Delirious (29 page)

Joe threw his hands high above his head. “What? What? It’s true.”

“Thank you, Joe. I appreciate that,” Charlie said.

“Joe, if you can’t be a listener right now, you’re going to have to sit outside. It’s important that Charlie continue to share in an uninhibited way,” Rachel said.

“Okay. Okay. You’re the boss. I’m just saying Charlie might be shortchanging his significance here,” Joe said.

“Charlie, do you feel that way?”

“Well, I know my talents. But I also know my limitations. Without Eddie I might have been a vice president of a software company, but
I can’t say for sure that I’d have orchestrated a multimillion-dollar acquisition. In the end, it was Eddie’s doing, even though he didn’t actually do it.”

“And have you felt guilty about your success ever since?” Rachel asked.

“I tried not to think about it. I wanted the sale. I wanted it more than anything. It meant … it meant …” Charlie’s voice trailed off.

“Meant what, Charlie?” Rachel said.

Charlie gritted his teeth. Saying the words was more uncomfortable than thinking the thoughts. “I grew up in a family that was less than perfect,” Charlie said. “My father left us when we were boys and needed him most. He had his issues. And I hate to admit it, but I was angry at Joe. At his sickness and what it did to me and to our mother.” Charlie looked at Joe, half-expecting to see his brother in tears.

“You think that’s news to me, Charlie?” Joe said. “You’ve been angry since the day I was diagnosed. And I’ve watched you run and run to try and distance yourself from us … from yourself. But in the end you came back home, and now you’re facing the same demons you thought you’d outrun. Being rich doesn’t mean you’ve beaten your past. It just means you have money. But the tree still comes from the same roots. Always has and always will.”

Charlie tried to keep stone-faced, but the words stung. “I thought that the success and money would prove that I had won,” he said. “Maybe Joe’s right. Nothing can ever change your past.”

“That’s true. But people can change. And so can you, Charlie. It sounds to me like Eddie’s death had a much more profound impact on you than you first thought,” Rachel said.

“Perhaps,” Charlie said.

“The good news is that you are in control of you. Admitting that you have vulnerabilities and seeking help is the first step in taking control and changing your life.”

“How do I do that?”

“You’ve been here for seventy-two hours now. You know as well as I do that we legally can’t keep you here any longer. You can walk out those doors right now, Charlie. But the rest is up to you.”

“What do I need to do?”

“Again, I can’t tell you what to do or give you any professional advice, but as a friend I can say that I think you should continue therapy. I want you to see a professional. To work through this guilt and to make decisions with a psychiatrist to come up with a diagnosis and figure out what medications might be available to help you confront some of the delusions you’ve been experiencing.”

“I know it feels like you’ve lost, Charlie,” Joe said. “But sometimes seeking help is the strongest and most brave thing a person can do. It says a lot more about you than the size of your bank account.”

“So that’s it? I just walk out the door and try to put my life back together?” Charlie asked.

Rachel nodded. “That’s it. The law says if we determine you’re not a threat to others, which I know your doctors have, there is no reason to hold you longer. But you need to trust the people who love you. There is help out there. You need to be willing and ready to embrace it.” Rachel looked down at her watch. “I have an appointment, Charlie. I need to go. Will you please call me and tell me what you’ve decided? I really do care, and I hope that you’ll continue seeking treatment.”

Charlie stood and shook Rachel’s hand. Her skin felt velvety against his. How long had it been since he’d felt such attraction to a woman? The barrier that would keep them apart was almost as disheartening as the journey that awaited him. Still, in her kind and inviting eyes he saw hope. Once this was past, he would find another woman like Rachel. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was something he knew he wanted.

“Thank you, Rachel. Thank you for everything.”

“Joe knows where you can collect your things,” Rachel said. “You’ll need to see the head nurse and doctor on duty for formal discharge. Please take care of yourself, Charlie. It’s all that matters right now.”

“I will,” Charlie said. Then he put an arm around his brother.

“Ready to go, bro?” Joe said.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Charlie said.

Before the brothers could leave, Dr. Alan Shapiro, who days earlier
had attempted to bar Charlie’s entry into his sleeping quarters, burst into the therapy room. He was breathless and seemed agitated.

“Rachel, can I speak with you?” he said.

“Alan, I’m on my way to see a patient. Can it wait?” said Rachel.

“No, it can’t. It concerns him.” Dr. Shapiro pointed to Charlie.

“Charlie’s done with us, Alan. He’s leaving now,” Rachel replied.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Shapiro said.

Rachel frowned. “Alan, what are you talking about?”

“The cleaning people found this in Charlie’s room. We matched it to the handwriting on his admittance forms. It’s definitely his penmanship,” Shapiro said.

Shapiro handed Rachel a folded piece of yellow, lined legal paper. She opened it carefully and read the note. Charlie watched as her skin whitened and her eyes widened.

“Charlie, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I wish I had seen this before I spoke about you leaving us.”

“What’s that note?” Charlie cried.

“Charlie, we can’t let you leave now,” Shapiro said. “This note represents a direct threat.”

“Give me that note!” Charlie shouted.

Rachel put it in her pocket. “I can’t do that. It’s evidence now, and I can’t risk you destroying it. Alan, why don’t you get security down here?”

“Already here,” Shapiro said.

Two men, one of whom Charlie recognized as the guard who had kept watch over him during his admittance interview, entered the room.

“Charlie, this note makes a direct threat to harm people you worked with,” Rachel announced.

“Which people?” Charlie asked. “What are you talking about?”

Rachel pulled out the piece of paper and read from it. “When I’m out of here, I’m going to finish the job. One down, three to go. Mac and Yardley die next. The last is still my surprise. I can’t wait for the killing to begin again.”

Charlie stared at Rachel. “I didn’t write that … I didn’t …”

“I’m sorry, Charlie. But we can’t just let you leave. Now, you have a right to demand a court appointment to seek an overturn of this
decision,” Rachel explained. “Right now this note represents a direct threat to named individuals. To let you walk out of here would be irresponsible of us. Ethically and legally.”

“I didn’t write that!” Charlie’s face reddened as he turned to Joe. “Tell them! Tell them, Joe.”

Joe took a step backward. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I don’t know what to say. They’re the doctors. And doctors know best.”

C
harlie lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. His request for a judge’s ruling to overturn his involuntary commitment had been filed and, last he heard, delayed. Before the mandatory lights out, Rachel had stopped by to check in on him and to share the disappointing news. Charlie had been surprised to learn that the judge’s chambers were located right on the Walderman campus. Rachel had explained that many of the larger mental health facilities had such a setup to reduce the burden on an already overextended court system.

Unfortunately, the judge dedicated to Walderman’s caseload was attending a conference in Phoenix. Her substitute was booked solid with other cases. Charlie’s hearing was scheduled, but it would have to wait, perhaps as long as forty-eight hours. Efforts to find an alternate judge were made for special circumstances, but only for cases that concerned less volatile patients. Charlie had been labeled a high-risk, potentially violent patient by his doctors. That assessment had sealed his fate. He wasn’t going anywhere soon. Joe would be his lifeline to the outside world. He had promised to take good care of Monte, do his best to keep him from “visiting” Maxine, and provide regular updates about their mother’s condition. Joe’s support did help to ease his frustration and stress, but only a little.

Charlie’s roommate, the narcoleptic, had been released yesterday. For a brief period Charlie had enjoyed the privilege of solitude. He was moments from drifting off to sleep when, without a knock, Dr. Alan Shapiro barged in. Apparently, the common civility of a knock on the door didn’t extend to patients.

Shapiro escorted a man, a boy really, into Charlie’s quarters. The boy was tall, scary thin, with dyed jet-black hair, lathered with gel to make it stand up in short, tight spikes at the top of his head. He wore a black sleeveless T-shirt with a skull design and ripped, faded jeans, tucked inside a pair of scuffed black leather boots laced up to the ankles with bright yellow laces. His arms, dangling by his sides like two thin branches of a tree, had the muscular definition of his wrists. To Charlie he looked no more than twenty. His eyes were wide with fear. Charlie assumed the boy’s demeanor was similar to the stunned expression on his own face when he’d first seen his new sleeping accommodations. Sadly now, this sterile room was as familiar to him as his Beacon Hill apartment. Perhaps even more so.

Shapiro showed a smile so fake, Charlie wanted to punch it off his smug face. That it was Shapiro who’d gotten in the way of Charlie’s freedom didn’t do much to endear the doctor to him, anyway. Charlie could tell that Shapiro enjoyed the control and took twisted pleasure in having brought Charlie down.

“Maxim, this is Charlie. Charlie, I’d like you to meet your new roommate, Maxim.”

Charlie lifted himself off the bed and walked over to greet Maxim. “Do you go by Max?” Charlie asked.

Maxim said nothing. He stared at the wall in front of him.

“He’s not talking right now. Perhaps, Charlie, you and he could talk for a bit. Get to know each other.”

“Perhaps,” Charlie said. “And perhaps you can get out now.”

Shapiro seemed aware of the hostility. He stepped backward toward the door. “Charlie can show you around the room. There are clothes for you to sleep in. They’re clean. We do laundry daily.”

Maxim looked away from the wall and stared back at Shapiro. His shoulders were hunched forward as though he were deflating before Charlie’s eyes.

“Well then. You two get to know each other, and good night. We’re here if you need us for anything,” Shapiro said.

“I think you’ve done enough already,” Charlie said.

Shapiro didn’t bother with a response.

“Well then,” Charlie said to Maxim. “What are you in for?”

Maxim went over to the vacant bed and sat down. He looked up at Charlie with big, sad eyes but said nothing. This boy seemed lost beyond
help. In a way, Charlie thought he looked like the skull on his shirt, with just a thin layer of skin for cover.
Is this how sad and lost I seem to Rachel?
he wondered. The thought sickened him.

“I’m guessing that you’re not much of a talker,” Charlie said. “Well, that’s just fine with me. I’m not much of a talker, either. There isn’t much to show you. Bed, desk, bathroom. If you want pajamas to sleep in, they’re in that drawer there,” he continued, pointing to the third drawer down.

Maxim didn’t bother nodding. Instead, he lifted his legs up onto the bed, putting himself in a supine position, and kept staring in front of him, this time up at the ceiling. At that moment the boy reminded Charlie even more of himself. There was no need to ask if Maxim minded the lights going out. Given the boy’s confused state, Charlie didn’t think he would even notice the change.

Even with the room seeped in darkness, it was not surprising that Charlie couldn’t sleep. He was sure Maxim was awake as well. The absurdity of two strangers staring blankly up at the ceiling, each lost in their own mental maze, brought a thin smile to Charlie’s lips. In the dark Charlie watched the spots dance about his eyes as they adjusted to the sudden blackness. To combat the boredom and insomnia, Charlie had invented a game. He timed how long it took for his eyes to make out the edges of the ceiling tiles and then how many tiles he could count. He’d been playing this game since the first night of his commitment. It had taken nearly ten minutes by his estimation to count eight tiles in the dark of the room the first night he played. Practice had helped to get that time down to three minutes and almost twenty tiles simply through focus and concentration. It was a small victory over his mind, in a battle he now felt he was losing.

From the darkness, just as he counted his eighteenth ceiling tile, Charlie heard a voice.

“Charlie, listen to me.”

Charlie sat bolt upright in his bed. “What did you say?” he asked in the direction of Maxim. In the dark of the room Charlie couldn’t see if Maxim had even moved. Perhaps he was talking in his sleep. Charlie got out of bed and turned on the light. There was something about what he’d heard that was disturbingly familiar.

Maxim blinked his eyes as he adjusted to the light.

“What did you say?” Charlie asked.

Maxim didn’t respond. He just shook his head.

“I guess you were just talking in your sleep,” Charlie said.

He went back to his bed. This time he kept the lights on and his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

The voice came again, almost the moment he lay down.
“Charlie, you killed me.”

The voice sounded no different than a stereo recording in Charlie’s ears. He turned to Maxim. “Stop fucking with me,” Charlie shouted at him and jumped out of bed.

This time Maxim reacted. He lifted his knees against his chest and curled himself into a tight ball on the bed.

Charlie sat back down on his bed and stared across the room at Maxim. “I’m watching you. I’ll watch you all night if I have to,” he said.

“You killed me, Charlie,”
the voice called out again.