Severed: A Novella

by H. G. Reed

  It goes on and on like this while I try to calm my racing heart. There’s nothing damning in there, but I don’t trust anyone in this room. Not even myself. The overhead buzzing of the florescent sends me into a humming spiral and I feel the legs of my chair leave the floor. The bright light seals the deal, and I’m seizing.

  Talk about timing.

  THEN

  Freshman Year, Spring

  I STARE INTO THE bright lights of the operating room and immediately have to look away. It’s cold and white, and everyone looks alike in their sterile attire—blue blobs of knowledge that are going to pick apart my brain and try to put it back together over the next few hours. The Humpty Dumpty nursery rhyme rattles through my head. No one ever said he was an egg.

  What if something goes wrong? What if they can’t fix me?

  “Normally we’d keep you awake for a neurological procedure,” one blob says, but I can’t tell which because all their mouths are covered. “But this is major surgery, so you gotta go under.”

  He sounds cheerful like this is good news, but a tightening in my gut objects. I am questioning everything down to the shirt I wore to the hospital, a shirt that is now waiting for me in the lobby with my mom and dad. Draped in only a few pieces of glorified paper, I shiver in the cold, metallic room.

  “You nervous?” the blob says with smiling eyes, but he doesn’t wait for me to answer. “It’s all going to change after today, Rory. Are you ready?”

  Apparently he doesn’t care what I think about that either, because a mask descends upon my face and a swirling, warm happiness infiltrates my anxious thoughts. For a moment I am far away and free.

  “Count backwards from ten for me.”

  This causes great distress because I can’t remember where my mouth is. Hours and days pass and my languid lips feel heavy on my own face.

  Can lips be heavy? I’ve never thought of that before.

  “Nine.” A fuzzy feeling travels up one nostril and into my cheek. I move to scratch it but nothing happens.

  I guess that arm is gone. I try the other arm. Nothing. I don’t have any arms.

  This makes me laugh.

  “Eight,” I mumble through a foggy haze, and I wait for them to criticize me for taking an hour to count back from ten, but they don’t. The blobs keep looking at me with smiling eyes and suddenly all their eyes form into one.

  I changed my mind. But no words come out. Instead, the smiling eye waits for me to go on, mocking me.

  “Sssev—”

  The eye closes and the fuzziness spreads over my whole body. I am once again at peace, far away and floating. Then everything goes dark.

  NOW

  I’M BACK IN THE CUSHY conference room of the precinct, my latest episode only lasting a minute. This is a very different kind of seizure than what I’ve grown accustomed to over the first eighteen years of my life. These I can handle. I climb back into my chair with some guidance from my attorney who seems surprisingly well versed in this sort of situation. Dad must have briefed him upon hire.

  I’ve got to remember to thank him for that.

  “I thought you said he didn’t have seizures anymore,” Azley argues, but the other men in the room look quite alarmed.

  They got all that on camera, right?

  “You obviously haven’t been listening. It’s all right there in his medical documentation, signed off by his surgeon and Dr. Vanzell. Documentation that, until today, you had no right to, so I believe an expression of gratitude is in order as Rory has just tightened up your case.”

  “This doesn’t tell us anything,” Azley says, picking up and plopping down the inch-thick medical file like it’s a dead fish. “Just because he has a medical condition doesn’t mean he didn’t play a part in the crime.”

  “It tells you my client was truthful.”

  “Truthful?” He asks, bewildered. “He told us nothing the night he came to us. Which is why we’re all here today. If he had told us the truth—”

  “Are you familiar with split-brain syndrome, detective?” Azley opens his mouth to speak, but then promptly closes it. “Didn’t think so. It’s characterized by the patient’s inability to access the information stored in certain hemispheres of the brain.”

  Everyone else in the room leans forward in their chairs. They’re hooked, soaking this up. I take this as a very good sign.

  “Rory was very bright.” I want to tell I still am, but no one’s looking at me. “He suffered a fall when he was four and has had severe, debilitating seizures ever since. Six months after Rory turned eighteen, he underwent a surgical procedure to prevent decrease seizures, but as you can see, they still occur from time to time. As a result, the two language centers located in the left hemisphere became inaccessible to verbal information received in the right hemisphere. Since the two halves are no long connected, Rory is neurological incapable of putting what he saw and heard into speech or written word.”

  He makes me sound like an invalid.

  “Okay, you want to talk science? We have his DNA at the crime scene,” Azley says.

  “Of course you do, he was there. Just not as the aggressor. He’s here today as a witness, correct?”

  Detective Azley shakes his head, pulling his lips tight across his teeth. I want to slap the smirk from his face. He knows exactly what he was doing, and I feel the heat crawling up my neck.

  “Can I just tell my story?” I ask both of them, gathering my voice from somewhere. I’m tired of the back and forth.

  Strausberg exchanges a look with the detective and then back to me. I take a deep breath and pray for a miracle in which my memories teleport from one side of my brain to the other.

  The gray suit leans forward on the table. “Are you sure, son?”

  “It was my twentieth birthday that day. I was planning to go home and see my mom, so I was packing up my car. It was parked in the deck across from my dorm room. I had just walked back from the library around midnight—”

  “Can you verify that?” Azley says.

  “The library closes at midnight, so they had to kick me out. Midterms are coming up. There’s probably fifty people who could verify I was there.”

  “We only need one,” my lawyer assures.

  I take a deep breath and try to clear the cobwebs in my head, being sure I tell only what I know to be true and not what I think is true. The latter could get me into some deep shit.

  “I left the library and walked to my dorm room to pack, like I said. I was making a run from my car back to my room when I heard something.”

  “What?” Another suit says, but I can’t be sure because my eyes are closed.

  “It was a girl’s voice, so I followed it. She was saying something. I just don’t know what.”

  “It’s part of his medical condition,” my lawyer chimes. “He can’t assign meaning to the words heard with his right ear only.”

  “How convenient.”

  “I remember leaving the parking garage, but nothing after that. I think that’s when I got punched.”

  “By a mystery perp?” The other lawyer says, voice lazy and full of doubt. I can tell Azley’s been chirping in his ear.

  “That’s what I told Azley the first time. That’s why my DNA is on the street. The asphalt was stuck in my cheek,” I recall. “Ask the student med clinic. They’ll remember me.”

  “I’ve pulled record of his treatment there,” Strausberg says, presenting a piece of paper and what I assume is my bill. They pass the proof among themselves, nodding and agreeing that it’s legit. “I urge you to consider how it would be possible for a young man getting medical treatment for two hours at a student health clinic to have time to aid anyone that had anything to do with that girl’s disappearance.”

  “Okay,” their lawyer concedes, “but it still doesn’t explain why you chose to seek medical treatment instead of coming straight to the precinct, or calling 9-1-1. Seems awful cold. It looks bad, Mr. Halstead.”

  “I…I don’t know why
I went there first.” It’s all I can muster.

  “Perhaps it was the shock,” John suggests, and I want to believe him.

  “A girl was assaulted!”

  “Calm down, detective,” Strausberg urges. I hope for both our sakes Azley doesn’t get out of hand. Looking at Strausberg, I don’t like our odds. He’s soft and pudgy, and I just regained full sight in my right eye.

  The detective stands from the table and leaves the room. Strausberg and I sit in silence for twenty seconds too long.

  “Let’s break for fifteen,” the gray suit offers. The others nod in agreement and leave, eager to get away from the tension. The other suit turns off the camera before leaving me and Strausberg at the table alone.

  The post-op prepared me for a great deal, but how could they have known about this? What would they say to a man that ended up in my situation? I think back to that feeling of floating contentedness and wish I had someone to place a mask over my face now.

  “He had me on the ground. He had a gun. That’s all of it. That’s all I remember.”

  Strausberg pats me on the shoulder like I used to do for Mom, and suddenly I know how bad this is.

  * * *

  The meeting has been over for an hour but I feel no more at ease than when their curious stares bored through me as they sat atop their leather chair perches.

  “What do you suggest we do, John?”

  My dad paces as he talks strategy with my lawyer—technically his lawyer since he’s footing the bill. Surprisingly, he’s decided to be a present father these past few days. I suspect he’s only doing it under John’s counsel. A criminal with a steady family appears steady himself. I could not be further from that presumptive picture.

  As if to solidify my doubts, John just shakes his head. There is no right course from here. We just have to wait.

  “The statement went as well as it could have, but now we have a new wrench thrown in. They’re fairly certain Rory didn’t…participate in the crime.”

  I roll my eyes. Still, it’s better than their opinion of me going into the meeting.

  “I think they’ll have a strong case if they can catch the perp. I suspect they’ll want to take this straight to a grand jury,” Strausberg continues, “and they’ll want to call on Rory as a witness.”

  My dad stops pacing and my mom’s eyes widen. “But he can’t,” my dad whispers, looking increasingly more panicked. “That’s the whole reason he’s here!”

  “Let’s all stay calm,” Strausberg urges. “If and when it comes to that, I’ll speak to the judge and make sure Rory doesn’t even have to be there. He can send a sworn statement and we can put this mess behind us for good.”

  “I’m right here,” I mumble from my place on the cold, courthouse bench. “I want to help. I want to be able to tell my side of the story.”

  The mass of journalists—I use the term loosely—have dispersed and are probably eating their BLT sandwiches in bliss, not caring whether my life is over or goes on like that of a newly minted twenty-year-old.

  “So what if they want him to be a witness. He can’t talk.” Dad says, ignoring me completely. “You read his file, John. It’s impossible.”

  “Actually it isn’t as hard as some might think.” My mother’s voice is a welcome change from all the grumbling of the men around me. Her voice echoes off the marble tile like a birdsong.

  “Do share, Kelly,” my dad says with a heavy helping of sarcasm.

  “I was reading about a kind of therapy that may help people express things they couldn’t before. Like things that are hard to talk about.”

  “It’s not like I’m talking about your divorce, Mom. It is neurologically impossible for me to tap into one side of my head and put it into words.”

  “Yes, but that’s just it. This therapy doesn’t use words; it uses art.”

  Oh god, my mom is such a hippie.

  “You’re kidding.” My dad runs tight hands through his hair and down his neck, looking up at the ceiling tiles like they have a better idea.

  I follow his gaze, also curious about what they have to say. They offer me nothing, so I sigh and look to my lawyer for backup. To my surprise, he seems to be entertaining the idea of art school.

  “I’ve heard of similar treatments for people with a history of mental health issues,” he chimes in.

  “That’s it,” Dad says with utter glee. “We could emphasize his brain…thing. The mental health issue. Can’t we declare him incompetent?”

  “None of you are listening,” I finally say, fed up with having people speak for me, around me, and about me. “I want to go to trial.”

  “It’s just a grand jury.”

  “Whatever, Strausberg. I was the only one there, and I’m the only one who can ID this guy. Hell, if I find a way to say what I know soon enough, I might even be able to help them find her. Alive.”

  The words sink in as they fly off my tongue and I realize why this is so important to me. Because it’s important to her. Someone’s life depends on what I have hidden away inside this second-rate brain of mine.

  Great.

  I’ve never been a particularly nice or charitable guy, but seeing Rose’s washed out features on the newscast sparked something in me. I can’t form the words about what happened, but I know she’s innocent in all this. If I can get my shit together, I might actually be able to help her.

  “Mom, tell me more.”

  * * *

  My mother’s face glows white-blue from her laptop screen as we sit in the dimming living room, sipping tea. I much prefer coffee but she said something about tea being calming, so I didn’t fight her on it. We sit with our backs against either arm rest, legs stretched out across the length of the couch so that our toes reach to each other’s knees.

  “Mom, I’m not trying to be a dick, but this tea tastes funny. Are you trying to poison me?”

  “Oh shoot, that’s mine!” she says, frantically reaching across the couch to swap mugs. “It’s my weight loss blend. And don’t use such crude language.”

  I shrug and resume sipping tea, this time the blend for fatties.

  “I think I found one!” she exclaims, nearly throwing her mug in the air. It sloshes a bit over the side, but she pays no mind. “This one is in the city, near your campus.”

  “I don’t think I can go near campus. I’m under investigation.”

  “As a person of interest. A witness. It’s different. You’re not guilty.”

  I sigh because she has said this a thousand times. It doesn’t feel any different for me. I feel responsible. Then I remember why we’re here. Mom wants to help, and this is her way of being a part of it—being a part of me and my life and my struggles. It wasn’t a hard decision to let her help when she asked to start researching art therapists in town.

  “Never mind, he has a six-month waiting list, too.”

  “Him too? Is that code for ‘I’m a super important and expensive therapist so you need six months to save up for a session’?”

  She sighs. “I don’t know, Rory. We’ll keep looking.”

  I know she feels needed, and she is. I just wish this waiting period was over and I could actually do something. I’m beginning to go crazy cooped up in this house. I just want to get back to my dorm room, my friends—well, just Alec—and my life.

  The police said the therapy wasn’t a necessity, so they won’t pay for it or use their sway to set up an appointment for me. Dad also claimed his “expenditures were focused only on results,” meaning he’s paying for my lawyer and nothing else. Thus, we turned to Google, the only one who cares at a time like this.

  “What about this one?”

  She turns her laptop around so I can see her screen and I find myself staring into the wild eyes of what can be described as nothing less than a crazed cat lady. Her shirt actually has cats on it.

  “No.”

  “Come on, she’s not so bad,” she urges. “She has a lot of experience with expressive art therapy.”

/>   “She mentions her cats in her list of specialties.”

  “What? Where?” She turns it back around and peruses the site with interest, eager to see just how deep this woman’s madness goes. “Oh my god, you’re right.”

  She takes a deep breath, and I see her mentally scratching off another potential candidate.

  “Hmm, this one is an option. About a thirty-minute drive.” She winces as if I’m fifteen and I don’t know how to operate a vehicle without direct supervision. I resign to the fact that she will want to accompany me. “She’s a licensed therapist who specializes in art therapy. She uses music, dance, and visual art to help others express something they can’t with words.” She’s clearly quoting the website blurb. “She’s perfect!”

  “Sounds like a blast.” Leave it to Mom to find the closest thing to torture out there. But if I want to help, I don’t have much of a choice.

  “Oh, wait.” There is always a reason things are doomed. We hold our breath as Mom’s eyes rapidly scan the screen like someone in REM sleep. They light up when she finds it. “And she doesn’t have a wait list!”

  She jumps from the couch, and pulls me up with her, grateful the long search is over. She throws her arms around my neck to celebrate the small win. I plaster on a smile and join her like a middle school girl as we jump up and down. Inevitably, she spills tea down my back.

  “Dammit,” she says.

  “Crude language,” I mock.

  She waves me toward the stairs as she mops up spilled tea with a blanket. “Go get yourself cleaned up. I’ll call and see if I can set an appointment for you.”

  I run upstairs, filled with a new energy. It courses through my bones, making me feel like a live wire.

  The feeling doesn’t last though as I throw my tea soaked clothes into the hamper and hop into the shower before it has time to get warm. A creeping fear returns, just like it did at the precinct two days ago, and suddenly I’m afraid.

  I fear what I may uncover if I go through with this. What will happen to me, my family if I see something I don’t like? There’s no way to know on this side of the veil. I have no choice but to lift it and see what hides beneath, however terrifying. I want to make the best choice, the noble choice, but what will I have to pay for it?