The Mussorgsky Riddle

by Darin Kennedy

  “Fine.” As he closes the door to his office, he shakes his head and chuckles. “Whatever spins your crystal ball.”

  Archer stops at the front desk and reviews the onscreen schedule with Agnes. Time to give the good doctor the Tejedor once-over. The whole sixth sense thing has proven more than useful over the years, but part of being good at what I do involves paying as much, if not more, attention to the other five senses.

  Let’s see. Shoes shined to a high luster, shirt pressed with a touch of starch, pants with a crease so sharp it could slice vegetables. Either he’s married and his wife is cool with the no ring thing or he’s on a first name basis with a good dry cleaner. He clearly spends time in the gym. Wears a bit of product in his hair. Nails trimmed but not manicured. Good. Mom always said to never trust a man with nails nicer than yours.

  I catch Archer’s eye. His smirk suggests he’s been half-watching me take inventory. I jerk my eyes away and allow my gaze to wander out into the sparsely populated waiting room where two sets of eyes are locked on me like laser beams. The first pair belongs to a sullen young man who glares at me with something just this side of contempt. The second pair of eyes, however, could not be filled with more wonder. A girl with wavy red hair, seven or eight at most, stares at me as if she were looking at an angel.

  “Those two?”

  “Anthony’s brother and sister.” Archer turns his back on the window so the kids can’t tell they’re the topic of conversation. “Jason’s a senior in high school. Plays defensive tackle on the football team and comes off a bit gruff. Rachel, on the other hand, is a sweetheart. Usually pretty quiet. Not Anthony quiet, mind you, just a little shy.”

  I chance a wave at the girl, but am met with only that same star-struck stare. And something else. Something just below the surface. Something desperate.

  “Ready?” Archer asks as the acrid smell plays across my senses.

  I tear my gaze away from Rachel Faircloth’s forlorn eyes. “Ready.”

  “All right.” Archer takes a few steps down an adjacent hallway before stopping at a closed door. He rests his fingers on the handle, and looks back at me. “Last chance to bail.”

  “You’re not scaring me, you know.”

  “Just making sure you’re committed.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Why, Dr. Archer, was that a joke?”

  “Perhaps.” A mischievous grin flashes across his features as he opens the door and steps inside.

  ood morning, Caroline.” Archer’s voice shifts into a pleasant lilt. “Glad you could make it in today. It’s coming down in buckets.”

  “Took us over an hour.” The weariness in the woman’s voice punctuates the waves of fatigue emanating from the room. A musty mothball scent like that wafting off the dresses in my grandmother’s attic plays across my senses. “There was a big wreck on 77. Honda Civic meets tractor-trailer. You can probably guess who won.”

  “I’m impressed you got here,” Archer says. “Over half my morning clients called in to cancel.” His voice grows quiet as he shifts into therapist mode. “How is Anthony?”

  “The same.” She lets out a sigh. “He’s always the same.”

  “I see.” Archer glances back at me through the open doorway. “I understand you’ve requested a visitor join us today?”

  “She’s here?” Ms. Faircloth’s voice swells with hope as the dank aroma of the room shifts to rosemary and lilac.

  “She is.” Archer nods curtly and motions for me to enter.

  Dappled light filters through the leaves outside the rain-spattered window and mixes with the cold fluorescence of the room to reveal walls painted the pastel blue-gray of an overcast sky. The royal-blue shag carpet is plush and clean, though worn in spots. An unmolested box of toys sits in the corner and against the far wall rests another bookcase filled with books, these more Dr. Seuss than Dr. Freud. Three chairs and a couch form an incomplete oval around a short table containing a half-completed jigsaw puzzle. On one end of the couch, a woman and a boy sit huddled close together, the coolness of the room made worse by their half-drenched clothes.

  Ms. Faircloth appears just west of forty. Her clothes speak of money, though the dark roots at the base of her hair and the dusky circles under her eyes hint at busy days and sleepless nights. Next to her sits a boy who has to be Anthony. In the throes of puberty, his thick black hair lies mussed to the point of being almost stylish. A pair of rectangular wire glasses rests crooked on the bridge of his nose and the wisp of hair on his upper lip suggests he has yet to begin shaving. He stares at the wall before him. His head bobs to a slow rhythm apparently only he can hear.

  “Good morning, Ms. Faircloth. I’m Mira Tejedor. We spoke on the phone.”

  “Ms. Tejedor,” she says. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  “You sounded desperate. How could I refuse?”

  Archer’s jaw clenches. “If Ms. Tejedor is to stay and participate during our session today, we should discuss some ground rules. I must admit involving someone with her particular skill set lies outside my normal comfort level. I’m curious. What do you hope to gain from her participation in Anthony’s care?”

  Ms. Faircloth chokes back a sob. “Dr. Archer, you know my family better than anyone and even you admit nothing we’ve done has helped Anthony get better. If there’s a chance Ms. Tejedor can help us understand what’s happened to him, maybe even get through to him somehow, it’s worth it to me.” Her attention shifts to me. “Before we get started, Ms. Tejedor, there’s a few things you need to know.” She clears her throat. “To start with, Anthony has never been like other kids.”

  I offer her my most comforting smile. “That’s what you said on the phone.”

  “He’s pretty quiet most of the time, painfully awkward in social situations, and has been known to drop into full on temper tantrums when he doesn’t get his way. His grades are all over the place, but he’s a good kid.”

  “I get that.” I glance in Archer’s direction. His disapproving stare is tempered with curiosity. “Has anyone ever been able to put their finger on what exactly is going on with him?”

  Caroline lets out a pained sigh. “Over the years, my son has been diagnosed with high-functioning autism, Asperger’s, learning disability. Early on, the doctors even toyed with a diagnosis of mild mental retardation, though Dr. Archer assures me his IQ measures significantly higher than either of his siblings and that none of these diagnoses quite fit. I’ve had him in therapy since he was very young and he’s come a long way.”

  Her pain washes over me, a cavalcade of scents and sensations. “I’m sensing a but here.”

  She motions to Anthony’s undulating form. “This is not my child. When I talk to him, he doesn’t respond. He won’t eat unless you force-feed him. And it’s getting worse. For the last few days, he won’t even walk. My older son, Jason, had to carry him in from the car.”

  “I see.”

  “We’ve been to a dozen doctors in the last few weeks, done every blood test, x-ray, and scan they’ve recommended, and not one of them can tell me what’s wrong.” Her voice cracks. “Help him, Ms. Tejedor. Please.”

  “I’ll do everything in my power.” I sit next to her. “And please, call me Mira.”

  “Thank you, Mira.” She offers a trembling hand. “Caroline.”

  She attempts a smile and I take her hand. Her fingers are cold as icicles.

  “Dr. Archer has been kind enough to allow me to sit in on today’s session.” I try to sound confident, though truth be told, Archer isn’t the only one working outside their comfort zone. “This is his show. I’m only here to help if I can.”

  “Okay.” Archer sits in the chair across the table. “This is our fifth session since Anthony’s behavior began to change and from what you’re saying, he’s only getting worse.”

  “You have no idea.” Caroline rubs her eyes. “A week ago he’d still come to meals when he got hungry. Now he just sits in his room and rocks. For God’s sake, I’ve had to put him b
ack in diapers.” She turns to me. “I wait on him hand and foot every day, catering to whatever he needs, and he barely even notices I’m there.”

  I lean in. “He ignores you?”

  “More like he can’t even tell I’m there.” Caroline shakes her head. “Unless I try to touch him, that is.”

  “What happens then?”

  Caroline lets out another sigh and her gaze drops to her lap. “Here. Let me show you.” She wraps an arm around her son and his slow bobbing stops. For a moment it appears she has put him at ease. The truth is far less comforting.

  It starts in his hands. His fingers ball into fists, his knuckles white. He stiffens as if in pain and his face pales as a bead of sweat forms between his thick eyebrows. I focus, trying to get a read on what Anthony’s going through, but all that comes across is a jumble of conflicting emotions, many of which are no doubt coming from his mother.

  Caroline pulls away. “Anthony was never big on physical contact, but he’s never been like this. If anyone touches him now, especially me, it’s like you’re twisting a knife in his back.” Caroline rises from the couch and walks to the window. “No one can give me any answers and I can’t even hug my own son without making him worse.”

  Outside, the river birches sway in the gusty wind of the October storm. A curious mingling of emotions wafts off Caroline. The overpowering cayenne smell of frustration. The pungent aroma of guilt. The acrid scent of despair that always reminds me of raw onions.

  Caroline stands at the window for another moment before returning to the couch. “It doesn’t help Jason’s never home. Between football practice and all of his friends, I barely see him anymore. Then there’s Rachel. She’s never been all that big a talker with anyone but Anthony. Since he stopped speaking, she mainly stays in her room.” Caroline’s gaze drops to her lap. “A house full of kids and I’m still alone.”

  Archer grabs the box of tissues from the table and offers it to her. “It’s an awful lot to take on, Caroline. We’re doing the best we can here, but there’s only so much we can do in this setting.”

  Caroline’s cheeks flush crimson. “No one is putting my son in an institution. I’ve taken care of him every single day for thirteen and a half years and nobody’s going to take him away from me now.”

  Archer takes a step back. “After all the time we’ve spent in this room trying to help Anthony be a functional part of your family, surely you don’t think I want to take him away from you. I’m just trying to figure out the best way to help him.” He glances in my direction before returning his attention to Caroline. “Same as you.”

  “Anthony has already spent five days in the hospital this month and we have nothing to show for it.” She turns her attention again on me. “Twice now they’ve pumped him full of dye for head to toe CT and MRI scans that didn’t tell us anything. They’ve taken like half a gallon of his blood and every single test came back normal. The best pediatric neurologist in town put him in a bed and stuck wires all over his scalp looking for some kind of seizure activity and nothing.” Her eyes narrow. “Imagine if it were your child, Ms. Tejedor.”

  As if I could stop myself. Since I first entered the room, Isabella’s face has been dancing at the edge of my mind. A moment later, my phone starts to buzz again. I silence it before resting a comforting hand on Caroline’s leg.

  “I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve gone through the last few weeks, but I promise to do everything in my power to help. If Dr. Archer is in agreement, I’ve seen and heard enough to get started.”

  “Now, wait just a minute.” Archer’s eyes dance between Caroline and me. “We haven’t even discussed what it is you plan to do.”

  “Whatever is hurting Anthony is in here.” I pass a hand in front of the boy’s face. “Not out here. In his condition, he can’t tell us what’s wrong with him. Maybe if I meet him halfway, we can start to get some answers.”

  “Please,” Caroline says to Archer. “Let her try.”

  Archer’s gaze passes back and forth between Caroline and me. “All right, all right. Whatever it is you’re going to do, go ahead and do it.” His voice grows quiet. “Just be careful. The boy’s pretty fragile.”

  “Thank you.” I motion to Caroline. “Now, if you’ll give me a hand.”

  Anthony’s mother and I help him into a reclining position on the couch. He stiffens briefly at our touch, but eventually relaxes. His hazel eyes stare dreamily at the drop ceiling for a moment before drifting shut.

  I move a chair to the end of the couch, rest my elbows on the cushioned arm, and look into Caroline’s frightened eyes. “Now, let’s see if I can get some impression of what’s going on inside your boy’s mind.”

  “Do your best,” Caroline says. “That’s all I ask.”

  I give her a quick nod and lean over the boy. “Hello, Anthony. My name is Mira. You’re going to feel my fingers in your hair.”

  I study Anthony’s pensive yet peaceful expression and take in every aspect of his upside-down face. With his hand across his mouth, Archer looks on. His expression vacillates between exasperation and amusement as I massage the boy’s temples.

  “Try to relax, Anthony.” My body begins to rock, the gentle back and forth motion in time with the boy’s strange bobbing. “You’re safe here. No one can hurt you.”

  “Hmmph,” Archer mutters under his breath. “Hypnotism. Haven’t seen this before.”

  I shoot Archer a stern glance and return my attention to Anthony. “Listen to the sound of my voice, Anthony. Only the sound of my voice.”

  A pungent odor not unlike that of rotten eggs drifts across my consciousness.

  “I’m getting something.” My voice comes out as a whisper though the rocking of my body becomes more pronounced with each passing second. “He’s afloat in a sea of emotion. Anxiety, sadness, but most of all, fear.” I glance up at Caroline and do my best to ignore Archer’s quiet sigh. “Any idea why Anthony might be afraid? Anything you can think of?”

  Caroline considers the question. “Nothing at home I’m aware of. I mean, there’s always school, I suppose.”

  “He doesn’t get along with the other kids?”

  “Even on his best days, Anthony always had trouble navigating social situations. That’s been one of the focuses of his therapy since we started with Dr. Archer. He’s been bullied in the past, but at the latest parent-teacher conference, they said he was doing pretty well this year. Between his teachers looking out for him and Jason being a defensive tackle on the football team, I figured he was all right.”

  “What about his father?”

  Archer bows his head and massages the bridge of his nose as Caroline looks away.

  “William died two years ago,” she says.

  “Oh.” My cheeks grow warm. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t―”

  An odd sound grabs my attention. Just above the level of perception, the strange rhythm grows louder with every beat. I focus my attention on the unmistakable sound and the reason Anthony and I were rocking in unison suddenly becomes apparent.

  The sound is music.

  Played on piano, the strain is simple and pretty, though unfamiliar to me. Thirteen notes repeated over. And over. And over.

  A strange thought dawns on me.

  “What if Anthony is… stuck?”

  “Stuck?” Caroline and Archer ask together.

  “Like a scratched record, unable to get to the next section. Whatever has happened to him, his mind can’t get past it.” I hum along with the repeating piano notes, the short melody already burned into my memory.

  “No.” All color drains from Caroline’s cheeks. “That’s not possible.”

  “What is it?” Archer asks.

  “That song.” Caroline dabs at her eyes. “It’s Anthony’s favorite.”

  “I believe it. The tune is coming off him like radio waves.” My cheeks grow hot with a mix of embarrassment and pride as the smug expression on Archer’s face evaporates.

  “You hear music?�
�� Archer asks. “Coming from Anthony?”

  “As plain as I can hear you.” I mirror Archer’s previous brush of the temple and smile. “Just a different set of ears.”

  “Can you hear anything else?” Caroline hovers over Anthony’s still form, her face a storm of mixed emotions.

  “Nothing but the music so far, but give it a few more seconds. It feels like I’m about to round a―”

  Before I can complete the thought a maelstrom of color envelopes me. Vivid and bright, muted and pastel, light and dark, the entire spectrum flies at me, a tidal wave of prismatic light. If there’s a place rainbows go when they die, it’s here. Everything and everyone fades away in the flood of color and I am alone.

  “Dr. Archer?” A trace of fear invades my voice. “Caroline?” Before I can say another word, the strange music begins to crescendo.

  “Can anyone hear me?” The only answer is yet another repetition of the thirteen-note strain, the notes mocking in their intonation. The colors swirling about my head spin faster and faster as the sulfur smell of fear still fills my senses. A wave of nausea passes through my body and nearly doubles me over.

  In the years since I first discovered my talent, I’ve faced more than my fair share of the bizarre and unexplained, but this is different from anything I’ve experienced before. Trapped like a prehistoric animal in a tar pit and helpless to free myself, my every effort at escape only draws me in deeper. Wherever it is Anthony’s stuck, he’s not alone anymore.

  The run of thirteen notes grows louder and faster with each repetition. The previously pleasant melody descends into an ear-splitting cacophony. I clench my eyes shut and clutch at my ears, though my eyelids and hands do little to stem the overwhelming assault on my senses.

  “Please,” I whisper. “Stop.”

  The deafening melody pounds at me with physical force. My heart races like a hummingbird’s as my mind flirts with sweet unconsciousness. My arms fall to my sides and I collapse to what should be the shag carpet of Dr. Archer’s exam room. As I lie there amid the onslaught of light, sound, and smell, a realization sweeps across me. Before my thoughts fade into oblivion, I stare up into the swirling mass of color and speak. “It’s okay. You can stop now.”