The Rasner Effect

by Mark Rosendorf

  Rick’s stomach knotted at the sight of the picture. Even so, he continued staring at the headline and bridge, wishing, praying for some inkling, just a fragment of memory for the incident. He let go of his head and thumped a knuckle on the page. “Who did this?”

  “That information, as of now, must remain confidential. But rest assured, our people are doing all they can to capture the perpetrators.”

  Rick thrust the paper to the floor and watched the pages flutter apart. The throbbing had begun again. This time it was accompanied by severe lightheadedness. He pressed the heels of both hands to his temples.

  “Is it very bad?” The doctor’s voice distorted as though spoken in a tunnel. The last word echoed—ba-a-a-a-ad.

  “Yes, very.” He sucked in a breath. “Why me?”

  “Wrong place, wrong time. A minute before or after and it would’ve been someone else.”

  “Family. Do I have a family?” He tipped his head to peer at the doctor who’d returned to his chair. He wasn’t making eye contact. This didn’t bode well. “I must have family, right?”

  Dr. Obenchain leaned ahead, placing his heavy elbows on thick thighs. “You were carrying limited ID, Mister Rasner. You are twenty-six years old. Your only known relatives are a mother, a father and a brother, who was three years younger.”

  He didn’t miss the verb tense. “Was?” When no reply came, Rick said it louder, “Was?”

  “They were in the vehicle with you. I’m afraid your family did not survive.”

  Rick tried to picture his family, but their images wouldn’t come. He had nothing to base their possible looks on because the only thing he knew about his own appearance was one side of his head was bald. Suddenly, the notion made him chuckle. Four people in a car, cruising along the bridge—all four with shaved spots on one side.

  “What’s funny?”

  Rick started to shake his head, and stopped. The sound echoed between his ears like a can with marbles inside. “Nothing is funny. Not a single goddamned thing.”

  “Were you recalling something?”

  “No,” he said in lieu of shaking his head. “I can’t recall anything.”

  “There’s always a chance your memories could return over time.” Obenchain tried to reassure him, but his words lacked conviction. “Perhaps I could help you with that process.”

  “Yes. I would really…appreciate that.” What would it involve? Shock therapy? Endless photographs of his dead relatives? He unclenched his hands and dried the wet palms on his sheet. “I need all the help I can get.”

  Chapter One

  Seven Years Later

  It was the first time he had been in the state of Pennsylvania—at least as far as he knew. From the outside, the Brookhill Children’s Psychiatric Residence looked mean and intimidating. Three stories of brick and narrow-barred windows shaped this image in Rick Rasner’s brain. Standing alone on a large Brookhill City acreage, the place looked isolated and unfriendly.

  The guard just inside the front door said the psychiatric office was on the second floor and pointed to a thick metal panel at the end of a short hallway. It clanged shut behind him in such an airtight fashion he immediately found it hard to breathe. The stairwell was narrow, barely wide enough for two to pass without brushing shoulders. The stairs were old and deformed, made of clay warped from many years of use and neglect. The place smelled like damp papers and something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Rick rounded the first turn, claustrophobia clutching at his lungs. He broke into a jog.

  He could only imagine how children brought to the facility must feel laying eyes on their new home. Of course, the children housed in the Brookhill Children’s Psychiatric Residence had very frightening reputations as well. Rick had very little experience, but he hoped it would be enough to handle his new job responsibilities. The one piece of advice his mentor gave was to think of the children sent here as dogs, and “don’t show them fear.” Rick wasn’t sure he liked the tone of that advice. Maybe he could temper it with his own personality.

  The large cardboard box in his arms made it difficult for Rick to keep his balance and still maneuver up the stairs. He sighed in relief seeing the second ominous metal portal. It seemed fairly new in comparison to the surrounding walls.

  He reached around the box, twisted the knob, then pushed with his shoulder, but it was locked from the opposite side. Rick rapped knuckles on it. Several seconds passed before he heard the rasp of a lock and the door swung open to reveal a tall man built like a football tackle. His stomach underneath the white button-down shirt protruded over the waist of his dark dress pants. He wore an old walkie-talkie attached to the belt.

  His skin was extremely dark and the whites of his eyes had a reddish tint to them. Long black dreadlocks poked from under his cap and dangled across wide shoulders. He eyed Rick with suspicion.

  Rick peered around the carton. “Hi, I’m Rick Rasner. I’m starting work today.”

  The guard didn’t speak. He stood on tiptoe to examine the contents of Rick’s box.

  “Is there someplace I can put this down?” Rick asked.

  The officer shut and locked the door using an unusually large key at the end of a chain hanging around his neck. He gestured for Rick to follow down the long and narrow hallway, much like the stairwell. Many doors lined the hall, all only a few feet from each other. Did that mean the rooms were small, too? All the doors remained closed, except for one that opened as they passed. A rotund African-American woman emerged. She wore a similar uniform with handcuffs and a walkie-talkie attached to her black leather belt. She offered Rick a handshake, showing off unusually long fake fingernails.

  “Mr. Rasner?” Did he detect a slight Jamaican accent?

  “Yes, that’s me.” Rick offered a smile. He glanced around for a place to put down the box so he could shake her hand. He couldn’t find one so, he just stood there and nodded.

  “I’m Sharon Hefner, the head of security and discipline on this turf. Welcome aboard.” She waved her hand, signaling Rick to follow her. “Let me show you around, though there’s not much to see.”

  As they walked down the hallway, Rick glanced at the thick, clear plastic windows on the doors. Each had a lock under the knob that appeared to match the key the safety officer wore hanging around his neck. The doorknobs were abnormally large, like Rick expected they looked a century ago.

  They stopped at the door Hefner had come through. She’d left it open. Inside, Rick saw what he presumed to be the facility’s office. The room had three desks, all adjacent to one another. Two were unoccupied; at the third, an older gray-haired woman typed away on a computer keyboard.

  Rick peered through the window of the neighboring door. He saw what appeared to be a padded room and stopped in his tracks to get a good look, realizing that it, indeed, had floor-to-ceiling padding all the way around the room.

  Hefner stopped walking too. “This is one of our seclusion rooms. We have one on each side of this hallway. We use these rooms when the kids wild out and refuse to get with the program.” She tugged Rick’s sleeve.

  He started walking again, but remained on-topic. “Wild out?”

  “Excuse me. Act up. Sometimes these kids go nuts. They practically bounce off the walls. You feel me now?”

  Rick nodded and followed her down the hallway. “Exactly what issues do these children have?”

  “If they end up here with us, they have plenty. These are kids with histories of violence and/or emotional impairment. And some are just plagues on society. You get what I’m saying?”

  Rick nodded. He had very little idea of what children could do to be considered “plagues on society.”

  “Are the patients all from Pennsylvania?”

  “Some are, mainly they’re from Philly. We tend to get a lot from New York and a few from Jersey. It’s a deal worked out between the states. I’m not sure of the details, but I’m sure it has something to do with money. Don’t it always?”

  Hefner gav
e him a knowing smile. He faked a laugh in return. “Who places the kids here?”

  “The courts mandate some, while others are sent here by their own families because they just can’t deal with them anymore. It’s our job to rehabilitate whomever we can, or, if we can’t, at least we keep them off the streets.”

  “How much of a success rate do you have?” Rick questioned.

  “It happens once in a while, but considering their backgrounds and the environments they come from,” Hefner’s head drooped slightly, “you can’t expect too many happy endings.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Rick liked being successful at things he did. He liked seeing results from his hard work.

  “I’m even sorrier for their parents and guardians. But when you raise a bad kid, that’s how things roll, right?”

  “I’m sure it’s difficult for them as well.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure it is nowadays. It’s just not like it was when we were kids, am I right or what, Mister Rasner?”

  Rick didn’t respond. Instead, he stared down at the large box. He couldn’t hold it much longer. As it was, he had to keep poking the thing up with his knee. The officer who’d admitted Rick onto the floor sauntered over. He exchanged a hug with Hefner and the two whispered together for a moment. Rick waited, his arms protesting the prolonged strain.

  “Oh, this is Officer James, and you can bet he’s a big help when these kids are trying to step up.” Hefner gestured toward Rick. “James, this is Rick Rasner; Miss Miller hired him this week. He’s our new…you’re a psychologist, right?”

  “Therapist. Psychotherapist, to be more specific.”

  “Sorry…psychotherapist, so many different titles come through here.” She looked back at Officer James. “He’s from New York just like us, isn’t that right, Mr. Rasner?”

  Before Rick could answer, Officer James interrupted, “Long commute. About an hour and a half’s drive.”

  “I live in the area now,” Rick explained. “I moved here when I got hired.”

  Without giving a response, Officer James nodded and walked past Rick, heading down the hallway to greet a man wearing a white jacket who needed a door opened.

  Hefner motioned with her hand for Rick to once again follow her. “These doors ahead are our classrooms. We have four classes. The room to your right is for our oldest patients. They’re our high school level kids. Next to it, we have the classroom for the eighth and ninth graders. That’s the biggest age group we got.”

  Rick glanced at each door, trying to remember which classes were in which rooms.

  Hefner spoke quickly, making it hard for him to follow. “The classroom across from those two, that’s where the sixth and seventh graders get their schooling. We have only a few patients younger than that, but the ones we have are in the classroom next to that one.”

  “These are full working classrooms?”

  “Of course. They may be patients in our place, but they’re still children and they still need their education, right? Each student has a portfolio of his or her work. If and when a student gets released, the portfolio goes to the new school. If they don’t leave, they can still earn a real high school diploma within these walls, if they behave and can handle the work.”

  “It must be tough getting teachers to work here.”

  “Tell me about it!” Hefner threw a shoulder shrug that reflected her attitude. “We don’t exactly get teacher-of-the-year candidates, but our staff is fully accredited by the State of Pennsylvania Teachers’ Board. Sometimes they even stay, at least the ones who can deal with these kids.”

  Hefner stopped near the door at the end of the hallway. Rick stopped as well. “What time do the students begin school?”

  “Eight on the dot. The alarms go off an hour before and then they are escorted from their rooms on the top floor down to breakfast at 7:30. Then we bring them to their classrooms five minutes before the day starts. Each group gets half an hour for lunch in the cafeteria on the first floor, provided they’re not on lockdown, in which case they eat in their classrooms. Dinner’s at five”

  “I noticed a farm on the property,” Rick said. “Is that part of the facility?”

  “Yes. Classes end at five but those who earn the privilege get to leave early and work on the farm until dinner.”

  “Working on the farm is a privilege?” Rick laughed.

  “When you’re stuck in this 100 year old building day and night,” Hefner pointed out, “any reason to be outside is a privilege.”

  She took the key hanging from a string around her neck and held it in her right hand. It was a large key just like the one Officer James had. She used it to open a door, which led into another office. This office had two desks, one on opposite sides of the room. A large plastic divider spread across the width of the room.

  “This is the therapy suite where you will be working with Miss Murphy. She’s a social worker and does what you do, the related service. Right now, we have about 35 patients. I guess the two of you would split the caseload.”

  The desk on the far left was bare while the one on the right was piled high with papers, picture frames, and various office supplies. There was also an open Bible on top of the papers. Rick strode to the empty desk and dropped the box with a thud. He flexed his arms, then his fingers, wiggling them like a typist preparing for a long day at the keyboard.

  “So, have you met our Director, Katherine Miller yet?” Hefner asked.

  “Not yet. Actually, there wasn’t much of an interview process. I spoke to her for about thirty seconds on the telephone before she said to just show up today. She hung up before I could agree to be here.”

  Hefner gave a knowing chuckle. “That sounds like Miss Miller, all right. But I know Doctor Obenchain recommended you, and in this town, his word means a lot.”

  “I’m sure I’ll meet her later on.” Rick began removing the contents of his box. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Hefner peeking over his shoulder. “Anything I need to know about Ms. Miller?”

  Hefner laughed. “Oh, she’s a rough character, all right, but you’ll get used to her. She’s been part of this facility for over twenty-five years and her way works. She keeps good relations with the town of Brookhill so they don’t make a stink about a nuthouse sitting right in their backyard. I remember back a few years, you had to drive through groups of protestors to get to work.”

  Rick removed his framed degree from Talbert University. He scrubbed it with his forearm to remove a smudge from the glass and placed it on the desk. Hefner picked it up and read, tilting the frame to get the glare off.

  “What do you mean by ‘a little rough’?” Rick asked, trying to ignore her blatant curiosity over his things.

  “She can be critical. Oh, and she likes to yell a lot. She’s blunt, but…well, after a while everybody realizes it’s best to just let her scream. You’ll get used to it in time.”

  “Oh, great,” Rick muttered, wondering if he truly wanted to be in an environment where he’d have to get used to being yelled at.

  “As long as you do your job and you’re not intimidated by these kids, or by her, you’ll be fine.” Hefner put his degree back on the desk and turned to leave. “No doubt you can handle it.” She tipped her head toward the frame, sitting prominently on the corner of his new desk. “The training and education that went with this degree was good, I’m sure. Am I right?”

  “It was.”

  “Of course, no piece of paper replaces real-world experience.”

  Once again, Rick did not respond. He took his degree in his left hand and rubbed her fingerprints off with his right sleeve.

  “Well, thank you for the tour, Officer…”

  “‘Miss…I just go by Miss Hefner around here. Makes things easier. Good luck to you, and if you need anything, just holler.” She offered a phony smile and marched out of the room.

  Rick watched the head of Security & Discipline leave the therapy suite. Once she left his sight and he couldn’t hear her foot
steps any more, he examined his degree. He had earned it years after the tragedy, a tragedy he couldn’t remember, much like his entire life before that fateful day.

  Chapter Two

  Hands pushed into the pockets of khaki Army shorts, Jake Scarberry stood at the large glass window watching the waves crash against the shore. Their turbulence mirrored his thoughts about his new job. It wasn’t a dream job, by any stretch of the imagination, but right now, he had to take what was given to him. He let out a long breath, turned away from the window, poked the vacuum’s ON button, and pushed the nozzle across the blue carpet. So, this was what his life had become—mindless, routine. It was a comfortable Florida day, but Jake hadn’t felt comfortable since the moment he stepped off the plane and began a new life as a member of this beachfront college town.

  That thought crossed his mind often, especially each time he strode through the frat house, which he had to clean on a daily basis. The Greek lettering on the walls preceded pictures of students who inhabited the house over the last several decades, posing in their fraternity outfits. Both the lettering and pictures reminded him of how this life had humbled him.

  He clicked off the vacuum and surveyed the carpet, trying to muster satisfaction for a job well done. It was clean, but didn’t look much better. The place was obviously well used, and abused. Six mismatched, and scarred, chairs surrounded a wooden table. The four lamps against the wall were not a matching set. Two antiquated, brown upholstered couches, set catty-corner to one another, faced the only thing in the room not old or battered—a large big-screen television and stereo, complete with video game system hookup.

  The front door opened and four of the young occupants, wearing bathing suits and towels, strode into the room. They beelined for the television and couches. They left behind a trail of sand across the carpet. The smallest of the four boys, a bleached blonde, stopped beside Jake and patted him on the back. “Sorry about that, Charlie. You probably just cleaned in here, didn’t you?”

  “That’s fine, Glen, I’ll just vacuum again before I go,” Jake assured him, trying not to swing the vacuum hose at his head.