On Fire (15 page)
“What do you think?” He sneezes again into the crook of his elbow.
“I think,” I say, “that . . . ” I scratch my nose. “I'm not sure.” The pencil drops down and writes something.
Now he changes the subject. “How are you feeling?” It's rhetorical. “Still seeing things?”
“I see you,” I say. I don't mention the headless guy standing behind him with a flashlight. According to the nurse, the headless guy isn't really there.
Another subject change. The doctor likes to try and confuse me. “How did you get out of the fire area?”
“I've already told you,” I say. He doesn't like the way I answer this question, but I can't help that. My answer is all I have now.
“Tell me again.”
“I flew.”
“In a helicopter?”
He knows I don't mean that. “On my own. I could fly then.
I've told you that.”
He gives me several reasons why that isn't possible. Gravity is one of them. I tell him I was chased by demons who wanted to capture me and possibly suck out my soul. He says that's also impossible.
“The dead are always with us,” I say. He doesn't buy that either.
He turns a desk lamp on and shines it on something there. Unless it's the headless guy's flashlight I see. Unless he's the one who wants to know if I remember.
“Do you recall breaking into a cabin somewhere out on Blackstone Lake?” the doctor asks.
“No,” I say. “I don't.”
“But you understand you did that? That actually happened?”
I don't understand that. I don't remember it. “I remember flying,” I say. More writing. Another sneeze.
“What about hearing things?”
“I hear everything.”
“Including voices?”
“I hear voices. Of course.”
“Oh?” Up comes the pen. Or pencil.
“I just heard one. Didn't you ask me a question?”
The pencil comes down again and writes something. Smart ass, probably. However a doctor would say that professionally.
He blows his nose into a white square â two blasts in a low register. I have the impression he's brought an instrument into the room. A tuba, possibly. Or a trumpet. Another blast and the headless guy disappears.
“What about self-destructive impulses?” The doctor covers up a yawn.
“Like what?” I want him to come right out in English and say what he means.
“Burning or cutting yourself.” I shake my head. “But you have had those impulses in the past?” I do feel something when I hear the word
burning.
I may have been burning before the world caught fire.
“What about suicidal thoughts?” He yawns again. “Are you having those?”
I stand up. I want to leave now. “No, I'm not,” I say, “but if I have to stay here much longer and answer your questions, I'll probably start.”
He puts down his pencil. He may look at me then. I can't see well enough to tell.
T
HE NURSE TRACKS ME DOWN IN
the T.V. Lounge where I'm listening to a cooking show. I hear things sizzling. “Mmmm,” the cook says. She has a woman's voice. “Look at the colours! Red peppers. Purple eggplant. Green zucchini.”
She loses me there. They all sound the same in the frying pan.
“How long have I been here?” I ask the nurse. He wants me to call him Morris, but I'm not ready to be on a first name basis with him.
“In 5B?” he says. “Just over a week. And a while before that in 3A.”
“I was in another building?”
“When you came in. Medium Security. You really impressed them there, kicking a nurse and trying to fly out through a window. They had a suicide watch on you for a few days. Is this yours?” He holds up a grey T-shirt.
I squint at it. “I don't know. What does it say on the front?”
“Blackstone Village Volunteer Fire Department. I found it in a box down in the laundry room. I thought I remembered you came in from around there.”
I like the idea of grey. It's an in-between colour that keeps its voice down and whispers.
I also realize I like the idea of coming from somewhere.
I hold out my hand. The nurse gives me the shirt, and after that, my meds. It isn't just the H. pill I take. There's also a green one to control some of the tremor H. causes. And a yellow pill to take away the side effects of the green one.
They can't do anything about my eyes yet.
I swallow all the meds down with water while the nurse watches. Then I open my mouth to show him I'm not hiding a pill or two in between my teeth and my cheek or under my tongue.
“You're not a bad kid,” he says. “Can I give you a word of advice?”
It's another rhetorical question.
“When you see the doctor,” he goes on, “try to act motivated. You know what that means?”
“Finally a question I know the answer to,” I say.
The nurse shakes his head. “Now see, that's the kind of attitude I'm talking about. You don't act like you're serious about getting better. Listen to me.” He leans in closer.
“There are a lot of lost people here. They all need help. If you don't give a damn, the doctor won't either. He'll send you out at the end of the month with some pills and a prescription.
“Who knows what will happen to you after that?”
T
HE FIRST DAY
I
HAVE CAFETERIA
privileges, I walk over for lunch, get a sandwich, bottle of pop and sit down at a table by myself. In a while someone sets a tray piled high with what to my limited vision looks like road kill on the table and sits down beside me.
“How are you feeling,” he asks. His voice is a little childish. Popsicles and candy on a stick.
“Like I've been through hell,” I say.
There's a pitcher of water on the table. I try to pour some in a glass. My hand shakes so badly I can't hold it. He does it for me. Or it could be the headless man standing behind him.
“Howard means are you happy being here?” the guy with the little-kid voice says.
“You're kidding.” I look around to see if he's talking about the headless man, but he's disappeared.
“The food's good here,” little-kid voice goes on. “You have a bed at night with no bed bugs. Nobody tries to steal your stuff like they do at the men's hostel. And they don't kick you out during the day.”
He eats while he talks. Between his hands and his mouth it's a blur, although it would be to me, anyway.
“Say yes to the suicide question,” he tells me.
“Which question?”
“The suicide question. Doctors are more inclined to keep you past the thirty days if you say you're suicidal.”
“Too late,” I say.
He sets down his knife and fork. “Howard's sorry. He should have told you sooner.”
“It's okay,” I say. “I'm not really keen to stay.”
He picks up his silverware and starts to eat again, but when he's finished he asks, “Do you have a place to go?”
“No.”
“Any family to help you out?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You should stay here as long as possible then. Tell them you'll cut your wrists if they send you out. It might work a time or two, until they catch on.”
He gets up and goes past the food line and into the kitchen. When he comes back he's carrying a bowl of chocolate pudding. “Last week's,” he says. “The cook used to be a patient here. She saves it for Howard.”
“I'm confused,” I say. “Are you the Howard you keep talking about?”
He acts like he hasn't heard me. “What's your name?”
“No idea.”
“You're a John Doe?” He clucks his tongue. “Do you have a diagnosis yet?”
“Do I need one?”
The guy I've decided is Howard leans his elbows on the table. “That's why the doctors are asking you all those questions. They go through this book until they find the name that goes with what you have and then,” he snaps his fingers, “bingo!”
“Bingo what?”
“Bingo they know what to call you. And where you fit in.”
“What if I don't fit anywhere?”
Howard seems to think this over for a minute. “Then you'll have to be careful,” he says, “because they'll make you fit. It's their job.”
I
DON'T MEET WITH THE SNEEZING
doctor the next time. It's a different one. Dr. Charon. He's a bobble-head. As soon as I sit down in his office he says, “I have reason to believe your name may be Dan. Does that sound familiar?”
This doctor has the kind of voice you get when you suck the helium out of a balloon. He waits for my answer.
I've decided to take the nurse's advice and cooperate. I've also decided I'd like to be somebody, even if that's not who I really am. I answer, “Well, I've definitely heard the name before.”
“So you feel you might be Dan?”
“Dan.” I say the word out loud and nod my head. “I feel it's . . . familiar.”
“Do you have any idea what your last name might be, Dan?”
I don't of course, but being in limbo is not that comfortable. I think I may be ready for one. “I've . . . ,” I say “Yes?” The doctor jumps right in. It looks like he wants me to have a name, too.
“I think that I've . . . er . . . ”
“ly? You're saying Iverly. Is that it?”
“Maybe.” I take my time. “Yes,” I say. “I think it could be.”
“That's confirmation!” His pen dances across the notebook on his desk. “First name Dan.” He writes as he talks. “Last name Iverly. Middle name or initial unknown.”
His hand comes up. I see a flash of something â maybe light hitting a ring on one of his fingers. He sits back in his chair, I think a happy man.
I also feel happy about the way things have gone. It's obvious you need some kind of label in this world I'm in. Now I have one.
“I wasn't sure whether or not to believe her when your cousin â ” the doctor pauses. I think he's glancing down at his desk, “Matti came in looking for you. You remember Matti?”
I don't. “Matti . . . ?”I say. My brain is slow. I've already forgotten my last name.
“Iverly. Your cousin. I had some doubt about her story, I'll admit. Then I had a call from the person in charge of Emergency Social Services in Kingman confirming what she told me. Now you're confirming what I learned from him.
“Everything's beginning to fit together. I'll have to see if the story checks out, of course. But we're very far behind on the paper work. So many lost people coming out of the fire. I'm willing to accept Dan Iverly as your name.”
His chair squeaks like rusty nails on glass as he swivels back and forth. “I can see how it happened. You're visiting family. You go out hiking. Not a smart idea, but you get lost somewhere in the fire area. No food. No water. You fall, perhaps. Hit your head. And bingo.”
I believe I've heard the magic word. “That's my diagnosis?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “In layman's terms I believe it is.” He sits forward and begins to write again. “You've had a psychotic break brought on by severe stress. Keep taking your meds and with any luck you'll make a complete recovery.”
“And without luck?” I ask. “Also in layman's terms.”
”But you are lucky. You were lost. Now you're found. End of story.”
H
OWARD'S PLEASED WHEN HE HEARS
I'm not a John Doe anymore. But he doesn't like the diagnosis. “Psychotic break?” he says. He sticks out his lower lip and shakes his head. “Anyone could have that. It's nothing you can take to the bank, is it?”
Still he suggests we celebrate. “When you get your first day pass, we should take the bus in to Kingman for cokes and hot wings. My treat.”
“When will that be?” I ask.
“How long have you been here?”
“I haven't had a conversation with a watch since I came in,” I say, “so I wouldn't know.”
Howard promises to find out. Then he's not around for a few days and I still don't know about the day pass.
I miss Howard. The better I get, the harder it is to find things to do with my time.
I still can't read. And I've given up listening to cooking shows. How much frying and boiling can a guy take? My hands shake too much to be any good at stick hockey. I have the same problem with the activities in handicrafts.
A lot of people smoke for something to do. That's not attractive to me at this point. I also don't have any money.
Sitting and walking in circles is about all there is to do outside. Sports equipment is banned, I suppose for obvious reasons. I might take a baseball bat and attack another patient. Or turn it on myself. That's assuming I have the energy to pick it up to begin with.
They do have a beauty shop at the hospital. On a whim I go in there. “Want a hair cut?” a girl asks. She tells me her name is Angie.
I run my hands over my head. “It's not too far away from a pig shave now,” I say.
“I could dye it for you,” Angie tells me. “I've heard a change can be as good as a rest.”
Is corpse moss an actual colour? That's how I'd describe my hair when she finishes with it. Hopefully she'll take a few more classes at her beauty school in Kingman before she works on anybody else.
I look in the mirror and see a dead person looking back at me. He's not headless. I haven't seen that guy in a while. “Get lost!” I say.
Angie thinks I'm talking to her. “Sorry,” she says. “The dye kind of got away on me. Want me to buzz your hair right off?”
“No thanks,” I tell her.
“A few piercings would perk you up. I'm not allowed to do piercings here. But when you get out?”