The Blind

by A. F. Brady

  “Did any of your partners ever ask you for that kind of money?”

  “No one asked me for money. But my last girlfriend before I went away, well, she made some implications. Nothing ever came of it. I think it was some kind of last-ditch effort to try to make me fight to stay out of jail. That used to be a normal thing. If you wanted things to change, or you wanted a man to commit, women would claim to be pregnant. Used to happen all the time.”

  “Are you in touch with her? Did you stay in contact while you were incarcerated?”

  “Nope.”

  “Didn’t you say she was, like, the love of your life?”

  “What did I know? I was just a kid when I went away. They sent me out there for twenty years. I couldn’t ask her to wait for me! She had a whole life to live. A whole life. I wasn’t going to ruin her life because I ruined mine.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hit a nerve.”

  “Look. She was a screwed-up girl. If she were in this office now, you’d probably tell me she was borderline, too. She was a real jack-in-the-box. She loved me, she hated me. But she couldn’t stand it when I had to go away. She couldn’t handle being left alone. She lashed out. I think she thought I could control it, like I was in charge of my sentence. She thought there was more I could have done. And she blamed me for leaving her. I’m sure she hates me, if she even remembers me.”

  “Of course she remembers you!” I reassure him. “Did you ever look into whether or not she was really pregnant?”

  “Never occurred to me that she would be. Quite a liar, she was.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Oh, she was beautiful. The prettiest girl on the block. Blue eyes, blond hair, the whole thing. Petite, elegant, delicate. But she had a mouth on her you wouldn’t believe. Girls didn’t talk the way you do back then. It was unheard-of. Even when you’re burning your bras and voting, you still weren’t cussing. But, my God, she could make a sailor blush. And funny. Quick-witted, fearless. She could knock you down with a quick jab and then bat her eyelashes as you licked your wounds.”

  “Sounds like quite a woman.”

  “She was. She most certainly was.” Richard nods. “But that was her bright side. She was complicated and confusing. I always felt like I was nervous to be around her because I didn’t know what version of her I was going to get. That was the same feeling I had with Frances, but with Samantha for some reason, I felt like I was more in control. I could actually do something to help her act like herself and not the lunatic she could be.”

  “Maybe because you were equals. On a level playing field. She didn’t have inherent authority over you the way Frances did.”

  “Maybe. Maybe that’s it.”

  “How did it end?”

  “I went to prison. I didn’t stay in contact with her because I didn’t think it was fair. She had her whole life in front of her. I didn’t want her to stop living because of me.”

  “Do you think about her still?”

  “How is that relevant to my chart?”

  “I’m just wondering.”

  “I think about her more since I’ve been here. In prison, at the beginning, I thought about her a lot, and I was afraid what she would do without me. But that fades. I’m sure she found another man, got married, had some kids. I’m sure she made the most of herself. When I got out of prison, even before I made it to the first halfway house, I thought about trying to find her. But it had been too long. I wouldn’t want to come in and mess up her life.”

  “You seem to have a thing about not wanting to bother people from your past. You said the same thing the other day about Dr. Mark.”

  “Well, would you want your past sneaking back into your life?”

  “No, I guess I don’t.” I turn away and grab the greasy bagel bag David used to write the names of the doctors from Ogdensburg. “Speaking of Dr. Mark…” I turn back to Richard. “Do any of these names sound familiar?” I read him the list. “Do you recognize those names?”

  “Yeah, something Jewish. Those sounds about right.”

  “Which one?”

  “One of ’em anyway.” Richard turns back to looking out the window.

  David and I discovered that Dr. Steele passed away in 1996, so hopefully, he wasn’t the mystery doctor from Ogden. I’ve left messages for Drs. Sloan and Schiff, but I haven’t heard back yet.

  MARCH 1ST, 4:46 P.M.

  I’ve got my heels up on my desk, and my shirt hanging off the back of my chair. Without booze, my body is a mess and the withdrawal is making me sweat like an animal. My shirt is wet as a mop. I lock my door while I make another attempt at reaching the two remaining possibilities for Mark something-with-an-S.

  After six rings, a voice finally appears at the other end. “Hello?”

  “Hello?” I flip my heels off the desk and sit upright. “Hi! My name is Dr. Sam James. I’m a staff psychologist over at Typhlos Psychiatric in Manhattan. I’m looking for Dr. Mark Sloan?”

  “Yes? This is he.” Finally!

  “Hi. I’m sorry to bother you; I’m calling in reference to an old patient of yours at Ogdensburg, Richard McHugh? I’ve left you several messages.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve gotten your messages. Yes, how can I help you?” This is it! He’s the one! My heart jumps into my throat, and I leap out of my chair wearing just my bra.

  “Well, Richard is mandated to treatment here at Typhlos, and I am trying to get some background.” I struggle to hold the receiver and pull my damp shirt on. “He is very tightly shut, and I have hardly anything from his intake materials. He mentioned recently that he had a relationship with you during his time in prison, and I wonder if you could help me gain some insight?”

  “What kind of insights are you looking for?” Dr. Sloan asks, and his voice sounds much younger than I imagined it would. “It’s been a very long time since I’ve treated Richard McHugh.”

  “Anything that can help me understand him better. What was his diagnosis? Our intake materials show depression, PTSD, suicidal ideation, some comments about Axis Two characteristics, but no actual diagnosis. I have no formal family history other than what he and I have discussed together in my office. I’ve been seeing him for several months now but it’s still not clear why he’s institutionalized.” I’m holding the phone in the crook of my neck, buttoning up the front of my shirt.

  “I remember that he was one of the most fascinating patients I’ve ever encountered.”

  “Really? What captured your interest in him?” I’m thinking of Richard’s warning—you might not like everything you find—and I want to hear what Dr. Sloan knows.

  “Well, it’s not often you find a man of his stature in prison—commanding size, young, strong—who chooses to keep to himself. When I was informed that he didn’t speak or eat, I was intrigued. I imagined there must be quite a mind and quite a story behind all that.”

  “How did you decipher his story if he never spoke to you?”

  “His eyes, mostly, and his posture. He was slumped down and round-shouldered when he first came in. He looked at me from below his brow, if you know what I mean.” I know exactly what he means. “His eyes would light up when I touched on something significant. After a while of guessing, I gave him a physical and things started to make more sense.”

  “He told me about the physical. How did you know where the wounds came from?”

  “I didn’t know. But when I suggested it might have been his mother, his presence changed. As if he had been carrying the weight of that knowledge for so long, and my suggestion took the baggage from him. His head lifted, and his back straightened. It was remarkable, I had never seen such a rapid change in demeanor.”

  “Are you the one who told him about BPD?” I’m like an excited child ripping open Christmas presents—too consumed with asking questions to properly focus on the answers.

  “Yes. After I realized that there was some level of abuse coming from his mother, he tuned to me more. He seemed to want an explanation, or so
me understanding of why she was the way she was. I would ask questions of her behavior, ask how he felt growing up. He seemed to respond to me in his own way, without ever saying a word. He would sit up, ever so slightly, or rub his thumbs together when something resonated with him. I started putting two and two together, and the profile he seemed to be implying was hands-down a borderline diagnosis.”

  “Unbelievable. You were able to draw the diagnosis of a dead woman from the silence of her son. Absolutely amazing.” I can’t believe this could be real. How could this guy know all of this, and remember all of this?

  “Obviously, no formal diagnosis could ever be made for his mother—she was long dead, and I never treated her personally, saw any record or had anything else to go on. Just clinician’s intuition, I suppose. Or maybe there was something to Richard’s responses that convinced me. He was an avid reader in prison, kept to himself outside my office, so I gave him some literature—pamphlets and scholarly articles describing the diagnostic criteria for borderline personality disorder. Richard read every article I gave him. I imagine he became something of an expert in BPD by the time he left. He even borrowed my DSM and dog-eared the life out of it.” Is Richard the one who left those copies open in the computer room?

  “Is there anything else you remember that you think may be significant? Can you tell me anything more about what might have gotten him institutionalized here? I have no background information or diagnosis. Was he formally diagnosed in prison? I know he said he didn’t fill out any forms, but did you? Do you have any records that could be helpful?” I’m scribbling notes, hopefully getting closer to putting the puzzle pieces together.

  “Well, since retiring and leaving the prison system, I haven’t got access to any of that anymore.”

  “You seem to remember so much detail from your interactions. Are you sure there isn’t anything else that could help me out a bit?”

  “Honestly, I can’t remember if he ever received a formal diagnosis. I remember the silent interactions because they were so unique, but a diagnosis is commonplace among patients, I don’t necessarily keep all that in mind.”

  “Did he have any visitors? Any friends in prison?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.” He’s suddenly gone cagey.

  “Did you ever find anything out about a girlfriend? He and I have been speaking recently about a girlfriend he had before he went to prison. Did you ever get anything about her?”

  “Not that I can recall.” He’s starting to sound frustrated now, like he’s tired of my inquiry.

  “I’m sorry to keep prying, but I’ve been trying to figure out what’s going on with Richard for months now, and you’re the only solid lead I’ve got. Is there anything, really anything at all, that you can access that may be helpful to me? I just need to know what he’s doing here at Typhlos. What his diagnosis was. How he ended up institutionalized. It’s just not adding up.”

  Dr. Sloan expels an enormous, thick sigh. “I still have relationships with colleagues at the prison. I could look into some files and see if I can find anything relevant.”

  “That would be great. Absolutely any information would be incredibly helpful to me. Thank you.”

  “I will contact you if I find anything.”

  “Please do, Dr. Sloan. Thank you for your time.”

  As I hang up the phone, I can’t help but feel that I am still exactly where I was when I started. Mark Sloan didn’t have answers to any of my questions. What was Richard trying to warn me about?

  MARCH 2ND, 3:20 P.M.

  I’m at my desk, when I hear a knock on the door. I close my web browser and reach over to pull open my office door.

  I have to slip off my glasses and stand up to adjust to what’s in front of me. It’s Lucas. Here, in my office. I search his hands and the hallway behind him, looking for the bouquet of roses that usually accompanies this scene. I sniff the air to see if I can smell his cologne, and if I can’t, I’ll know that it’s a dream. The spicy amber scent fills my nose, and faint notes of alcohol and fruit from his hair spray present themselves. My arms feel heavy and my vision blurs. He doesn’t carry flowers, but instead has a gray cardboard tray filled with four take-out cups of what must be pretentious coffee. The cologne and hair-spray aromas are replaced with the caramel and vanilla scents coming from the coffee cups.

  I have had this dream so many times, I know I should feel scared, and I know I should slam the door and scream for David, but I can’t move. It occurs to me that the coffee must be a gesture of apology or a peace offering. How long have I been standing here?

  “Hello, Sam.” His slick and rocky voice, like salt water over wet stones, fills up my office like a fog.

  “I can’t—” I don’t have a greeting or excuse, and I’m trying to clear my head of this shock so I can compose a full sentence and get him off the unit.

  “I know I shouldn’t be here, but I needed to see you, and you haven’t answered my texts, and I knew I would find you here.”

  Lucas’s opener helps me to shake the cobwebs from my brain.

  “You absolutely can’t be in here. This is a confidentiality violation, and I am going to call security if you don’t leave right now.”

  “Okay, okay.” He holds up his free hand in defense. “I won’t stay long, I promise.”

  “You won’t stay at all, Lucas. I have nothing to say to you. Please leave.”

  “At least have a cup of coffee—that’s all I’m asking. Just have a cup of coffee with me, and hear me out a second.”

  “No. I need you to leave.”

  “I brought all the good flavors; I have a caramel, and vanilla, and the one with the chocolate and mint. You can have whichever one you want. Or all of them? You can have them all, but please, can I come in? For a minute?” He gestures toward my patient chair with his tray of coffees and begins nudging his way past me. I see a visitor pass tucked between two of the coffee cups, and I hope that Raul gave him a full pat down.

  He places the tray at the corner of my desk and hovers above the chair, waiting for permission to sit. His hands are over his thighs, eyebrows raised, wrinkling his forehead. I close the door slightly, and he takes this as an invitation. He pulls up his pant legs and sits with a deep sigh. He’s looking around the office to get his bearings. He turns around to gaze out the window, and I momentarily wish there would be a construction accident across the street that sends a huge wooden plank flying through my office window, decapitating Lucas as he sits smugly in my patient chair.

  I pull my desk chair in front of me, and stand between it and my door. The door remains ajar—far enough open that anyone outside could hear me if I raised my voice. I use my right foot to nudge the off switch on the white-noise machine that sits by the door to muddle any confidential conversations. My heart is beating hard, and I have to continually remind myself that I am not in the dream I’ve had so many times before.

  I glance at my desk clock: 3:21 p.m. “You have four minutes, and then I’m calling security.”

  “Relax, relax—have a cup of coffee.” He pushes the tray toward me. I don’t budge. “Okay, fine.” He pulls out the cup marked “caramel” and removes the lid. He blows on the contents, which have obviously already cooled, and lets the sweaty lid drop condensation onto my desk. “I’m here to make peace with you.”

  “I’ve already made peace.”

  “Fine, but I haven’t yet. I am still very upset about everything that happened.”

  “That’s your problem, Lucas, not mine.”

  “Yes. It is my problem. But the only way I can solve that problem would be if you could just find the kindness in your heart to hear me out. I’m working on my issues, and I’m trying to be a better man. I need your help. Your job is to help people, isn’t it? Would it be professional of you to turn me away when I’m simply asking for assistance?” He grins and sips his coffee. Asshole.

  “I get paid for doing my job. You are not my job.”

  “Here—” He reaches in
his back pocket and pulls out a calfskin wallet. “How much do you charge for four minutes? Twenty dollars?” He lays a crisp twenty-dollar bill folded in quarters on my desk and returns his wallet to his pocket.

  I reach over and snatch up the bill and deposit it directly into his coffee cup.

  “You are not my job. Three minutes.”

  “That’s very big of you.” He leaves the bill in the coffee and puts the cup down on my desk. He reaches for a tissue and dabs at the coffee splashes on his Thomas Pink shirt. “Well, I started seeing someone—” Does he mean romantically or therapeutically? I can’t decide which one would piss me off more. “—and she thinks that the best way for me to move on from us would be to talk to you and work through everything. Come to some understanding.”

  “I have an understanding. You’re an asshole. And now you’re someone else’s asshole.” Romantically or therapeutically.

  “I’m not going to get anywhere with you, am I?”

  “No. Two minutes.”

  “How am I supposed to move on, and stop texting you and showing up at your office, unless you throw me a bone here?”

  “A restraining order?”

  “I mean it, Sam. I don’t want to keep bothering you, but I need you back in my life if I’m ever going to move on.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense at all. If you need closure, you can get it on the other side of my door. I’m finished talking to you. Now and any other time in the future. If you decide to continue to harass me, I will absolutely get an order of protection against you and make your life as impossible as I can. You have done enough damage, and it’s time for you to tuck your tail and disappear. One minute.”

  “So you refuse to help me get better? You refuse to rescue a man who is clearly drowning?”

  “Nice try.”

  “I’m not trying anything, I just want to be clear that I am asking you for help and you are saying no.”

  “Yes. That’s correct. Time’s up.” I reach for the phone and immediately dial security. I don’t wait for Lucas to stand, to stop me or to protest. Raul picks up the phone, identifies himself and asks who’s calling.