Mind Over Mind (8 page)

CHAPTER 10

For the next week, Joshua took his parents’ advice, laying low and observing Dr. Malachai with the same intensity he’d give a new client. He noted his eye movements and listened to his speech patterns, trying to determine his cognitive orientation. He listened to how things were presented to the senior psychiatrist—what approaches worked for whom. Above all, he paid close yet emotionally distant attention to how Malachai treated him: How did Malachai view him and his role, and where and how far would he let Joshua stretch that role?

In the meantime, he finished his orientation with the facility, having shadowed each psychiatrist and spending time with aides and specialists. Sometimes, it was a challenge just to sit quietly and learn. On Thursday, he was invited to witness a “rebirth therapy,” where the client was made to re-enact his own birth—a radical New Age therapy he would never have expected in so conservative an institution. He sat behind a one-way mirror with half a dozen other interested people, including a reporter doing an article for the local newspaper. After half an hour of watching the client try to wriggle his way out of a blanket (the womb) while the therapist alternately pushed on him with pillows and urged him to keep trying, he wondered aloud when they would call in the surgical team for Cesarean section, sending the entire room into laughter. Fortunately, the room was soundproofed, and the reporter was gracious enough to promise not to print the comment, but he was sure his remark would make its way back to Malachai.

Later that day, while shadowing the art therapy specialist, he got a chance to talk to Ydrel. He saw the young client at an easel, putting the finishing touches on a kind of dinosaur-lizard with wings. Like his sketches of Tasmae, it was detailed and amazingly lifelike. “That’s really good,” he ventured when Ydrel stopped to clean his brush before changing colors.

“It’s an everyn.”

“You mean wyvern?”

Ydrel gave him a don’t-be-stupid look. “Does it look like a wyvern? It’s an everyn. Tasmae showed me one last night. They’re using it for reconnaissance.”

“Oh.” Joshua decided to let it pass for now. “So how’s ol’ She-Who anyway?”

“Sheehoo?”

“Yeah. She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed?”

Ydrel grinned. “She’d probably hate that, though she’d probably agree.”

“Then she’s got a lot in common with my mom. So? Is she sticking to your deal?”

“Yeah.” Ydrel sighed.

“What’s the matter? Miss passing out in your oatmeal?”

“Of course not. It’s just that before, she’d ask me a question, I’d do some research and give her an answer, and that was it. Kind of memorize and dump, you know? Now, I have to give these endless explanations: What’s this mean? How’s that work? I didn’t even realize that I’d been giving technological answers to a non-technological society this whole time. How do I explain a satellite when they don’t even have light bulbs? It’s a wonder they’ve accomplished as much with what I’ve given them as they have. Tasmae has this incredible imagination. Now, though, she wants direct answers, and I can’t give them. Not to mention there’s so much about her world I can’t figure out.”

“What do you mean? I’d think it’d be easy to figure out her world if we’re so much more advanced.”

Ydrel grunted and turned to a page in his sketchbook. In it was a long list of questions. “It’s not just her world, it’s the world she’s fighting—Barin. If they’re so advanced—and they have space travel—why haven’t they wiped her people out by now?” He started to hand Joshua the pad, then pulled back. “This is between you and me. If one of the psychs sees this, I don’t even want to think about what wild assumptions they’d make.”

Joshua crossed his arms and thought for a moment. He couldn’t make that promise. Nonetheless, he needed to build some trust if he was to help Ydrel; besides, he was curious. “Listen, I’m just an intern. I can’t go guaranteeing confidentiality as if you were my patient. I can do this much: If there’s anything in there that indicates you’re a danger to yourself or someone else or that you are indeed on the path to true Looneyville, I have to tell someone. But I’d tell Edith first, in confidence, and let her decide what to do. Good enough?”

“I guess that’s the best you can do.” He handed him the book and Joshua scanned the questions:

Why do the Barins have spaceships, but use shotguns and rifles and swords?

Why do their guns only fire once, and never work again?

What do the Barins want with Kanaan?

Why does the Season of War increase each year?

Why do earthquakes, tidal waves, other weather-related disasters precede the Season of War?

“Weird,” was all he could say as he handed the book back. “She’s asking you these?”

“No, these are the things I don’t understand, and to her, it’s just the way it’s always been. But I can’t help feeling they’re important. I—” He shrugged. “Maybe I shouldn’t say any more. I don’t want to be accused of heading to Looneyville.” He turned back to his painting. “Just pretend I’m writing a story or something. By the way, any ideas on achieving my eventual release?”

“Actually, I have, if you’re willing to put in some work. I need to talk to Edith and Dr. Malachai, but—”

An orderly—Floyd, Joshua remembered; he’d talked with him the day before— interrupted. “Mr. Stephens? You have a visitor. Says he’s an old friend of your mother’s. I’m to escort you to the front desk so you can identify him.”

The look on Ydrel’s face said he had no idea who the visitor might be, much less why he’d come visiting after so many years, but he stuck his brushes in a can of paint thinner and wiped his hands. “Well, let’s go then. We still on for Frisbee, Josh? I can’t imagine this taking long.”

“I’ll catch you after lunch.”

_*

After lunch, Joshua found him outside at one of the umbrella tables still with his visitor, a lawyer or business-type from the suit. They were leaned together. Ydrel was writing something in one of those leather-bound legal-sized folders, after which the man gave him the yellow copy and put the rest in his briefcase. Ydrel put his paper into his sketchbook. Joshua waited until he’d left, accompanied by Floyd, before approaching Ydrel.

He sat down across from the young man, who was leaning on the table, one arm protectively over his sketchbook, an iced tea in the other hand. “So, who was that?”

“An old client of my mother’s. He followed her advice and made a fortune, and he finally came back to thank her, found out what happened and decided the least he could do was look me up instead.”

“Uh, huh,” Joshua replied skeptically. Although Ydrel spoke easily, the movements of his eyes were wrong. “Listen, you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine, but just tell me it’s none of my business and change the subject, OK?”

Ydrel blinked, then scowled. “Fine. It’s none of your business. What’s going on with you and Sachiko, anyway?”

“You really change a subject. Really, um, nothing that I know of.”

Ydrel snorted. “Well, what
I
know of is that whenever the two of you are together, you pussyfoot around each other like you expect the other to explode, and when you’re apart, you’re brooding over the other. No one else may notice, but you’re making my brain itch. Whatever is going on, would the two of you just apologize and get over it?”

“She doesn’t have any reason to apologize. I was the idiot.”

“Fine. Tell her, not me. But do it soon, before I get a full-blown migraine. Hey, I asked Edith about setting up a Frisbee golf course. She said she’d ask you about what we’d need.”

“Really?”

Ydrel shrugged. “Yeah, really. She just wants me to be happy.”

“And Dr. Malachai?”

“He wants to keep me here. If I can amuse myself, it’s that much easier to control me.”

_*

Ydrel closed his drapes. The “bugs” in his room were still active, so he was careful not to make a sound when he shut the door and braced a chair under the doorknob. He pulled out the yellow legal papers Bill Masterson had given him, then folded them carefully until he had a small yellow rectangle. Using the mending kit Floyd had found for him, he pulled out the stitching in Descartes’ side, slid the papers in, and sewed it back up. Then he hugged the ragged bear with a feeling of triumph.

Mine Mine Mine!
He could have jumped for joy. His mother had left him a sizable trust fund when she’d died, one that was to be turned over to him when he turned eighteen. Of course, that was before all of the
(say it, Ydrel!)
insanity that brought him here. Since then, his uncle (acting as legal guardian) had been tapping into the account to pay Ydrel’s “medical” expenses, but he’d never made any changes to ensure Ydrel couldn’t access the account. Perhaps he hadn’t expected Ydrel to be committed for so long, or maybe he didn’t consider it an issue. After all, Ydrel was a teenager—and crazy, to boot. What could he possibly do from inside an asylum?

Very little, actually—except for saving the life of a Mafia accountant. “Masterson” had been committed for paranoia after he’d stormed the regional FBI office insisting that the Mob was after him. Only Ydrel had believed him. When the hitmen tried to reach Masterson in the asylum, Ydrel had made certain that they would fail.

The accountant had mostly gone straight, but he still wasn’t above a few tricks. Masterson secured a numbered bank account, and now that Ydrel had turned eighteen, all the funds from Ydrel’s trust had been transferred to that account, leaving just enough to pay for a few months at the asylum. He’d even arranged to have the bank statements sent to a phony address.

Ydrel closed his eyes. He could still see the dollar amount typed on those yellow papers. He could live comfortably on his own for quite a while. Now he just had to find a way to get out, and soon, before the money left in his trust ran out, or his uncle wondered about the statements.

Ydrel put the chair back in its proper place, then curled up on the bed. After going to all the trouble of making it look like he was napping, he might as well actually get some rest. As he set Descartes down in his usual spot and closed his eyes, Ydrel had one fleeting, disturbing thought.

How had Josh known he was lying?

CHAPTER 11

Joshua knocked on the door of the nurse’s lounge with a certain amount of déjà vu. Once again, Sachiko was eating dinner alone and poring over her medical text. Once again, he was feeling just a little nervous, though for a completely different reason.

“Uh, Sachiko..?”

She spun around and got to her feet. “Joshua!” Her smile was hesitant but not unwelcoming, so he went in. They stood face to face, yet not quite looking at each other, and their words tumbled over the other’s:

“Listen, I don’t mean to interrupt, but—”

“I was hoping I could talk to you sometime—”

“I just wanted to apolo—”

“I’m sorry about—”

They both stopped and laughed, and Joshua felt the tension drain away. “I think this is really a case where the guy goes first.” As she crossed her arms and waved one hand for him to proceed, she gave him an amused half-smile that made his heart beat a little faster.

“I’m really sorry about the other evening. My pride was hurt, I was mad, and even though I said I was looking for advice, I guess I mostly wanted to gripe. It wasn’t fair of me—we just met and all, and I put you in a bad position because I was looking for some sympathy. Then when you gave me sound advice, I got mad because it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. Anyway, I was really out of line, and I apologize.”

“Accepted. I’m sorry, too. I knew you were upset; I could have been more diplomatic, at least. My only excuse is this dang class. It already has me in a bad mood. You’re not the first who’s had a bad experience with Dr. Malachai. You find a way to cope, or you leave.”

“So you had problems with him, too?”

She shrugged. “We have a good working relationship now.” But she looked away, frowning.

“Something wrong?”

“It’s nothing.” But when he tried to meet her eyes, she continued, “I just strained a muscle or something this afternoon.”

“Well, here,” he turned a chair around so she could sit in it with her arms draped across the back. “Sit down and let me see if I can help. C’mon. Consider it part of my apology.” After she sat, leaning forward on the cushioned back and burying her face into crossed arms, he gave her a massage, starting just below the hairline, then working down over her neck and shoulders. “So what were you doing to pull your back?’

“Lifting Mr. Goldstein into bed. Used to do that stuff all the time when I worked at South County, but I guess I lost the knack.”

“Mr. Goldstein? Isn’t he the gentleman Ydrel hangs around with? Pretends he’s in the resistance with him?”

She hummed assent. He worked her shoulders gently, then with growing strength as he felt her tension melting away. “He’s taken a turn for the worse, physically. I don’t think he’ll be with us much longer. He really ought to be in a nursing home, not a mental institution. Have you had training at this?”

“Nope. It’s kind of a choir-drama thing. You know, someone’s always giving someone a backstage backrub before a performance. You just pick things up. I’m not licensed or anything.”

“Hmmm.” She sighed and sank a little deeper into the chair. “Well, you should get licensed,” she murmured. “Those hands are too skilled to be legal.”

“Thank you,” he said in a low, deep voice, “I aim to please.” He felt some of the tension returning to her back. He wanted to say something to reassure her, but he didn’t know what to say. So he stayed silent, letting his hands move up to her neck. Her hair was caught in a bun, and he had to resist the urge to undo it. He knew it would feel as silky as it looked.

“So,” she asked with a chuckle. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

He worked a knot he found under her shoulder blade. “I can’t diagram a sentence. I can’t speak French with a proper accent. I can’t make my checkbook agree with the bank statement—“

“You been asked this before?”

“A time or two…I can’t swim.”

“You can’t?!”

“Sink like a stone. Feel better?”

She stretched and stood. “Terrific. What do I owe you?”

How about we do this again at my place?
He quickly banished the thought. How much trouble had that line of thinking gotten him into last year?
This summer is all about work and the audition. Head in the game, Josh!

Fortunately, her walkie-talkie beeped, saving him from answering her. She sighed. “I’d better get back. Somebody needs a nurse, and even if Monique answers before me, I’ll need to man the nurses’ station.”

“I’m sorry—I mean, you didn’t even finish dinner.”

“Don’t worry. I feel much better. I can always finish this at my desk. But you—” She flung her backpack over her shoulder, then turned to poke him in the chest. “You should be out having fun, meeting people and making the most of your summer. Got it? Go to Newport. There’s always a festival or something going on there.”

Without waiting for an answer, she left.

“Festival. Right.” Music, food. Beautiful women he’d want to dance with. That was the last thing he needed.

With a sigh, he headed back to the office. He’d read another case study, then go home and take a cold, cold shower before hitting the sack. He’d promised his parents. He’d promised Mommarosa—
ora et labora
. Pray and work. He promised Rique and the guys—no distractions. Even if she was someone he thought he could talk to all day and kiss all night.

You just had to touch her, didn’t you, Joshua?