Taking Stock (26 page)

At first, I was convinced that everyone I’ve ever known secretly hates me, and is working to make sure I’m stuck in this psych ward forever. A lot of the people I see look very familiar—patients, nurses, doctors, visitors. One woman resembles one of my seventh-grade teachers, and I wonder if it really is her, in disguise. Another woman resembles my deceased grandmother. Did she really die, or did she just pretend, so she wouldn’t have to see me anymore?

I include Sam in this—he drove me here, after all. He’s probably done with me. Just wants to make sure I stay put. Once and for all.

And where’s Gilbert? I try to call him every day. I feel like it’s important that I reach him.

For a few days, I believed I was the star of a reality TV show. The most popular one in history. Incredible ratings. Viewers on the edge of their couches—amused and enthralled by my suffering.

But now, I’ve concluded that I’m really in Hell. Not the fire-and-brimstone Hell you’ve heard about. Hell is nothing like that, it turns out.

Hell is a place where you hurt the people you love, without meaning to.

I realized yesterday that I’ve been in Hell for a long time, without knowing. As for how long, exactly, I believe there are two possibilities.

One is that I got here a year ago, when I tried to commit suicide. Except, I really did succeed in killing myself. My memory was simply altered, so I believed that I was still alive.

The second is that I’ve been in Hell all my life. I lived a life before this in which I sinned a lot, and now I’m paying for it, by spending a second lifetime in Hell.

If the first possibility is true, then I assume Sam is Satan. He’s the one who escorted me into Hell, after all—by ‘saving’ me from hanging. Plus, the names are sort of similar.

If the second possibility is true, then a patient named Lou must be Satan. It’s pretty conspicuous, actually—Lou could be short for Lucifer. Also, he keeps challenging me to play chess. I think he wants to play for my soul.

As for how I feel about all this, I guess I’m taking it in stride. Or rather, I’ve grown accustomed to the fear that’s been with me since I found myself walking alone on the side of the road. Becoming accustomed to fear is a lot like being calm. Other than the jitters, and the jumping at every sound, and the wide eyes I see every time I look in a mirror.

At any rate, I’m certain I deserve everything that’s happening to me.

On my fourth day, I’m visited by Paul and Cassandra. They’re a couple, now.

“Your belly’s big,” I say.

“Your hair is all gone,” she says.

Cassandra knew I was here, because I sent her an email and told her. Patients are allowed access to the internet between 1 and 2 PM, in the Occupational Therapy room.

They do most of the talking. Sam says I’ve barely said anything since I was admitted. Cassandra tells me a publisher accepted Paul’s novel, and they’re even paying him a small advance. (Now that’s the kind of irony you’d expect in Hell.) Apparently his editor thinks Paul really captured the ‘zeitgeist’, and predicts the book will sell well.

“Why did you ask Cassandra to come here, Sheldon?” Paul says.

I hesitate. “I just wanted—I want to—”

‘Apologize’ is the word that’s sitting in my brain, waiting to be said. But what am I supposed to be apologizing for? I know there’s something.

“I think I figured something out,” I say to them instead. “I think that marijuana was my personal forbidden fruit.” Their faces are blank. “I wasn’t supposed to smoke it. See? Smoking it put me here, and in here, I have knowledge of good and evil.”

I take a breath, and go on: “I now know that in order to live, you have to kill. You know what I mean? You have to kill, or someone has to do your killing for you. Life consumes life. The symbol for eternity is a snake eating its own tail. And a snake told Eve to eat the apple. But the Bible doesn’t even mention an apple. I googled it this morning, and in certain texts that apple is referred to as fruit from a ‘forbidden tree.’ So why not a forbidden plant—that is to say, pot?”

Paul seems angry, now. “Pot isn’t why you’re here, Sheldon. It’s not what caused your brain to break.”

“Paul,” Cassandra says.

“What do you mean?” I say, slowly.

“What do you remember from Friday night?” Paul says. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Stop it, Paul,” Cassandra says. “The doctors told us—”

“What are you talking about?” I say.

But Paul is silent. He glares at the wall, and Cassandra avoids my gaze, too.

“How is Matt?” I say.

They look at each other.

“Matt was arrested,” Cassandra says.

“What?” I say. “Why?”

“He attacked Eric with a knife from the Meat room. Eric managed to get it away from him, and then called the police.”

“I always thought he was a little off,” Paul says.

“Didn’t Matt say why he did it?”

Cassandra shakes her head.

“Eric sexually abuses Matt. That’s why he attacked him. Eric threatens to hurt his family if he tells.”

Paul stands up. “Come on, Cassandra. I’ve had enough.”

I stand, too. “You have to believe me. Please.”

Paul puts his hand up. “Back off, Sheldon. Don’t contact us again.”

They walk toward the door.

“Wait,” I say. “Have you been talking to Gilbert?”

“No one has,” Paul says. And they leave.

*

Later, a nurse finds me in the common area and says there’s someone here to see me. She leads me through a couple doors that she has to open with a key. She holds them for me and watches as I pass. I’ve noticed that the nurses never turn their backs to me.

She brings me to a room with a long table, and closes the door once I’m inside. I hear her lock it.

There’s a police officer standing with his hand on the back of one of the chairs. A doctor is sitting at the head of the table—she’s the one who admitted me.

“Hi Sheldon. I’m Officer Benson. Have a seat.”

I sit. He sits across from me.

“I have a few questions for you.”

I look at him in silence.

He clears his throat. “Are you acquainted with Gilbert Ryan?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know his whereabouts?”

“No. Do you? I’ve been trying—”

“I don’t. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“Okay.”

“Are you acquainted with a young man—younger than you and Mr. Ryan—named Leonard Reynolds?”

“No. Who is that?”

“Where were you on July 13th, at 2:32 in the morning?”

I consider this. “I can’t remember exact times,” I say. “I was either at a party or in Gilbert’s car.”

“Were you intoxicated?”

“Yes.”

“Was Mr. Ryan?”

I don’t say anything.

“It’s a crime to lie to a law officer, Sheldon. Was Mr. Ryan intoxicated?”

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want,” the doctor says.

I hesitate. “He was drunk,” I say.

“What happened during your car ride?” Officer Benson asks.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t remember?”

“I was in the car, and then I was walking on the side of the road. I don’t remember what happened in between.”

“So, you claim to have localized amnesia.”

For a few seconds, Officer Benson looks at me, and I look at Officer Benson. Then he stands up. “Thank you for your time. Another officer may come by another day, for another chat.”

“Do you know what happened?” I say.

The doctor clears her throat, and they exchange glances.

“I’m afraid I can’t talk to you about that,” Officer Benson says.

He leaves.

*

I ask Sam who Leonard Reynolds is, and he looks at me without speaking for a while.

Then he asks where I heard that name. I tell him about the visit from the police officer, and his lips get tight, and he marches down the hall toward the Nurses Station. I watch him make sweeping gestures with his hands, and I can hear him shouting. I can’t make out the words, though.

I go into the TV room, and Lou is there, watching some cooking show. The chef is processing lean cuts in a blender.

“Have a seat,” Lou says.

I remain standing.

The chef pours the meat mush onto a countertop and uses cookie cutters to make little shapes. He places these on a cookie tray, and slides them into an oven. 40 minutes pass in a matter of seconds, and he takes out the meat shapes.

“Delicious meat cookies!” the chef says. He puts on some sprinkles. They look just like regular cookies.

Lou glances at me, and grins. “Look good, don’t they?”

He changes the channel. A TV preacher appears, staring me right in the eyes.

He’s saying, “The Christian person’s job is to spread God’s message as effectively as we can. But we have our work cut out for us. It’s almost impossible to transfer an idea perfectly from one mind to another. Language is not sufficient.”

Lou turns off the TV. “You know,” he says, “I’m all religions. Christian, Muslim, Buddhist. Atheist, even. I’m whatever I need to be.”

I don’t say anything.

The preacher is right. Words don’t mean what I thought they meant. They’re like simple tools I’ve forgotten how to use.

Sam is returning from the Nurses Station as I leave the TV room. He’s red in the face.

“Sam?” I say. “What are my shoes made of?”

“Leather.”

“I know, but—leather from what animal?”

“Cows.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know for sure?”

“What else would they be made from? Come with me, Sheldon. I brought you something.”

We go to my room, and he takes out the framed photo that I keep on my bedside table at home. It’s a picture of Mom and me. He places it on the desk near my bed.

I bend closer and study it. Mom is smiling, but the smile doesn’t touch her eyes. I never noticed that before.

*

The next time Sam visits, Theresa is with him. I’m sitting in the common area, and I see them come in and stand at the threshold, looking around the room for me. Theresa has her hands in her back pockets, and when she sees me, she smiles. It’s strange to see her in here again. She looks healthy and beautiful. This time, I’m the only one who’s a mess.

They walk over. “Hi, Sheldon,” she says.

I stand up. “Hi.” I want to touch her—make sure she’s real. But I don’t have the courage.

She hugs me.

I look at the floor. “You shouldn’t have come here,” I say. “You shouldn’t risk—”

“I’m not risking anything.”

Looking at her, all I want is to narrow my realities down to one. I want the old reality back—the one in which I take it for granted I’m not in Hell. In which it’s easy to believe everything is as it seems, because what else would it be?

Looking at her, I want to get a job, and start writing again, and not be such a mess all the time.

For most of her visit, she holds my hand. I don’t say much, and neither does she. When it’s time for her to go, she gives me another hug.

“Theresa, I—I love you.”

She pulls back and looks at me, her hands on my shoulders.

“Let’s not talk about that right now, okay?”

I lower my eyes. She puts a hand on my cheek.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll come back and visit you soon. I want to help you get through this, Sheldon. I want to help you get better. After that, we’ll talk about everything else. Okay?”

“Okay.”

She kisses me on the cheek, and leaves. Then it’s just me and Sam.

“See, Sheldon?” he says. “You have people who care about you. I’m not going anywhere either, you know.”

I answer by hugging him, too.

“Thank you, Sam.”

The metal trolley arrives, bearing supper, and Sam stays while I eat.

“Are you and Frank together, now?” I say.

He nods. “He left his wife. He still talks to his family, but he lives with me, now.”

“I’m happy for him,” I say. “That seems better.”

“It’s been hard,” Sam says. “But I think he feels more comfortable with himself.” He chuckles. “I learned something weird about him, the other day—his first name isn’t actually Frank. That’s his middle name, which he goes by. His first name is Sam. Crazy, hey?”

*

I have the old dream, about the day my mother died. This time it’s different, though. This time, I’m driving the car that hits her.

I wake up panicking. I get up, and the horrible feelings left over from the dream follow me into the hall.