the question was neither answerable nor relevant. Disease number two had arrived uninvited and was there to stay.

Many of his blog subscribers were schizophrenic like him. They had bonded in the virtual world. It was a way for them to stay connected. It was an outlet to share their unique challenges and at the same time feel no different from anybody else.

To keep his readership engaged, Joe kept a faithful update schedule. A blogger couldn’t afford to go stale, not when the competition for readership grew fiercer every day. Mostly he wrote about mental health issues and policy. He did exhaustive research before each post. But tonight he couldn’t write a word. He kept waiting for the phone to ring, praying that it would be his brother calling back.

Joe kept repeating the names to himself over and over again.
Shapiro. Carver Seven.

Then Joe’s mouth opened. He bolted up from his desk again, moving as fast as his large, heavyset frame would allow. Grabbing the keys to his car, Joe stepped outside in the cool fall air, started the car, and fired up his InVision system. It was late, but he didn’t have a moment to spare. He would use his InVision system to scan for traffic problems and find the quickest route.

“Please select your destination,” InVision said.

Joe pushed a single preset selection button.

“Route selected,” InVision confirmed. “Scanning for low traffic areas. Now calculating route. One moment, please.”

Joe had already pulled out of the driveway. The tires of his thirteen-year-old Camry seared the blacktop with a screech of rubber.

“Turn right in one hundred yards,” InVision directed.

Traffic must be light. It’s taking me the fastest route there,
Joe thought. Turning right, as instructed, Joe began the familiar drive toward what he jokingly referred to as his second home—Walderman Mental Health Hospital.

J
oe couldn’t believe his eyes, but there was no denying what he saw. It was his brother; it was Charlie, sitting alone in the common area on the secure floor. The admitting nurse had told him where his brother was being treated. Another patient sat near Charlie, but the two were not speaking. The man had a long beard and wild, stringy hair that fell past his shoulders. His wizened face was etched deep with lines, which showed years of hard living and suggested a certain wisdom and kindness. The face was familiar, perhaps someone Joe recognized from his volunteer work on the floor. But with all the chaos and confusion of the moment, while trying his best to temper the anxiety growing within, Joe simply couldn’t focus enough to make the connection. Charlie and Joe held an uncomfortable stare for a moment—each perhaps trying to adjust to the situation and allow time to validate that it was even real. Then Charlie looked away.

Joe approached.

“Charlie, what is going on?” Joe asked.

Charlie didn’t answer.

“I thought you said you were in L.A.,” Joe said.

“I lied,” Charlie said. His voice sounded wounded.

“I don’t understand any of this.”

The old man with wild hair stood and approached Joe. He extended a hand, and Joe took it without hesitation.

“I’m George,” the man said. “George Ferris. Is this your brother?”

Joe’s face became illuminated with a jubilant and starstruck enthusiasm. “
The
Dr. Ferris?” Joe asked.

“I suppose. Unless there’s another,” George said. His words were
hurried, and his voice was gravelly, bordering on hoarse. “I’ve been trying to apologize to your brother for my behavior. I sort of hung up his call for him. He won’t accept my apology, and I won’t stop giving it until he does.”

“I heard a rumor you were here. I was going to come find you and introduce myself. I’m a big fan,” said Joe.

George simply nodded. Charlie’s jaw dropped open.

“I’ve been here ten days now,” George said. “I’ll be here a bit longer. I’m not ready to leave just yet.”

“Doctor?” Charlie asked. He looked at George with wary eyes.

“Doctor of computer science, actually,” said George.

“Also a writer and brilliant philosopher,” Joe added.

“I don’t understand,” Charlie said. “You’ve been talking nonsense to me since I got here. You keep saying something about a queen and an oven. You even assaulted me!”

“Yes, well, I’m sorry about that, too,” said George. “I don’t always have control of my thoughts and actions, Charlie. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? My medication and treatment program haven’t been working well for a few weeks now. I decided to check myself in for a tune-up, if you will. I truly apologize if I frightened and upset you. I assure you, that wasn’t my intention.”

“Then what was your intention?” Charlie asked.

“I think I just took an interest in you because you seemed so desperately in need of a friend,” George replied. “I really meant the best. Unfortunately, I approached you at moments when I should have kept my distance.”

“And attacked me,” Charlie added.

“Yes. Regrettable. But after that night in your room and our last run-in, I asked for an increase in my medication. It seems to have helped. I’m better able to organize my thoughts now. Well, at least some of the time.” George gave a toothy smile, and Charlie nodded.

“So, Charlie,” Joe said. “That’s George’s story. Why don’t you tell me yours?”

T
hey moved out of the common area and into an adjacent room, one reserved for group meetings and such. They sat on folding chairs arranged in a circle so each could see the other. Charlie stared into George’s eyes. The eyes that just the night before had seemed haunting and menacing had softened into something far gentler.