Second Sight (8 page)

Terry Simpson opened the door to his rented room, tossed his backpack on the floor, and kicked off dirty Nikes. One of them landed on a threadbare recliner, the other scattered flies from an open pizza box on the floor.

A roach ran across a radiator. A pay phone rang in the hall. He picked up an envelope that had been pushed under the door and threw it on a stack of
Playboy
magazines and campus newsletters.

He crossed the room and opened the refrigerator, snapped a Budweiser from a six-pack, and grabbed a half-eaten stick of pepperoni.

There was a note on a stained carton of Chinese food that read
JAMIE’S KEEP OUT!

He slammed the door and walked to the window. He probably wouldn’t remember much of Boston at all. A couple of girls—Jenny Stewart was really hot—but then Jenny was a second-year and interning at a city clinic on weekends, and who had time for all that crap?

He wiped pepperoni grease on his jeans and crossed the room to a frameless single bed with stained yellowed sheets. He peeled off his socks and let them fall by a keg tap snaking under the box spring. There were copies of opened letters and new schoolbooks under the bed.

He snatched a glossy brochure for a BMW from the desk by his side and rolled on his back, studying the interior of a roadster. Next week? Next month? Soon, he was sure. Soon his plan and all the hard work he had done would come to fruition. Two more weeks of fall semester partying and then one day the phone would ring and he would suddenly be a millionaire. What could any school possibly teach someone like him?

He tossed the brochure and pressed Power on the remote.

He flicked through channels to MTV and arched his back, unzipping his jeans and yanking them off to join the dirty laundry on the floor.

He lay in his boxers and chugged down more of the beer. Was it the third or fourth of the morning? Who cared? He’d rather nap here in his bed than in Connie Collins’s constitutional law class.

The noon bells chimed from St. Mary’s. He wondered how much a diamond stud earring like Randy Moss’s would cost. He wondered what his classmates would say the day he parked his new convertible in front of the dorm and scribbled a check in the name of Elmer Fudd for the creepy fuck of a landlord who lived in the basement.

He reached for a sheet of paper on his desktop and held it up in front of him.
Simpson, Washburn and Shonik
was embossed across the top with an address on State Street. That would have gotten their attention, he knew. And if it didn’t, the enclosed Excel spreadsheet would. It was but a fraction of the 709 names he’d collected, along with dates and symptoms of side effects of Regeral taken by teens for attention deficit disorder. There were even some names and dates of deaths that he had read about online. He didn’t
need to prove a case. Not even one. He didn’t need any courtroom experience. Real lawyers didn’t go to court. They settled.

All he needed was one legitimate complaint, even the fear of there being one legitimate complaint, and with his vast collection of potential plaintiffs the pharmaceutical giant Case and Kimble would be groveling at his feet, doing whatever they could to quell a class action suit.

He had suggested in the letter that his firm wanted no part of a protracted battle over the drug Regeral, but that it had an obligation to its client. If only there were some common ground between them, they might be able to put the matter to rest. The time and expense of researching similar cases could be forgotten, the documents destroyed. If his client could be compensated for a life in which he would never live up to his potential, things might be different. A low seven-figure number should be satisfactory, he wrote audaciously. My client wants only to get on with his life.

He snickered and tossed the empty beer can at the trash and missed. He put his feet up on the wall and looked at the cracked green ceiling, a daddy longlegs, a pencil someone had stuck through the drywall. How unbelievably simple life was, he thought. All you needed was some imagination and the balls to do something about it. He wasn’t going to lick envelopes for some ass-wipe judge as a law clerk and he certainly wasn’t going to take the bar only to wait in line for shit ambulance cases as a public defender. No, that was how his father had begun his life. He was going to have his BMW now. He was going to start out where his old man was finishing off.

He closed his eyes and rocked his head to the beat of the music, swiping at something annoying his ear, feeling good, feeling warm, feeling like the beer buzz was coming on fast.

Oh, God, that Jenny Stewart was so hot. No one came close to getting into her pants last year, or at least that was the word around the campus. Terry had walked up and talked to her a few
times, but she wasn’t interested. She kept to herself, dressed fashionably, though a little more conservatively than the other girls, and, unlike the other girls, looked like a million dollars without trying. You just knew she was going to be driving a hot car one day and have homes in the Hamptons and the Grand Cayman Islands. He’d like to see the look on her face when he made his first million dollars. Like to wipe a C note on his crotch and stick it down the front of her snobby bitch blouse. He’d like to see her end up like the blonde in the horror movie he watched last summer. Parents’ house burning to the ground, family inside and dying, she lying half naked in a puddle in the street as water rained down from a broken fire hydrant. And then the utility pole snapped and crackling power lines started to fall down on her.

Sweat began to bead on the back of his neck. He wiped it and then felt the tickle in his ear again. Why did he suddenly think of that movie? He’d told everyone how lame and juvenile it was and now he couldn’t get it out of his mind.

He sat up feeling lightheaded. He stared at his dirty toenails. Next to them the marks in the carpet where the pedestals of his computer tower had once sat. Had someone moved it while he was out?

He leaned over to take a look.

No one cleaned the room for him and his roommate had his own computer in the bedroom. It couldn’t have been him. The thing had sat here since his parents had dropped him off in August and he sure as hell hadn’t moved it himself.

He thought about a file of porn he kept on the desktop and then he remembered the list of supposed Regeral victims.

“Jesus, no way,” he whispered. He got down on his knees and looked around the back side of the computer. The back plate was gone and the hard drive was missing!

Could Case and Kimble have sent someone to steal it? Sure, his computer required a password to get in, but that would be
little more than a nuisance to Case and Kimble.

Or maybe it wasn’t Case and Kimble themselves that broke into his room. Maybe they only figured out who he was and complained to the school? Would the school have come into his room and taken his hard drive? No, he thought not. Not even the cops could come into his room without a warrant.

Oh Jesus, Lord, he thought. What in the fuck is happening here? What in the fuck have I gotten myself into?

He ran to the stack of magazines by the door and ripped open the letter that he’d found on the floor. It was nothing. Just the landlord’s fucking bill; he crumpled it in a ball and tossed it aside.

He walked to the window slowly, noticing the curtain had been pulled back and was hooked behind the speaker wire he had running to a corner of the ceiling. Had he done that?

He could see the apartment building across the street and the blank panes of glass over a dozen windows. He could see a shadow sitting behind the wheel of a black van in the Methodist Church parking lot.

He shook his head. This was too weird for words. Was someone fucking with him?

He felt the tickle at his ear again and swiped it once more with the side of his hand, and this time when he withdrew his hand he saw blood on the pad of his thumb.

“Jesus.” He started to stagger, sticking his finger in his ear, and it made a wet sucking sound when it came out.

His stomach constricted and his scalp began to tingle. He looked at the blood on his finger and slowly turned toward the kitchen.

Now, as the room began to move, he put a hand out to steady himself and fell against the computer monitor, driving a corner into the old drywall and cutting a hole in it. He righted himself, took a step sideways, and a drop of blood smacked his toes. Then another hit the carpet and another his left foot.
He felt the wet stream on his upper lip and tasted the coppery blood when he opened his mouth. Blood was pouring from his nose.

The bathroom mirror, he thought, staggering ahead through the kitchen. He needed to get to the bathroom mirror and see what was wrong. One foot, then another—the beer couldn’t have done this! Halfway across the living room floor a wave of nausea doubled him over. What about the pepperoni? Had he been poisoned?

“Wow,” he thought, brushing sweat from the back of his neck. Maybe he’d just had too much to drink. Maybe he’d fallen and hit his head last night and not remembered?

A horn honked and he heard laughing—kids on their way to the campus—and then there was nothing. The world went completely silent to his ears.

He stood up and the pain in his stomach was gone. Everything seemed so clear after that, as if a door had opened and all the world’s knowledge were there for the taking. And when he could hear again, the voices were as clear as if they’d come straight from his own head.

He walked to the kitchen and took a screwdriver from the junk drawer. In the pantry, he slowly removed the gray safety plate from around the circuit breaker panel.

He went to his roommate’s bedroom and kicked away the dirty jeans and underwear until he could pry open the closet door, then grabbed a metal ski pole that he grasped at both ends and brought down hard against his knee, snapping it in two.

Then he carried the broken pole back to the pantry and shoved the metal pole into a mass of bare wires in the circuit breaker box.

The bulb under the coach light at the front entrance exploded, spraying two pedestrians on the sidewalk with glass. The sound of a vacuum cleaner upstairs went silent. Every light in the building went dark.

Someone cursed and pounded a wall in the room directly above, but Terry couldn’t hear anymore. He was kneeling head down, in front of the electrical panel, still holding the metal pole as 220 volts of electricity surged into his body.

His hair began to smolder, then smoke. He had fouled himself. His skin was literally beginning to crisp by the time he teetered and crashed to the ground.

Somewhere a battery-powered smoke detector began to chirp.

“I don’t quite know what to say, Sherry.” Dr. Salix crooked his neck and squinted into his ophthalmoscope. He swept it across the retinas of her eyes. Finally he laid it down and shook his head. “I still can’t explain it.”

“And that’s it? That’s all you can say.” Sherry laughed.

“I say let’s just not question it anymore.”

Sherry looked at him, blinking away the thick drops he had put in her eyes, dabbing at the corners with tissues.

“Yeah, easy for you to say.”

“Your eyes are healthy, Sherry. They always have been. Call it what you like, but your vision is coming back and I think nicely. In two or three weeks you should be able to stop wearing the dark glasses completely.” He shrugged and knocked on his desk twice. “What else can I say?”

“Okay, I have two other questions.”

“Shoot,” he said.

“Radiation? Is there any possibility my sight has something to do with what happened with the radiation?”

He shook his head. “Not a chance, I would see it in the corneas of the eyes. If anything the exposure would have caused cataracts. Look, Sherry, it sounds to me like your exposure was minimal. They got iodine in you in time. The Prussian blue is sure to cleanse your soft tissues. Who knows, maybe there’s been no damage. Maybe you’ll do better than hoped with your bone marrow, too.”

Sherry nodded and looked at her hands. “One other thing.”

The doctor nodded.

“The donor I touched. I want to know something about him.”

“They only put ID numbers on the cadavers.” Salix shook his head and put his records away. “Even I don’t know his name.”

“But you can find out where he came from?”

“I’m afraid not, Sherry. Anonymity is the underpinning of any donor program.”

“Doctor.” She waited until his eyes met hers. “I’ve been persuaded for fifteen years to let people poke around my mind when I would rather have said no.”

Salix, of course, must be sure that she was speaking of him. That she’d made herself available for countless tests against donors whose corpses were also unknown.

“I understood when scientific questions seemed to outweigh my desire of privacy, so now I am simply asking the reverse. My interest is harmless. I only want to know his name and where he came from. You said yourself that radiation wasn’t the reason I can see. So this man, I have to believe, is somehow responsible, Dr. Salix.”

Salix raised a hand to protest the suggestion, but Sherry would have none of it.

“I know you don’t believe it started on that examination table. I know that you think I was having eye migraines because my sight was returning, but I know myself better than that. What happened in there happened while I was on that table. It happened because I touched that man’s hand.”

She placed her hands on her knees.

“Dr. Salix, we aren’t talking about a transplant here. I’m not walking around with this man’s eyes or heart in my body. I just want to know who his family is. I just want to know something about him.”

Salix pulled the tie free from his collar, undoing the top button of his shirt.

“Is this about your eyes, Sherry, or is this about the stress you are under?”

Sherry looked at him.

“I understand there is a new man in your life. A serious relationship.”

Damn, Brigham, Sherry thought. She had left him alone with Brigham in the waiting room.

“You’re trying to diagnose yourself, trying to find answers that aren’t there. I know what’s going through your mind, Sherry. You’re worried about the gamma ray tests. Will you have cancer five years from now or not? Will you be able to see five years from now or not? Give it a rest, Sherry. None of us get answers.”

“No more rest,” Sherry said determinedly.

“I’m sorry.” Salix looked at her curiously.

“No more rest,” Sherry said flatly. “I’m just trying to come to terms with all of it. Believe me, I’m not angry, I’m not depressed, I’m not even sad. I’m happy with my life and how it turned out and I’m thankful for whatever time I have with these eyes. My goal in life now is to appreciate each day and what it gives back. I intend to be happy with that alone, Doctor. That and nothing else.”

“Sherry—”

“And I never want to hurt anyone, including your body donor, Doctor Salix. Please just let me thank the family.”

He looked at his watch and scanned a list of phone extensions taped to the blotter.

He punched a button on the phone and a moment later a woman answered.

“Con, it’s Bill, you got a moment for me?”

Sherry watched his face.

“Yeah, it’s about a donor”—he flipped through some manila folders on his desk—“one-eight-seven-seven-six. Is there any chance he had an EEG on record? I’m trying to rule out something here.”

A moment later he looked at Sherry and cupped a hand over the receiver. “I get the name, you make the call.”

“Deal,” Sherry said.

Salix uncapped the phone, but then a quizzical look came over his face. “There has to be a history,” he said to the person on the other end of the line. “What did they intend to do without it?”

He sat on the edge of his desk and looked down at his shoes swinging in the air. “All right, who is he and where did he come from?”

Salix listened, then rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know the rules, humor me.”

A moment later Salix started scribbling across a prescription pad.

He hung up the phone and tore a sheet off, handing it to her. “That should explain it,” he said.

“Explain what.”

“T is for Thomas J. Monahan, the name you called out on the table, was a resident of the New York State Psychiatric Hospital from 1950 until last week. Any more questions about the strange things you saw?”

Salix took a prescription pad from his pocket and scribbled something. “I want you to put drops in your eyes twice a day and I want to see you back here in a week.”

“Not a problem,” Sherry said. “I appreciate it.”

Salix looked at her. “Listen to what I told you. He was in a
mental ward, Sherry. You know what I mean? Don’t go getting yourself worked up over nothing.”

“I don’t care about that. I still want to talk to his family and I’ll tread lightly. I just feel like I owe them something.”

“You are a stubborn, stubborn woman,” Salix said.

“What day?”

“Make it Tuesday afternoon. Same time, but you have to come to the hospital, not my office. I’ll squeeze you in between patients.”

“I’ll be there,” Sherry said.

Sherry stopped at McDonald’s for a cheeseburger and milkshake. Afterward she took a cab to Rittenhouse Square and sat on a park bench, wondering why people ate fast food.

The sun broke through the clouds and shadows danced across the sidewalk. New buds clung to the trees. She closed her eyes and heard sirens a few blocks away, seagulls over the river.

New York State Psychiatric Hospital. He was in a mental institution. And the only memories he had were of his youth. Which meant what? That he’d been comatose for fifty-eight years? Was that even possible? And was he mentally ill or not? Maybe he had some brain injury from the war?

She looked up at the trees and closed one eye, waiting until the edges of the uppermost branches became clear. Then she pressed 411 on her cell phone; it took two rings to be connected.

A moment later an operator connected her with the New York State Psychiatric Hospital.

A woman answered. “Please hold.”

A car with blacked-out windows cruised by slowly, speakers thumping at full volume. She felt the vibrations recede as it turned a corner, faint now like distant cannons, and then all was lost in the cacophony of evening rush hour.

“How may I help you?”

“My name is Sherry Moore, and I’m trying to locate one of your patients, Mr. Thomas Monahan.”

“Please hold.”

Sherry had no idea what she might learn from the call. A man who had been standing off to one side was watching her, she noticed. Trying to make eye contact. Trying to make up his mind whether or not to approach her.

She stood and casually walked away, leaned against a tree, before he started heading for her park bench.

Before she’d regained her sight, she was frequently approached by men on the street. Then there was always that awkward moment when they realized she was blind. Perhaps she played it up at times, using her walking stick as a prop when she was not interested in the conversation.

In any event, it was helpful, she realized, to be able to see it coming for a change.

There was an electronic click, then a bar of soft music, before another click, then a man said, “Hello. How may I help you?”

“I was trying to locate a patient of yours, Monahan. Thomas Monahan.”

“You are?”

“Sherry Moore.”

“Are you a relative of Mr. Monahan’s?” the man wanted to know.

“An acquaintance. I was hoping to write his family.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Monahan has passed away.”

Sherry hesitated. “Yes, I know. Can you please help me get in touch with the family? I’m trying to deliver my condolences.”

“We are not permitted to release patient information,” the man said firmly.

“I don’t need any patient information,” she said lightly. “Just a number or address for the family. Enough to call or send them a card.”

“I’m sorry, but that also falls within the privilege, Miss Moore. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No, no thanks,” Sherry closed the phone and replaced it in her purse. She looked around. The man by the bench was gone. He must have taken the hint.

She started for the bus stop at the corner thinking there was but one thing left to do. Brigham had already promised on the day she came home from the hospital that he would take her for a drive in the country. That he would show her things she had only ever heard of before. He said they could go at her earliest convenience.

Sherry knew she wanted to go before the gamma ray tests at month’s end. She wanted to see the country and look at the sky before there was anything weightier on her mind.

“The Catskills?” he repeated.

“It’s only a four-hour drive. We can have dinner and spend the night.”

“I’m not opposed to going to the Catskills,” he assured her. “It’s a beautiful drive. I’m just wondering what you’re up to.”

“Why do I have to be up to something?”

“Because you are always up to something. This wouldn’t have anything to do with your body donor, Sherry?”

“Mr. Brigham.” She humphed.

“Oh cut it out.” He stood and uncorked a bottle of port.

“All right, I got the name from Dr. Salix.”

“And?”

“His name was Thomas Monahan. The name I called out in the examination room.”

“Good Irish lad,” Brigham said flatly.

“He was in a mental hospital.”

Brigham turned and looked at her, raised an eyebrow.

“The fact that he was in a psychiatric facility doesn’t really mean anything. All kinds of people end up in those places.”

“So I’ve read.” Brigham rolled his eyes.

“It’s where he’s been for the last fifty-eight years.”

Brigham sighed and took a sip from his glass. “Wow, that’s a surprise.”

“Oh, don’t make fun of it. It would be a pleasant drive,” Sherry said. “I’ve found some things online that we could see while we’re there.”

“Have you now?” Brigham replied. “You know, you had me going there. I thought you might actually want to do something for no other reason than doing it. Have you ever done that? Something spontaneous, just for the fun of it, you know? No strings attached? You might find it different. Maybe even fun.”

“I intend to do lots of that in the future, but right now I only want to see where he came from, Mr. Brigham. I’ll run in, ask a couple of questions, and we’ll be back on the road in no time.”

“Why don’t you just call them?”

“They won’t talk to me on the phone.” She began to adjust the pillows on the sofa.

He looked at her curiously. “I wouldn’t imagine they would,” he said seriously. “What makes you think they’ll talk to you in person?”

She shrugged. There really wasn’t a reason she could think of. “My charming nature?”

“So how long have you known about this body donor?”

“Just today,” she said. “You know I tell you everything.”

“Where was he?”

“New York State Psychiatric Hospital, Mount Tamathy.”

“Sounds gruesome.”

“Someone there should be willing to talk to us. Once they see us in person, they won’t be disinclined.”

“Yes, so you say. I’m off Tuesday through the weekend. Pick your days.” He finished the port and headed for the kitchen.

“Will you teach me how to drive while we’re in the country?”

“In a Land Rover with sixteen hundred miles on the odom
eter?” He stopped at the kitchen door and looked at her like she was crazy.

“That’s a bad idea, then?”

“What day?” he asked again.

“Friday. I’ll make breakfast and we’ll leave after morning rush hour. We can go shopping while we’re there. There are all kinds of little boutique towns along the Hudson.”

“I’m not sure I can stand all the excitement.” Brigham walked to the sink and rinsed out his glass. “Do you have any more interest in your fan mail or are we calling it a night?”

“Let’s go to the video store. I want to rent a
Rocky
movie.”

Brigham groaned audibly.

“Come on”—she balled her hands in two fists—“there’s only two more to go!”

They left the interstate at Kingston and took back roads toward Mount Tamathy, finding every mile west of the Hudson a virtual time line back into history. Modest residences interspersed through the trees included shacks of the most unusual shapes and colors, belonging to the artisans of one kind or another who had come to Woodstock in 1969 and never quite found their way home.

Beyond the foothills the mountains rose to Sullivan County, home to the hundreds of resorts that were so famous in the post-World War II years. Many had spawned television’s earliest comedians and singers. Now it was a graveyard of weathered billboards, most of them blank, some sprouting wood-frame cocktail glasses or marquees framed in rusting iron. Shells of nightclubs and retreats, hay-covered lawns where bocce was once played. Where the finest diamonds adorned the cleavages of blue-haired ladies from New Rochelle and Great Neck. It all would have been a dalliance, however; the moss-covered pergolas must have shadowed many an interesting con
versation about the conundrums of finance and war and politics and communism.