On a Beam of Light (2 page)

“It was pointing toward K-PAX at the time?”

“Gino! You’re finally getting it!”

“Tell me something. How do you breathe in outer space?”

He wagged his head. “I guess I spoke too soon. You still don’t understand. The usual physical rules don’t apply to light-travel. “

“Well, what’s it like? Are you awake? Do you feel anything?”

His fingertips came together and he frowned in concentration. “It’s difficult to describe. Time seems to stand still. It’s rather like a dream…. “

“And when you ‘land’?”

“It’s like waking up. Only you’re somewhere else. “

“It must be quite an awakening, finding yourself in the middle of an ocean. Can you swim?”

“Not a stroke. As soon as I bobbed up I got right out of there. “

“How?”

He sighed. “I told you on my last visit, remember? It’s done with mirrors…. “

“Oh. Right. And where else did you go before you came here?”

“Nowhere. Came straight home to mpi. “

“Well, are you planning any excursions away from the hospital while you’re here?”

“Not at the moment. “

“If you do decide to take any side trips will you be sure to let me know?”

“Don’t I always?”

“That reminds me—did Robert go with you on your trip to Labrador and Newfoundland the last time you were here?”

“Nope. “

“Why not?”

“He didn’t want to. “

“We never saw him during the few days you were gone. Where was he?”

“No idea, coach. You’ll have to ask him. “

“Second: You’re not planning any ‘tasks’ for the other patients (as he did for Howie, the violinist, five years ago), are you?”

“Gene, gene, gene. I just got here. I haven’t even met any of the patients yet.”

“But you’ll tell me if you come up with any such plans?”

“Why not?”

“Good. And finally, are there any more little surprises you’re not telling me about?”

“If I told you, they wouldn’t be surprises, would they?”

I glared at him. “Prot—where is Robert?”

“Not far away. “

“Have you spoken with him?”

“Of course. “

“How is he feeling?”

“Like a sack of mot excrement. ” Note: A “mot” is a skunklike animal found on K-PAX.

“Did he say anything you’d like to tell me about?”

“He wanted to know what happened to the dog. ” He meant the dalmatian I had brought in, hoping to induce the catatonic Robert to respond to it.

“Tell him I took Oxeye home until he felt well enough to take care of him. “

“Ah. Your famous carrot-and-stick routine.”

“You could call it that. All right. This is my last question for today, but I want you to think about it before you answer. ” He broke into another gigantic yawn.

“While you’re here, will you help me make Robert feel better? Will you help him deal with his feelings of worthlessness and despair?”

“I’ll do what I can. But you know how he is. “

“Good. That’s all anyone can do. Now—any objection to my trying hypnosis again during our next session?”

“You never give up, do you, doc?”

“We try not to. ” I stood up. “Thank you for coming in, prot. It’s good to see you again. ” I went over and shook his hand. If he was still weak it didn’t show in his handshake. “Shall I call Mr. Kowalski, or can you find your way back to your room?”

“It’s not that difficult, gino. “

“We’ll move you back to Ward Two tomorrow. “

“Good old ward two. “

“See you Wednesday. “

He threw me a backward wave as he shuffled out.

After prot had gone I listened, with mixed feelings of excitement and trepidation, to the tape of this brief session. Given enough time I was sure I could help Robert overcome the barriers blocking his recovery. But how much time would we have? In 1990 we were faced with a deadline that forced me to take chances, to hurry things too much. Now I was confronted with an even worse dilemma: I hadn’t the slightest idea how long prot would be around.

The only clue I had was his passive response to my suggestion of thrice-weekly sessions. If he were planning to leave within a few days he would undoubtedly have responded with, “They’d better be productive!” or some such remark. But I could be wrong about that, as I have been about so many things where prot was concerned.

In any case three weekly sessions were all I could manage. Though I wouldn’t be teaching during the fall term, there were other unavoidable responsibilities, not the least of which were my other patients, all difficult and puzzling cases, each deserving of my best efforts. One of these was a young woman I call Frankie (after the old song “Frankie and Johnny Were Lovers”), who is not only unable to love another human being but doesn’t even understand the concept. Another was Bert, a loan officer at a bank, who spends all his waking hours searching for something he has lost, though he hasn’t a clue as to what it is.

But back to prot. During the previous five years there had been ample opportunity to discuss his case with colleagues, both at MPI and around the world. There were no end of suggestions about how to deal with my problem patient. For example, one doctor from a former Soviet state assured me that Robert would be quickly cured by immersing him in ice water for several hours a day, a useless and inhumane practice that became obsolete decades ago. The consensus, however, was that hypnosis was still probably the best approach for Robert/prot, and I planned to begin essentially where I had left off in 1990. That is, to try to coax Robert out of his protective shell so I could help him deal with his devastating feelings about the tragic events of 1985.

In this effort I badly needed prot’s help. Without it, I felt the chances for recovery were sum. Thus, I was faced with another quandary: If Robert were to get well, prot would have to “dissolve” into, and become part of, his personality. How willing would he be to play a role in Robert’s treatment and recovery if it came about at the expense of his own existence?

On Friday, the day after prot’s return, I had called Giselle Griffin, the reporter who had been so instrumental in tracking down Robert’s origins, to tell her he was back. She had come in regularly since prot’s departure five years ago, ostensibly to check on Robert’s progress, but secretly, I think, hoping to find that prot had returned, for she had fallen in love with him during the months she had spent at the hospital researching his story for Conundrum magazine. Of course she was often traveling far and wide, her most recent project (possibly anticipating prot’s return) being an article on UFO’s, which have been sighted almost everywhere. Nevertheless, she always left a beeper number and made it clear that she wanted to be informed of any change in Robert’s condition.

She was very excited to hear about prot’s reappearance and said she would be there “ASAP. ” I requested, however, that she not come to see him until he had recovered from his “journey” (i. e., the catatonia) and I had had a chance to speak with him, assuring her, perhaps erroneously, that there would be plenty of time to get reacquainted when he was stronger.

After the session with prot I phoned her again or, more accurately, left a message that she could call and set up an appointment to see him. After that I dictated a letter to Robert’s mother in Hawaii, advising her that her son was no longer catatonic, but suggesting she also not visit until things were more certain. Then I toured the lower wards, intending to inform all the residents who were interested that prot was back, to pave the way for his return to Ward Two the following day.

The institute is structured so that the most seriously ill or dangerous patients occupy the top floors, while the least afflicted roam the first and second (Wards One and Two). Ward One, in fact, is primarily a temporary home for certain transient patients who come in periodically for a “tune-up, ” usually an adjustment in their medication, and for those who have made substantial progress toward recovery and are nearly ready for discharge. Prot was about to rejoin the inhabitants of Two, patients suffering serious psychoses ranging from manic depression to acute obsessive-compulsive disorder, but who are not a menace to the staff or each other.

I needn’t have bothered. It was obvious from the moment I entered the ward that everyone already knew about prot’s return. A psychiatric hospital is similar to a small town in some ways—news travels fast, and moods seem almost communicable. On this, the day before prot was to take up residence among them, the atmosphere was virtually electric with anticipation. Even some of the severe depressives greeted me relatively cheerfully, and a chronic schizophrenic, who hadn’t uttered an intelligible sentence in months, inquired, I believe, after my health. And most of these patients, except for Russell and a few others, had never even met him.

Giselle showed up at my office on Tuesday morning, sans appointment, as I expected. I had not seen her for several weeks, but I had not forgotten her piney fragrance, the doelike eyes.

She was dressed, as always, in an old shirt, faded jeans, and running shoes with no socks. Though pushing forty, she still looked like a kid—a sixteen-year-old girl with crow’s-feet. Yet, there was something different about her. She was not so ebullient as she was five years ago. Gone was the coy smile I had once mistaken for coquettishness but which I had learned was a part of her truly ingenuous nature. Instead, she seemed uncharacteristically nervous. It occurred to me that she might be apprehensive about meeting prot again, distressed, I supposed, that he might have changed, or perhaps had even forgotten her.

“Don’t worry, ” I reassured her. “He’s exactly the same. “

She nodded, but the distant look in those big brown eyes suggested she hadn’t heard me.

“Tell me what you’ve been up to the last couple of months. “

Her eyes suddenly came into focus. “Oh. I’m almost finished with the piece on UFO’s. That’s why I haven’t been around for a while. “

“Good. Are they real or—”

“Depends on who you talk to. “

“What if you talked to yourself?”

“I’d say no. But there are plenty of sane, normal people who would disagree. “

“Yet you believe that prot came from K-PAX. “

“Yes, but he didn’t come in a UFO. “

“Ah. ” I waited, which seemed to make her nervous again.

“Dr. Brewer?”

I was pretty sure I knew what was coming. “Yes, Giselle?”

“I’d like to come back to the hospital for a while. I want to find out what he really knows. “

“About UFO’s?”

“About everything. I want to write a book about it. “

“Giselle, you know a psychiatric hospital isn’t grist for the public mill. The only reason I let you work here the last time is that you performed a valuable service for us. “

“But I would be performing another valuable service this time, one that might benefit everyone. ” She curled up in the black vinyl chair across from my desk. “You’re probably going to write another book about him as a patient, right? Mine will be different. I want to find out everything he knows, catalog it, check it all out, and see what the world can learn from his knowledge. Which you’ll have to admit is pretty remarkable, whether you believe he comes from K-PAX or not. ” She bowed her head for a moment, then looked up at me with those pleading doe eyes. “I won’t be in the way, I promise. “

I wasn’t convinced of that. But I wasn’t so sure her proposal was such a bad idea, either. I knew she could be of considerable help in my dealings with prot (and later, perhaps, with Robert). “I’ll tell you what. You can do it under two conditions. “

She abruptly uncoiled and sat facing me like a puppy waiting for a treat.

“First, you can only interview him for an hour a day. Despite your feelings about prot, he’s not here to help you write a book. “

She nodded.

“And second, you’ll have to have his consent. If he isn’t interested in cooperating with you, that’s the end of it. “

“I agree. But if he doesn’t like the idea, I can still visit him, can’t I?”

“During regular visiting hours and under the usual conditions. “

She knew, of course, that our rules were liberal, and she could talk with him most evenings and on weekends (inasmuch as reporters and curiosity seekers were screened out, it was unlikely that he would have many other visitors). “Done!” She jumped up and extended a tiny hand, which I took. “Now can I see him?”

“One more thing, ” I added as we headed (Giselle skipped) for Ward Two. “See if you can find out when he’s leaving. “

Her face fell. “He’s leaving?”

“Don’t worry—it won’t be for a while. And when he does, he’s going to take a few people back with him. “

“He is? Who?”

“That’s what I’d like you to find out. “

When we got to Two, we found prot in the lounge surrounded by several of the other patients, all of whom seemed to be talking at once. The ward’s half-dozen cats were competing for space to rub against his legs. Rudolph, the self-proclaimed “greatest dancer in the universe, ” was pirouetting around the room. Russell was running back and forth crying, “Praise the Lord! The Teacher is at hand!”

Milton, our peripatetic jokester, shouted, “Chairs for the standing army!” Others were mumbling incomprehensibly, and I made a mental note to ask prot later whether he could understand any of their parlance. There were presents, too: peanut butter and fruit (known from his previous visit to be favorites of his), and the gossamer thread, an invisible talisman left on the lawn one drizzly day five years earlier by “the bluebird of happiness. “

When he saw Giselle he broke away from the group and approached her with arms outstretched. He hugged her warmly and then stepped back and gazed silently into her eyes. Prot obviously remembered her, and fondly.

Having other duties to perform, I left them alone and hurried to meet with my first patient of the day.

When I got to my examining room I found that Messrs. Rodrigo and Kowalski were waiting outside with Michael, a twenty-two-year-old male Caucasian who had tried to kill himself on at least three occasions before coming to MPI. He’s not the only one. Suicide rates in the United States, and many other countries, have increased dramatically over the past several years, particularly among the young, and nobody seems to have a good explanation for this tragic phenomenon. There are many reasons why a person might try to take his own life—grief, stress, general depression, failure of one’s expectations, feelings of hopelessness—but none of these in itself is the root cause of a suicidal tendency (most grieving and depressed people do not attempt to end their lives). As with all medical problems, each case has to be treated individually. The therapist must try to determine the reason for the patient’s self-destructive feelings and help him deal with them by proposing more reasonable solutions to the problems causing his suffering.