What Lies Beyond the Stars

by Micael Goorjian

  Among those present, Hank seemed the most affected by Adam’s meltdown. He was chain-smoking his third straight cigarette when Blake wandered over to the guard booth to bum one. “Boy, oh, boy,” Hank said, offering Blake a Camel Light. “To see a grown man fall to pieces like that—Christ.”

  Blake cupped his hands around Hank’s BIC lighter. After a long drag, Blake said, “Doesn’t sound pretty.”

  “Hey, man, I’ve seen some ugly-ass shit go down, but nothing compares to that.” Hank spat on the ground. “I feel awful. I didn’t mean to get him in trouble, but there wasn’t anything else I could do.”

  “Adam’s had issues his whole life,” Blake said. “Really, you were just calling it like you saw it.”

  “I guess.” Hank glanced over at Adam slumped in the back of the patrol car alone. “Fuckin’ Homeland Security.” Hank was now looking over at the men walking through the aisles of boats, checking registration numbers against Hank’s logbook. “They never used to bother coming up here, but after 9/11, when they took over the goddamn Coast Guard. Fuckin’ Bush, man.” Hank stabbed out his cigarette on the guard booth’s railing. “Waste of taxpayer dollars.”

  “Well, I don’t know. To me this looks to be a likely place for the next big terrorist attack,” Blake said, deadpan.

  Hank didn’t laugh. He was looking out beyond the docks, at the bend in the river where it turned and disappeared into the redwoods. After a moment he looked back over at Adam and shook his head. “So, he’s, like, a friend of yours?” Hank asked. “A good friend?”

  “Best friend. Close to twenty years now. But trust me, it’s never been easy.”

  “So you’re gonna probably talk to him, then? I mean, after things calm down a bit? Maybe you could tell him I’m sorry. Pass on a message for me, once he’s feeling better?”

  Blake smiled. It had been awhile since he’d been around anyone like Hank, a real guy’s guy. “Sure, man, no problem. And trust me, I’ve seen Adam through all sorts of crap. Trust me, he’ll bounce back.”

  Down in the parking lot, Dr. Mendelson had taken Jane for a walk, explaining that it would be best if she stayed away from Adam for the time being. And after everything that had happened back at the sheriff’s station, Jane could probably use some distance as well.

  “You have to understand that was not your husband speaking in there,” Dr. Mendelson insisted. “If you work with me, Jane, in time Adam will make a full recovery. But he needs your help.”

  Jane nodded and sniffled. “How did you know he was making it all up? That she wasn’t real?”

  “The name, Beatrice,” Dr. Mendelson said. “When he first mentioned it, I kept thinking . . . Beatrice? Why does that name sound so familiar? Such an unusual name.”

  “Sounds like an old person’s name to me,” Jane said.

  “Then it hit me. I dug into his early records, and there it was. Beatrice, first referenced in therapy as a childhood friend, but after further analysis, Gloria and I’d determined that this Beatrice was imaginary, a way to escape the traumatic effects of living with his grandmother. So for Adam to come back here, to this place, it must have triggered that protective mechanism and . . . brought her back to life, as it were.”

  A few minutes later, Dr. Mendelson went back over to the sheriff, and Jane sent Blake a text telling him to pick her up at the front gate so she could avoid going near Adam in the patrol car. She could see Blake was still over at the guard booth smoking and talking with the security guard. They were both looking out at the river beyond the docks, and the guard was pointing something out. When Blake received Jane’s second text, she saw him read it and then turn and look over at her. He held up a finger, as if to say, Hold on a second.

  “Jesus, Blake! Come on!” Jane said to herself. Finally Jane saw Blake stamp out his cigarette, say good-bye to the guard, and hurry over to his car.

  As Blake pulled up, Jane barked, “What were you guys talking about?”

  “Nothing. Just bullshitting. Can we stop for lunch? I’m starving.”

  Jane got into the BMW, and they drove off.

  Adam had not moved since being placed in the back of the patrol car. Along with the restraints, he felt an enormous pressure wrapped tightly around his body, immobilizing him. It wasn’t until the patrol car began to pull out of the Noyo Harbor parking lot that Adam used the last ounce of energy he had to turn and look back toward the dock. He watched it slowly receding, like a dream.

  There, just beyond the boats, near the bend in the river, he could just make out the figure of a woman standing on the far bank. He was unable to see clearly at this distance, and yet he knew who she was. He had seen her from this same perspective more than 30 years ago, through a back window of a departing car, slowly fading away into the distance as he strained to hold on to her image.

  Oh baby, baby it’s a wild world,

  It’s hard to get by just upon a smile.

  Oh baby, baby it’s a wild world.

  And I’ll always remember you like a child, girl

  CHAPTER 26

  206 EINSTEINS, 374 LIGHTSABERS, AND THE ONE UNFORESEEABLE TRIGGER

  Today’s fog was high yet dense, thick enough to contain the infinite drone of the city below—the endless subatomic clattering of 1s and 0s, the titanic reverberations of big-data analytics, the mind-numbing screech of teen trending buzz. And there at the center of it all, holding the sky’s gray comforter firmly in place, was the Virtual Skies Tower, that massive tree trunk of glass and steel, with only its headpiece veiled above the noise. Eighty-one stories below the Tower’s pyramid, also not visible today, was Michael the homeless man. His spot between the two rows of old newspaper stands was now as breezy as an eight-year-old’s gapped teeth. No more wheelchair, no green Army blanket, no cheap incense, no Hardy Boys paperbacks, no butterfly buttons, no Michael. And no one passing on the sidewalk nearby noticed the difference.

  “‘With fourth quarter earnings exceeding all expectations, there appears to be no limit to the ubiquitous reach of the ever-expanding ‘Virtual Sky,’’” Mitch Silpa read aloud from the chair he stood upon. “The article goes on to talk about V. Skies 2010 acquisitions, blah, blah, blah.” Mitch scrolled down on his new tablet to the part he wanted the room to hear. “Okay, okay, here’s the good bit.” Mitch adjusted his big, white Albert Einstein wig, which had been included in the swag bag everyone had received. “‘Virtual Skies’ increasing market dominance is thanks in no small part to the inspired social gaming services provided by Blake Dorsey and his fellow Pixilate geniuses.’”

  The 206 Einsteins gathered in the room broke out in a whooping cheer.

  This was the first Pixilate Employee Appreciation Luncheon held on the 78th floor, in the same sacred banquet hall used for Adiklein’s Cross-Pollination Brunches. And for many of the Pixilate employees present today, this was their first time this high up in the Tower, looking down at the city a quarter of a mile below, dining on The Commissary’s specially prepared buffet culled from a database that tracked the taste preferences of every employee within the Tower.

  Mitch shouted over the cheers as he continued. “‘Their new hit—’ Calm down, bitches, calm down! ‘Their new hit, Lust 4 Flesh, with its addictive social-networking features, has quickly grown into an international phenomenon. The U.S., Europe, China, the entire world is hooked on a nonstop feeding frenzy that’s devouring friends, neighbors, and co-workers alike.’”

  The room erupted in applause.

  “‘More impressive still,’” Mitch continued, “‘is the game’s new spin-off, Zombie Babies, aimed at the growing kiddie/pretween market. Not only has the game quickly become the go-to parental godsend for keeping little ones distracted in the car, it has also given Virtual Skies’ floundering social network, MyStar, a much-needed injection of young profiles hungry for new product.’”

  More applause. Some whistles and whoops.

  “You guys put your hearts and souls into this shit!” Mitch shouted. “Lust 4 Flesh, Zombie
Babies—these are milestones you will all look back on and be proud of for the rest of your lives.”

  Einsteins throughout the room continued to applaud, and some even rose to their feet.

  Mitch raised a hand to let everyone know he wasn’t done. “All right, all right. There are a few people I want to single out today. Of course, none of this would’ve been possible without our fearless leader, Bad Boy Blake!”

  Blake stood and gave a casual wave.

  “All I can say to you, brother,” Mitch continued, “is that you are killin’ it!” Everyone laughed at hearing Blake’s favorite catchphrase.

  Blake flashed a smile, anxious to sit back down. It was then that he noticed someone watching the event from the lobby just beyond the glass doors. Rene Adiklein, smiling proudly like a father at a graduation ceremony. He gave Blake a thumbs-up.

  Blake returned the smile, a bit forced.

  “And . . .” Mitch went on, “there’s someone who doesn’t always get the recognition he deserves, someone whose genius has kept us from going totally crazy down in the trenches. That’s right, I’m talkin’ about the guy who wrote the damn code that started it all—our one and only Engine Master!” Mitch started to clap as he looked around the room full of Einstein wigs. “Adam? Where the hell are you, buddy?’”

  Blake waved, drawing Mitch’s attention to the person seated right next to him.

  “Oh, shit, didn’t even notice you there. You look just like everyone else with the damn wig and all.” Mitch laughed. “Stand up, buddy. Stand up.”

  Adam didn’t move. He was staring blankly at the table in front of him, the white puffball wig dutifully on his head, unaware of Mitch’s request.

  Blake gave Adam an encouraging pat on the back. “Hey, buddy, Mitch wants you to stand up.”

  “Right, sorry.” Adam stood.

  The room cheered, politely at first, then more enthusiastically after Blake’s familiar whistle of encouragement rang out.

  Even Adiklein back behind the glass doors was clapping. In the lobby behind him, a gaggle of assistants were waiting meekly, and as the applause for Adam ended, one of them politely cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “the blimp people are waiting.”

  Adiklein turned and gave the young man a quizzical look.

  “Project Bloom. The Wi-Fi expansion program?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Adiklein nodded. Project Bloom was the new Virtual Skies initiative to use high-altitude blimps to provide Internet access to remote areas of the earth. “Send them up to B&R. I’ll join the group in a few minutes.” Adiklein turned back to the banquet hall to catch one more glimpse of Blake’s butterfly.

  Adiklein had been more than pleasantly surprised when Blake retrieved Adam from wherever it was he’d disappeared to a couple of years ago. Without Adam, Adiklein was sure Blake Dorsey and his Pixilate team wouldn’t have lasted out the year before being tossed in the proverbial tech company trash bin. Instead Blake’s little papillon had brought back something more valuable than even Blake was aware of yet. Adiklein recognized it though. The raw potential of Adam’s new code had a very particular fragrance to it, and Adiklein was, of course, a connoisseur.

  Due to the luncheon, Adam was allowed to leave the Tower early that day. He walked straight to the Embarcadero BART station, making it in time to catch a train that would get him to the Walnut Creek station approximately an hour and a half earlier than he would normally arrive. Before boarding the train, he sent Jane a text to let her know. Jane immediately returned the text, thanking him for remembering to inform her of the change in his routine, but that Blake had already forewarned her about the luncheon so she could be prepared to be in Walnut Creek in time to pick him up.

  As always Adam boarded the first car of the train and quickly moved as close to the front as physically possible. Earbuds in, he kept his eyes locked on the nearest window. Even with the new medications, riding the train was tough, especially during the three and a half minutes required to travel beneath the San Francisco Bay. The feeling of being packed inside a communal coffin, along with the train’s deafening roar and the slight change in pressure, sometimes triggered a wave of panic. So Adam kept his attention on the darkness outside the window, counting the fluorescent tunnel lights as they zipped by like horizontal lightsabers. Of the half-million people commuting on BART each week, Adam Sheppard was perhaps the only one to know the exact number of lights in the tunnels beneath the Bay. There were 374 lights in the eastbound tunnel (347 white and 27 yellow) and 393 in the westbound tunnel (349 white and 44 yellow), each one flying past the train almost as quickly as each day of the past two years.

  “Om shanti, shanti Om . . .” a female voice chanted softly.

  Adam opened his eyes. Jane was at the end of the bed. Dangling from one hand was her Tibetan Tingsha, while in her right hand she held the small mallet she used to gently strike the chime.

  Ting . . . ting . . . ting . . .

  “Cock-a-doodle-doo, Adam Sheppard. Tuesday, November 11th greets you with a smile.”

  Adam’s life now ran on a schedule as precise as the German rail system. Each day of the week had a meticulously designed routine. Tuesday mornings started at 5:45 A.M. with the same gentle ting, ting, ting. After a trip to the bathroom and two eight-ounce glasses of water, Adam spent 20 minutes on the elliptical. At 6:20 Jane joined him in their home gym and led him in a series of personally designed stretches to help his posture and counteract the effects of sitting at a computer all day.

  At 6:45 Adam showered, shaved, dressed, and drank two more glasses of water. By 7:10 he was in the kitchen, where a protein shake, vitamins, and medication awaited him. Madison and Chandler would also be there, ready to spend a few minutes of quality time with their dad (they both called him “Dad” now). At 7:30 the Sheppard family left the house together. Jane dropped off the kids at school and then took Adam to the Willow Terrace Office Park in Walnut Creek for his biweekly therapy session with Dr. Mendelson. At 9:00 Jane returned for Adam and drove him to BART. And at 9:14 Adam—earbuds in—stepped aboard the first car of the San Francisco/Daly City–bound train and prepared to count subterranean lightsabers.

  Adam’s evenings were just as methodically planned after work, from the moment Jane retrieved him from BART, up to the moment he lay his head down to sleep. Weekend routines had slightly more variety: swim days, family-friendly movie nights, dinners with friends and relatives, marriage counseling, couples yoga, trips to museums, and occasional trips out of town.

  “Routine is the cornerstone of mental stability,” Dr. Mendelson had advised Jane and Blake early on in Adam’s recovery. After the events of 2008, Adam had spent several months in a private facility that had a long-standing affiliation with Dr. Mendelson. After enough therapy, marriage counseling, and various adjustments to his medications, Adam was eventually reintroduced to the real world.

  Dr. Mendelson was right. Routines and rules marked clearly with solid, yellow lines were essential in keeping Adam level. Structure and consistency were his new companions, and with the love and support of those around him, it became easier with each passing day. Not to mention all of the remarkable technological innovations that were appearing left and right—new devices, programs, and apps that could help keep Adam’s life more organized and more efficient, help remind him of his appointments and medication, and keep all his lists updated. It was as if technology itself was conspiring to help Adam stay comfortably in sync with life as it zipped by.

  Of course there were still bumps along the road. Dangerous “triggers,” as Dr. M. called them, were bound to appear, regardless of how routine Adam’s days became. Associations with the delusional events of 2008 were unavoidable: passing a red-haired woman on the street, seeing an online article on sailing, hearing a distant seagull cry, or just walking through the produce section of the supermarket and noticing the stack of bright navel oranges. “These triggers are not to be underestimated,” Dr. M. warned. “But they are manageable so lon
g as we don’t try to suppress them. We need to talk them through, defuse them with words.”

  Occasionally Dr. Mendelson tested Adam’s commitment by purposefully placing small triggers in his path to see if he chose to bring them up in his sessions. Like the National Geographic magazine strategically positioned on the coffee table in the waiting room; on the cover was a dramatic photograph of a man standing on a cliff, looking out past crashing waves, under the title “Beyond the Blue Horizon.” Adam resisted the first few times he saw it, but eventually he picked it up. He then noticed the date of the issue, which was 10 years earlier than the issue date of any other magazine on the table. During his session that day, Adam admitted to looking at the magazine.

  “Which is absolutely okay, Adam,” Dr. Mendelson said. “You are only human. How you feel is not the problem. Hiding how you feel, that is the problem. Like coming to grips with your thoughts of suicide.” Adam had eventually admitted to those dark emotions at the root of his previous breakdown.

  Adam’s life remained on an “even keel” for a good long stretch. However, Dr. Mendelson ended up being right about the dangers of these small triggers. And unfortunately, the one that would eventually set off the time bomb ticking away inside of Adam was something no one could have foreseen. No amount of openness with Dr. M. or regimented routines with Jane or pampering from Blake could have kept it from cracking right through all the protective layers around Adam and piercing what was left of his broken heart.

  It happened on December 8, 2010, just a couple of days before Adam’s birthday, two years to the date of his last episode.

  The trigger was a dog.

  CHAPTER 27

  SOME CRACKS DON’T MEND