The Sleepwalkers (6 page)
TRANSCRIPT—Patient #62, SESSION #76
(In this session, the patient discusses her ongoing delusions regarding the staff of the DREAM CENTER.)
DIRECTOR: Well, it’s very nice to see you again.
PATIENT #62: Thank you, Director.
DIRECTOR: So, let’s pick up where we left off, shall we? Do you remember?
PATIENT #62: Yes. I was telling you about the lump on the side of my
head.
DIRECTOR: That’s right. And didn’t I and two other doctors examine
you and confirm for you that there WAS no lump on the side of your
head?
PATIENT #62: Yes, Director.
DIRECTOR: Good. So what shall we talk about today? Any more
dreams?
PATIENT #62: But there IS a lump on the side of my head.
(The patient is touching her temple.)
PATIENT #62: I can still feel it right now. It’s a little smaller, but . . .
And I looked at it—
DIRECTOR: How could you have looked at it? There are no mirrors
in your room.
PATIENT #62: I used a spoon. And I saw stitches. It’s an incision. You
cut me open and did something to me. I know you did. And I know
you’re not really a doctor.
DIRECTOR: How have the nightmares been?
PATIENT #62: What?
DIRECTOR: Your mother sent you here because you were having terrible
nightmares. You were clawing your face in your sleep. Getting
blood all over your pillow. Do you remember?
PATIENT #62: Yes.
DIRECTOR: Have you been having nightmares?
PATIENT #62: No.
DIRECTOR: Then it would appear our sessions are having some effect.
PATIENT #62: But the incision—
DIRECTOR: There is no incision. Let’s talk about something else. What
about the voices? Are you still hearing them?
PATIENT #62: I’ve always heard them. I’m not schizophrenic.
DIRECTOR: No one said you were. Who is it that speaks to you? You
said last time you think they’re spirits?
PATIENT #62: Yes. Most of them are just, like, whispers and shrieks,
but there’s one of them I can understand. But just in little pieces.
DIRECTOR: And what does this “spirit” say to you?
PATIENT #62: This morning, it said that the clock—no, the clocks—
clocks, clocks, the clocks are ticking.
DIRECTOR: That’s very interesting.
PATIENT #62: I’m not schizophrenic.
DIRECTOR: No one’s saying you are. So who is this “spirit”? Does she
have a name?
PATIENT #62: How did you know it was a she? I didn’t say it was a
she.
DIRECTOR: Yes, you did. You just did. What’s her name?
PATIENT #62: I don’t want to talk about it.
(The director makes a note on his pad.)
DIRECTOR: You may actually have what’s called paranoid schizophrenia.
It’s very treatable with modern medications, so you have
nothing to be afraid of, alright? Okay?
PATIENT #62: You’ll never let me out of here.
DIRECTOR: Of course we will. Once we get you healthy.
PATIENT #62: No, no, no, no, no. . . .
(At this point, the patient begins crying inconsolably. The director’s remaining questions are unintelligible, and he ends the session.)
T
HE WINDSHIELD IS FROSTED OVER
with tiny buds of dew. Outside, the sounds of a forest waking up fill the air—scuffling of leaves, calling of birds. Somewhere a dog is barking low and long. It’s still cold in the car, but stripes of yellow sun are starting to fall across the side windows, evaporating away the spots of moisture, burning clarity out of a translucent blur. Something shoots past outside—probably a big eighteen-wheeler stacked high with pine lumber. The car rocks in its aftermath and a great, roaring “whoosh” washes out all other sounds before dying away into the wind.
“We could have gone to Vegas. Cancun. Fiji. The Cayman Islands. The Grand Canyon—I’ve never even been there, isn’t that crazy? We could’ve gone to Australia—done some surfing, adopted a pet kangaroo, learned how to use a boomerang. But no. My best buddy would rather go to Podunk, USA, and now—ouch, shit—I have the worst kink in my neck. Dude, we could’ve gone to—”
“I get it,” Caleb interrupts. “I didn’t sleep much either, alright?”
Caleb is scrunched in the backseat, huddled under one of his dress shirts. His eyes feel dry and swollen. Bean is slouched in the passenger seat, which is reclined almost far enough to rest on Caleb’s restless, cramped legs.
“So what do we do now?” Bean asks. “What’s the plan?”
“I don’t know,” Caleb says, thinking. “But I’m not really cool with the fact that my dad is just
gone
. I think we should try to . . . I don’t know . . . find him.” He looks at his friend, trying to gauge his willingness for such an undertaking—after all, Bean only signed up for a trip to the beach and a week of Southern-fried cooking, and so far he’s already been threatened with a rifle and forced to sleep in a car.
Bean begins to nod, but is instantly stopped by the pain in his neck. He curses under his breath, then says, “Alright. Where do we begin?”
It takes two passes through town to find the sheriff ’s station. It’s a trailer set back from the road with a little green sign next to the entrance that reads hudsonville sheriff, protecting your peace. They pull in the driveway, (it’s dirt again, and Bean wonders to himself if anyone in this town can afford pavement). There are two squad cars in the driveway. The young men head up to the door. Though it can’t be later than eight in the morning, already the chill has burned out of the air and a heat so thick it’s almost palpable radiates through everything. As the old folks say, “It’s gonna be a hot one.”
They get out and head up the drive, Bean in one tire rut and Caleb in the other.
“Okay,” Caleb says, “just stand there, look pretty, and shut up this time, please. I like you and everything, but I really don’t want us to have the intimate type of relationship that develops between two dudes in jail.”
“Point taken,” says Bean. “Mum’s the word.”
They tromp up the unpainted wooden steps and hear a faint sound coming from within, a low rumble of a voice, saying “. . . can’t make a goddamn cup of coffee. . . . ”
They glance at one another. Knock or walk right in? They don’t want to interrupt anything, but standing on the stoop all day doesn’t have much appeal either. Caleb knocks—he’s always one to err on the side of caution. As he does, Bean twists the little steel knob and pushes the door open and enters. Caleb follows him.
The place is small, of course. A counter faced with wood paneling runs along the front. There’s a large map hanging on the wall to the right and a row of plaques leading back to the area behind the counter, which is populated by a couple of desks, each boasting an outdated, yellowing computer and a messy stack of files. The place smells like mildew and cigarette smoke.
The friends exchange another glance and step up to the counter, which is when they see the sheriff and his deputy. They’re both near the back of the office, standing over a table laden with a coffeemaker and its accoutrements. The deputy is a woman, in her late thirties, with massive thighs and coppery-colored hair, which is feathered and hair-sprayed up in front into something like a rooster’s crest. The man is barrel-chested, bowlegged, maybe fifty years old. He has a bushy, salt-and-pepper mustache and eyes that blink too much. The two must’ve been arguing, because Caleb can still feel it hanging in the air, but now they’re staring blankly at their two visitors.
The woman looks from them back to the sheriff. He gestures impatiently with a gruff “Well?” and gives her a little shove in the direction of the counter.
She marches up to the desk, a little flushed from anger or something else, and drawls, “Hello, boys. What brings you to these parts?”
“Well,” Caleb and Bean say at once. Bean laughs and shuts up, deferring to his friend, but his laugh seems to hang in the air for a second, like a voice in a cave. Caleb imagines there isn’t much laughter in this office—especially if the way Sheriff over there is glaring at them now is any indication. He clears his throat.
“My name’s Caleb Mason, and I just had a question—or something to report, maybe. My father is missing, I guess, or he’s not at home, anyway, and—”
“You check the bar?” the lady asks. There’s a boredom in her voice that’s no accident. An attitude of such complete disinterest can only be achieved through years of practice.
“No,” Caleb concedes, “but—”
“Check the bar,” the woman says, and turns away from the counter. “No, it’s not like that. I mean, he’s been gone for a long time. Like, for probably a year.”
“At least,” Bean agrees.
The woman sits back at her desk and shrugs. “There’s a lotta bars,” she says, “First thing to do is always to check them all.”
“My dad isn’t a drunk,” says Caleb evenly. “He’s an attorney. Michael Mason.”
The woman opens her mouth to speak, then doesn’t. She looks over to the barrel-chested man, who has been sitting at his desk reading the paper. At this, he looks up, folding the paper in half.
He squints at the boys from behind his counter and blinks. “You Mike Mason’s boy?” he asks.
“Yes, sir.”
“You haven’t been around these parts in a long time, have ya?”
“No, sir,” says Caleb.
The man lights a cigarette, staring at them, blinking at them. He blows the smoke out his nose in a snort.
“Well, he ain’t here, I’ll tell ya that much. When was the last time you heard from him?”
“About . . . ” Caleb begins—and he falters, because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember. But it’s been a long time.
“You two were estranged, were ya?” the sheriff asks.
“I guess so,” says Caleb, looking down at his hands on the counter.
“Well, I heard some folks say he went up to Georgia for some big, fancy job. Some people said he went to Arkansas for something, to teach at a college or something like that. Your father was a book man, wasn’t he?”