* * *
By the end of the third day, Ed was able to walk to the bathroom by himself. He quickly familiarized himself with his surroundings. There was his little room with its bed, a small table, and a large machine on wheels in the corner that no one ever used. And there was the hallway. Between the room and the hallway was the huge metal door, which, unlike the doors in any hospital Ed had ever seen, could be locked securely from the outside. Whenever Ed was alone in the room, they kept that door locked.
Miss Gilmore came around twice a day to walk with him in the corridor, down to another gray metal door at the end of the hall and then back again. He never saw what was on the other side of that door, and never got an answer from Miss Gilmore when he asked. There was no handle or knob on the inside. When she left him in his room after each of his walks, she slammed and locked the door to his room. Then he heard her clicking footsteps as she walked to the other door. With a muffled metallic clang, the other door would close, leaving him locked safely away.
Once a day he received a sponge bath. Not from Miss Gilmore—that might not have been so bad—but from a young, acne-faced male orderly who looked as if he’d rather be peeling off his own toenails with pliers than washing Ed. The feeling was mutual.
No one ever turned the lights off, and there was no switch that he could see. It felt more like a prison than a hospital.
“Oh, don’t let that bother you,” Miss Gilmore said with a chuckle when he asked her about the locked doors one afternoon during his walk. “It’s just a safety precaution for the psych ward. To protect the patients.”
“From who?” Ed asked. “You?”
Miss Gilmore smiled. “From yourselves.”
“Where are the other inmates? Is this place always so empty?”
The nurse studied the black and white floor tiles. “Not always.” Then she smiled brightly at him. “Patients, Ed. Not inmates.”
“Sure.”
* * *
Miss Gilmore filled him in on current events during their walks, answering his questions patiently even though her responses suggested he’d asked them all before. She told him of riots and assassinations, war and pestilence. (“Half a million soldiers are over there, can you believe it?”) She told him about the recent election (“Nixon’ll be the same as Johnson,” she scoffed, “you just watch.”) and about a football game that had been cut off by the television network during the last minute of play so they could start their broadcast of “Heidi” on time. Miss Gilmore, an avid Raiders fan, seemed more upset about that than any of the rest.
One day—Ed didn’t know how much time had passed, but it seemed like two or three weeks—Nurse Gilmore didn’t arrive for his morning walk. He forced down yet another revolting breakfast of unidentifiable foods and wondered what was keeping her. At least an hour passed, and then Ed heard the sound of someone opening the metal door at the end of the corridor. The footsteps that approached in the hallway were too heavy to be hers. The door to his cell—his room—opened a crack.
“Ed,” Dr. Engel said, poking his head around the door. “I need you to put these on and come with me.” He tossed some folded clothes onto the foot of the bed and withdrew.
Ed dragged himself out of bed and limped to the doorway, holding his hospital gown closed behind him. “Where are we going?” Ed called.
“Discharge,” Engel said from the hallway. “Come on, now.”
Ed put on the clothes. They weren’t his, but they fit him pretty well. Then he went out into the hall.
Engel beckoned him impatiently and hurried to the door at the end of the hall. Ed struggled to keep up; his leg was less stiff than before, but he still couldn’t help walking with a limp. The door opened on its own, and Ed followed Engel into another hallway that looked identical to the one they were leaving.
There was a great deal of activity on this side of the door. Nurses bustled about so industriously that it made Ed tired just to look at them. There were other patients out here, too, shuffling along slowly under the encouragement and watchful eyes of their caretakers. None of them looked anywhere near as sane as Ed was.
“There are a few things we’ll need you to do before we let you go. Some paperwork to fill out, conversations with some doctors, that sort of thing. And we’ll be checking in on you, probably once a month for the first year. We tried to locate someone from your family to come and pick you up, but we weren’t able to find anyone in the area.”
“I don’t have any family.”
“I know.” Engel left him in a small room with a pair of wooden chairs and a low table. On the wall there was a framed photograph of a flamingo standing on one leg in a lagoon; the image was so old that the flamingo had faded to a sickly beige. Ed spent the next hour filling out a stack of forms two inches high: a form indicating that he was being discharged and was no longer the hospital’s responsibility, another to promise that he would not sue if he had some kind of relapse, one to promise that his next of kin would not sue if Ed committed suicide, and several more indicating that he was financially responsible for full payment of his bills for all past and future treatment. His hand was cramped and unusable by the time he was done.
A wide nurse with a menacing glare took his forms and offered him a wheelchair and a bottle of pills. He accepted both without argument. From the looks of that nurse, he wasn’t sure that he could have refused the offer in any case. She started pushing before he was seated, causing his rump to smack painfully into the barely-cushioned seat.
“Stop moving around,” the nurse scolded him. “I cain’t push you if you keep moving around.”
Ed, who was starting to miss Nurse Gilmore, held still as the scary nurse pushed him through a maze of narrow passageways until they emerged through a set of double doors (which she opened by colliding the wheelchair with them at high speed) into a spacious waiting area.
Tom Kajdas was reading a newspaper on a couch in the waiting room. He was only in his forties, but his prematurely gray hair made him stand out. Ed called his name as the nurse pushed him closer, and Kajdas, startled, tossed the paper aside and got to his feet. He seemed to have lost some weight since Ed had seen him last, though he was still just a bit on the heavy side. Tom smiled slightly, just enough to show teeth that had been permanently yellowed by tobacco.
“How are you, buddy?” Tom said excitedly, striding forward to take Ed’s hand in a firm handshake.
“Having kind of a rough day.” Ed pushed himself to his feet with some difficulty. He declined the arm that Tom offered and did his best to stand on his own.
“Get back in that chair!” growled the nurse.
“It’s okay, Bernadette,” Tom said, giving her his warmest smile. “I’ve got him.”
“If he falls and breaks his neck, don’t be tryin’ to blame me.” She spun the wheelchair around noisily and stormed back through the swinging doors.
Tom grinned. “Don’t be fooled; she’s a sweetheart. Come on, I’ll take you home.” They walked together out to the parking lot. The hospital, he now saw, was a sprawling cluster of buildings.
“The green machine,” he said when he saw Tom’s car. Tom’s Buick Electra was easy to spot; it stuck out among the lesser vehicles like a mint-green sore thumb. Ed had always considered the Electra to be 19 feet of solid ugly, and he had seldom failed to mention as much to Tom whenever he could.
Kajdas shot him a hard stare that was ruined by a trace of a smile. “You can catch a bus if you’d prefer. It’s a long way back to Los Angeles.” Ed raised his hands in a conciliatory way before easing himself into the passenger seat.
“How’s your work been going, Tom?” Ed asked.
Tom began to answer as he turned the key in the ignition, but the radio began blasting classical music at bowel-shifting volume the moment the engine started. He hurried to turn it down to a tolerable level. “These are fascinating times we live in, Ed. The Bureau keeps me busy. My boss, Mr. Wensel—he works out on the east coast, but I always find him at his of
fice no matter how late I call him. I swear that man must work fifteen hours a day.” He glanced over at Ed. “I never introduced you to Albert, did I?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“You’d like him,” said Tom. He adjusted the air and held a hand in front of the vent to check the flow. “Gruff old guy, but he’s got a big heart. He’s got me—this stays in the Buick now, right? Don’t share this with anybody. But he’s got me working on some very interesting things. Big things. Keeps me awfully busy, but I don’t mind.”
“Do you miss living there? Your family—do you ever get to see them?”
“Not a whole lot. Which seems fine with Gloria. She won’t say two words to me since I moved to L.A.; just hands the phone straight to the girls when I call. The kids are doing just great, though.” His face brightened as he thought of his daughters. “Tanya is now eligible to drive, God help us, and all she wants is her license and a car for Christmas. Emily gets straight A’s without really trying, but I keep telling her she’s going to have to work harder if she wants to keep doing well when she gets to college. She’s smart, but she doesn’t always apply herself. Kind of like you, Ed, no offense.”
Kajdas pulled out of the hospital parking lot, waved to the guards at the security gate, and turned onto a local highway. “Glad I have you around to keep me on the right track, then,” said Ed. “Save me from myself and all that.”
“Oh, I don’t pretend to have all the answers,” Tom said. “I’ve made mistakes, most of them more than once. My life’s been like a rollie-coaster, all up and down and never in a straight line. But if I can’t learn from what I’ve done wrong, maybe someone else can.”
“Nobody learns from other people’s mistakes,” Ed said.
“Guess that’s true.” Tom paused for a long moment. “The doctor said you’re having trouble remembering things.”
“My mind’s a total blank for more than a year.”
“Total? Nothing at all?”
Ed stared out the window as the rocks and dry underbrush raced past. “Nothing.”
“But you do remember the... you remember what happened to Eleanor?”
Ed nodded. “I remember she was kidnapped. You were the one who found her body. I―” He swallowed. “You found the killer and tried to bring him in―”
“But he resisted arrest and got himself shot dead.” Kajdas looked over from the driver’s seat. “I’m sorry, I know this is painful. I’m going to have to fill you in on what you’ve missed. What’s the very last thing you can recall?”
“After that, not much.”
“You started seeing things. And taking heroin. Do you remember that?”
Ed closed his eyes. “A little bit.”
Tom turned to look at the road again. “Well, you’re clean now. You can make a fresh start. That’ll be good.”
Leaning his head back against the headrest, Ed closed his eyes.
“I’m sure things will start coming back to you,” Tom said. “The doctor said they would.”
“That clown Engel or the fat one?”
Kajdas frowned. “Engel, I mean. He’s all right. Bit of a blowhard, that’s all. But Ed,” he said, growing serious again, “I’m here to help you get back into the saddle. Anything you need, you just say the word, okay? And if things do start coming back to you, let’s talk about it, all right? Don’t try to work through this on your own; I want you to come talk to me.”
“Mmm,” Ed replied, then promptly dozed off.
2
An Empty Apartment
Kajdas pulled into the driveway of his house in Rancho Park. Darkness had fallen, and the streetlights cast a pleasant, welcoming light. Ed stirred and woke up as Tom shut off the engine.
“Here we are,” Tom said while Ed was rubbing his eyes. “Your car’s in my garage. Oh, I’ve been covering your rent the last few months, just a little loan between friends. Don’t worry about paying me back right away. Take some time to get back on your feet.”
“Thanks,” Ed said with a yawn.
“You sure you want to sleep in that old apartment tonight? You’re welcome to stay here. Face it tomorrow after a good night’s rest.”
Ed let out a long breath. “It’ll be harder if I wait.”
Kajdas opened the garage door, revealing Ed’s white Barracuda, parked in the right side of the two-car garage. Ed took the keys from him and fired it up.
“I’ve been starting it once a week for you,” Tom called through the open window, shouting to be heard over the rumble of the engine. “Sounds like it’s not running so good, though.”
“It always sounds that way,” Ed replied with a shrug. He backed the car out, and then Tom was watching his taillights as the Barracuda sped down the street and around the bend. A few seconds later, all he could hear were the sounds of the evening bugs.
“I’m so sorry, buddy,” Kajdas said quietly. He stood out on his driveway for several minutes, staring off into the darkness, before turning to go into the house.
* * *
Ed got out and took a deep breath of the cool December air. His apartment building, a two-level structure that stood out in architectural contrast with every other building in the neighborhood, looked nicer than he remembered it. The garbage bins next to the front gate gleamed prettily in the glow of the streetlights. Ed went through the gate into the courtyard and turned left toward his apartment.
More stairs. A walkway, railed with white-painted wrought iron, ran along the inner wall of the courtyard, providing access to the apartments on the second level. Ed, already out of breath, took a great deal of time dragging himself up to the second floor. He had to pause at the top to get himself together.
The first apartment at the top of the stairs belonged to old Mrs. Findlay; Ed’s was the next door past hers. He stumbled in the semi-darkness—the bare bulb at the top of the stairs had burned out again—and was nearly bowled over by a dark-haired young man who emerged from Mrs. Findlay’s place in a hurry.
“Oh! Hello, Ed,” the stranger said as he brushed past. He was already on his way down the stairs before Ed could come up with a suitable reply. He gave Mrs. Findlay’s door a puzzled glance, shook his head, and continued on to his apartment.
The smell of rotten food hit him when he opened the door. He hurried to the refrigerator holding his shirt up over his nose, pulled out a plate of an unidentifiable greenish substance that had once been some sort of food, and turned toward the door. Thinking of all those stairs, he changed his plan and carried the plate to the balcony off the kitchen, leaving it out there to rot in the fresh air.
It was the sight of Eleanor’s vegetable garden that stopped him in his tracks. She had set it up a few days after they’d moved into this apartment together—nothing more than a shallow wooden box with some dirt in it, but she’d been proud of that dirt. She had even bought a little ceramic gnome to sit in the corner of the garden and defend the plants from whatever it was gnomes protected against. Now the box was overflowing with weeds, and the gnome was long gone. Ed had thrown it away not long after her death when it had started talking to him. The sight of that overgrown garden, incontrovertible proof that Eleanor was gone, felt like a punch in the stomach. The last strength went out of Ed’s legs, and he crumpled to the floor and sat for a long time with his head in his hands.
A part of him wished he could freeze to death out there on that balcony, but it wasn’t cold enough to freeze to death, so he got up and went back inside. The foul smell had diminished a little. Ed sat on his sofa, an old, creaky thing upholstered with flowers that had once been colorful, and looked at the dark television screen, in which he could see a reflection of a sofa with an emaciated man sitting on it. He considered turning on the TV, but didn’t feel like getting up.
An old book of his father’s, The Collected Works of William Blake, sat on the coffee table. Ed picked it up, enjoying the weight of the oversized book in his hands, and flipped through Blake’s Songs of Experience. The poems didn’t hold his a
ttention, though; he put the book back and slumped back on the sofa.
The loneliness was closing in already. He had thought it would take longer than this. He picked up the phone, not really expecting it to work after so much time away. There was a dial tone; perhaps Tom had paid his phone bill, too. He thought for a moment, then dialed the number of the only friend whose number he could remember off the top of his head. He had known Big John since high school, and could think of no one else who could cheer him up at the moment.
“Hello?” It was a woman’s voice. An old woman. That didn’t seem right.
“I’m looking for John? John Visconti?”
“Wrong number,” the old woman grumbled on the other end.
Ed frowned. He thought he’d gotten it right. “Is this—?”
The woman hung up before he could get the question out.
Irritated, he depressed the hook and dialed the number again. This time that woman didn’t bother to answer; he heard two clicks as the phone at the other end was lifted and then dropped right back on the cradle.
More loneliness, this time accompanied by a painful tightness in his chest. Ed got up and went to his room. Something was different in there; he looked around, disoriented, until he realized that there was fresh paint on the windowsill, a whiter shade than he’d seen on it before. The window looked new, too. He wanted to go to bed, but it was the bed he and Eleanor had slept in together and he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep in it.
Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the dresser, he gaped at his reflection. Gaunt face, tangled hair—he never would have let his hair get so long. His face, which he had always kept clean-shaven, had a good two weeks’ growth on it. He took off his shirt and gasped at the way his ribs stood out. For someone who normally kept himself in good shape, the sight was appalling.
Ed was turning away from the mirror when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a small, dark spot beneath his left arm. He raised his arm and tried a couple different positions to see what was under there. At the back of his armpit was a black nodule of some sort; it was a quarter of an inch in diameter and hard as a rock. Definitely not a mole. It hardly stuck out from the surface of the skin, so it wasn’t obtrusive, but now that he knew it was there he could feel it every time he moved his arm.
Forest of the Mind (The Book of Terwilliger 1) Page 2
