September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series

by A. R. Rivera

  Lunchtime means macaroni and cheese floating down the toilet. My stomach is constantly pinched, but I like thinking of Avery holding her abdomen and complaining about the cramps. When they come to remove my lunch tray, two guards step in and shackle me. I’m quiet and docile as they lead me back to the interview room that feels like a second cell these days.

  Tight Bun Tara and Quiet Darren are sitting at the table with Mister Brandon and one other man. New Guy is sitting in a middle chair between the two familiar faces opposite my usual spot.

  On the table, there’s a small paper cup containing my afternoon medication. I am seated, and take the pills with the provided cup of apple juice, like a good little nut-job, while everyone watches. I hold my mouth open and wiggle my tongue around to show that I’ve swallowed all of them.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Patel,” the stranger between Tara and Darren says a little too brightly, “I’m Doctor Schumacher.” He is thin, with white hair and gold-rimmed glasses with lenses too thick for the frames.

  As I play with the cuffs on my chair, I ask, “What kind of doctor?” even though I already know.

  “I am a psychiatrist, appointed by the state to oversee in your reevaluation.”

  “Of course you are. Why would the state bother talking to my doctors? I’ve only been seeing them for the last six years. It’s much smarter to get a new guy to ask the same damned questions.”

  Tara turns her head to hide a smile.

  “And you’re a little late.” I add, “I’ve already told my story.”

  “I know. I’ve been supervising from in there.” He points behind him at the mirrored window. “I also have specified reports from your doctors at Canyon View, which are very telling.”

  I nod, trying not to roll my eyes.

  “I’ve requested your presence this morning to answer a few more questions. Once we’re satisfied, we’ll officially conclude this reevaluation.”

  Now he’s got my attention.

  He holds up his hand, throwing out a peace sign. “Two things. First, I’d like you elaborate, if you will, on the presence of Deanna Midler at the motel room that night.”

  “O-kay,” the word comes out slowly.

  “You’ve been vigilant throughout this evaluation, stating several times that the events of that night were your perception at the time, and not necessarily factual. I am curious to know, Miss Patel, what are the facts, as you see them? Anything you contribute to help us understand your state of mind would be of great help.”

  “I don’t remember much beyond what I told you. I can’t even remember your name and you just told me five seconds ago.”

  He tilts his head. “Doctor Schumacher, like shoe maker—one who makes shoes.”

  I sigh and shake my head. He’s using that rhyming trick to help me remember. He has been listening.

  “I thought I saw Deanna there, in the room with me that night,” I confess, “But I was only trying to comfort myself. I know, now, that she wasn’t.”

  “What did you learn that made you change your mind?”

  “The dreams I have—those repressed memories. The videos, too, of me behaving . . . like the other person.” I shrug. “I’ve been wrong about so much stuff, it just seemed reasonable that maybe I was wrong about talking to Deanna that night, too.”

  “Would you say you weighed the facts you were presented with?”

  Thinking for a minute, I nod. “Yeah, that’s what I did.”

  “The facts are: Deanna Midler used the information Mister Haddon provided on your whereabouts to lead the police to you. She was present, but never entered the motel room as you previously thought. Do you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiles, not much but just enough to soften his face. “I believe that information, facts, are the most important part of the decision making process. Would you agree?”

  “I guess. But you have to follow your heart, too.”

  He leans down, scribbling in the file in front of him. “I also want to ask about your references to the second victim, Mister Jacob Haddon.”

  All the muscles in my body constrict at the sound of his name. This doctor’s going to fucking argue with me. I know it. He’s just like the rest. He’s going to tell me I’m lying.

  “Throughout this process, you have repeatedly referred to Mister Haddon’s state of health after the confrontation as being deceased and ‘magically’ opening his eyes to ask for help.”

  “. . . Yeah.” A lump rises in my throat as I look around the room at the other three faces studying me. I’m the only one ruffled by the turn of conversation. Was this their plan all along?

  “You believe that to be fact?”

  “It was my imagination. I said that.” The protuberance rises, sharpening like the pointed beak of a crow pecking at my esophagus.

  “Are you aware, Miss Patel, that Jacob Haddon was, in fact, alive at that time?”

  “I heard that before.” In the time it takes me to say four words, the pecking crow in my throat has multiplied to a flock. Whirling inside me, the birds are a violent chorus of long beaks and giant beating wings, fighting, trying to climb up and out of my mouth.

  “Are you also aware of the fact that he is still living, to this day?”

  This is where I stop listening. “That’s. A. Lie.” Three pecks slicing through my tongue.

  “I assure you, it is a fact. Jacob Haddon is alive, Miss Patel. The fact is you did not kill him, no matter what your heart tells you. If you had, you wouldn’t be here. We would never consider transferring a murderer to moderate security.” Doctor Schumacher has a pen in his shirt pocket. I wish my hands were free so I could jamb it in my ear.

  “No.” Another beak pecking.

  “According to your records, the numerous psychiatrists and physicians who’ve examined you these last six and one-half years all state the same: you have deluded yourself with guilt. You think that Mister Haddon was murdered by your alternate personality, Avery.” His dark eyes flicker behind the coke-bottle lenses. “The facts are: Mister Haddon did sustain life threatening injuries that night. He endured forty-seven stab wounds in total, from which he has since recovered. He still suffers mild to moderate nerve damage, but he is alive.”

  My head shakes continuously. Fiercely. Like my neck is made of rubber. “No. Jake’s dead.”

  “Miss Patel, I have given you the facts, not perception. One piece of evidence to those facts are that he attended your sentencing.”

  “No! He’s dead!” My eyes clamp shut. “You are lying! Liars! Fucking liars!” My fingers dig into the woolen fiber of the chair, shaking, tingling. Fucking liars. “Jake. Died! If he was alive, he would be here! He’d do whatever he had to do to get to me. He loved me; he would never leave me when I needed him! He promised!”

  I’m panting, trying to block the fuzzy image creeping into my psyche, thanks to Doctor Shithead. “I wasn’t even at my sentencing. How would I know if a dead man was there?”

  “He is not dead. He was present at your sentencing, and so were you.”

  My eyes pop open wide. “What?”

  “I’m sure if you try to remember, Miss Patel—”

  “I don’t believe you!” I’m shaking my head, but the image won’t fade. It’s even clearer now, just like he’s in the room with me. It’s a lifeless portrait, a barely healing and still bleeding man who’s too quiet. It looks like Jake in the corner behind Doctor Schumacher, but it’s not my Jake sitting there with empty hands, it’s just what my mind wants to see. A projection.

  It’s true that my life would be much easier of Jake were alive, but he’s not.

  He’s not.

  I felt the life slip from his body. I held him when his spirit departed. I felt him die and I died right along with him.

  “He didn’t make music. He didn’t sign a record deal. He never made it to California.” I say to the conjured image. Realizing that I’m speaking to something no one else can see, I clamp my mouth shut.

  “
Miss Patel, what makes you think Mister Haddon never went to California?” Quiet Darren asks.

  “My first lawyer had a copy of Max’s deposition before the Grand Jury. He left his briefcase open on the table when he came to talk strategy. I only read the top page, but it told me enough.

  “Max said, and I quote, ‘she killed my best friend. He isn’t going to California to sign a record deal. He can’t even play guitar anymore. She ruined Jake at the best time of his life.’”

  I sit forward, making my point. “If Jake were breathing, he would be making music.”

  “It’s now or never for me.”

  My Jake is gone off to a better place.

  I don’t know if heaven exists, or if the next life or whatever is just another plane, but wherever that place is, getting there means leaving here and never coming back. So I will find my way to him. He’s waiting for me. I know it deep down. Bone deep.

  I know it.

  “Take some time to weigh the facts and reconsider, Miss Patel.” The white haired doctor softly instructs.

  “Can I go back to Canyon View, now?”

  51

  —Angel

  The first song Jake ever wrote was called Hall Of Fire. He said it helped him deal with a lot of the issues he had with his dad leaving his mom. I always liked it. It sounded very upbeat, very punk rock. Analog Controller only ever played it at band practice, though. That early tune comes back to me now, strong and loud.

  I move to the far side of my cell, take up residence in the furthest corner, imagining I’m still seventeen, back inside Analog’s rehearsal space, sitting on top of that broken amp, and staring. Singing along as Jake stares down at the notebook with the lyrics. He’s strumming his guitar, crooning into the microphone.

  Take hold of everything. We’re gonna make a brand new start.

  Give away everything. All I’ll ever want is in your heart.

  You say, “Kick the cat and feed the dog.”

  Let’s go walking down the hall.

  Don’t you ever let me go—

  If you do, don’t tell me so.

  Grab hold of everything. Follow me to our brand new start.

  I’m keeping everything. We’ve all got to play our part.

  I kicked the cat and fed the dog

  Kept you moving down the hall

  Said you’d never let me go—

  Though you never told me so.

  We’re gonna make it—

  We’re gonna make it, after all

  (Don’t let me fall)

  Taken for everything. So much for a brand new start.

  You ruined everything, including me and your own heart.

  I kicked your cat and fed your dog

  And I’m burning down your hall

  I hope you never let me go—

  But won’t ever tell you so.

  I am finally getting old—

  Drinking Sherry (growing mold)

  This life is not what I was sold

  We didn’t make it—

  We didn’t make it, after all

  (You made me fall)

  I should have held him tighter, kept him closer. I never should have went to sleep that night. I should have fought my migraine. Now, everything has turned out like the song.

  This life is not what I was sold. I ruined everything.

  We didn’t make it, Jake.

  I made you fall and I’m so, so sorry.

  Closing my eyes, I will my hearts message to reach his spirit, wherever it is: I love you, Jake, and I will continue to love you with every fiber of myself, with every heartbeat, and every inch of my soul for the rest of my life and beyond. I promise, I’ll never let you fall again.

  I’ll be leaving this place soon. And I’ll find you when I get there.

  Limp cries echo in my empty chamber as my heart beats in my hollow chest. His song is over and nothing remains but ash.

  52

  —Angel

  Canyon View is a big facility, but my wing—the one for criminals—is small and plain. I’m inside a ten by twelve foot room at the end of a long, pale green hallway, restrained to my bed just like I was those first few months after my initial placement here. Staring at the wide strap over my wrist, I get an odd feeling like returning home and it makes me want to claw my eyes out.

  Why does it take so freaking long to starve to death?

  My efforts feel useless, like I’m stretching out towards the only hand that offers to pull me away from my ledge. And I’m falling short.

  I have not missed the rigidity and uniform routine that infects every inch of this place. I wasn’t watched so closely so at the regular prison. My food was delivered to my cell and I could choose what not to eat, more or less. What I was doing the three weeks I was away will not work here. They monitor everything that goes in and out of our bodies because they slip sedatives into the food.

  My nose itches. I have to turn my head to one side and rub it against the thread of my pillow to scratch.

  “I’m not leaving.” Avery promises from the corner, her arms set defiantly at her sides.

  I keep my eyes fixed on the ceiling and tell myself that I am alone—over and over, desperate to believe.

  She’s been on a tear the last few days, hoping to make me start eating. I keep drinking and taking my pills and playing the part, but the weight loss is seriously noticeable.

  In the quiet intervals between Avery’s ranting, I notice the sounds here are nothing like the other prison. There are no inmates grumbling or whooping over a fight. Just us loons, stuck in our medically induced haze, trying to scratch our noses without using our hands.

  It is a terrible, painful truth—one I cannot entirely put to rest as I try to ignore her. We live inside the same body, operate within the same skin. There is no place she has been that I have not because she is a part of me. We occupy different rooms in the same brain and that makes us one entity; the before and the after. Different parts of the same play. Opposing sides of a seriously fucked up coin.

  Because of that, my life isn’t ever going to get better. I’ve spent these last six years trying to pretend there is some sort of future in my past, when I know I can’t live there.

  Thinking about my room; the plain walls, my single-size bed, and one bland chair, and the unwanted guest, I know I can’t continue to live here, either.

  I have no say in my treatment, no control over what’s put into my body. I can voice my opinion, but that will only get me a needle in the arm, or another physician or nurse or orderly in my face telling me what’s good for me. Nobody really gives a shit. They only care about sticking to the course of treatment.

  Drugs. Pills. Injections. Liquid opiates. Doped up food. Carefully monitored therapy in any and all forms. Meditation. Relaxation techniques.

  Bullshit.

  Incarceration.

  Why can’t they just put me out of my misery? I mean, they’re giving me all of these things; these pills, treatments, this therapeutic methodology. For what? What is the purpose?

  No matter where I might go in life—which is actually nowhere—I am never going to get away from who I am. So what is the point? Lobotomize me. Put me out of my misery.

  They do it for dogs. Why can’t they do it for me?

  I wish I could just wake up one day and have Avery be gone. I think then, I could keep going. If I knew she would never hurt anybody again, then I could do the time.

  But she’s so fucking selfish. She knows I need to let go. Why won’t she let me?

  I’ve been thinking lately, that if I can find the point where our lives joined, the place where her mind meets mine, I bet I could cut her out. Like the buds of a branch growing from the trunk of a tree, I could snip her off.

  “If I can find that,” I whisper into the dark of my room, then I can find where we split. The doctor will help me fix it. I can glue myself back together. Like a broken jar.

  Six years ago, while I was waiting to be sentenced, I’d hoped they’d give me te
n life times. No amount of time seemed like enough. Not for what I let happen. But even so, I never looked beyond twenty-one years. That’s how old Jake was, and some part of me assumed that once I hit that benchmark, I would do something—an elusive something—to end my life, too. That seemed fair. But honestly, it is an unfathomable amount of time. I’m only six years in and I can’t . . . I can’t deal.

  “I’m never going to leave. I’m always going to be here.” Avery promises, tapping her forehead like she has heard my thoughts. “You can’t get rid of me. Not with medication, not with therapy. I’m here to stay, Princess. I’m waiting, ready to live your life better than you ever could.”

  She paces the opposite side of the room, trying to goad me into acknowledging her, but instead, I hum to myself. It’s a parched melody from my dry throat and cotton-mouth. A broken song from my shattered heart; aiming to block her out.

  She needs to know what will happen next and I am at the point where the only way to stop her, to make her pay for what she did to Jake, to Deanna, and to me, is to make it so she can’t push anymore.

  There is only one way to do that.

  To stop Avery, I must stop myself. And if starving myself doesn’t work, then the very first time I have the opportunity to grab a ballpoint pen. A sharp pencil. A real fork. A needle. I’m going to take care of her.

  53

  —Angel

  Off-white cushions. No pictures. No furniture. Only me and four padded walls, a soft floor, and no shoes. The room is a blank canvas. My mind needs to fill it with something, that’s all. It wants to create things that aren’t there to help pass the unforgiving time.

  “It was all you, Angel.” Avery stops pacing the room and points an accusing finger at me. “You said you loved him. Then you screwed that troll, Troy Bleecher! All the time. If I had any food in my stomach, I’d fucking puke.”

  That’s the tender point of my raw nerves and she knows it. I fall to my knees. It’s not true, I tell myself, but I am the one who created Avery. She was born to take the pain for me. She did. Now, she hates me for it.