Esperanza

by Trish J. MacGregor

  Once Louise was on her feet again, she picked up her spike heel, slipped it on, twisted around and looked at the run in her other stocking. “Goddamn bitch,” she murmured, and moved up the hall in search of a pay phone.

  She composed herself rapidly, Dominica noticed, rehearsing what she would say to her attorney, what he should say to the hospital administrator. But as soon as she began to travel along this line of thought, other options occurred to her that she explored in a depth that surprised Dominica. The woman was brighter than she appeared to be, able to extend a single thought outward in time, examining the possible ramifications, the various probabilities, weighing one against the other.

  Dominica followed the twisted, devious path in Louise’s mind: if the hospital shrink who evaluated Ian believed he’d suffered brain damage due to his deprivation of oxygen when he had died, then perhaps he could be persuaded to commit him for a period of time. For observation. Commitment, Louise knew, practically ensured that Ian’s tenure at the university would be rescinded and he probably would lose his newspaper column as well. Unemployment would be the ultimate humiliation. He finally would suffer the depth of humiliation that she had when he had divorced her. Payback.

  Despite Dominica’s admiration for the way this woman thought, a loony bin would prove unspeakable for Dominica. Even though she usually couldn’t feel the emotions of the people she possessed, a mental ward was different. The emotions inside of it were generally so extreme, so aberrant, that they penetrated whatever protection the host body offered. She wouldn’t be able to endure more than fifteen or twenty minutes in such a place. However, if Louise was properly armed—like with a knife—Dominica probably wouldn’t need much time to force Louise to stab Ian. But that might involve days or weeks and Dominica didn’t want to spend that much time here.

  A far simpler—and quicker—option would be to slip into a hospital employee, if she could, and force the employee to enter the psych unit and finish Ian off. An overdose of a drug would be best. Painless, quick.

  While Louise was on the pay phone in the lobby with her attorney, Dominica slipped out of her and thought herself toward a plump young female nurse. She followed her into the elevator and, as soon as the doors whispered shut, melted into her. No reaction. It seemed that as long as she took bodies in this way—quietly, dispersing her essence throughout the host body—she wouldn’t be thwarted. Perhaps that was the restriction—no violent seizures, no using up bodies for physical pleasures and discarding them. Fine. She could live with that.

  The nurse—Edna—punched the button for the second floor, but the psych unit was on the third, the same floor as cardiology, so Dominica gently urged her to press three. She did. So far, so good. No resistance. But when the doors opened at cardiology, Edna hesitated, frowning, looking around with confusion, wondering what had happened. She started to punch the button that would close the door, forcing Dominica to exert more control. Move. One foot in front of the other.

  Now that her essence was no longer so widely dispersed through Edna’s body, Dominica needed to breathe, to feel the beat of the woman’s heart, to use all of her senses fully. She was forced to seize the nurse’s brain, lungs, heart, organs, to possess her completely. That first shuddering breath, that heart that now beat for Dominica, the beautiful and rhythmic flow of physical life: she nearly wept with joy.

  But Edna spoiled it by screaming, Who the fuck are you?

  Dominica scrambled to find the answer that would fit Edna’s belief system. Not God, not traditional religious garbage, but an amalgam of paganism and New Age aphorisms. Your higher self. You have a mission.

  I do?

  A man in the psych ward is suffering. Dominica urged her through the double doors, bracing herself for the assault of emotions from the crazies. That first contact nearly crippled her, all those inner voices screaming for release, redemption, understanding, freedom. She imagined herself as water, a rapidly flowing river that carried that shrieking tsunami of despair beyond her. Then there was silence. Blissful. Healing.

  Deeper into the ward they traveled, through a strange twilight, into the pharmaceutical area. We want Ian Ritter to sleep, Dominica whispered. Phenobarbital would be best.

  Edna turned into a supply room, opened the fridge, withdrew a tiny bottle. She filled a syringe. Slip it in your pocket.

  Out in the hallway again, Edna hesitated, Dominica nudged her forward, and she made a beeline toward the nursing station. No one questioned her presence. She picked up one of the clipboards, found Ian’s name and a note: Cardiac patient, violent episode, awaiting psych evaluation, straitjacket required. Room 13.

  That number captivated her. It seemed to recur consistently in Ian’s life and she wondered if she should look for a deeper meaning. But what would that deeper meaning be? Bad luck? She nearly laughed. He was about to experience the ultimate in bad luck. Death.

  Edna moved quickly through the twilight and slipped into room 13. Oh, just look at him, that beautiful face. Even in repose, trapped within a straitjacket, his physical appearance struck her as extraordinary. Ian Ritter, one of the first transitionals in five hundred years. Dominica had heard that a family had arrived in Esperanza shortly afterward, but they were dead, not in the between. That made Ian and Tess unique. Why had the chasers let them through? What was so special about them? About him?

  Edna woke up enough to ask a question. A transitional? What’s that mean?

  One who walks among the dead.

  But he’s not dead. He’s a sedated psycho.

  Stop talking.

  But—

  Go away. Dominica shoved Edna’s essence down into the metal room constructed weeks ago, when she had taken that tourist in Esperanza. She forced Edna to approach the bed, to bring out the syringe, to flick off the plastic tip that covered the end of the needle. Stick it in his neck.

  Edna’s hand started to shake. That’s wrong.

  He’s suffering. You’re an angel of mercy.

  I’m no fucking angel, Edna screamed, and jammed the needle into her own neck, into the carotid, and pressed down on the plunger.

  Dominica leaped out of her and watched as Edna crumpled to the floor, twitching, her bladder and bowels letting loose. Then Dominica shot through the roof, into the dusk of Minneapolis, circa March 1968, and screamed until self-disgust overwhelmed her. Then she went in search of Louise Ritter Bell, her best hope.

  Twelve

  One moment it was light, the next moment it was dark. In between Ian ate and slept and shuffled through a large room with a TV, Ping-Pong tables, board games. Dozens of men and women in pajamas and robes wandered freely, drooling and talking to themselves. People came and went. Light gave way to darkness and then to light once again. Several times a day, a nurse handed him a little white cup with pills in it and another white cup that held water and told him to take his medicine like a good little boy.

  He resented being called a good little boy, as if he were four years old. He wanted to rebel, to refuse to take the meds. But a glacier had claimed his head and it just kept growing until it split open his skull and began to encase his entire body. When he put food in his mouth, he couldn’t taste it. When people spoke to him, their voices sounded disembodied. When fresh flowers appeared in the large room, he couldn’t smell them. So the next time the nurse handed him the two white cups and told him to take his pills like a good little boy, he slipped them under his tongue, pretended to swallow them. As she turned away, he brought his hand to his mouth and spat the pills into his palm. He buried them in a potted plant near the window.

  He did the same thing for the next several pill cycles and the glacier that held him developed fissures, then cracks, then great chunks of it fell away. It became easier to taste his food, smell flowers, hear people when they spoke. In the next pill cycle, when the nurse addressed him as “professor,” he didn’t raise his eyes, couldn’t bring himself to look at her. He was terrified she might see the truth, that he was no longer drugged.

/>   “Here you go. Take your meds like a good boy.”

  She held out the first white cup and he emptied the contents into his mouth. Six pills. Next came the white cup with the water in it. He drank it down, she took the empty cups and patted his head as though he were an obedient dog. The name Ratched popped into his head, from Ken Kesey’s novel, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. He was in a loony bin.

  Jesus God. How’s it going there in the shock therapy room? Who’re you torturing today? Got any more happy pills for me?

  “Very good, Professor. Be happy.” Nurse Ratched gave a quick little wink, laughed, and wheeled her cart of happy pills on to the next patient.

  Fuck you. As soon as her back was to him, he brought his hand to his mouth, spat out the pills, and stuffed them down in the crack between the cushion and the back of the chair. He resumed his paragon of vacancy. Professor Ritter, dullard. Lights off. No one home. After a few minutes, he went over to the window. Winter had fled. How long? How long have I been here? He nearly wept with frustration, with sorrow for the time he had lost.

  The naked trees on the grounds just below showed early signs of spring, sprigs of green crawling out across the barren branches like a promise. The people out there wore sweaters or just shirts. Gone were the heavy jackets and coats, boots, scarves, knit caps. He choked back a sob.

  Ian shuffled back to his room and stopped when he saw the number on the door: 13. Something about that number. What? Two images floated into his head—of a bus with a 13 on it and of another door bearing the same number. A door where? A second memory surfaced, of an elderly black man walking through a solid door, like some special effect in a horror movie. This image troubled him deeply. He sensed it might be connected to why he was here.

  Ian went into the room to look for a pen, paper. Twin beds, identical wooden dressers, identical closets. He had a vague recollection of his roommate, a burned-out musician whose name escaped him. Ian’s bed was under the window, clothes piled neatly on top it. He couldn’t find a pen and the only available paper came from pages in the Bible in the nightstand drawer. He tore out one of them, ripped off a strip, went into the bathroom. He crouched to hide the strip behind the sink but found seventeen other strips there already. Seventeen. Had it been that long since he’d begun burying his meds? Seventeen pill cycles? Seventeen days? Weeks? Months? What?

  Luke, where are you? Had his son been here at all? Had Casey? Now a clear memory surfaced, from when he had been in a regular hospital. He had freaked when he had seen a brujo, orderlies had wrestled him to the floor. He didn’t have any recollection of what had happened immediately after that, of how he had ended up in Nurse Ratched’s ward. Who had committed him? Louise? Luke? Some invisible authority? Had they fucked with his brain, given him electroshock treatments? He didn’t know. His immediate past in this place was a tundra of nothingness.

  He rubbed his hands over his face and returned to the large room, shuffling like the other patients did, eyes fixed on his moccasins. He sat in one of the chairs in front of the TV, his mind racing. What floor was he on? Where was this place located? In Minneapolis? Some other city? Is it possible to escape?

  On the TV screen, a black dog barked. He suddenly remembered a black Lab—Nomad—who befriended him and . . . who? Tess. Memories flickered through him, but were they actual memories or fantasies his unconscious had weaved while he was in a coma? More importantly, how much time had he lost in this place?

  He endured lunch, the crazies around him shoveling food into their mouths with their fingers or simply staring at their paper plates. Others turned their plastic spoons, the only utensil they were allowed, over and over again in their hands, studying them like alien artifacts. He finished eating, stood, picked up his paper plate and carried it over to the trash can. Nurse Ratched and her minions watched vigilantly, making sure the rules were followed. If a patient didn’t pick up his dirty dishes, he was called back to the table to do so. If a patient spoke too loudly, if he resisted the rules or rebelled against them, he was reprimanded or given stronger drugs, isolation, more electroshock treatments.

  Ian wandered back to the rec area and sat down again, facing the door. Where did it lead? Into a hall? A stairwell? He felt a powerful desire to step outside, to breathe the tenuous spring air, to stand alone beneath a sweeping blue sky, to see his shadow against concrete, grass, a field of flowers. If he made a break for it, how long would it take for Nurse Ratched or one of the orderlies to tackle him? Seconds.

  He needed to get out of here, to Ecuador. He needed to know if what he remembered had actually happened, if any of it was real. At the very least, he should get back to work. What had happened to his column? Who was writing it in his absence? Who was teaching his classes? Was he officially on leave? Had he been fired from both jobs?

  The door to the rec room opened and his son entered. Luke. Ian forced himself to remain seated, to stare vacantly. Luke was with a tall, thin man in a suit who stuck close to him, like a bodyguard. Ian vaguely recalled seeing this man before, but couldn’t remember who he was. Doctor? Lawyer? Indian chief? They strode toward him and Ian sensed Nurse Ratched watching. If he didn’t play this right, he might end up in this hellhole for another six weeks or six months or six years.

  Luke strode over to him with the tall man. “Dad, good to see you.” He spoke too loudly, as though he believed that Ian was hard of hearing. When Ian didn’t react, didn’t speak or blink, just kept staring vapidly ahead, Luke turned to his companion. “I’d like to take him outside for a walk, Dr. Parcell.”

  “I recommend doing it in a wheelchair initially, Luke.”

  “A wheelchair’s fine. Could you get one for me?”

  Parcell’s expression said he didn’t want to, that he usually left such tasks to the underlings, but he moved quickly away from them, long simian arms swinging at his sides.

  “Dad, we’re going for a walk.” Luke kept speaking loudly. “Would you like that? The temperature outside is just perfect, in the high fifties.” Then he leaned forward, whispering, “Our attorney had to file papers so that I could even get in here to see you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Get me the fuck outta here, Luke. Please. Fast.”

  Luke drew back, eyes wide, apparently shocked to discover that his father wasn’t a drooling idiot. “Let’s get your sweater buttoned up . . .”

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Nurse Ratched had sneaked up behind Luke like some sort of secret agent, hands folded demurely in front of her, her implacable demeanor enough to intimidate heads of state. Despot, Ian thought. But Luke drew himself to his full height, towering over her by more than half a foot, and said, “And you are . . . ?”

  “The head nurse. Frieda Bancroft.”

  “I’m his son. Luke Ritter. You any relation to Anne?”

  “To who?”

  Ian nearly burst out laughing.

  “Anne Bancroft, the actress.”

  “Uh, no, Mr. Ritter, I’m not. And our visiting hours aren’t until—”

  “I’m with Dr. Parcell. I’m taking my father for a walk. With the permission of Dr. Parcell and on the advice of my attorney.”

  “I, uh, see. Well, I’m obligated to inform you that your father is heavily medicated, Mr. Ritter. I don’t recommend taking him out of the building.”

  “With all due respect, ma’am, I really don’t give a shit what you recommend.”

  Eyes widening, she fussed with stray hairs that had escaped the bun at the back of her head. “I’m afraid I’ll have to speak to Dr. Parcell—”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Bancroft,” Parcell said, pushing a wheelchair over to them.

  “Sir, may I speak to you privately for a moment?” she asked.

  He nodded and parked the wheelchair in front of Luke. “Here you go. You may have to help him into it, Mr. Ritter.”

  You prick, I’m perfectly capable of getting into this goddamn chair by myself. I can tap-dance around you. But Ian stayed quiet and pret
ended he needed help standing, acting as though he were ninety-five years old and crippled from the inside out.

  Parcell and Bancroft moved away and spoke in tense, urgent whispers, glancing frequently at Luke and Ian. Luke turned the wheelchair toward the door, so their backs were to the other two. “This is Mom’s doing. She had you committed. Our attorney claims the divorce nullified her power of attorney and is threatening to sue the facility. You’ve got about fifteen grand left in your bank account and it’s going to get you out of here and hidden. You understand?”

  “I am—”

  “My dad,” Luke said quickly. “And I am—”

  “My son,” Ian whispered, and swallowed a sob of relief.

  Luke pressed his hand against Ian’s shoulder. “I’m here, Dad.”

  “I’ve been spitting out my meds, burying them.”

  “Good. Fuck them. Casey is driving the getaway car.”

  Ian talked fast. “Luke, when I died, I went to Esperanza and fell in love with a woman who is forty years in our future. I mean, I think that’s what happened. I need to go to Ecuador, find out if any of it is true. If I told you this already, I apologize. I can’t seem to remember a whole hell of a lot. But—”

  “I believe you.” Luke leaned forward, as if to adjust the collar of Ian’s sweater, and kept whispering. “I believe that you experienced something, Dad. There’s a doc doing research on what happens to people when they clinically die. I spoke to him, Raymond Moody. He hopes to publish his findings on these . . . these near-death experiences.”

  Near-death experiences: it was the same phrase that Tess had used.

  “He’s interested in your case, Dad. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  Ian didn’t need to get to the bottom of anything. He only had to prove to himself whether it was real or he was deranged. At the moment, he was just grateful that Luke had shown up and he wasn’t still in his pajamas like most of the patients. He looked presentable enough to go outside—jeans, a pullover sweater, a pair of comfortable moccasins.