Delirious (8 page)

“Secured?”

“Yes, Mr. Giles. Secured. We have facilities to address all our patients’ needs, thanks to the generosity of George Walderman.” As they walked past it, Rachel pointed to a large oil portrait of the late Dr. George Walderman, the only picture in the otherwise antiseptic corridor.

They reached Rachel’s office at the end of the long corridor.
There she fumbled with her keys and unlocked her office door. Entering the dark, windowless room ahead of Charlie, Rachel reached to her left and flicked on the light switch, filling the space with a dense, sickly white light from two exposed fluorescent bulbs. She crossed over a deep red oriental rug, which, along with the black bookcases filled with medical and psychological texts, provided the only warmth to an otherwise claustrophobically small office.

Charlie took quick note of how she kept her office and appreciated her sense of order—the noticeable lack of decorations; paperwork filed, not messily left about; a single bamboo plant in a bubbling water fountain on a small wooden pedestal near her rectangular oak desk, nothing like the forest of plants some of his cowork-ers at SoluCent voluntarily maintained.

“Please take a seat, Mr. Giles,” Rachel said, pointing to a small cloth-covered armchair nestled in a corner diagonally from her desk.

“Charlie, please,” Charlie said as he took a seat.

“Yes, of course, Charlie. So now, you sounded very urgent on the phone. I should be up front in saying this is not an official visit. I’m not going to give you clinical advice.”

“No. No. Of course not,” Charlie said. “I’m just looking for some information and didn’t know where else to go.”

“Have you tried the Internet?”

Charlie laughed, quick and unsettled, more like a cough. In his panic, it hadn’t even occurred to him to research this on his own. Now, seated in front of Rachel, he was glad of the oversight. Reading faces was one of the attributes that made him such a successful negotiator. A few minutes with Rachel, discussing his situation, monitoring her reaction closely, would give him enough information to tell if there was real cause for alarm.

“I’m not sure I trust it entirely. I felt a more professional opinion was in order. In light of what’s been happening.”

Rachel reached for her notebook and opened up to a blank page. Charlie could see a small frown escape her. After uncapping her pen, she sat still for a moment. Charlie found the pause and the profound silence of the office unsettling.

“I’m not sure how I feel about this,” Rachel said. “If you need professional help, you should seek proper medical attention.”

Charlie tried to recover his already shaky poise.

“I’m not sure there is a problem that I need to address,” Charlie began. “The situation … my situation, well, it’s a bit complicated.”

“They’re all complicated in their own way. The mind is the most personal and private thing we have. When we’re questioning it, we are questioning our very selves. That’s almost always complicated, Mr. Giles.”

“Charlie,” he said again. “I’d prefer if we could keep this informal. I promise I won’t take up much of your time.”

Charlie could see Rachel processing her next move. She was calculating. A thinker. He liked that. If they had met under different circumstances, Charlie was certain he would have been interested in getting to know her personally. Perhaps that would still be a possibility, he thought.
Assuming she doesn’t think I’m a nut job
.

“Listen, Charlie,” Rachel said, her green eyes fixed on him. “Your brother, Joe, is a patient of mine. That automatically disqualifies us from having any professional relationship. You can ask me your questions, but if I feel a line is being crossed, I’m going to stop the conversation short. Is that all right with you?”

Charlie nodded his head. “Yes, of course,” he said. “I understand.”

“Good. Then talk. What is it that you want to know about?”

“Well … I’m not sure where to begin.”

“The beginning is often a good place to start,” Rachel said.

“Of course. The beginning. Well, you know my family history. Both my father and brother have mental illness.”

Rachel leaned forward, interlocking the fingers of her hands. It was a gesture of apprehension. Had she already suspected this conversation would head out-of-bounds?

Charlie shifted slightly in his chair and crossed his legs. It was a defensive posture, but he was unable to resist the urge to protect himself. To hide his vulnerabilities.

“I’m aware of your family history, Charlie. And, I’m also aware that any discussion of that on my part would be completely inappropriate.”

Charlie sat back in his chair, uncrossed his legs, and tried his best to assume a more carefree, less concerned manner. He needed her
perspective. The last thing he wanted was to scare her off with his own alarm.

“Understood. Well, lately I’ve been interested in learning more about my family genetics. I won’t trouble you with all the specifics, but suffice it to say, it’s extremely important to me.”

“All right,” Rachel said. “I’ll see what I can do. What do you want to know?”

“I’m wondering how you come to the diagnosis that you do. I mean, what are the symptoms that might make you think somebody needs treatment?”

“What treatment are you referring to, Charlie?”

Charlie looked at his shoes. They were polished to a mirror finish, the way he was accustomed to maintaining things—perfectly. “I’m referring to the diagnosis and treatment for schizophrenia,” he said. There was nothing liberating about asking the question. It embarrassed him to ask, and the flushness of his cheeks suggested Rachel knew that as well. He had contemplated avoiding the term altogether by asking if work pressures could cause someone to lose their memory or concoct elaborate fantasies, but he wasn’t ready to be specific with her.

Rachel stayed seated and made no gesture to end the conversation. From her pursed lips and narrowed eyes Charlie could sense she was being cautious with her word choice, a sign he interpreted as a willingness to walk a very thin line.

“I find it interesting that you’ve taken such a sudden interest,” Rachel said.

Charlie thought about that for a moment. “Are you implying something?”

“I know about you through your family, Charlie,” Rachel said. “You realize we encourage family to participate in a patient’s treatment. Studies have shown that strong support from immediate family has tremendous benefit for the patient.”

Charlie avoided her gaze. “No, I hadn’t realized that,” he said.

“You’ve never come around, even though Joe has invited you to several of his milestone events. So I’m just curious. Why the sudden interest?”

“I’ve had some experiences over the past few days,” Charlie said. “Let’s just say that they’ve heightened my curiosity.”

“Why don’t we do this?” Rachel said. “Tell me about those experiences. What it is that made you feel you needed to speak with me so urgently. We’ll put that story into context. I could run through a series of questions that a psychiatrist or someone in a position to form a diagnosis might ask. Take notes if you want. It’s more of an exercise, you see, not really a formal assessment. Think of it as a case study. Just an information session. Got it?”

Charlie nodded. He didn’t ask why but accepted that Rachel was willing to extend herself beyond the boundaries of what she knew was ethically and perhaps even legally correct. He decided, fighting back his initial hesitation, to open up to her. Charlie went through the events of the last several days, careful to mention details he hoped would convince Rachel, and even himself, that Anne Pedersen was real, that their meeting had taken place, and that he wasn’t the author of the PowerPoint discrediting his InVision product.

Rachel listened intently and gave no indication of her verdict. “Charlie, now I understand your reluctance to be honest about the situation.”

“You do?”

“Yes. But if I had known beforehand, I wouldn’t have agreed to meet with you.”

Charlie looked down. “I understand,” he said.

“But I do want to help.”

“Could it be related to work? The pressure I’m under, I mean.”

“I don’t know the answer to that. You would need to be properly evaluated.”

“Listen, I don’t think I’m crazy. I really don’t. I mean, what if I’m being framed? Set up by someone jealous of my success?”

Rachel pursed her lips. “Charlie, suspecting that people may be planning to hurt you is actually a symptom of schizophrenia.”

Charlie laughed. “Now that’s a catch-twenty-two. Somebody may be messing with me to make me think I’m going insane, but to suspect that means I’m insane?”

“It’s not that simple, but I agree, it complicates matters,” Rachel
said. She stood up, moving away from behind her desk so that she was now closest to the door.

Charlie shrank at the implication
. Perhaps,
he thought,
she feels threatened.
Since they were together alone in her small office, she must have sensed danger.

Maybe she’s smart to be afraid
.

M
onte pressed his cold nose against the stubble of Charlie’s cheek and licked at his face. The affection was enough to wake Charlie from a night of disjoined dreams and fitful sleep. Sun splashed through the large bay windows in Charlie’s bedroom. The warm light, normally welcomed, was a painful reminder that on any other Thursday he’d be at work at this hour. Charlie ran his fingers through his short hair and then gave Monte some requested attention. The dog walkers would be here around noon. Charlie wasn’t certain if it was close to that hour or not.

The calluses on his fingertips were raw and peeling from his marathon practice session, which had lasted well past midnight. He rarely played his prized Gibson ES-175, preferring to treat it more like a showpiece than an instrument. It had been outdoors only for transport from the music store to his apartment in California and briefly again for the move to Boston. It would be the guitar he’d use if he could ever get loose enough to feel inspired to play a live gig. Last night he’d uncorked the Gibson, expecting from it some magic, but ultimately he’d been disappointed at his perpetual inability to improvise. At least for now, the Gibson would stay indoors.

Dressed in a white T-shirt and a pair of green hospital scrubs, Charlie made his way to the kitchen, and Monte followed. There he made coffee from his French press and, once brewed, took his cup into the living room, again followed by Monte, and gazed out the window at the traffic bustling below. It was earlier than he thought, 8:30 a.m., but still much later than he and Monte were accustomed to starting their day.

Charlie’s apartment in Boston’s Beacon Hill was the entire third floor of a brownstone on the south side of a steeply sloping hill. The apartment was barely furnished, but the cost of what little he owned could buy enough furniture to fill homes three times the size. Monte rubbed against his legs and gave a soft bark, fair warning that he needed to be walked soon, or else. Charlie didn’t react; his mind, already racing, even with what little caffeine he’d had, was replaying his meeting with Rachel. She hadn’t administered any mock tests or tried to delve deeper into his unexplained experiences. Instead she had suggested a medical MRI. Perhaps a brain lesion or even a tumor—uncommon, but known to cause hallucinations similar to schizophrenia—was to blame. Rachel hadn’t ruled out work pressures as being a cause, but she hadn’t jumped on the theory, either. There were other possibilities she’d suggested, infection being one, though she’d thought that unlikely given his lack of other symptoms. A comprehensive psychological evaluation and further medical testing, she’d insisted, were the only legitimate path to a diagnosis.

She had also provided the names of several doctors at Walderman who were accepting new patients. That had stung. He had crumpled the paper with the phone numbers on it and thrown it in the trash as he left. He was desperate to find any reason to discredit her professional assessment that he should seek psychiatric help. The MRI was at least medical—hopeful, so long as the cause was curable.

The stress of the last several days had left Charlie with dark circles under his eyes and an ashen complexion. The idea that his mind was a ticking bomb, perhaps ready to detonate, perhaps destined to send him to the same fate as his father and brother before him, went far beyond any corporate stress he’d ever faced. He knew he needed to find the real Anne Pedersen, but he had no idea where to start. He jotted himself a note to call Corner Ticket and get the Sox tickets he’d promised Lawrence. Right now Lawrence was his only hope of tracking her down.

Crossing his sparsely furnished living room, Charlie went to his computer, which stood on a drafting table he’d bought at a Scandinavian design center. Monte continued to shadow him and barked louder this time to get his attention. Charlie bent down and petted him gently on the head.

“I hear you, Monte. Just need to check one thing and we’ll go for a long walk today. Sound good?”

As if Monte understood, he barked again, turned, and trotted off into the kitchen. Charlie heard him lapping at his water bowl. His computer powered on, Charlie inwardly breathed a sigh of relief that he could still access the SoluCent corporate network, through the secure VPN connection. Not that he had expected otherwise, just that with the Anne Pedersen situation escalating the way that it was, he could no longer take anything for granted. He opened Outlook and scanned his in-box. Charlie prided himself on never having taken a sick day in his more than two years at SoluCent—the Cal Ripken of software engineering, someone once had dubbed him. Charlie was about to break that streak with a quick e-mail to his boss, Mac.

Unfortunately, Mac had contacted him first. Even worse, it was his first day back from vacation. His message was characteristically short, but from the scathing tone it was evident that both Leon Yardley and Jerry Schmidt had given Mac earfuls.

Mac had meetings until 11:00 a.m. and expected Charlie to contact his assistant Jean for an appointment with him in the afternoon. Typical Mac, not a “manage by walking around” guy. You had to make an appointment if you wanted to see him. Seldom did anyone want to.