The Forgetting Place (28 page)

For a moment, I could picture Jason when he was much younger, could see him sitting up and looking at me from his hospital bed the night after Billy Myers and his fellow bullies beat him into a state of unconsciousness.

This will not happen again,
I'd assured him that night, and three weeks later I'd backed that promise up with a Louisville Slugger and a fit of detached violence that almost left all four of those boys dead. Was it any surprise that five years ago I'd stepped in again when I thought his life was in danger, this time with lethal results?

“I don't believe y—” I started to tell Wagner, but Jason was pushing past him now, coming for me down the hall. I met his eyes, and the last of the denial fell away. I was crying now—crying because of what I had done to him and what I was doing to him still. “I'm sorry,” I told him, but he didn't stop coming, didn't even hesitate.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so goddamn sorry,” I was saying over and over again. He wrapped his arms around me as I buried my face in the side of his neck. He rocked me, told me it was okay,
and that he forgave me a long time ago—that all he wanted was to have me back again.

“I will
never
give up on you—
never,
” he promised, and I held on to him tighter, unable to let go.

“Thank you for not leaving me here,” I whispered. “I'm so alone without y—”

My voice choked up again, the words refusing to come. But it was all right because I wasn't alone anymore. No matter what happened after this, I knew I would be okay—that
we
would be okay. Because the only truly hopeless thing in this world is to be abandoned—forsaken for what you have done—and I could see now that this would never happen. Not between
us
. Not between me and my brother.

Something was gently lifted from my hand. I opened my eyes and saw Wagner standing there, watching me over Jason's shoulder. “I need to take these,” he said, giving the thing in my hand a soft tug. I opened my fingers and let go of the shears, or maybe it was the knife that I'd been holding on to these past five years. I wasn't certain, didn't really care. I didn't need either of them any longer.

The past is what imprisons us. There are some things in this world that can never be undone. But they
can
be faced. They can be forgiven. And if we hold on to that, then there is a chance for us. A chance that someday . . . we will be free.

W
e spent the rest of the day together, Jason and I. It was good to be with him, to see him for who he really was. For five years he'd been coming here to visit me, trying to break through.
What must that have been like for him?
I wonder—all those years. I could barely imagine. Any attempt to confront me with the truth, he explained, had caused me to disengage completely, to fall into myself for weeks, sometimes months at a time. There had been no choice but to work within the delusion I'd created. It was the only way to interact with me, the only type of relationship I could tolerate.

He and Dr. Wagner had disagreed about his visits. Wagner was convinced that Jason's presence triggered something in me—that on some level I recognized him for who he actually was, and that this made the delusions worse, not better. The attack on Paul and my escape from the facility had brought the disagreement to a head, and Wagner barred Jason from visiting for the indefinite future. I'd spent a week and a half in seclusion following my return to Menaker, and it was more than two months until Wagner finally agreed to meet with Jason to discuss the
possibility of resuming visitations. It was what brought Jason here today, that meeting. He'd never stopped trying, never lost hope that one day there would be a breakthrough. And now . . .

I have awakened. But what have I awakened to? I am thirty-three years old and the murderer of my brother's partner—a man he loved and shared his life with. Amir was good to Jason, returned his love as fiercely as it was given. He was kind and gentle, welcomed me into their home, and the way I returned his trust and affection was to drive a knife into his heart. My delusions are a window to my prejudice, feeding on a stereotype I'd accepted blindly, refused to question. If Amir had been a different race, if the color of his skin had looked like mine, would he still be dead? For how many years have I attempted to shield my own brother from such hatred and bigotry, only to find it within myself.

When the killing was over, when there was no taking it back, I retreated into a mental illness that would never leave, would be the dominant force in my life. I have seen it happen with my mother's depression. With my uncle's schizophrenia. The genetic code has found its way to me, condemning me from the point of conception. Is it too much to imagine that Menaker somehow knew—had been waiting for me all these years?

How much of what I experienced as Dr. Shields was real? How much was imagined? What happened during the two days I spent beyond these iron pickets? Was there ever a Haden—someone who drove me to the hospital, sheltered me in his home one night, tried to help me? If so, what became of him? If not, what
really
happened out there?

(Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me. I hear things, mostly. People talking to me who aren't there. They say . . . They say horrible
things
. . .
That's the hell of it, you know: separating out what's real from what's not real. Trying to keep things straight. Knowing when your mind is playing tricks on you.)

I asked Jason if he remembered the summer Uncle Jim stayed with us. He'd been five then, and memories of those early years are often vague, even absent. He told me that he remembered something of that time, but the details were lost. More so, he remembered my lingering reaction to that summer, how closed off I became in the years that followed.

There were other questions to ask. I wanted to know about Jason's life now, about his career and relationships, about the man he'd become. I interrupted him sometimes, told him over and over how sorry I was for what I'd done. I couldn't escape the guilt, the horror of this thing I did not want to remember. He reminded me that I was ill, that I was delusional and psychotic, not responsible for my actions. It seemed inconceivable that he had forgiven me. I did not deserve it. I do not think that I ever will.

He tried to fill in some of the blanks in my life, told me about the health of our parents. Our father suffered a heart attack two years ago. Since then he'd become a different type of man—scared and frail beyond his years, but also kinder, more accepting. His relationship with my brother was still not a close one—was still strained at times. But it seemed that a truce of sorts had been established—and
that,
Jason said, was a start. In time, maybe something better would come from it.

Our mother's physical health remained strong, but she continued to struggle with a depression that may someday consume her. There were medications, of course, and she took them obediently. But I, more than anyone, realized there were limitations to what medications could conquer.

“Do they ever visit me?” I asked. There was still so much I could not remember, so many darkened rooms in my mind.

“Sometimes,” he said. “You don't recognize them. It hurts them to see you.”

A
S NIGHT CLOSED
in, Jason asked Dr. Wagner for permission to stay beyond normal visiting hours, to join me for dinner in the hospital's cafeteria. Wagner gave his consent, and we sat at the large wooden table among the other patients as Marj laid out the evening meal.

“The good doctor arrives,” Tim Barrens announced through a mouthful of mac and cheese as we joined the group already settled at the table.

“A lady of questionable credentials, blown in from the night wind,” Manny Linwood agreed, wiping at his chin with a napkin. It was their nightly repertoire here in Marj's kitchen, but this time I shook my head and told them no, it was only me, Lise Edwards. Dr. Shields died unexpectedly this afternoon—and though I mourned the safety of her company, she would not be missed.

After dinner, Jason and I walked to the front gates of Menaker. Tony Perkins stepped out from the watchman's booth, asked if I needed someone to walk me home. I smiled at that, told him that tonight—for once—I was okay on my own.

“Good night, Jason,” I said, brushing his hair back so that I could see the scar, kiss him on the cheek.

“Good night, Lise,” he replied, giving me one last hug before he turned to go.

I stood and watched as he walked to his car beyond the fence. He opened his door, turned to wave, and I waved back. The
engine started, and he pulled out onto the street, turned right, and disappeared around the corner. I listened until the receding sound of the engine was gobbled up by the night.

Then I turned from the gate and headed back to where I belonged.

I
'd hoped that I might be finished with thoughts of Uncle Jim for a while, that with the death of Dr. Shields those memories would retreat to the far recesses of my mind. I didn't need them anymore, didn't want them. What happened with Uncle Jim took place a long time ago, and whether I was to blame for his actions was less important to me now—or at least seemed that way.

A
FTER THE POLICE
took him away that night, I didn't see him for two and a half months. He was working hard to get better, my mother told me. It was best to let him concentrate on that for a while. Dad scoffed at this. “He's never going to get better,” he piped in from the other room. The words sounded a little slurred. “Don't tell the kid her crazy uncle is going to get better when he won't.”

My mother and I looked toward the living room's entryway—toward the sound of his voice—then back at each other. “He will,” she whispered, and it was a strange thing because I resented
both
of them at that moment—my father for giving voice to what
I suspected to be true, and my mother for promising me something she could never deliver.

“I want to go see him,” I told her.

“No way,” my father replied from the other room, and my mother just shook her head.

“It's not a good idea, Lise. It's not a place for children.”

“I'm almost nine,” I said. “I'm not a child anymore.”

She gave me a long discerning look, and I stared back at her defiantly.

“We'll see,” she said before rising to her feet and heading down the hall and into her bedroom. I watched her close the door behind her, closing me out yet again.

I kept at it, though—didn't give up on the idea. I pestered her about it every chance I got, but I made sure to do it when my father wasn't around. He'd already made his decision on the matter clear.

Children learn early on that there is almost no limit to what can be obtained from a parent through relentless, dogged persistence. I applied that lesson with my mother, and after eight weeks of asking she finally gave in. She drove me and Jason to school that morning but told me to stay in the car while she walked my brother to his classroom. I sat there fiddling with my seat belt, peering through the window as my classmates filed out of the school buses, and waited for her return. When she got back in the car, I looked over at her expectantly.

“You still want to see Uncle Jim?” she asked, and I nodded.

She put the car in gear, drove out of the school's parking lot, and a few minutes later we were merging into traffic on the highway. I didn't ask how long it would take to get there, didn't bother her with an endless stream of chatter. Instead, I sat very
quietly in my seat, knowing that at any moment she could change her mind, turn around, and take me back to school. Hadn't my mother said that where we were heading was not a place for children? Hadn't my father forbidden it?

We drove on in silence. Forty minutes later she exited the freeway, and after a few more minutes we pulled into a large parking lot. The place didn't look much like a hospital—at least, not what I'd imagined. In a way, it looked very similar to Menaker: a series of small buildings stretched out across an open campus. I don't remember if there was a fence around the perimeter, but I don't think there was. Back in those days people were less careful, more trusting. My mother turned to me in the car before we got out.

“Not a word of this to your father,” she said. “You understand?”

I nodded.

She studied me for a moment, then opened her door and stepped out into the brisk morning air. I did the same.

There was a lot of walking. It seemed to take a long time to get to the Visitors' Building. I moved quickly, concentrating on matching her stride, walking beside her—not behind her like a child—and every once in a while I looked up to read the expression on her face, to see if she was pleased with how I was conducting myself. Her face was stern, her lips drawn together in a tight little circle, and she never looked down at me—not once. But I thought she was pleased anyway, that this was something she and I were doing together and she was proud of me for coming.

At the Visitors' Building, she opened the door and we stepped inside. In front of us was a large reception desk with a bored-looking woman sitting behind it.

“Good morning,” my mother said to her. “I'm Carol Edwards
and this is my daughter, Lise. I called yesterday to inquire about visiting Jim Casey.”

“Visiting hours don't start until nine thirty,” the woman advised her, the expression on her face never changing. A quick glance at a large clock to our left revealed that it was only a little after nine.

“We'll wait,” my mother told her.

“No children under ten are allowed in the facility.”

“She's ten and a half,” my mother responded. It was the first time I ever heard her lie.

The woman gave me an appraising look. “When's your birthday, sweetheart?”

“April fourteenth, 1980,” I said. I wasn't nine yet, let alone ten, but it wasn't too difficult to subtract two years from my real birthday.

The woman's eyes remained on my face for a second longer, then she sighed and looked back down at the paperback she was holding. “You can wait over there,” she said, meaning the chairs along the wall behind us and to our left. She didn't bother to exert the energy it would've taken to point or nod in their direction.

“Thank you,” my mother said.

“Mmm-hmmm,” the woman intoned, her eyes scanning the pages in front of her.

We sat in the hard plastic chairs and waited. At 9:25, the woman rose from behind the reception desk. We both looked up expectantly, but she waddled toward the front doors, pushed through them, and stood just outside while she lit up a cigarette. I watched her through the glass pane of the door, remembered how Uncle Jim used to smoke them down to the filter, passing
the smooth paper-rolled cylinder over to me every once in a while when he was certain my parents weren't looking. My mother and I sat there, waited for her to finish, the clock's minute hand moving around to eight before she opened the front door again and walked in.

“You can go and see him now,” she told us, lowering herself into the receptionist's chair, a little out of breath from her strenuous walk to the desk. “Exit the doors behind me and go to the third building on your right. Tell the security officer at the front desk who you're here to see. Clip these visitor badges to your shirts and make sure you display them at all times.”

We did as we were told, walking across the campus until we arrived at the appropriate building.

“He's in the activity room,” the security guard advised when we checked in at the front desk. We proceeded down the hall to a large room with many patients. The activities that took place in the activity room, I noticed, mostly revolved around watching daytime television from one of the many tattered chairs and couches. The channel was tuned to a soap opera. On the screen, a woman with big hair and too much makeup was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

The thing I remember most about him, about the last time I ever saw him, was how much
better
he looked. His face had filled out some, and his body—which had become painfully thin in the weeks leading up to his arrest—looked stronger now, healthier. His hair was shorter and still wet from his morning shower, no longer greasy and in need of a wash like during his final days at our house. And his eyes—turning in our direction as we entered the room and lighting up right away when he saw me—were as
clear as they were on the first day he came to stay with us, the brightness there making me think:
This is him. This is Uncle Jim without the disease. This is how he used to be.

“Lise,” he said, getting up from the chair and coming over to us, giving me a hug. “How you been?”

“Good,” I said, a little self-consciously, wishing for some cooler reply.

He hugged my mother as well. “What's up, sis? Thanks for coming.”

“Lise wanted to see you,” she said. “So did I. You”—she smiled, looked him up and down—“look great.”

“Sure, sure. How'd you
think
I'd look?” he asked, and we were both silent, not knowing what to say. We'd been prepared for the worst.

“Hey, let's go outside,” he suggested. “The day's too nice to be sittin' in here.”

“Are you . . .” My mother glanced around, a look of concern on her face.

“Allowed?” he said. “Sure. As long as I don't go running off nowhere.”

He meant it as a joke, I suppose, but it was too close to what was on our minds. Neither of us laughed.

“We have an exercise area out back,” he said, leading us to a door that opened onto a fenced-in yard. There was a basketball court to our left, an open grassy area to the right. We sat down at a small table adjacent to the building, then got to talking, Uncle Jim filling us in on the place and how he'd been spending his time over the past two months.

“Lately, I've been painting. I've always been good at art,” he said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tapping one out and
lighting it up. I started to reach for it—out of habit, I guess—then stopped myself, realizing whose company we were in.

“I'm surprised they let you carry a lighter,” my mother commented.

“At first they didn't. You have to be responsible. Build trust. Earn privileges,” he explained. “Like going outside unattended. When I first got here, I couldn't do that either. It was something to work toward. It's the way they do things here.”

He took another pull from the cigarette, turned his head and blew smoke out through the corner of his mouth.

“Say, Lise. How about you and me shootin' some hoops?”

“Okay,” I said, getting up from the table and retrieving the ball from where it lay in the grass. My mother excused herself, said she needed to use the restroom. I think she just wanted to give us some time to ourselves.

We shot for a while, played three rounds of horse—two games to one in my favor—then sat on the grass, our backs against the chain-link fence instead of the oak tree in my front yard.

“They treatin' you okay?” I asked. “You like it here?”

“It's all right. Don't have much choice, I guess.” He was more serious now, not joking around as much as he was when my mother and I first arrived.

“I'm sorry about what happened,” I told him, and somehow it seemed appropriate that
I
should be the one apologizing, that I'd let him down in a way. I couldn't shake the feeling that he was in here because of me.

“No apologies. Didn't have nothin' to do with you.” He ran his fingers through the grass, plucked out a dandelion and handed it to me, watched as I blew and its florets dispersed into the air. “I've been sick for a long time,” he said. “Long as I can remember. It
gets better and worse, but it never goes away. Not completely. It's a part of me, you know? Something I've got to deal with.”

I nodded.

“It's important that we take responsibility for who we are,” he continued. “We owe it to the people around us.”

The door opened and my mother appeared in the yard. Uncle Jim and I both stood up, walked over to where she stood.

“We should get going,” she told him.

“Okay, yeah.” He dropped down onto one knee, but I'd had a growth spurt over the past two months and he had to look up at me from the position, almost as if he were the child and I the adult, instead of the other way around.

“We'll come back and visit soon,” I promised, and he smiled, giving me a hug.

“You take care of your family now,” he said. Then, lowering his voice, he spoke only to me: “It's a tough world out there, and they need you. You've always been the strong one. And remember”—he looked me sternly in the eye—“this ain't no dog and pony show.”

“Well, I've never seen a dog and pony show,” I told him, leaning forward and giving him a hug, my voice a whisper in his ear. “But I really want to.”