Apprehensions and Other Delusions

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “If that is so, what are you?” Doctor Chiodo kept his tone level and his gaze indirect.

  “Oh, I am as much a monster as any of you, but at least I know it. I have seen my beak and my leathery wings, and my talons. I know that mirrors can lie if you are afraid to look at the truth. I am not afraid to see what I am.” He snatched at the air as if to gather his thoughts. “You would see, too, if you permitted yourself to see them—I do. Oh, not the same monstrousness as mine, but some things all your own. I know you for what you are.” He sounded almost proud, but he would not face Doctor Chiodo as he went on. “I can see what you are. You’re one of the false men, with pink skin over the scales of a lizard, and fangs like a wild beast. The streets are full of beasts like you, chimeras and gargoyles and monsters; you all go on as if you were men: you have an armored raptor’s head, your arms are not arms at all, and your feet are clawed.”

  “Is that what you see?” the doctor asked quietly as if they were talking about the pleasant Tuscan weather. “Is everyone so hideous?”

  “Yes. And you would see it if you would let yourself,” Thomas insisted again. “You will not let yourself look because you know I’m right.”

  “If you insist,” Doctor Chiodo said, maintaining his calm and prepared for more repetition. “How does it happen that you can see these things and the rest of us cannot?”

  Thomas laughed. “Because I am not afraid of seeing the world as it is.” He leaned farther forward in his chair. “I know that if I fall from here, I will sink into the earth for miles. Don’t pretend you don’t know that, too. I can see it in your face.”

  “Which face is that? The pink one or the lizard one with fangs?” He wished the words unspoken as soon as they were uttered. He strove to regain the removal he sought. Finally he coughed gently. “You should be able to inform me.”

  “You won’t believe me,” said Thomas, so quietly that Doctor Chiodo had to strain to hear him. “No one believes me.”

  “So you keep telling me,” said Doctor Chiodo. “I wish you’d tell me more.”

  “Why? So you can say I am hopelessly delusional, spending my time hallucinating? So you can embrace the dream of rationality and tell yourself you are sane? So you can proclaim the triumph of rationality?” His sarcasm sounded exhausted; his defiance was fading, giving way to increasing dejection. “Look in the mirror, Dottore. Guard’ al viso.” He swallowed hard. “If you used your real hands, you could touch your real face. You are not as lost as most are—you still have the capacity to know yourself.” The doctor’s tentacles waved at him, and the large, beakish horn that went up his nose and over his eyebrows dipped as the psychiatrist nodded.

  “No doubt,” said Doctor Chiodo. He wanted to pursue the matter later, when Thomas had rested, for the young American was slumping in his chair, his head nodded down onto his chest. “When you are more alert we will continue this.”

  “You think I won’t know you for what you are? Do you think anything you do to me will change that?” Thomas challenged in a whisper. “The world isn’t rational, Dottore. It never was.” There was nothing Doctor Chiodo could think to say; he rang for the orderlies to escort Thomas back to his room.

  * * *

  “I am Jane Wallace,” she said as she presented her passport and her letters of authorization; Director Biancchi glanced at them and took them carefully. “You were told to expect me? I’m here to ... to escort Thomas Ashen home.” She waited while the director of the sanitarium examined her credentials. “How is he?”

  The director sighed with Italian eloquence as he gave her back her passport and letters of authorization. “He is still delusional, as Doctor Chiodo says in his report. This does not seem to have changed, although it is difficult to know. He is not saying much to us, but he flinches when he is with others, and he refuses to look out the window, so we have assumed he is continuing to see something other than what the rest of us do.” This was as soothing as he could make it, and he watched Jane’s response; then he waved to the chair across his desk. “Sit down, sit down. We must discuss this, you and I, if you are planning to travel anywhere with him.” His face was slightly pinched, as if he had smelled something not quite wholesome.

  “I wonder if it will be safe to travel with him at all, given what your reports say,” she said to him as she sat down. “I read them quite thoroughly on the flight over. His family wants him back as soon as possible, but I don’t know if it would be wise.” She tapped the folder that held the evaluations. “I appreciate your faxing them to me before I left. It was all done in such a hurry—” She broke off. “Has he been violent?”

  “Only to himself. This morning he hit his head on the door two times before we stopped him; he said he was trying to leave an impression of his beak, to prove he has one. He still attempts to eat feces if we leave him alone in the toilet. He has scratched his arms, saying that the scrapes prove he has talons instead of hands.” The director sighed. “I cannot emphasize this strongly enough: He has not improved in any creditable way since we undertook his care.” He folded his hands. “He is filled with despair, insisting he is surrounded by monsters.” He shook his head again. “Doctor Chiodo has kept him moderately sedated, and that has made him easier to handle, but it does nothing to alleviate his condition.”

  “No,” Jane said quietly. “I can see how it is advisable, however.” She was just tentative enough to encourage Director Biancchi to continue.

  “You would be well-advised to keep him under heavier sedation while you are traveling; I know you are not required to, but I do think it would be prudent,” he told her, a slight edge in his voice. “He has not been violent, as I have told you, but if he is closely surrounded by those he sees as monsters, I cannot promise he will not lash out. If he is in a stupor, he might endure his surroundings well enough for you to get him home.”

  “That’s not very encouraging,” said Jane.

  “No, it isn’t,” Director Biancchi agreed. “You are a psychiatric nurse and you know how easily some patients can be overcome by their delusions. I’m afraid Thomas Ashen is wholly given over to his beliefs and regards all attempts to change his mind as confirmation of his worst suspicions.” He tapped the shiny top of his wide desk.

  “So I gather,” said Jane, her manner a bit more assertive. “That makes him doubly troublesome; we must assume he will be responding to his hallucinations at all times. It will make traveling with him more difficult.” She stifled a sudden yawn. “I’m sorry. Jet lag.”

  The director nodded, his manner politely concerned. “Capisco. You have come a long way, and you must travel again in another day or two; it is very demanding.” He indicated the tall windows. “There is a guest cottage on the grounds, if you would like to rest until evening. Your bags have already been taken there. We can discuss this case further when you’ve restored yourself.” His smile was genuine and practiced at once, the smile of a man who has spent his life putting frightened people at ease. “I will have the most recent reports prepared for your review.”

  “Thank you,” she said, rising. “I am very tired.” She started for the door. “I’d appreciate as much information as you can give me on the nature of his delusions. That way I can deal with him more effectively.”

  “Of course, of course; I will have all the information you need made ready,” said the director. “I’ll arrange for you to talk with Dottore Chiodo this evening.” He rose and remained standing until she left his office; then he went to the window and looked out on the vine-covered Tuscan hill, taking solace in the beauty he saw.

  * * *

  Doctor Chiodo and Director Biancchi had a glass of pale sherry and a small plate of cheese pastries waiting for Jane when she came into the study at the Institute; it was glowing dusk beyond the windows as the day drained away to darkness. The building itself was alive with sounds, for most of the residents were being given their dinners just n
ow, and some were expressing themselves vociferously. Director Biancchi shut the door, muffling the loudest of the noises.

  “Does Thomas eat on his own?” Jane asked when their introductions were complete. She was in no mood to dawdle over social pleasantries, and sensed that the two men would be glad to lose themselves in small talk if they had the opportunity.

  “Yes, he can feed himself,” said Doctor Chiodo. “He is messy—he claims his beak gets in the way, that he can’t hold on to utensils with his talons—but he is capable of eating food.” He sighed.

  “That’s something,” Jane said, trying to make herself more alert, for in spite of her nap she still felt swathed in cotton wool.

  “You would think that the hallucinations are the product of a fixation in childhood, but if that is the case, he has not revealed it to me directly or indirectly. He is not very forthcoming about when he began to experience these perceptual episodes.” He sipped his sherry. “I have rarely encountered such consistency in a delusion as he appears to have.”

  “You’ve had him here for three weeks; given the severity of his condition, that doesn’t seem a long time, if, as you suppose, the hallucinations have been building for some considerable period. Your report suggests as much.” Jane did not want to be the first to sit down, but she found standing about awkward. “I spoke to his mother at length before I left St. Louis; she told me he has drawn monsters all his life, most of them similar to monsters in comic books. She supposed he would grow out of it in time. She was under the impression he had given it up before his father became ill.”

  “And he may have done,” said Doctor Chiodo. “But if that was the case, something triggered a resurgence of those perceptions. Perhaps his father’s illness contributed to the son’s deterioration, assuming such predilections existed before his father became ill, as I suppose must be the case, given the comprehensive nature of his delusions.” He popped one of the little pastries into his mouth, chewed it vigorously, then finished off his sherry before going on. “And given the possible connection to a family tragedy, I want to have one more hour with him before I inform him he is to be taken home.”

  This startled Jane a bit. “Why delay telling him?”

  “I am concerned about his understanding of the reason for his return home; it would be better for him if he did not perceive it as a punishment.” He poured more sherry into his glass and held out the crystal decanter to Jane and then to Director Biancchi; only the director accepted his offer. “I would like to try to discover more about his home life before I send him back into it, no matter how briefly, in order to minimize the possible distress he might suffer because of it: surely his family would prefer he not respond negatively to this transfer? He will need proper care, of course, and the sooner he is hospitalized, the better for everyone.”

  Jane nodded, frowning as she spoke. “I think his mother wants to have him at home, in familiar surroundings, for a few days before she arranges ... anything. She’s hired me to stay with them until—” She stopped, not knowing how to explain Catherine Ashen’s hopes to the two men.

  “If you will pardon me for saying so, Nurse Wallace,” Director Biancchi said in the silence, “Missus Ashen is not being very wise. I know this must be very painful for her, but if her son had suffered a medical injury, she would want to speed him to the best hospital she could find as soon as he arrived. This emergency is as genuine as broken bones are, and needs as expert care as soon as possible if he is to have any hope of a good recovery.” He glanced at Doctor Chiodo. “Wouldn’t you agree, Giacomo?”

  “Most certainly. It cannot be sufficiently elucidated.” He gave Jane a long, thoughtful look. “You have experience with delusional patients. Surely you must know that what you and I see as normal and reassuring—familiar—can be terrifying to a patient in Thomas’s condition?”

  Jane resented his patronizing tone but kept that to herself. “I’ve worked in the field for seventeen years, Doctor Chiodo. I have a grasp of the problem.”

  Doctor Chiodo metaphorically retreated. “An excellent one, I am certain.” He coughed gently. “I will be sure you have enough medication to keep him quiet for as long as necessary. I only wanted to impress upon you the volatility of his current state.”

  “I believe you made the problem clear in your notes, Doctor,” said Jane, a bit stiffly. “Rest assured, I will not underestimate the severity of his condition.” She looked from the doctor to the director and back again, hoping the intensity of her gaze would be sufficient emphasis to convince them of her conviction. “He is my responsibility now, not yours.” As she said this she saw the two men exchange a glance that was clearly an indication of shared relief.

  “As you say, Nurse Wallace: Thomas Ashen is your responsibility now,” Director Biancchi concurred.

  * * *

  Thomas’s head lolled as he was buckled into his first-class seat; an attractive stewardess hovered nearby, her features distorted by worry. “You’re sure he won’t cause any trouble?” she asked Jane uneasily; her Midwestern accent revealed her origins as much as her fresh-faced good looks.

  “He’ll sleep for five hours; I have a second dose to administer later,” Jane replied, more efficient than cordial. “There is no reason for concern while he is dozing, and I will give him my full attention once he awakes.” She had shepherded him through Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci airport, maneuvering his wheelchair with the ease of long experience, making sure he was undisturbed by the press of travelers around them. Now that he was aboard the plane and in his seat, Jane knew she could relax.

  “Well, at least first-class is half empty,” said the stewardess, sighing as she readied herself to tend to the other passengers.

  Jane made a careful check of Thomas’s seat belt, then wiped his lip of the shine of drool. She hesitated in this simple act, noticing that his flesh felt unexpectedly hard.

  Thomas half-opened one eye and tried to make sense of her face. “Oh,” he mumbled. “You’re one of the sad ones.” The eye closed and his head rolled onto his shoulder. “Long beak,” he added, then fell deeply asleep.

  A short while later the plane lunged into the air, heading northwest for Montreal, St. Louis, and Houston. The sound of the engines penetrated Thomas’s drugged slumber for a brief instant; he saw the stewardess in the crew seat beside the door, and he gave a little shriek of dismay. “Teeth, long teeth,” he whispered, then looked away toward the window, and went pale as he slipped back into his stupor.

  If that’s the worst I have to deal with, Jane told herself, this is going to be an easy flight, and let the acceleration and climb push her back against the padded seat until the pilot announced that they had reached cruising altitude. Relaxing, Jane let herself be lulled by the loud purr of the engines as the plane continued onward.

  “Something to drink, ma’am?” the stewardess asked a short time later; she studied Thomas’s slack visage and adjusted her own smile. “He’s really out of it, isn’t he?”

  “As required, for his safety and that of the rest of your passengers,” said Jane, more sharply than she had intended. “Hot coffee, black, and something light to eat—a croissant, or scone.”

  The stewardess stared at her. “Ma’am?”

  “That’s what I’d like for now—coffee and breakfast pastry. I don’t care what the hour is.” Jane sat straighter, squinting as she saw the stewardess move back. There was the oddest look about her, thought Jane, a shininess that seemed out of place on so perfectly made-up a face. She dismissed this as the oddity of the moment, a nervousness left over from getting Thomas to the plane. When the coffee was brought, Jane noticed the shine again, but out of the corner of her eye; again she dismissed it, reminding herself that she was a jittery flier. She leaned back, sipping on her coffee, and stared past Thomas out into the cerulean expanse. When the stewardess returned with two croissants and a sticky bun to accompany her coffee, Jan
e saw the suggestion of a chitinous mass on the stewardess’s face; she ignored it.

  There were two movies to choose from for the personal screens, and Jane selected the costume drama about skullduggery at the court of Elizabeth I; it held her attention even though she found it heavy-handed and anachronistic. Only twice did she find her attention wavering: once when the stewardess brought around an elegant tray of cheeses, and once when the man in the seat across the aisle rose to go to the bathroom and revealed a long trunk dangling from the front of his face. Jane blinked and the proboscis disappeared; she reimmersed herself in the sixteenth-century drama as quickly as possible.

  Over Nova Scotia Thomas became restless and struggled against his seat belt, murmuring bits of protestations that caught Jane’s attention. She reached over to quiet him and found herself staring into his open eyes. “You know. You know,” he said, his voice made distant by his drugs. “Don’t pretend.”

  “Of course not,” said Jane, reaching for the kit that contained the tranquilizers he would need for the rest of the journey. “Don’t upset yourself.” As she administered the injection, she thought she saw a gleeful grimace on the beaked face of the stewardess, but in an instant it was gone, and the young woman’s smile had nothing sinister about it.