FutureImperfect (7 page)

 

Siara was half-asleep when the phone rang, but she grabbed it immediately, if only to stop the tone from waking her parents. The CID was clear enough even through her sleepy eyes.

“Jeremy? It's after one in the morning.”

“I know,” he said, sounding apologetic. “I was just feeling bad about how we left things. I know you're worried about Harry, so I figure my parents will keep. They'll be fine where they are for a while. If you still want, I'll drive you to see him tomorrow morning.”

“Jeremy, really? I can't believe it! You are so…you're…you're the best ex-boyfriend, ever! The best!” Siara said.

She didn't know to what great and wonderful stroke of luck she owed this bizarre change, she only knew that tomorrow morning she'd be on her way to see Harry.

Every life is like colored thread in a blanket that has no beginning or end.

Jeffrey Tippicks's words haunted his son as he maneuvered his old Toyota hatchback past the iron front gate of Windfree Sanitarium. Emeril Tippicks still had his headache from yesterday; the aspirin hadn't helped in the least. Every time he'd hesitated at a light and the car behind him honked, he'd thought the sound would kill him.

At least the air was cleaner this far north of the city, doubly so after last night's rainstorm. The building's quiet browns and whites were soothing, like mountain rock peering from forested hills. It had been built as a private home in the 1920s in a grand palatial style, but thick bars were now crudely bolted over each window, and a vast, gaudy, steel-mesh net hung over the roof.

And this is where my father died.

Head pounding, Tippicks tried to maneuver his small car into a tight space near the entrance. A slight pressure on the wheel and a horrid sound told him he hadn't made it. He pushed at the door, chagrined to find he was too close to the next car for it to open all the way. He struggled, barely able to squeeze out, and saw the long, deep scratch his bumper had made on an otherwise shiny BMW.

Annoyed, he slammed the car door, snagging his tweed jacket in it. Pulling it free, he tore a button off and earned a long smear of black grease above the pocket.

What was wrong with him today?

He thought about leaving a note for the owner but then checked his watch: 9:12
A.M.
He'd have to move fast if he wanted to speak to Keller and make it back to school before lunch.

Speak to Keller. And ask him what?

Why do you see what my father saw? Can you tell me if I'm insane myself to be here?
Despite the pain, he chuckled, realizing it was the perfect place to go mad, like having your car break down in front of a gas station.

He tried to wipe the grease from his jacket but only succeeded in covering his hands. Still rubbing them, Tippicks tried to maneuver around a thick branch on the sidewalk, knocked down by last night's storm, but only succeeded in stepping in a puddle.

His shoes wet now, he passed between the stone columns at the front entrance, opened the glass and aluminum door, and stepped into the waiting room. It was small, with barely enough space for a couch and a potted plant. There weren't even any magazines. It looked as if no one ever waited here.

A blue-haired woman seated behind a Plexiglas screen was roused from her paperwork at the sound of the opening door. Tippicks stepped up, trying to look cheerful, and immediately knocked over a cupful of pens that sat on the small counter in front of her. He rolled his eyes as they clattered to his feet.

“I have an appointed with Dr. Shinn,” he said, bending to pick them up.

She didn't answer, but as Tippicks recovered the last of the pens, a buzzer sounded. A pleasant Asian man stepped out from an inner door and extended his hand.

“Mr. Tippicks. You're here to see Harry Keller.”

“Yes,” Tippicks said, shaking his hand, forgetting about the grease. Remembering the scratch, he added, “Do you know who owns that green BMW outside?”

Shinn's grin widened. “It's mine. Brand new. Do you like it?”

Tippicks tried to smile. “Oh, yes. Wonderful car.”

Dr. Shinn waved Tippicks in and guided him into an elevator. As the numbers above the closed doors indicated they were going up, Tippicks rattled off what he knew about Harry, the trauma, the erratic behavior, but also the sparks of lucidity.

Shinn eyed him with disapproval. “The boy does all this, has all these strange behaviors, but up until he goes totally berserk, you think he's fine?”

Tippicks felt himself turning red as the elevator stopped and the doors creaked open. Nervous, he rubbed the grease on his palm with his thumb. “I just thought he had a chance to recover on his own. That it would be better that way for him.”

Shinn shook his head and exited. Silent, he slipped his card through a reader and led Tippicks into a narrow hallway. When they reached the third door, he motioned for Tippicks to look through its small window.

“Here is the young man you thought could recover on his own,” he said.

Tippicks leaned in toward the glass and frowned. Curled up in a far corner of the padded room was what looked like a pile of dirty linen. The unruly brown mop of hair on its top was the only thing indicating it was a human being.

Shin shrugged. “He's been violent since he arrived. Lashed out at the ambulance attendants, gave our interns some nasty bruises. Tried to escape last night. We've doubled his meds, so he's pretty calm now. I doubt he can even stand.”

Unable to conceal his anger, Tippicks asked, “If you've got him so doped up that he can't move, why is he still in a straitjacket?”

Shinn opened his mouth to explain when the mop of hair rustled. Both men turned as Harry Keller raised his head, brown eyes peering through strands of long, dirty hair.

“Mr. Tippicks?” Harry said hoarsely.

Shinn's annoyance fled. “He's responding to your voice. He didn't even respond to his aunt. He hasn't spoken to anyone since he's been here.”

“Yes, Harry,” Tippicks called through the door. “It's me.”

Harry struggled to his feet and slouched toward the door. He rested his forehead against the window, giving them a perfect view of his haggard face as his shallow breath made little clouds on the dirty glass.

“Hi, Mr. Tippicks,” Harry said.

“Hi, Harry. How are you?” Tippicks said back. Harry was always pale, but now he looked jaundiced. The spark Tippicks had often seen in his eyes was gone, replaced by a dull sheen, like a marble covered in thick grease.

“Been better.”

“I can see that. Harry, if I can get Dr. Shinn to take you out of there for a while to talk to me, will you promise to behave, not to run away?”

Harry's brow furrowed. He looked down at his feet.

“You mean, I'm not running?” he said.

“Harry.”

He looked up and blinked. “Yeah. Sure. Promise. I'd cross my heart, but…”

Tippicks turned to Shinn, whose mouth was still open wide.

“What do you think, Dr. Shinn?” Tippicks asked. “Can you bring him out of there so I can talk to him?”

Shinn hesitated. “The jacket will have to stay on. But yes. I think that would be a good idea. We can bring him upstairs for a bit. The courtyard is secure.”

“Excellent. And…well, there's something I have to tell you about your car.”

 

When Shinn mentioned a courtyard, Tippicks assumed it was downstairs. Instead, while some beefy interns discussed how best to transport Harry, Shinn took him to the roof, to an open area covered with the metal net he'd seen from outside. It was pleasant enough, with benches and potted trees, but the crisscross shadows cast through the net lent the space a surreal air, making Tippicks feel as if he were in a giant bird cage.

Seeing Tippicks stare up, Shinn explained, “It's to prevent suicides.”

“It's twenty feet up. Could someone really climb that high?”

“You'd be surprised what people are capable of,” Shinn answered. He turned his head back toward the door. Harry was being led inside, flanked by interns. “Even with a ton of meds in them.
I
often am.”

The interns walked Harry to a wooden bench, sat him down, then stood on either side of the only exit. Harry remained motionless, except for the slight rising and falling of his shoulders that indicated he was breathing.

Tippicks and Shinn walked over, Tippicks nearly tripping on his shoes as he went.

“Are you all right?”

“I'm having a bad day.”

“Not as bad as our friend here, I hope.” Shinn knelt gently by Harry's side. “Do you mind if I stay and listen, Mr. Keller?”

Harry nodded. “Pretty much.”

“Okay. That's fine,” Shinn said with a smile. “I have to call an auto body service anyway and send your teacher here the bill.”

On his way out, Shinn squeezed Tippicks's arm and gave him a look, as if to say,
You must tell me everything.

After that, except for the two interns who stood mutely at their posts, they were alone.

Tippicks sat on the far end of the bench, feeling how tired he was. The pain in his head had gathered toward the back of his skull, and though it wasn't quiet as bad as it had been, it still pounded steadily. He saw the grease still on his hand, looked at the tear in his tweed jacket, and wondered how much of the world was made up of accidents.

Steadying himself, he eyed the captive teen. “Harry, if you behave, they'll take the jacket off.”

“Working on it,” Harry said. He smiled at Tippicks. “Thanks for coming. Why, uh, did you come, by the way?”

Tippicks answered in a quiet voice, “Siara Warner came to see me yesterday.”

Harry's eyes widened. Tippicks thought he saw a bit of that old spark flare in the dark of his pupils.

“She's all right? Was she with Jeremy Gronson?”

“Gronson? The football captain? No, she was alone,” Tippicks said. He eyed the interns before continuing. They seemed more interested in whatever their iPods were playing. “But she did have a lot to say about you. And about time.”

Harry's brow creased. “Siara…told you?”

Tippicks exhaled. “My father stayed here a few years. They didn't have this little courtyard back then.”

He was surprised to see Harry nod. “Yeah, I know. He died here.”

Tippicks eyed him. “How do you know that?”

“I saw it once, while I was looking at you. I can see people's…paths.”

So the girl had been telling the truth, at least he couldn't what she'd heard. But could it really be…? No, he couldn't go there yet. There was no proof of it.

“Harry, I was just a kid when my dad was here, but they let me visit him once or twice. Whenever I came, he told me the most amazing things, about all the places he'd gone, the
times
he'd seen, all over the world, all throughout history, without ever leaving his room.”

Harry's brow knitted.

“But my mother and the doctors told me he was sick, crazy. So as much as I loved him, I never believed a word of what he said.”

The lines in Harry's forehead went deeper. “Why?”

Tippicks smiled sadly. “Because I thought he was crazy, too, I guess. He went on about it, so much so they decided a lobotomy might help, but he died during the procedure. They poked a blood vessel in his brain by accident and couldn't stop the bleeding in time. As for me, well, as I grew older, I tried all the drugs I could, trying to see what he'd seen. And even though I never did, when Siara came to me, well…in a way, it seemed like another chance.”

The lines in Harry's forehead went deeper still, surrounding his intent brown eyes with folded skin. Tippicks leaned in closer. “So, Mr. Keller, tell me, is it at all possible that it
is
true?”

Harry moved his head a bit, struggled to swallow. He licked his dry lips and stared Tippicks in the eyes. “Yeah, it's true. Well, I don't know about your father, exactly, but everything Siara told you is true.”

To be sure, Tippicks repeated it as best he could remember, and Harry confirmed each detail, adding some of his own. By the end of it, Tippicks wasn't sure how much time had passed, or how much longer he'd have before Shinn returned, so he became a bit more hurried.

“Harry, the parallels are amazing, but—”

Harry sighed. “None of it's proof.”

“Yes. Exactly. Is there anything you can predict? Anything you can show me?”

Harry shook his head. “Not now. The drugs keep me out.”

“Siara said you took her there,” Tippicks said. “Could you do that for me? Send me to A-Time?”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe. We could try. I might be able to talk you in, but I couldn't go with you, and it's dangerous.”

Tippicks chuckled. “I grew up in the sixties. What could be more dangerous than that?”

“Okay. Umm…pick something to stare at.”

Tippicks focused on a potted tree a few feet away. Some of the leaves were brown and dry, ready to fall off.

“Okay, got it.”

As he stared at it, Harry spoke. His voice was slow, slurred, but there was a lilt to it, a droning, like he was reciting a poem or chanting:

“Look at the edges of the branches, the side of the pot, the color of the wall behind it. Keep staring.”

Tippicks did as asked, but his head still hurt and the potted plant still looked just like a potted plant, no different than it had a second ago. Its edges vibrated a bit, but he was sure that was because he was so tired. How much had he slept in the last few days?

“Think about how all that—tree, branch, color, wall—how they're all just words.”

Keller's voice droned on. It had a vague melody to it, something an awestruck girl like Siara Warner might think of as hypnotic, but it only irritated Tippicks, made him feel foolish. What was he doing encouraging this boy's delusions? What was he doing, trying to relive such an old pain at Harry Keller's expense?

“…just lines your brain is making, they're all really part of one thing, part of the same thing, and you're really just imagining that there's any pot or tree or wall.”

He should tell him to stop. He should apologize, to Harry, to Shinn. His behavior wasn't just unprofessional, it was inexcusable. His father had been the victim of a severe mental disorder, same as Harry Keller. He was just treading over old ground, trying to get blood from scar tissue. It was time to let go and grow up.

“Harry,” he began.

He was about to say, “Stop” as gently as he could, when the edges of the brown leaves blurred into the wall. He was certain it was his failing eyesight, his headache, so he blinked, but the distortion only grew. His eyes were focused; he could feel it. It was the plant that blurred.