Henry Franks (5 page)

“These non-violent offenders are no danger to the community,” said Dr. Jason Rapp, Chief of Staff for the hospital, after rumors of the temporary escape were reported in the
Savannah Morning News
. “At no time were the patients thought to have escaped. All current residents of the hospital are present and accounted for.”

Margaret Saville, PhD
St. Simons Island, Glynn County, GA
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Patient: Henry Franks
(DOB: November 19, 1992)

Henry crossed his legs, pressing his palms into his thighs to keep from scratching. Despite the air-conditioning, sweat coated his skin. He pushed down and sighed.

“The heat index is over one hundred, Henry,” Dr. Saville said. “You don't actually have to wear pants.”

He looked at her and moved his hands out to the side. “You've seen my legs, Doctor.”

She nodded. “Still, maybe something lighter than denim, at least?”

Henry shrugged.

“Just a thought.”

“It'll be cooler soon.”

“November isn't actually soon,” she said. “How's school?”

He shrugged again. “It's school.”

“Two word answers aren't really much better than one, Henry.”

Is my father's name Frank Franks or are the pictures of me?
But he didn't ask that particular question out loud.
If Franks isn't my father's real name, what's my name?
But he didn't ask that question either.

“A lot more police outside the hospital,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“This morning. On the bus, when we drove past, it was surrounded.”

“Do you always notice the hospital?”

Henry shook his head, hiding behind his hair. “It's big.”

“Does it bother you?”

“People who can't remember who they are get sent there,” he said, the words bitten off and harsh.

“Is that what you're afraid of?”

“Would it help?” he asked.

“What?”

“Going there; would it help?”

Dr. Saville tapped her pen against the pad, her head cocked to the side. “The Georgia Regional Psychiatric Hospital is for criminals who have been admitted for detention and treatment, Henry. Not for teenage boys who survived accidents.”

“It's still big,” he said with a half-smile.

“Yes, it is,” she said. “Any dreams lately?”

“My dad switched the dosages around on me,” he said. “I don't dream as much now.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“I miss Elizabeth,” he said and closed his eyes.

“Henry?”

“In my dreams now, I don't recognize anyone. Or any place. Like they're not my dreams.”

“Maybe they're people and places you've forgotten?”

He pressed his hands into his legs. “I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“They call me Victor.”

“That's not really your name, Henry.”

“That's what they tell me.” He smiled and then shrugged. “How would I know?”

“Have you talked to your father about any of this?”

“We don't … well, no,” he said. “That's not what we do.”

“What?”

“Talk.”

“About this?” she asked.

“About anything. I don't think he likes me very much.”

Dr. Saville's pen stopped and she looked up at him over her notebook. “Why do you say that?”

“Mom died.”

“That's it?”

Henry wiped his eyes. “I should have died too. It's been hard on him, I guess.”

“You lived, Henry.”

“I forget what my mother looked like as soon as I stop looking at her picture, like she's a stranger and the photo came in the frame from the store.”

“Post-traumatic stress and retrograde amnesia, that's what we've been working on,” Dr. Saville said. “It's a process.”

“It's not working.”

“It takes time.”

“I can't remember her name.”

“Henry.” She stretched her hand out, resting long fingers against the arm of his chair for just a moment.

He slammed his head back, striking the fabric with a dull thud, and then looked at her through the fall of his hair with red eyes. His breath came hard and fast, hyperventilating. “I can't remember
me
.”

“Take deep breaths.”

“I can't.”

“Henry!” Dr. Saville reached his side in one step, and then moved back as his arms flailed out.

“I—” He rocked back and forth, banging his head against the chair. “I—” He blinked, over and over again, the motions erratic and strained as he clawed at his skin, leaving faint trails of blood behind.

“Deep breaths, Henry.”

Dr. Saville knelt in front of him and held his hands down after he drew blood from the scar on his wrist. He shook like a wild animal cornered after a fight; his thrashing banged his skull against her chin. “Breathe, Henry.”

His heart hammered against his ribs and he couldn't catch his breath.

“Breathe.” She took a deep breath. “Slow, Henry, remember?”

When he looked up at her, a trail of blood ran from her bottom lip, and the bright red caught his attention more than her words.

“Breathe,” she said before she took another deep breath. “Count to ten, Henry.”

And he did.

“Again.”

Together, they held their breath. Inhale. Exhale. Again. Until she released him and he collapsed into the chair.

“You need to practice your relaxation techniques more.”

“You're bleeding,” he said, pointing at her chin.

Dr. Saville grabbed a tissue and wiped her face.

Henry hung his head between his knees, letting his hair fall back in front of his eyes. “I'm sorry.”

“It's all right, Henry,” she said. “Are you feeling better now?”

“I miss Elizabeth.”

“Why?”

“We talked.”

“About?”

“I can't remember. Just stuff.”

“Is there anyone else you talk to?”

“You.” Henry sat up, brushing the hair away, trying to forget the brief image of her eating breakfast with his father.
He wanted to ask her about it but
the words caught inside his throat and all that came out was a hiss.

“Anyone else?”

“No.”

“Don't you talk with Justine?” she asked.

“On the bus.”

“That's someone.”

He shrugged. “She does most of the talking.”

“Do you know that you smile when you talk about her?”

Henry pulled his hair in front of his face and then turned away. “So?”

“You don't smile when you talk about Elizabeth.”

“So?” He took a deep breath, held it and counted to ten on his fingers, then released it.

“So, Henry,” she said. “Better?”

Who's Henry?
But like all the others, that question was silent as well.

“Maybe,” he said.

nine

The door opened up to the heat, and where the outside met the air-conditioning inside was a weather system unto itself; moist, hot, and too thick to inhale. The bright sun burned off the blacktop and his sunglasses did little to dull the impact. A headache started almost immediately.

His father waited in the parking lot, engine running to keep cool, and Henry slid in as quickly as possible.

“How'd it go?” his father asked as he pulled onto Demere Road.

Henry turned up the air-conditioning and then rested his head back on the seat, eyes closed. “Fine.”

“Henry?”

He opened one eye, peering at his father through the hair falling in front of his face. He sighed. “It's a process.”

“Did Dr. Saville say anything?”

“About?”

“You?” his father asked.

“No.”

Henry pulled at the collar of his shirt, closed his eyes, and looked away.

His father turned the car into Harrison Pointe and parked in front of the house. “I'll be working late again. Don't forget to do your homework.”

“Fine,” Henry said before grabbing his backpack and opening the door.

Inside, he waited until his father drove away before rushing down the fragile wooden stairs into the basement, stepping carefully to avoid the splinters that were poking out of the old lumber.

He pulled the cord but the weak light failed to reach the corners. The mess he'd left the day before was gone. Stacks of cardboard boxes lined the room, with well-swept and cobweb-free aisles between them.

Henry ran to the circuit box.

The
SCRAPBOOK SUPPLIES
box sat nearby, but when he lifted the box on top, it was far too light to still be filled with ancient photographs. A few scraps of archival paper and stickers rattled around, but there were no pictures.

One by one, he searched through the rest of the boxes. It took him hours, but by the time he was done he'd failed to find the photographs in any of them.

Drenched in sweat, he climbed up the stairs, put the cart back in place, and collapsed into a chair, resting his head on the kitchen table next to his backpack. A branch scraped across the side of the house like fingernails on a blackboard. Henry jumped up and crossed to the sink to look into the backyard. Light filtered through the leaves, casting fluid shadows that seemed to move with the breeze. Spanish moss hung, still and silent, from the towering oaks, not moving, and when he looked closer there was no wind at all.

Henry walked down the hallway, to the door to the master bedroom. He put his ear to the wood, trying to hear something from the other side, but there was nothing but the hum of the air-conditioning. Just to be safe, he knocked. The sound was loud and seemed to linger in the too-warm air. The knob was cool in his hand but, even though it turned, it didn't open the door.

“Damn,” he said, before slapping his palm into the door. It tingled, but just a little, and there was no pain from hitting the wood.

In his father's office across the hall, Henry pulled out drawers, looking for the photographs of Frank, but the drawers were empty. Dust coated the top of the desk and the shelves were bare. When he rolled the desk chair out to look underneath, the metal wheels squealed in protest and left tracks through the dust on the floor. Behind him, his own footprints stood out in stark relief, and only when he was in the hallway again did he relax enough to breathe.

Henry ate dinner alone in the empty house and then went upstairs to his room. He surfed around the Internet but gave up after only a minute or two. The sun was still bright in the August sky and he watched it crawl toward the horizon. In his lap, his dark index finger idly scratched at the scar on his wrist.

He took a deep breath and then unfolded the piece of paper hidden beneath his pillbox. When he grasped the pen, it slipped out of his fingers and, try as he might, he couldn't get his mismatched index finger to hold on to it. With it squeezed in his fist, he added
Frank
to the list of names.

Henry went back downstairs when he heard his father return home, but by the time he got to the kitchen, the room was empty again. He looked down the hall toward the master bedroom. Beneath the door, a sliver of light glowed.

He took a step onto the hardwood floor and stopped. The corridor seemed longer than it had when he was still standing on the tile of the kitchen. The floor squeaked with each step, a high-pitched echo of his heartbeat, until he finally reached the door. Up close, it was carved, the dark wood etched with faint patterns that matched the wainscoting. He took a deep breath, thinking of all the questions left unasked. Unanswered.

He knocked.

“Dad?”

Silence, save for the constant hum of the air-conditioning. Henry tried the knob but it didn't turn. He rested his finger on the deadbolt lock above it.

“Dad?”

He knocked, again.

At his feet, the light from under the door disappeared without a sound.

Henry sat at his desk, the house an empty shell around him despite the presence, somewhere, of his silent father. The summer sun had finally given way to night, cooling his room almost enough to notice. Still, the central air and ceiling fan worked non-stop.

Next to his monitor a generic plastic box divided into sections held his medicine.
AM
and
PM
and each day of the week were scrawled on pieces of masking tape on top. He flicked his finger through the
Tuesday PM
pills but couldn't find the energy to take them.

He closed the lid and sat there unmoving, staring at the screen saver on his computer defining words he couldn't remember as he re-opened the pillbox.

He was still sitting there when he fell asleep, medicine untaken in his hand.

“Daddy!”

Elizabeth comes running up to me, flinging herself into my arms. Her weight is a comfort against me as I swing her around. Just a child, she still shrieks with glee, making funny propeller noises as she flies.

Around us, petals fall off the trees like leaves in autumn, falling in patterns to the ground. They smell of earth and roses and I know they'd taste of ice cream.

“Chocolate,” Elizabeth says, her tiny hand tucked in mine as we wait in line.

“One scoop?”

“Two,” she says.

I have to use more pressure than I expect to drag the spoon through the vat of ice cream, scraping up a small ball that rattles around her cup, making odd metallic creaking noises like artificial bones held together with pins and prayer. The sun burns down, melting the ice cream into drinkable joy.

Elizabeth slurps and smiles and holds my hand as we wander through the empty park. Red and golden leaves crunch underfoot.

“I've got a secret,” she says.

Ice cream has given her a chocolate mustache and she licks it off. Her pigtails are coming undone and her dress is communion pretty; a small red poppy trails a Memorial Day ribbon on her chest.

“A secret?” I scoop her up in my arms and she squeals with delight.

“Daddy!” She laughs as I swing her around, making airplane noises.

We land, walking hand in hand down a deserted airport concourse. She tugs us forward, pulling me faster and faster until we're running, flying over the moving walkways and abandoned luggage to our gate.

“See?” she asks, pointing toward the two people sleeping in the hard orange chairs. On the TV above them, all the flights have been cancelled.

“This is your secret, Elizabeth?” I ask.

“Your secret, Daddy.” She smiles. “I promised you I wouldn't tell anyone. Not even Mommy.”

“My secret?”

She pushes me toward the gate, closer to the people lying there. At first, I think they're Martians, their skin is so purple. They aren't breathing.

Humans. Beaten so badly as to bruise their skin darker than grapes.

“Elizabeth?” I call her name, spinning around and around in the empty airport. “Elizabeth!”

But there's no one there.

Just a white dress lying on the floor, a growing red stain like blood from where I'd pinned the poppy on her.

On the TV set above my head, there is suddenly one more cancelled flight.