“No. Is that what I’ve got?”
“We think so. I can’t be one hundred percent certain with this diagnosis, because it’s difficult to pin down.”
“Well what is it?” said Janice. “What’s going to happen?” There was a certain inescapability to that statement that made Ben flinch. It’s a disease, he thought. Things are going to happen to me. Suddenly he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
“Pick’s Disease is similar to Alzheimer’s,” said Dr. Lennon. “It attacks the brain, and generally leads to dysfunction.”
“What kind of dysfunction?” said Ben. “Am I going to lose my memory?”
“No... well, probably not. The symptoms are often different than Alzheimer’s. There’s a good chance your memory will be crystal clear, right up to the end.” The End. There was that finality again. Ben winced. “Unfortunately, you can expect some loss of functionality. This may be expressed by an inability to control yourself. It can lead to odd, irrational behavior, or in some cases apathy and lethargy. I’d like to encourage you,” he directed his attention to Janice, “to do some reading. The more you learn about this now, the more you can prepare yourself.”
“But when does all this happen?” said Janice. “I mean, Ben seems fine right now.”
“The symptoms progress differently with each individual. It can take a year, it can take ten or fifteen years. Tell me Ben, have you had difficulty focusing? Or do you find it difficult to make things happen?”
Ben felt a chill. “Honestly, I’d say I’ve been having that problem for years. It almost ruined my career.”
“That’s one of the more common symptoms,” said the Doctor. “The fact that you’ve already been experiencing these symptoms leads me to believe that they will increase with time. You may find it extremely difficult to function on your own. You’ll need Janice to direct you, to keep you active.”
“I understand,” said Janice. She was being strong. Ben suddenly wished he felt half that strong. He felt like he was facing a death sentence. He thought back to the time he was going to commit suicide and wondered if he’d made the wrong choice. No, he’d done well since then. He’d done well for Janice and the kids. His chest tightened as he thought of them. So much he was going to miss… so much he had already missed. Tears watered his eyes, and he tried to force them back.
“What about treatments?” he said, his voice gravelly. “Is there anything to slow it down, maybe brain surgery or something?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Doctor Lennon. “But I would encourage you to do your own research. Subscribe to the journals, and see what you can find in the library or on the internet. Science is progressing faster than most of us can keep up with. If there’s a new treatment, there’s a good chance you’ll find out about it faster than me.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Janice.
“Yeah, thanks.” Thanks for telling me I’m condemned to lose my mind and die. You’re a hard act to follow, Doc.
The Hospital released Ben that afternoon. In the days that followed, he became deeply depressed. He could hardly find a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Knowing that he was going to die, knowing that there was no way around it, made him apathetic about even trying to live. What was the point? It was a chronic disease. He was going to die, no matter what.
A week later he was in bed with Janice, and she let him have it. “I’ve had enough of this, Ben,” she said. “You’ve got two beautiful children, and they’re growing up right before your eyes. You’re acting like you’re already dead. Think about this: sooner or later you’re going to be dead. What will your children do when that happens? They won’t have you anymore, ever. But for now, you’re here, and they need you. I need you. If you want to quit, you can do it without me. If you just want to give up on life, then get out!” She was crying by the time she’d finished, and Ben felt his heart breaking as he listened. She was right, and he knew it.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “All I can think about is how I’m going to lose everything. You, the kids. It’s tearing me apart. I know I’ve been selfish. I don’t have to work, I don’t have to worry about money... but I can’t stand the thought of losing it all. And I can’t stand thinking about you three being alone after I’m gone.” Tears were streaming down his face. Janice threw her arms around him and started to cry. She was still being strong, still supporting him. Why couldn’t he be strong like that?
Things got better after that, at least for a while. Janice quit her job to be home with Ben, and they made the most of the time they had. They took long drives through the foothills and up the coast; they went on shopping binges at the antique shops around town. Most of all, Ben spent every moment he could with the kids. He spoiled them rotten, he loved them, and he tried to impart what little wisdom he could and hoped they’d remember it.
It was almost three months after his diagnosis that Ben finally got the urge to write. It occurred to him one night as he was lying in bed. Janice was asleep, so he slipped out of the covers and crept into his study as quietly as possible. She found him there the next morning, staring at a blank screen.
“Ben? What are you doing?” he turned his gaze slowly in her direction.
“I’ve been writing the most wonderful story,” he said. “Once this one is published, they’ll never forget me.” Janice stared uneasily at the blank screen.
“But you haven’t written anything,” she said. Ben glanced at the monitor.
“Oh yes, I forgot. I need my chair. Have you seen my chair? I can’t find it anywhere.” Janice’s eyes watered up.
“I told you already Ben, we don’t have the chair anymore. The warehouse burned down, remember?” Ben got a distant look on his face, as if he were trying hard to remember.
“I loved that chair,” he said. “I can’t write without it. All of my stories came from Poe, did you know that?”
“Yes, Ben. You’ve told me before.” She’d heard it a million times, of course. Poe was Ben’s inspiration for everything he’d done. “Come on, let’s get you showered. I’ll take you for a walk.”
Things went on in this fashion for months. Every day Ben slipped a little further from reality. Like the doctor had promised, Ben stayed sharp enough to remember most of the details of his life, and yet at the same time he didn’t seem to be living in the real world. Janice knew that he wanted to write, but he had some sort of mental block about that chair. She tried so hard to help him get past it, but Ben simply would not cooperate. As badly as he wanted to write his masterpiece before he died, he couldn’t do it without that chair.
At times he became angry, accusing her of selling the chair, or burning it just to spite him. At other times he pretended that he’d never known the chair was gone, but Janice knew better. He hadn’t forgotten, he was just living in his fantasy world.
Ben’s condition gradually deteriorated, and eventually he was confined to the bed. Janice struggled to maintain her composure as she watched the man she loved beginning to wither away. The feelings of helplessness overwhelmed her, and yet she struggled on. She knew that eventually Ben would be gone. Then she could rest and remember him. Then she could be weak. For now, she had to be strong.
Ben’s desire to write pronounced itself with increasing frequency during those last days. He couldn’t get out of bed anymore, but he would scream for her to bring him a computer, or a pen and pad. After staring at the blank page for hours he would break into hysterical fits, accusing her of terrible things that made Janice cry.
She persevered, shouldering her burden and jamming the emotions deep down inside. There were times that she felt like quitting, but she never truly entertained the idea. Janice had known since the day she met Ben that their love was beyond the trivialities of life. It wasn’t about money or fame, and it couldn’t be swept aside by fear or anger. As long as Ben was comfortable, that was all that mattered. Her love was so deep that it pushed all other things aside. She sacrificed herself day after day, only weeping late at night after B
en and the children were asleep. Alone in the kitchen, in the dark, she sobbed like a frightened child. Only then would Janice take off her mask of strength and allow her pain and fear to surface.
The weeks passed, and still Ben screamed for his chair. His masterpiece was ready, he exclaimed, if only he had his chair. But of course, the chair was gone, and the same old arguments and hysteria and accusations came bubbling out. Slowly but surely, it was breaking Janice down. It was killing her. She wished she’d never seen the chair; wished she’d thrown it out the night Ben brought it home.
And then one day it changed. Ben woke, and Janice was in the room folding laundry. He glanced in the direction of the window, and squinted against the light. “My chair!” he said. “You found my chair!” Janice glanced towards the window and back at him.
“Yes, Ben. It’s here. Do you want to write now?”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” So Janice set up his bedside computer, and placed the large custom keyboard on his lap, and Ben began to type.
The story flowed through him, it seemed, and onto the screen. He forgot all else. Janice was pleasantly surprised to see words actually appearing on the monitor, but she didn’t try to peek at the story. Ben was always superstitious about people reading his work before it was ready.
She had to remind him to go to the bathroom regularly, to eat, and to sleep. Always it was something in Ben’s mind; always something pulling him away from his work. But Ben persevered, confident in the revelation that Janice had finally found his beloved chair. At last he had Poe’s spirit with him, guiding him through the prose. He paused periodically to glance towards the window, to be sure that it was still there. It was, and he was satisfied.
Ben withered away to nothing during those final weeks, and it was all Janice could do to watch it. She did her best to keep him comfortable. She saw to his wishes, which were minimal. The worst of these were his desire to write at odd hours. At times he woke in the small hours of the night, out of a deep slumber, and demanded his computer. Janice complied, and then dutifully stayed up with him to make sure he remembered to relieve himself. It was in her best interest to do so, since cleaning the bed was such a miserable chore.
Then came the day when the novel was finished. Janice had known for days that Ben was just hanging on. Without his masterpiece, there would have been nothing keeping him alive. He was propped up in his bed, fingers slowly typing out the last sentences. His eyes were barely open, as if he lacked even the strength to do that. But his fingers danced across the keys, pounding out the final words to what he assured her would be his greatest work. Then, suddenly, the typing stopped.
Janice came in a rush, her ears accustomed to the ever-present clickety-clack of the keys. She found him with his head pressed back into the pillows, his narrow gaze directed at the chair by the window. She came up to his side and glanced at the screen, and saw the words “THE END” in bold letters across the bottom.
“It’s finished?” she said. Ben smiled.
“My masterpiece,” he said in a croaking voice. Janice bent over, put her arms around his chest.
“I’m so proud of you,” she said. “I knew you could do it.”
“It wasn’t me,” he said. “It was Poe. I’ve always known it was Poe. I can’t write. I’m a hack.”
“That’s not true, Ben. You don’t really believe that do you?”
“It’s true.”
“I’m not going to listen to that,” Janice said. Ben was surprised by the anger in her voice. She rose from the bed and stomped over by the window. “Is this it? Is this your precious chair?”
“You know it is,” he muttered. His breath was shallow, his words little more than a whisper. Janice picked up the chair and brought it to the bedside.
“This isn’t Poe’s chair, Ben. It never was.”
He was incredulous. “What’s this?”
“It’s not Poe’s chair. It’s from the kitchen. I brought it up here to sit while I’m watching you. It wasn’t Poe writing those books, Ben. It was you. It was always you.”
It took a moment for him to work it out, to realize that he had been deceived. After thinking about it, he understood why.
All those years ago, when the chair came flying out of that truck, he’d been given a gift. He’d been gifted with inspiration, with a muse. But he’d taken that gift and turned it into a crutch. He’d been acting like a fool, like a weak-minded moron. He’d made that chair into something else, something more than it was. He’d allowed that delusion to possess him.
A smile crept over his face. “You tricked me,” he said.
“Of course I did,” Janice said. She came back to his side. She sat in the chair, holding his hands in hers. “You wanted to write, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And you did it. You wrote your masterpiece. It’s all there on the computer.”
“I did it,” he said.
“Yes, just you.All by yourself.”
“No,” he said. “You and me. I love you.”
Ben died that afternoon with his family close to him, and the sun shining in through his bedroom window, at last freed of the lie that made him into the man he was. Ben died knowing that all along it had been him, and not the chair. But more importantly, he died loving his wife more deeply and sincerely than ever.
Ben’s novel was a twist on his original success. In the new version, the artist wasn’t haunted by his lost love. Rather, the artist was diagnosed with a chronic illness and was forced to cope with his own demise, and the sadness of watching his lover as she watched him die. It was a gripping, heart-rending story, and when Janice read it, she learned something new about Ben. All along she’d thought he had been oblivious to her suffering. He wasn’t. He’d felt it, endured it along with her every single day. As usual, Ben hadn’t been able to express those feelings. It was an unspoken pain they shared, and ultimately a whole new reason to love him even after he was gone.
Ben’s novel was edited for typographical errors only. Then it was published six months later, in its complete form, to the adoration of millions of loyal fans. Bookstores opened at midnight on the sale date, and eager fans lined up all over the country to be the first to have a copy of Ben’s masterpiece. And Janice visited his grave to describe the excitement in great detail, knowing that Ben would have relished the fact that his greatest success had nothing to do with that stupid chair.
The End
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The Raven King's Chair Page 3
