Eyes Wide Open

by Ted Dekker

  “How much of the day would you say you spend wondering if you measure up?”

  All the time, she thought. But saying it sounded stupid so she only said, “Quite a bit.”

  “You feel lost. Missing, just like the real photograph for your locket.”

  Christy hesitated, which was answer enough.

  “In fact, a day doesn’t pass without you suffering some kind of deep anxiety linked to your true identity.”

  The turn in the conversation had taken Christy from a state of relative ease to one of smothering fear.

  “Even now you feel a kind of terror, and the worst part of it is that you can’t figure out why. It’s just there, like a monster lurking behind your brain.”

  She still couldn’t seem to find the right response. She felt naked, disrobed by a few simple words.

  “You hate being so weak,” Nancy said. “You can’t understand why you hate yourself and think no one else could possibly be as bad off as you. Is that true?”

  Christy’s face was hot. Sweat had beaded on her forehead—she could hardly pretend that she hadn’t been exposed.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes. It’s okay. We all get to discover who we really are at some point, and when we do, it can be quite unsettling.”

  Christy felt her eyes misting and averted her stare. She wasn’t sure what to say. It was true, she thought. All of it.

  “There’s a part of your mind that’s shattered. You feel isolated and lost. You don’t know who you are, so you try to be what they say you should be, and that leaves you incapable of coping, hating yourself, hating those who want you to be someone you aren’t—even though you yourself don’t know who you are. You’ve lost your true identity and are desperately looking for a new one even though that’s impossible.”

  The volume of disquiet that swept through Christy’s mind and heart at those words could not be properly expressed. She felt desperate to run from the room, but there was nowhere to go.

  “You live alone and keep to yourself because you’re broken. Your mind is fractured. Even at your best, you suspect that something is wrong, because it is. The only time you feel good is when you’re able to pretend that it is, but deep down you hate everything about yourself. The way you look, the way you feel, the way you think, even the way you sleep, because that time that should be peaceful is full of nightmares.”

  Christy’s fingers began to tremble ever so slightly. She lowered them to her lap. She recognized the onset of a panic attack, and none of her attempts at self-assurance put a dent in the one rushing up to meet her now.

  “My observations bother you, don’t they, Christy?”

  Her throat was frozen shut. She managed a soft, “I guess.”

  Nancy addressed her in a kind voice laden with compassion, but the words could not have been more upsetting.

  “You see the world through broken glasses, Christy. Your mind is wounded.”

  She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run.

  But she could only sit as tears leaked from her eyes.

  And she hated even that.

  The door opened, jerking her from her thoughts. Kern Lawson glanced between them, then nodded at Nancy, who smiled congenially at Christy, thanked her for being so vulnerable, gathered her files, and stepped out with the administrator.

  Christy wiped her eyes and quickly gathered herself. Nancy’s words still buzzed through her head. Austin had once suggested that a good therapist might help her find tools to deal with her despondent emotions. Maybe he was right. Her reaction to Nancy’s observations bothered her more than the words themselves.

  Five minutes later Lawson walked in wearing a congenial grin. He sat in the chair Nancy had occupied and folded his hands together.

  “Nancy tells me that you were very cooperative.”

  “She seemed nice enough.”

  “Yes. Nice enough. And now it’s time to put this behind us so we can both get back to our lives. We have a nice room ready for you, Alice. I’m sure you’re going to like it. That staff is very excited to learn of your safe return.”

  Christy felt gut-punched. His words slammed into her like the crushing fist of God himself.

  She stood, knocking her chair back and over. “This is insane!”

  “We don’t prefer that expression on this floor, Alice. Challenged is more becoming.”

  “I’m… not… Alice!”

  “The charade is up, my dear. There is no cell phone, no locket, nothing but your own delusion, something that comes quite naturally to you based on the history in your file, supported by Nancy’s assessment. Your name is Alice Ringwald, dark hair, five foot two, 121 pounds, brown eyes. You were processed this morning. Welcome to Saint Matthew’s.”

  For a moment the thought that she might actually be hearing the truth spun through her mind. If she was delusional, everything she remembered from this morning could be a kind of wild fabrication. Something about the possibility rang true.

  Something deep in her mind snapped, and Christy found herself running for the door, desperate to be out. Anywhere but here.

  She flung the door wide and threw herself forward, aware that the administrator wasn’t reacting to her flight.

  She collided with a guard, who grabbed her arms and tried to calm her, but she was powerless to suppress the panic, powerless to still her thrashing arms and quiet her scream.

  A second guard assisted and a sliver of reason told her she had no hope. No escape. She’d been here before, maybe, and knew what to do now.

  She stopped her thrashing and stood still, breathing hard. Mind swimming with confusion.

  “All right,” she said, staring through the door at the administrator, who still sat, watching calmly. “All right. I’m fine. Let me go, you’re hurting my arms.”

  The grip on her left arm eased and she jerked it free.

  For a moment, Lawson just looked at her.

  “Take her to her room,” he finally said.

  ​THE ROOM they’d taken Christy to was small, no more than ten feet side to side and maybe fifteen feet deep. White walls with a single metal bed supporting a white-sheeted mattress, one tiny wooden desk with chair, no windows, one empty closet. Hardly the kind of accommodations that matched the staff’s jovial attitude.

  It didn’t matter. Christy had no intention of spending the night.

  She’d used the last reserves of her energy to manage her panic and suppress her need to make them understand that they were making a terrible mistake.

  A counselor named Mike Carthridge had ushered her to the room, assisted by one of the two guards stationed outside the interview room. She’d tried one last time to make her case to the young man, but he’d only nodded and offered his sympathy. Clearly none of them believed a word she said.

  The worst of it was her own words, whispering through her mind, asking the impossible: What if they’re right, Christy?

  Fighting back the dread riding her mind, she’d made a decision: She would play along, earn herself some space, and then go. She didn’t know how to get out, but she was going to go. She had to, if only to know that she wasn’t crazy. Eventually Austin would track her down, but she wasn’t going to wait for him. For that matter, if they locked up the storage room tight, there was always the possibility he might not find her.

  She’d spent the last twenty minutes sitting or lying quietly on her bed, mind drained and frenzied at once. Her skull tingled, screaming for relief, and her face was flushed. She wanted to move, to pace, anything to work off her nervous energy. But she wanted to appear defeated in the event anyone came to check on her.

  She could make her way to the cafeteria or lounge whenever she felt up to it, Mike had told her. They didn’t seem concerned about her leaving the room, which didn’t help. They obviously were confident in whatever security measures they had in place.

  Still didn’t matter. She had to try.

  No cameras in the room that she could see.

  Christy
sat up, heart pounding. No sign of anyone outside. If she entered the hall and met any of the staff, she could always tell them that she was headed for the lounge, right?

  She stood and steadied herself. They placed a plastic band on her wrist that identified her as Alice Ringwald. It had her number and few letters—S A D, P D—whatever that meant. Maybe her diagnosis. The blue smock they gave her had no name tag. Said they would get her some clean clothes later.

  It was now or never.

  Christy walked to the door, opened it slowly, and slipped her head out. The hall was clear. Same hall she’d first entered, along the same wall that opened to the stairs to the basement, only two doors down from the administrator’s office.

  She gathered herself for a few seconds, listening to the silence. No sign. She would get to the far end of the hall and take the corner. It was really the only way she could go.

  Just walk easy, Christy. Nothing wrong. Nothing wrong.

  She stepped into the hall and turned to her right. Still no one.

  Breathe. Don’t run.

  She headed down the hall, feet numb, eyes on the end where the hall turned to the left.

  The patient rooms all had small windows, six by twelve inches, allowing a clear view of the interior. She cast a glance into the first room she passed and saw that it was empty.

  Still no sign of traffic. She picked up her pace.

  Passed a third room and glanced in as she passed. Patient asleep on the bed, facing the window. She was glad they hadn’t sedated her. If they had she wouldn’t have—

  Christy pulled up sharply, the image of the sleeping patient she’d just passed large in her mind. She spun back and peered through the narrow window.

  A male. Dark hair. Restrained at the wrists.

  Austin?

  But…

  She blinked away the image, but the face refused to change. How could Austin be a patient in the same ward she was in? And in restraints? Nothing made sense.

  She was losing her mind?

  Christy didn’t think to check the hall again. She twisted the knob, slipped into the room, and stood trembling, facing the apparition before her.

  Only it wasn’t an apparition.

  It really was Austin.

  —

  “WAKE UP! Wake up!”

  A sharp pain set fire to Austin’s cheek. Spread into his jaw.

  His eyes fluttered open. Drifted to his right where Christy’s face hovered over him, eyes puffy and red. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail that struggled to keep her tousled locks in check. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead.

  He blinked. “Christy?”

  She looked at him with fear-fired eyes. “Tell me you’re real. Please, just tell me I’m not imagining this.”

  “Where am I?”

  She hesitated. “The psych ward.”

  He was flat on his back with his arms at his sides. In bed?

  His attention flitted between her and his surroundings. He tried to force the world into focus, but his mind was sluggish. He was in a white room with cinderblock walls. Windowless.

  “How…?” Christy looked frightened. “You’re real, though. Right?”

  “Of course I’m real.”

  “Then how did you get here?” She jerked her head toward the door. “They could be coming soon. We have to hurry!”

  “Hold on.” His chest and his heart surged. “Just hold on.”

  Thoughts raced. He had to stay calm. Think, Austin. His mind cycled through what happened in the basement. With Fisher. With the girl.

  Fisher.

  He scanned the room and tried to sit up, but his attempt to rise to his elbows was stopped by the thick padded restraints that secured his wrists to the steel bedrails. The metal chain links clinked in protest. He tugged at them.

  “Where is he?” he asked.

  “Where is who?”

  “Fisher. Where is he?” He knew the man was nearby. Had to be.

  Christy was confused. “I don’t know who Fisher is.”

  “Okay, listen to me.”

  She muttered to herself. Held her head in her hands. “They’re coming.”

  “Look at me. Look at me.”

  She faced him.

  “I need you to get me out of these.” He pulled at the restraints. “Can you do that?”

  Her trembling fingers fumbled with the fat leather straps. Her breathing was shallow. After several tries she managed to free his right hand.

  He slipped it out of the leather cuff and reached across his body. His fingers made quick work of the second restraint and he sat up. Excruciating pressure bloomed in his head with the rush of blood.

  He grabbed a fistful of the bedding. Clenched. Waited for the pain to settle to a dull roar.

  “Are you okay?” Christy asked.

  “I’m fine.” He wasn’t though.

  Austin scooted to the foot of the bed. He dropped his feet to the floor and stood.

  Fueled by a potent mix of pain and adrenaline, his mind crackled with renewed clarity. It might be temporary, he knew that. He had to think quickly.

  “Christy…”

  He turned and saw that she’d closed the distance between them. She slipped her arms underneath his, around his body, and lay her head on his chest.

  He stood there for a moment feeling her body tremble.

  “I knew you would come,” she said.

  He held her gently. They were alive and together—that was good.

  They were in a psych ward. As patients. That wasn’t so good.

  Her shoulders heaved.

  “Hey, listen,” he said softly. He pulled back and held her at arm’s length. Fat tears carved trails down her cheeks. “It’s gonna be okay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It will be. We just need to figure this out.”

  She bit her lower lip, on the edge of a cliff somewhere in her mind. What had they done to her? He needed to keep her head in the game.

  “Good,” he said. “We have to reason our way through this. Right? Don’t go crazy on me.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Crazy? You think I’m crazy?”

  “Bad choice of words. I need you to get hold of yourself.”

  “I’m not crazy.”

  He checked the door with a glance. “Keep it down. Of course you’re not crazy.”

  “I’m not.” This time her words came out as barely a whisper.

  “But you’re obviously stressed out, and you’re not thinking straight. The only way we’re getting out of here is if we stay calm and figure this out.”

  “You’re right.” She ran her hands through her hair. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  He paced across the room. With each passing moment the cloudy layer in his mind burned away.

  “Tell me everything. Focus. What happened to you this morning after you got here?”

  The story spilled out of her in one rush of ragged emotion. The panic she felt in the passageway. Her phone call to Austin. The run-in with the hospital staff. The mix-up that led to her admission. Lawson. All of the pieces clicked into place for Austin.

  “You had no ID on you?” he asked.

  “No. I left everything at home.”

  He noticed the blue plastic wristband on her left hand. He reached down and twisted it. A series of numbers were printed on it. Next to the numbers, a name: RINGWALD, ALICE.

  Alice.

  Austin jerked his left hand up. A similar band snugged his wrist. The name on it: CONNELLY, SCOTT.

  A pang of terror rose in his gut.

  “What?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Fisher.”

  “Who’s Fisher?”

  “After I got your call, I traced your steps to the storage room. I found the way into the hospital that you took. While I was in the basement, I stumbled onto something I wasn’t supposed to see. A hospital employee was down there. A man—Douglas Fisher. His name badge said he’s the admissions director. He was performing some form o
f therapy on a young girl. Whatever he was doing, I wasn’t supposed to see it.”

  “He did this to you?” she asked.

  “He injected me with some kind of sedative. That’s the last thing I remember.”

  “Oh no.”

  Austin churned through the possibilities, but there were too many to process so quickly. He was midstride when he saw the red folder peeking from a wall tray next to the light switch.

  His folder.

  He covered the distance in three steps and pulled the chart out. Flipped it open. His finger traced the record as he scanned it.

  “Scott Connelly. Age seventeen. Paranoid delusional.” He closed the folder. “Same name on my wristband. This is me.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” Fisher was smart. Dangerously so.

  “What?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “What is it?” she asked for a third time, this time in a whisper.

  He held up the folder and spoke quickly, his own urgency rising. “He admitted me as a patient. That’s what he did after he knocked me out.”

  “But you’re not a patient. How can he just… do that?”

  “Fisher’s the admissions director. Think about it. He has access to the system. He controls the records. After the basement he must’ve taken my phone, my wallet—everything that proves I’m Austin Hartt. I had your phone on me too. He has both of them now.”

  “But why? Why would he do that?”

  The realization steamrolled him. “Whatever I saw him doing was dangerous enough that he couldn’t simply let me walk away. It had to have been illegal, probably some kind of experimental therapy that the hospital would never approve. Something that would cost him his job. That has to be it.”

  “Then we’ll just find a phone and call someone. The police,” Christy said. “It’s all a mistake. They’ll see. It’s all just a mistake.”

  “There won’t be any outgoing lines except in the offices.” He tapped the folder against his open palm quickly, thinking. “Besides, this isn’t a mistake. It’s a calculated move. We’re patients in a psych ward. No one’s going to believe anything we have to say.”

  “Of course they will. They have to.”

  “Why? He stripped me of my identity.” Another realization dawned on him in that moment. “And he took yours too.” He motioned to her wristband. “You said they think you’re name’s Alice, right?”