The Blind

by A. F. Brady

  I’m champagne drunk already, which is different from other booze drunks because it feels more like drugs than alcohol. I’m woozy and disoriented. I feel like my head is a balloon and my neck is becoming the string attaching the balloon to my body. The cold air from the balcony and the smoke in my lungs helps me to bring my head back down to earth, but I don’t want it to reattach enough to be able to think about what’s happening to me.

  I’ve been officially labeled by OMH now, and it’s only a matter of time before the consequences descend upon me like a death shroud.

  I look up at the bitter, artificial city; Eddie is gone. The lights of Times Square are lighting up the clouds and the mist, and it’s reminding me of the dirty colors of Eddie’s greasy trucker hats.

  My left knee buckles, and I hold the railing for support. A caterer wanders onto the balcony and replaces my empty champagne glass with a full one, and informs me it’s nearly midnight. He and I are the only ones on the balcony, and I hear the cries of the crowds below us, counting down. I turn to look inside, and the glow off the lamps and the Christmas tree lights are blending into one big, shiny blur, and I catch Lucas screaming the countdown with a blonde in one arm and a brunette in the other. I watch the women watching him, and just as the confetti begins to explode up from beneath me, Lucas draws the brunette in for a long, simmering kiss. He catches my eyes as he separates his lips from hers and sends me a smiling shrug. I raise my glass in Lucas’s direction and pull the cater waiter’s face to mine. I’m kissing a stranger, and my mind flashes to thoughts of David kissing Julie at this very moment somewhere. I pull away from him, and his startled expression makes my stomach sink.

  I’m immediately returned to the grips of fear and paranoia. I chug the champagne in my glass and pluck another full one off the waiter’s tray. He retrieves a lighter from his pocket and lights my next cigarette for me before walking back inside, leaving me alone to watch the confetti snow fall around me and hear the distant sounds of singing. My thoughts wander to Lucas. I know he should be forgotten and never brought to mind. Never one to make New Year’s resolutions, tonight, I decide that Lucas has to fade out of my life. I have to let him go for real this time. I lean over the balcony to throw up, and I see my balloon head float up above me, drifting into the shiny, synthetic-colored sky.

  JANUARY 3RD, 11:40 A.M.

  Richard and I haven’t said a word to each other since the day he witnessed my collapse. We both have secrets thick in the air between us, and neither of us can face them. When I’m not at Typhlos, I’m able to pretend I didn’t get shot in the chest by a speeding psych-evaluation bullet and I’m not slowly bleeding to death. But when I get off the subway in the morning and trudge to the institution, my heart sneaks up into my throat.

  Is that why Eddie killed himself? Is that why Adelle nearly died? Because I’m an unfit therapist? Because my negligence made it possible? I haven’t been fired; I haven’t been demoted; I haven’t even been approached. Is it possible I’ve managed to slip through the cracks?

  Rachel already asked me once for the completed report and I haven’t given it to her. It’s complete now. Except for my own eval. Can I pretend that I left my report for someone else to do? Gave it to David? It’s not even ethical for me to write my own summary but ethical guidelines seem to have gone the way of the dodo at Typhlos these days. Maybe I’ll be able to get away with this.

  Either way, I’m sure the evaluation results must have been a mistake; there’s no way I could have been so careless as to drop my guard and let them see who I really am. As I’m formulating a scenario in my head as to how exactly this mistake happened, and what I’m going to do about it, Richard interrupts my musings.

  “Okay, we have only fifteen minutes left. I’m ready to work on the file.”

  “The what?” I snap.

  “The file. The papers that you’re always trying to get me to finish? You know?” He seems genuine. He seems to be trying to stick to the plan regardless of the fact that he hasn’t attempted to even begin his file since he got here.

  “Oh, my God. You want to fill out forms? Right now?”

  “This is what you said we have to do, so yeah.”

  “Oh, my God. Oh, my God, this isn’t happening.” I clench my jaw tightly. “Fine. You know what?” I say, smiling through my teeth. “Fine. We’ll do the fucking documentation.” I shuffle his file out of the filing cabinet and start tearing through the papers.

  “Whatever happened to you probably isn’t my fault. I don’t think you need to take it out on me.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Richard. Maybe right now isn’t a good time for us to meet. Maybe you need to go to a group.” I slap his unfinished file back into the drawer.

  “That wasn’t the deal. I can do the paperwork if you can ask me the questions. And then write the shit down.”

  “Watch your mouth.”

  “I think that ship has sailed, Sam.”

  “Has it?” I snatch his file back up. I’m so defiant, I’m so over it, I’m so ready to fall that I don’t care how I hit the ground. “Okay, Richard. Why are you here? What’s your diagnosis? What are your goals for treatment at Typhlos? Why were you in prison?”

  “I killed my mother.”

  JANUARY 3RD, 2:00 P.M.

  I hear a knock on my door and I’m not supposed to have any sessions right now. My head is detached from the rest of my body, only able to focus on the information Richard threw at me this morning. I open my door and lean back in my chair to see who’s knocking. In walks a lanky young man with cornrows.

  “Hey, Doc,” he says and he plunks himself down in my chair.

  “Hi. Can I help you?” Confused.

  “I have my schedule.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper with heavily frayed edges. “It says I have my meeting with my doctor now, so here I am.”

  “Does it say who your doctor is—” I crane my neck and check for a name on his schedule “—Shawn?” He looks at his sheet and scans for the answer.

  “Uh, no. But today is Tuesday, right?”

  “Yes, today is Tuesday. May I see your paper?” Shawn hands me his schedule with a worried look.

  “I take this medicine, and it makes it hard to remember. So, I got this schedule with me. And I bring it with me wherever I go. That way, I don’t forget the places I’m supposed to be. I go to my meetings, and my groups, and it says that my bed is in room 127. So that’s where I go when I’m supposed to sleep.”

  I’m looking over this piece of paper, and nowhere does it say who Shawn works with. I know I’ve seen him before, but I’m not sure where or when.

  “Shawn, have you and I ever had a meeting before?”

  “Yeah, Tuesdays.” He folds his paper back into his pocket.

  “And on Tuesdays at 2:00 p.m., you come to my office?” Why am I not remembering this?

  “Yeah, and we do the questions and answers here.”

  “Okay. Have you ever had a meeting with any of the other doctors here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Shawn, what’s your last name?”

  “Reynolds.”

  “Okay, I’m going to check something for a second, alright?”

  “Yeah.” Shawn leans back and wipes the sweat from his forehead. I pick up the receiver on my phone and dial #44, which connects to all the office intercoms.

  “Staff, if you’re in your office and not in session, please pick up. If you’re in session, please mute the phone.” I stay on for a moment, hear a few clicks and repeat the message. When I’m confident the staff in session have muted their phones, I talk to whoever is on the line. “Hi, everyone, it’s Sam. Quick question, who belongs to Shawn Reynolds?”

  “Umm, he was mine,” Gary says. “Do you want me to come to your office?”

  “Yes, thank you.” I hear various clinicians click off the call, and Gary tells me he will be right over to talk to me.

  “So,” Shawn begins. “What questions
should we talk about today?”

  “Well, Shawn, unfortunately, I’m not your counselor. You work with Gary. Do you know who that is?” I feel bad for the kid; he’s obviously confused, and I’m beginning to suspect that Gary fucked up his medication.

  “Gary? Gary…” He looks at the ceiling as if to try to remember.

  “What’s the name of the medicine you take, Shawn?”

  “It’s the orange one.”

  “Do you take more than one?”

  “Yeah.” He pulls out his schedule again, and there’s a handwritten note in the corner that reads “Orange in the morning, pink at night.” He hands it to me again. “And the pink one.”

  “Okay. Why don’t we wait for Gary?”

  “Okay.” His eyes glaze over and he slumps into the chair. Gary knocks on my door. I stand up to open it, and Gary walks in.

  “Hi, Shawn,” he says, and Shawn’s eyes refocus.

  “Hi, Doc,” Shawn says. I offer my seat to Gary, who sits down and leans forward with his elbows on his knees.

  “Will you do me a favor, Shawn? Can you wait in the computer room while I talk to Sam for a minute? It’s right across the hall. I’ll meet you there in just a minute.”

  “Yeah, that’s okay. I’ll wait in the computer room. Sorry for the mistake.” Shawn lumbers out of my office, and I sit down in the warm of his chair.

  “What’s he taking?” I ask.

  “It’s the chlorpromazine.”

  “Oh, yeah. He said the orange ones. What’s his diagnosis?”

  “Sam…” Gary looks at me quizzically. “Paranoid schizophrenia and intermittent explosive. He’s on diphenhydramine, too.”

  “If the chlorpromazine is affecting his memory this substantially, then you should take him off the diphenhydramine.”

  “Shouldn’t you take him off the diphenhydramine?”

  “You can’t do it?”

  “Sam, Shawn is your patient. The meds written on his schedule are written in your handwriting. He used to work with me, but then Rachel changed around my responsibilities. So she gave Shawn to you. Remember?”

  “What? He’s mine? That was my handwriting? I’ve never forgotten a patient; how could this happen?” I’m bewildered, a deer in the headlights.

  “I don’t know, Sam. Have you been feeling alright?”

  Gary’s the one who forgets patients; he’s the one who can’t do his job properly. Not me. This isn’t like me. “Yes, I—I…” I’m stammering. I can’t wrap my head around this. I fucked up Shawn’s medication? I’m the one who had him under the fog of a heavy dose of diphenhydramine on top of chlorpromazine? Impossible! I would never let that happen.

  As Gary stands up to leave, my phone rings.

  “Hello? Sam James.”

  “Hi, Sam. It’s Rachel. Did you get the Shawn issue worked out?”

  “Uh, yeah. So sorry, I got momentarily confused and completely forgot that he was on my caseload now. All taken care of, though. No worries.” I chuckle nervously.

  “Is this another med-management thing?” Her voice is frustrated and exhausted.

  Another one? “Nope!” I feign confidence and cheeriness and the self I used to be at Typhlos. “Just an honest mistake.”

  “Call me back if you can’t handle this. I’m relying on you, Sam. I need to know that you’re capable.”

  “Of course I am. You know me.”

  “Right,” she says, sounding dubious. “I hope so.”

  JANUARY 4TH, 10:56 P.M.

  AJ and I are sitting at some anonymous bar down in the East Village so we can get away with kissing in public without a second look. There’s sawdust on the floor, and the barstools are uncomfortable. The TVs are too high above the bar—I have to strain my neck to see them to keep from looking at AJ. We shouldn’t be meeting in public and pretending we have anything in common or anything to talk about. It’s awkward, and the only way to manage is to get drunk, lose any inhibitions that may exist between us and let the sexual charge carry us through the evening. AJ doesn’t smoke, so when the air gets uncomfortable, or there’s an uneasy silence, I put on my coat and walk out the door for a cigarette.

  My phone vibrates in my back pocket as I take the last drag off my Marlboro. It’s Lucas. I’m sticking to my New Year’s resolution and distancing myself. He’s asking me about Maverick’s medicine. Could be a ploy to look aloof but still require a response; he knows how much I love that dog. I resist the temptation, flick my cigarette and walk back into the bar.

  “I ordered you another drink,” AJ says. “Figured you would want one.” He pulls me between his knees and kisses my mouth. He tugs at my scarf as I take off my coat and hang it back on my barstool. My scarf tangles in my hair, but AJ keeps pulling it. “What’s that?” he asks as his clumsy scarf-tugging exposes bruises on my temple.

  “Oh.” I gather my scarf out of my hair and tuck it under my coat. “Just a little accident.” Embarrassed, I curtain the bruises with my hair and immediately become aware of every movement my body is making.

  “What kind of accident?” He brushes the hair away, and my self-consciousness explodes.

  “Um, a taxi accident.” He continues to gently stroke the bruises and it doesn’t hurt, but I see the shimmer of the makeup on his fingers as he pulls them away, and my stomach twitches and wrenches, and I feel the panicked sweat beads forming on my lower back. “I was in a cab the other night, coming home from this thing I had to go to on the Upper East Side.” I’m adding too many details because I’m lying and I haven’t prepared. I grab the Jack and Coke from the bar and quench my parched throat before continuing. “I didn’t put my seat belt on—I guess I never put my seat belt on—and we were flying down Park Avenue. I was looking at all the Christmas trees lit up on the median—so I was facing the driver’s side window—and he slammed on the brakes to avoid some asshole who was turning west on Seventy-Fifth, and my face crashed into the plastic partition.” I’m out of breath. I can’t tell if he’s buying my story because he’s just looking up at me with puppy-dog eyes, and continuing to stroke my face and massage my neck.

  “Did you go to the hospital? You could have whiplash or something.” He seems both unfazed and unconcerned, but his words are kind, and my thunderous, discomforted heartbeat is pounding in both my ears.

  “We were right next to Lenox Hill Hospital, so I told the driver I was going to go there and get checked out. I made a big deal of writing down his medallion number and license and name and everything so he didn’t make me pay for the ride. But I just walked to the 6 train and went home. It probably looks worse than it feels.” The lie forms so easily, it’s almost as if I don’t have to think about it, and the pieces of the story—the geography, the landmarks—they all seamlessly fit together. I can’t have AJ knowing that Lucas was the accident who made those bruises on my face. AJ’s not here to save me from Lucas, he’s here to distract me, and I won’t allow those lines to get blurred, too.

  I order shots and try to erase my memory. Spending time with AJ is supposed to be my reprieve from real life—from my work failures and terrible romantic decisions. This is supposed to be the time I can pretend that I don’t have a mental illness, that I don’t forget who my patients are. When I’m with AJ, the only thing I’m doing wrong is cheating on my boyfriend, and I can live with that.

  I take another shot and hope it brings me to a place where I can no longer remember the fact that I’ve been trying to draw the truth out of a patient who killed his mother. I want to slide into an ignorant bliss where I can’t quite feel suspicious that everyone knows my secrets. I need to let the alcohol dull my senses enough that I no longer distrust everything I thought I knew.

  JANUARY 5TH, 1:17 P.M.

  I’m in the patient bathroom, scrutinizing my reflection and pulling at the skin of my cheeks. I look dead. I have swollen blue veins bulging under my eyes and crispy remnants of yesterday’s mascara on my lashes. My skin is dry and greasy at the same time, and the color can only be described
as sickly. Bruises on my temples that used to be blue are a yellowish green that I haven’t bothered to cover with the tattoo makeup because it takes too much effort. My hair should have been washed days ago. I take the lip balm from my pocket and smear some of it on my cheeks, hoping the pink tint and shine will bring some impression of life back to me.

  As I walk out of the ladies’ room, head down, wiping my hands on the backs of my pants, I nearly crash into the mountainous Rachel. “Sam! I was just knocking on your office door. I’m glad I ran into you.”

  “Hi, Rachel, what’s up?” I’m immediately self-conscious about the lip balm on my face, and I wipe at my cheeks to remove it before Rachel notices.

  “I came by to pick up the summary for OMH. I need it today. I know you had a really hard time with Eddie’s death, and I wanted to give you a bit of leeway, but at this point I can’t delay any further.” She seems disappointed and forgiving at the same time.

  “I understand. I’m sorry for the delay. Eddie’s suicide was a real shock to me, and I struggled to focus last week. I think I’m back to my old self again, so no need to worry.” I wonder if she can hear my heart beating as loudly as I can.

  “Good, glad to hear that. I figured I would take the evaluation files as well, since I’ve got a meeting down in admin later today, and I could file everything in the staff folders.” Hopeful, optimistically anticipating that I won’t let her down.

  “Oh, no, no, no. I told you I would get that done for you. You don’t need to concern yourself with filing the original evals; I’ll take care of that!” I buoyantly lie to her face as the rush of panic takes hold of my sweat glands. “I’ll get the summary to you this afternoon, and the files put away by the end of the day. Okay?”

  “I need them today, Sam. No later. OMH is breathing down my neck.” Rachel eyes me suspiciously, still encouraged but not convinced. She holds out her hand to shake with a tenuous smile on her face. My right palm is sticky with lip balm, but I’m afraid if I wipe it off on my pants I’ll look like I’m hiding nervous sweats, so I grasp her hand and feel the gummy ooze of clammy balm transfer to her fingers. I flash an enormous toothy grin and trot quickly in the direction of my office, calling “See you this afternoon” behind me as I go.