Читать книгу Delirious - Daniel James Palmer - Страница 15

The redbrick edifice of Walderman Mental Health rose from its perch atop a grassy knoll and cast an eerie, elongated shadow as the late-day sun settled in the west. Charlie drove his black BMW up the winding driveway. He noticed xenon headlights automatically turned on, as on-board sensors determined dusk was approaching. Charlie downshifted into first and glided his car to a gentle stop in the farthest corner space in a parking lot void of other vehicles.

He had been to this place only once before. It had been a few months after moving back east; Charlie had asked his mother if he could attend a group therapy session at Walderman Hospital. This had brought a look of surprise to her face, since she’d been asking him to participate in Joe’s therapy for years. In her mind, for Charlie to spring this on her out of the blue had been nothing short of a miracle. He had never admitted that the request was more selfish than selfless. He had found it embarrassing to live so close to Joe and still have the same uneasiness he remembered feeling as a boy.

Doctors had diagnosed Joe as epileptic just after Charlie’s eighth birthday. That disease hadn’t disturbed Charlie in the least. Perhaps because his brother’s seizures were internal events, more like an altered mental state. Joe didn’t convulse when he seized, the way a boy in Charlie’s school had who was also epileptic. Unlike that boy’s, Joe’s eyes didn’t roll back in his head; nobody had to stick something into his mouth to keep him from swallowing his tongue. The only clue Joe was even having a seizure was his trancelike detachment.

The schizophrenia, diagnosed years later, however, was far less discreet and had permeated every facet of Charlie’s relationship with Joe. Joe would hear voices, complain of strangers reading his thoughts, or express fear that he was being followed. Sometimes his brother would spontaneously burst out into song or converse bizarrely with a stranger, which always embarrassed Charlie. For a fifteen-year-old boy, Joe’s breakdown had been at first haunting, soon scary, and had ultimately driven a wedge between the once close siblings.

It had angered Charlie to feel so apprehensive, scared even, around Joe. He had interpreted those feelings as a sign of weakness in himself. He’d known his fear was irrational, but rather than try to overcome it, Charlie had taken another approach—avoidance. It was a passive solution, but an effective one as well.

Charlie had attended a group therapy session at Walderman Hospital in an effort to substitute his long-standing apathy with empathy. It was then that Charlie had found himself in a small, windowless basement room with about eight patients, two doctors, and a half dozen or so relatives.

Claustrophobia had overwhelmed him. Trying to rein in his anxiety, Charlie had stood while the others took their seats. He’d gone over to a small kitchenette and poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee in a Styrofoam cup, added some Coffee-mate, and, when glances from the staff made it clear that his standing was a distraction, found a seat closest to the door.

Throughout the hour-and-a-half-long session, he hadn’t listened to a word. For the life of him, he wouldn’t be able to recall one story of hope, sadness, or survival. Instead he’d focused on how some of the patients fidgeted in their seats, and how one man stood up on his chair and shouted out his name to get everyone’s attention. Another just kept muttering to himself. They’d all looked so helpless, unclean, and lost.

And Joe, who would slap the back of the folding chair in front of him as if it were a drum, his way of applauding for each person after they spoke, had evoked a familiar sense of shame.

The experiment had failed miserably, and Charlie had taken nothing away from the session, except the decision that he’d never set foot in Walderman again.

That had been almost two years ago. It felt like a lifetime.

The crisp fall air caressed Charlie’s face as he stepped from the car. The leaves had just begun their retreat from green to orange and red. It was nature’s normal course of life, and he noticed the change with some sadness. Normality was something Charlie could no longer take for granted. He appreciated the simple beauty in a way he hadn’t since he was a boy.

An empty pit formed in his stomach as he started toward the entrance. Charlie breathed in a deep sigh and looked around the minimally landscaped grounds, wary of others who might be observing his approach. For many, the short walk across the parking lot and along the slate-and-gravel path to the large wooden double door entrance was a bridge back to a life lost, a way to recapture the essence of being alive, to learn to embrace the simple joys of living again. But for Charlie, it was a journey into the blackest unknown, a retreat from the reality he had once thought unshakable.

Charlie passed through the entrance into a large foyer identified by a black-and-gold-leaf plaque as Saunders Hall. Nothing about the main foyer was clinical. The regality of it made it difficult for Charlie to believe he was even inside a mental health hospital. He had never been to this building before. The group therapy session he’d attended a few years back had been held in a much smaller campus building, about a quarter mile away. This was a mansion. It had been donated to the state by a successful psychologist and his wife, under the condition that it be used solely for the purpose of mental health treatment. The interior of Walderman Mental Health echoed a bygone era of civility and grace, and Charlie could imagine that it had once been the epicenter for the social elite. It would have made an elegant home to entertain and showcase jewelry, evening gowns, and culinary extravaganzas.

He marched along the checkered marble floor, past leather sitting chairs and mahogany tables that seemed swallowed by the cavernous, high ceilings. On the far right wall, directly across from a wide winding staircase leading to the second floor, was a mahogany reception desk. Charlie crossed toward it, his footsteps echoing loudly as he approached. The receptionist kept a firm gaze on him as he neared. What he would normally construe as flattery here seemed tainted with judgment. It would be better, he thought, if the place were bustling with patients and physicians. At least it would provide him some cover. He wouldn’t have to be the center of her attention.

She probably thinks I’m crazy, Charlie thought.

The receptionist was a cheery-faced woman, no more than twenty-five. Her brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Charlie found her large, expressive eyes to be unnecessarily sympathetic. She greeted him with a toothy smile and a slight conciliatory cocking of her head to the side.

“Hello. Can I help you?” she asked.

Charlie stammered for a moment, then pushed aside the unease. “I’m here to see Rachel. Rachel Evans.”

“You have an appointment?”

“I… I… I do. Yes.”

Charlie sensed movement behind him, turned, and saw a woman descending the staircase with quick steps and sharp clicks from her high-heeled shoes.

“Mr. Giles?” she said, hurrying down the stairs.

Charlie followed her approach as she reached the bottom step and moved to the reception desk to greet him.

“Yes,” Charlie said.

“I’m Rachel Evans,” she said, extending a hand. “It’s very nice to meet you. Joe has told me a lot about you.”

The first thing Charlie noticed was her eyes: warm, inviting green ovals that projected sensitivity without judgment. They helped to put him a bit more at ease. His hands, clenched in tight balls in his pockets, unfolded.

He shook her hand. Her grip was firm. Her eyes never looked away from his. She wore her auburn hair long, draped down her slender back. The smoothness of her skin suggested an age far younger than he assumed her to be, and he could not help but take in her willowy figure. For all her delicacy there was something rugged about her, even with her fine features and graceful manner. She exuded a quiet confidence that, he suspected, made her equally comfortable camping in the mountains and dining in the city’s best restaurants.

“It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Evans. I appreciate you taking the time to see me on such short notice.”

“It’s Rachel, and it’s not a problem. Why don’t we go upstairs to my office to talk?”

Charlie signed in with the receptionist, anxious about leaving a permanent record of his visit. He followed Rachel upstairs, through a set of swinging double doors—these with red vinyl padding—and down a long corridor with what appeared to be offices on either side, spaced evenly about every fifteen feet.

“Not exactly what I expected from a mental hospital,” Charlie said, quickening his pace to walk beside Rachel.

“It surprises a lot of people,” Rachel said. “But this is just one of three buildings, and it’s mostly administrative and physician offices. Some research labs. Our other buildings may be a bit more what you’d expect.”

“What is it that I’d expect?” Charlie asked.

Rachel turned to him, letting out a slight knowing smile. Charlie put his hands in his pockets and retreated from her gaze. He ran his left thumb over the tops of his fingertips, feeling the calluses. At that moment he wanted nothing more than to lose himself in guitar, practicing the Jim Hall melodies still fresh in his mind.

“We both know exactly what you’d expect,” she replied, her tone insinuating that she and Joe had devoted several sessions to Charlie. “Anyway, we are a fully functioning mental health institution. State-sanctioned, partially funded. Patients at Walderman come for all different reasons. Some are inpatient, some outpatient, and some are on our secured floors.”

“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 coworkers 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.