Читать книгу Fragments of Me - Eric G. Swedin - Страница 8

CHAPTER FOUR

Jerry Cowen, the security guard at the hospital, approaches my car with puzzlement writ all over his features. He has not buzzed me through as usual, but left the gate closed, forcing me to stop. I roll down the car window. “Hi, Jerry, what’s going on?”

“Dr. Barash, the police called,” he says, placing his hand on the window sill. The fingernails at the end of the stubby fingers are ragged from being gnawed upon. “They were looking for you.”

I touch his hand and cast forth a fragmental, quickly assimilating a knowledge of his surface thoughts and basic personality.

* * * *

Jerry found his job so boring. Watch the cars come in, write down the license numbers. Watch the cars leave, write down the license numbers. He recognized almost every car or their driver and so he hardly ever stopped anyone. Every once in a while he would stop Ann Reese. He always put on his sunglasses so that she would not see him staring so hard at her. Her blonde curls surrounded her oval face and trailed down over the hills formed by her breasts. She was always so nice to him and just looking at her gave him a woody. Looking was sufficient, actual contact was too frustrating. His ex had proved that.

His only friend was the radio on the shelf behind him. An older model, with a broken cassette deck, but it picked up the all-sports AM station and that was all that mattered. In the fall it was the Browns; in the spring and summer, the Indians; and in the winter and spring, the Cavaliers. He never went to the games, but he could quote every statistic. His wife divorced him for that and took the kids back to Canton. The only good reason to go and see them was to go to the Football Hall of Fame.

Tonight was a bit more exciting. Normally he ignored the hourly news updates on the radio, but the name of Dr. Barash had caught his attention. Someone had been found dead in the shrink’s office. That surprised him. The doctor, always so quiet, yet friendly, did not seem like the type to wind up dead. But you never know.

Only minutes later the phone rang. It was Dr. Hollis’s line, the hospital director, but he was not there. Jerry considered not answering the phone, but remembered how angry the doctor had gotten last time. Hollis was a prick. He did not have an answering machine because he thought that he was too important for such a contraption. He expected his secretary to answer the phone and take a message, and if she was not there, then the guard was supposed to do it.

Taking a deep breath, Jerry picked up the phone and pushed the line button. “Dr. Hollis’s office.”

“To whom am I speaking?” The voice was quiet and authoritative.

“This is the night guard.”

“May I speak to Dr. Hollis?”

“Nah. He’s in New York or something.”

“This is Detective Morris of the Cleveland Police. We are looking for Dr. Barash. Have you seen him?”

Jerry straightened his stance and brushed his hand across his hip. Damn, he wished that Hollis would approve guns for the guards.

“No, ain’t he dead?”

“Why would you say that?”

“The radio said they found a dead man in his office.”

“That was someone else. When did you last see Dr. Barash?”

“One moment,” Jerry said. “Let me look at my log.”

For once all his faithful scribbling was useful. He had Dr. Barash’s license number memorized and found the last entry. “He left at three minutes after eight, sir.”

“If he returns, will you please call me.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“How long are you on duty?”

“Till six in the morning.”

“You will pass this message on to the next guard.”

“Yes, you can count on it.”

The detective left his number and hung up.

Only minutes later, much to his excitement, he recognized the green two-door Taurus that Dr. Barash owned.

* * * *

To prevent Jerry from making that phone call, I decide to leave my fragmental with him. Jerry returns to the guardhouse and presses the button to open the gate and thus allow me to drive up the gravel driveway and park before the four-story hospital. Getting out of the car, I look at my watch. Five minutes to eleven. Only a few windows are illuminated. The tall trees whisper as the wind soughs through them.

This place is a good place and I hate to say goodbye. The gravel crunches under my shoes as I stride over to the front door. It is locked, but I have a key. Inside is quiet. Joanna Prall will be on the third floor, in a room of her own. I take the stairs and find the orderly sitting with his feet propped on his desk, a romance paperback in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

He looks up in surprise as I approach.

“Dr. Barash, what you doing here?”

He acts genuinely surprised but I have to be sure, so I touch his shoulder. The fragmental enters and immediately returns. The orderly is ignorant of my fugitive status.

“Nothing too important, Pete.” I have met him once before, some six months ago when they hired him and introduced him to the staff. A college pre-med from Case Western. “I came to get Joanna Prall.”

“Huh?”

“Didn’t Dr. Hollis tell you? I am taking her to my private clinic for further evaluation.”

“At this time of night?”

“Strange, I know. But this is the first break that I have had all night. I get too busy sometimes. She won’t mind the time.”

“She’s completely catatonic. How’s she’s supposed to mind?”

I smile indulgently. “Find a release form for me to sign while I get her, okay?”

He nods and I pass through the door into the hall beyond. It has occurred to me that the police might very well be on their way here. This idea does not disturb me so much as the possibility that a fragmental of the enemy might be in one of those uniforms. Speed is of the essence and I do not have any time to chat.

Joanna’s room is 316. I open the door and find her lying on her back in the bed with a sheet drawn up over her. I remember that she is the type to curl when asleep, but even that instinct is gone.

My fragmental animates her and she stands. Together we search her room and find her clothes in the chest of drawers. The hospital staff prefers jogging sweats for their catatonic patients because they are so much easier to get on than tighter-fitting clothes. Joanna peels off her diaper and we look for underwear. There is none. No panties, no bra. She pulls on the sweat pants, a dark tee shirt, some socks, and slip-on shoes. There is a picture of her family on a shelf. I look at it briefly; a blonde girl sitting in front of her father. She looks about twelve years old at the time.

We leave, Joanna acting catatonic as I slowly guide her down the hall. The orderly is talking on the phone and looks up as we walk in.

“Dr. Barash, I couldn’t find any release forms and so I called Mrs. Foster.” He holds the phone out towards me. “She wants to talk to you.”

A momentary flash of anger surfaces. I quickly put it away. I only permit anger when my moral sense is aroused. Frustration is more difficult to cast aside and I struggle to not grind my teeth. I smile at the confused young man and take the phone.

“Yes, Mrs. Foster.”

“What are you doing, Dr. Barash?” Her voice does not sound the least bit sleepy. A television drones on in the background. “Pete says that you are taking Joanna Prall out of the hospital.”

“Yes.”

“At this time of night?”

“Yes.” My mind races to find a lie that will convince this good woman to relent.

“And why are you on the news?” she says. Her voice sounds puzzled.

I look at my watch. A few minutes after eleven. I am on the nightly news. Though curious to know what they are saying, I realize that the trap is closing in. Mrs. Foster runs her floor like a queen. I may be a psychiatrist, but her patients always come first. She will never let me leave.

Placing the phone in its cradle, I touch Pete.

“Pete, she said that it was okay for me to leave,” I say. “Will you please help me take Joanna to the car?”

The fragmental inside Pete soothes his suspicions and he nods with a smile of confidence. We walk to the stairs and behind us the telephone rings twice before it is picked up. I know that Jerry the guard, acting as switchboard, has answered it. That will stall her for a while.

We stop on the second-floor landing. There are so many people I want say goodbye to and will miss, but I cannot leave without seeing Mary and Jane one more time.

“Pete, please take Joanna to my car,” I say. “I will be along in a moment.”

The second-floor orderly is asleep. A skinny woman with nicotine stains on her left forefinger and thumb. I touch her and leave a fragmental to keep her asleep. A rising full moon is shining directly through the window at the end of the hall and I walk down a lane of milky light. The last door on the right is slightly ajar. I push it open.

One double bed with two sleeping forms. On the right is an empty wheelchair. Even without the wheelchair, I could tell that Jane is on the right side. Her stiff body occasionally twitches. Fifty-seven years old, Jane is Parkinsonian, with compulsive tics and a rigid left side. She is confined to a wheelchair. Her voice is so slurred that only Mary can understand her.

Mary sleeps on the left, snoring slightly. Sixty years old and severely mentally retarded, Mary provides the body to propel Jane about, while Jane provides the mind. Together in a symbiotic relationship, they form a whole. I love these two women for their innate goodness and for the way that they strive to overcome their handicaps to create a coherent sense of self. In this case, the self is a merging of two. I have seen how their example positively motivates other patients to strive. It is in striving that we find our humanity. It is in striving that I find my own humanity, though at times I must confront the fact that in so many ways I am not a normal human; I am multiple, not single.

I long to touch them, and visit one last time. I know that I will find their night thoughts: simple dreams. Jane is running through a meadow, her legs strong, her body a source of pleasure and freedom. Mary is there running alongside her. The bright sun makes the world seem clean. Mary also dreams, but she has never known a meadow, only the hospital. They sit in the common room, playing checkers with any challenger, moving the pieces at the behest of Jane. And winning every game. This dream is also the reality of their lives. Fortunately, there are patients who doggedly return again and again, driven by the hope that they might actually win a single game against the formidable duo. I have lost every game that I have ventured to play with them. These familiar dreams, or variations of the same themes, will be all I will find. And while I find comfort in them, I decide not to touch them. Time is pressing, and why prolong the misery of departure? Taking one last look, I leave the sleeping counterparts.

After retrieving my fragmental from the sleeping orderly, I hurry downstairs and find that Pete has already put Joanna in the front seat of my car, and now waits patiently. “You can go back to your station,” I say as I touch him.

He blinks as my fragmental leaves him, and sways a bit before looking at me with puzzlement. He mumbles some parting words and wanders back into the building.

Jerry meets us at the gate as we are leaving. I touch the guard, and my fragmental returns, reintegrating into a greater whole. While waiting for me to retrieve Joanna, my fragmental had been mulling over the implications of the police calling Jerry and the phone call with Mrs. Foster. He had told her that he, as the guard, was already in contact with the police and that Dr. Barash was wanted for questioning for something. He would take care of it. That ought to satisfy her for a few hours.

The dead man in my office must be Bill. No doubt the police thought me responsible for the death of a United States senator, yet my blow was not strong enough to have halted the biological processes that gave the body life. Though its host was injured, the enemy must truly fear me to so casually abandon such a plum. But, of course, it could so easily take over another politician, and maybe already had. After all, I can fragment, so why cannot it do the same? It probably has a fragmental in one of the police officers, or maybe even in a half a dozen officers, goading them into a frenzied search for me.