Absence of Mind

by H. C. H. Ritz

  !!! Warning. You are about to ride in a manual-drive car. !!!

  !!! Such vehicles are responsible for over five thousand deaths and forty-three thousand injuries annually. !!!

  As if I don’t have anything more important to think about right now.

  I read the ER report.

  Jamie’s not hurt, but he’s sick. In a nutshell, it says he’s uncontrollably violent and forced to wear restraints, which makes no sense to me at all, because Jamie doesn’t have a hint of violence in him.

  Jamie’s only eighteen, a sweet kid in his freshman year of college at Georgia State, and the only blond in the family. He left home about six months ago. He followed me here, out into “the world,” as my community puts it, after I left them all behind in Ohio. He was the other one to turn away from the ways of my family and religion, and it was surely because of my influence. I have yet to figure out whether I feel guilty or happy about that. But my parents will never forgive me.

  Jamie and I are the only ones who have Navis, and that didn’t go over well, either. If I’d known better, I never would have told my parents. They would never have found out otherwise. There’s no tell-tale sign. I can take a phone call in my head the same as I could out loud. There’s never any background noise on the call, but otherwise…

  I’m just trying to distract myself from what’s happening now.

  Oh, how I wish I’d gone to his party last night. But then a surge of anger hits me as I piece together what must have happened to Jamie. Somebody must have given him street drugs that resulted in a psychotic break. My big-sister protectiveness sets in, and I’m ready to kick some ass. Just as soon as I know whose ass to kick… but for that, I’ve got to get a clear story out of Jamie.

  I connect with one of the nurses I know who’s on duty at the ER.

  < Darla, my little brother Jamie is there in the ER. Can you please look at him and patch me in? >

  << Sure, sugar. Just a minute. >>

  I wait impatiently, tapping my fingers on my knees.

  No, I can’t handle waiting. I look at my notifications.

  In addition to the usual, there are two voice mail messages from my family members. They’ve found out about Jamie somehow.

  < Navi, reply to all messages about Jamie that I’m on my way to the hospital to handle the situation. Then go to busy mode. >

  | Busy mode confirmed. |

  | Reply-all messages confirmed. |

  Busy mode is brutal, and I hate to ever use it. It goes to text mode, turns off my news feed, and filters out all personal notifications unless they come from people I’ve favorited and also contain certain keywords that I’ve spent quite a bit of time setting up. Or unless I initiate the conversation. It will, however, auto-reply to the other personal notifications, letting them know I’m on busy mode.

  The worst part, though, is that when I turn busy mode back off, there are a lot of messages that I still won’t see. Because I’ll be so far behind, it’ll only catch me up on personal notifications and broadcast items from my favorited people¬—and then only the ones that are also about my topics of interest. Important items always get lost.

  Finally, the message from Darla.

  << Are you sure you want to see? It isn’t pretty. >>

  < Yes. >

  | Authorize live video feed from Darla? |

  < Yes. >

  The live video appears in my heads-up display, and if I weren’t an experienced nurse who sees this daily, I would recoil. Even with the sedation, Jamie is screaming into his gag and throwing himself violently against his restraints. His eyes are rolling in his head. Bruises and blood discolor his face, and his clothing is torn. He’s had quite a fistfight, by the look of it, and he’s wild with aggression. Normally a peaceful, sweet, handsome kid, he looks like a convincing case for demonic possession.

  I let out a slow breath as I look at the situation analytically.

  It has to be street drugs. There’s no other possibility for something like this. Unless he’s experiencing the onset of schizophrenia. Or bipolar disorder. But this doesn’t look quite like either one.

  Then my mind goes to the epidemic of new cases that I’ve seen in the past few days. There have been several who looked like this—looked like Jamie. Those cases had just been a curiosity a few hours ago, but now they feel malevolent, terrifying. Now I need to know what’s going on.

  < Okay, thank you, Darla. I’ll be there in a few minutes. >

  I feel a light touch on my arm and look over. Mila is gesturing, telling me that, actually, we’ve arrived at Grady’s ER. “Thank you—so much,” I say as I get out of the car. I try not to run as I go in. There’s no point in running. My Navi checks me in at the door, and I head straight to Jamie’s bed.

  In person, it’s no better, although it’s also no worse.

  There’s a tech sitting by him, watching him. Legally, nobody can be left alone while restrained. Even Navi surveillance isn’t considered good enough.

  I send him another couple of messages.

  << Jamie, are you in there somewhere? >>

  << Can you register this, Jamie? >>

  No reply, no sign that he’s getting the messages.

  I lean over the bed and try to get eye contact. His gaze passes over me, but he doesn’t seem to register that I’m there.

  I check the report again to see which doctor he’s assigned to. Thank God it’s not Green. It’s a Dr. Birer. I know it’s unprofessional, but I recklessly ping her.

  < What’s the status on bed #18? He’s my brother. >

  The response comes back almost instantly.

  << Read the report. >>

  Gee, thanks, Doc.

  I reconsider what I’m asking and then go straight to the source. First things first: determine whether it’s street drugs or not. I have my Navi locate the lab, and I send them a message.

  < When will the results be back from the blood draw on ER patient James Bernhart? >

  Meanwhile, I message Dr. Birer again.

  < When can he get another dose of Callex? He’s uncomfortable. I’m happy to handle it. I’m an RN from Neuro. >

  << I’ll tell his nurse. >>

  Fine. I go hover around the dispensary until someone pulls the meds. On the way back, I realize that Mila is standing there, looking acutely miserable as she watches Jamie writhe in the restraints. I feel awful. I didn’t even realize she followed me in.

  “You don’t have to be here,” I say as the nurse administers the Callex to Jamie. I watch for any sign that it’s taking hold. “You can go home. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into this.”

  Mila says, “Okay,” and starts walking away.

  “Wait,” I call out, and I get a sense of déjà vu. “Can I have your email address?”

  Mila stares with her frosty blue eyes. “Why?”

  She’s so damned unfriendly that I grit my teeth. “I was going to send you a thank-you for giving me a ride, but you know what? I guess I don’t have to.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  We lock gazes, but then I feel tears spring into my eyes and look away. As if I need this on top of everything else. Why am I even trying to connect with this person, who is more of a machine than a person anyway?

  Mila answers reluctantly. “It’s my work email address. I don’t have personal email. Mila@ENI.com.”

  “That’s okay, thanks anyway.” I’ve already decided I’m never contacting her again. What kind of weird person doesn’t have email, anyway?

  When I look back up, Mila is gone. Fine. Whatever.

  << Priority call from Family. >>

  < I’m busy. >

  Oh, hell. Who am I kidding?

  < No, I’ll pick up. >

  I pull up a doctor’s stool next to Jamie’s bed and speak subvocally. “Hello?”

  It’s my dad, of course. “Hello, Phoebe Esther. What’s happened to James?”

  “They don’t know yet. He’s okay right now, though, all right? He’s resting comfor
tably.”

  I say this while I watch Jamie writhe and scream. It’s a good thing phone calls via Navi don’t have any background noise.

  At least he’s beginning to settle down. The second dose of Callex is helping.

  “What do you mean by resting comfortably? What’s wrong with him? Your mother said they couldn’t give any real information over the phone. They said we had to come in, but you know how difficult that would be for us.”

  My people only drive with horse and buggy, although they’ll ride in cars that others drive and even take airplanes. But it’s a last resort, and Zanesville is ten hours away by car.

  Honestly, if it weren’t me or Jamie, they’d probably come anyway. But I know they won’t come here for either of us. We’re damned.

  “They don’t know, Dad. That’s what I’m saying. Look, he’s been admitted, and they’re still running diagnostics.”

  “Do you know what happened? An accident, an injury, a sickness?”

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize they didn’t even—”

  “Phoebe Esther, we are sitting here not knowing a thing about what’s going on over there. Use your common sense. How could we know what’s happening there in Atlanta?”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “He’s not injured. I don’t think there was an accident. Judging by the signs, I think it’s probably a neuro problem of some—”

  “Talk in plain language, Phoebe.”

  I take a second deep breath. “Something is interfering with his normal brain—with how his brain works.”

  There’s a moment of silence while Dad tries to put this together with his limited medical knowledge. “You mean he’s having a stroke or a seizure or something?”

  “Yes, something like that. We don’t know yet. Look, where is Mom?” I always prefer to talk to my mom over my dad.

  “She’s not available right now,” he says in a commanding tone. “You can talk to me. Now, what are you doing for my son?”

  I grit my teeth again. I’m rapidly losing all of my remaining patience, which has already been stretched to its limits. “We’re doing everything we can, Dad. First, we have to wait for the blood test results to come back. That’s the first step, and it takes time.”

  “Do you have competent doctors over there?”

  “Yes, we have excellent doctors over here. You know perfectly well—” I stop and grind my teeth. It’s not a good idea for me to lose my temper at my dad. Our relationship is strained enough as it is. “As you know, this is Atlanta’s largest hospital and one of the best hospitals in the nation. I’ll have more information for you soon.”

  “This never would have happened if he hadn’t followed you out into the world. Nothing good could ever come of this. You led him into the world of Satan. I consider you personally responsible for everything that happens to him.”

  I don’t even know what to say. I feel like I should want to cry, but I feel empty. My dad’s guilt trips always feel like a stealth attack, and yet they should never be a surprise at this point.

  << Priority message from LabTech. Display? >>

  “I got the message from the lab. I’ll let you know when I know more.” I disconnect, with a stab of guilt and defiance twisting my mouth on its way to my gut.

  < Show me the report. >

  I scan it quickly. It turns out that Jamie hasn’t had anything. He hasn’t even been smoking pot.

  I can’t decide whether I’m happy or dismayed, because that means it’s neuro, just like the guys in my ward. It’s the only thing left.

  I take a deep breath. I should be reassured. Just yesterday, I was telling Davis that neuro disorders are eminently treatable.

  Still, I hate this. For me, when I have to deal with these crazies day in and day out, there’s always a certain amount of comfort in being able to say, “Well, at least it isn’t me or anybody I love.” Well, so much for that.

  Dr. Birer seems to materialize at my side.

  << He’s had two doses of Callex and he’s still like this? >>

  < Yes, ma’am. >

  I stand up. Jamie is still writhing and muttering and fighting the restraints.

  << Well, let’s see what we’ve got. >>

  She leans over him and establishes eye contact. After a few minutes, she gingerly removes his gag. I imagine she’s speaking to him via Navi, but she doesn’t have me patched in, so I don’t know what they’re saying.

  He laughs bitterly and starts shaking his head. He yanks against his restraints again, and after she makes sure she doesn’t have any hair or loose clothing where he can reach them, she leans back over him.

  Not being able to hear what they’re saying is killing me.

  After a couple of minutes, Jamie starts talking out loud again. “Get me out! Let me go! Right now!”

  He flails around, and his eyes land on me. He freezes for a moment. This time, he seems to be calm enough to process what he’s seeing.

  << Sis? >>

  < Yeah, Jamie. I’m here. >

  << Let me outta here. You gotta let me out. I can’t take this. >>

  < If you can promise to be quiet and still, then we can let you go. I’m sorry, I know that’s really frustrating, but you have to promise not to fight. >

  << Oh, screw you. >>

  I blink and raise an eyebrow. That’s not Jamie at all.

  < Jamie, I’m serious. They aren’t allowed to let you go until they know it’s safe for all of us. >

  << I’m not going to hurt anyone. >>

  << Dr. Birer: Patch me in, please. >>

  I grimace.

  < Navi, include Dr. Birer with Jamie. >

  < Jamie, you said that you wouldn’t hurt anyone. Will you promise to be quiet and still and calm? >

  << Yeah. I promise. >>

  His eyes are still wild. He’s still breathing hard. But that could be the restraints—they make people upset and frustrated. They make some people claustrophobic.

  Dr. Birer waves a couple of techs over, and they release Jamie from the restraints.

  The moment they do so, he jumps off the bed, howls like a wild monkey, and runs, knocking over medical equipment as he goes.

  I start running after him, along with everyone else. At least the sedatives have him slowed down, and he doesn’t get far. Mostly, though, that’s because on his route out of the room, he gets distracted by a beautiful red-headed technician and throws himself at her, knocking her to the floor, pawing at her chest, and trying to kiss her. She flails and shrieks.

  I scream in my head. < Jamie, no! Stop that! >

  The techs pull him off her and onto the floor. Each one of them grabs an arm or a leg, and they haul him back to his bed. I shadow them. In their wake, nurses pick up the medical equipment he’s spilled and examine it for damage.

  Jamie howls, and I scold him via Navi as the techs tie him back down. Then I put my hands over my face. I can feel that I’m beet red.

  This may be the most mortifying moment of my life. I’ve seen plenty of humans rendered hypersexual, hyperaggressive beasts by their misfiring brains, but I’ve never seen it happen to someone I know and love. I have a whole new perspective now.

  A few hours later, Jamie is upstairs in my ward, but on the south side. He’s been given a court order for involuntary confinement, and the night shift doctor, Dr. Abadi, has ordered him kept in restraints for the next few hours.

  Of course, his Navi has been put on lockdown, too—the same thing he’d get if he were in prison. He can’t interface with the outside world, only use apps that he already has installed in his Navi that don’t require internet access. And he can only message people who are hospital staff who have the appropriate medical clearance or visitors who are inside his room.

  Applying lockdown is something only the doctors can do, but it’s a simple-enough procedure, judging by the fact that they glance over at the patient for a moment and then make the note in the chart that it’s been done.

  We’ve gone through a modified rep
etition of the earlier excitement four times. Each time we give him a high enough dose of Callex—and now Altipar, too—to calm him down, he asks to be released. And since we know better by now, we talk him through a whole litany of promises to behave, but he loses his patience with that after a few minutes and gets hyperaggressive again, proving we can’t release him.

  I don’t think I can handle going through it again.

  It’s illegal to hold him in restraints for more than four hours, though, so we’ll turn him loose in one of the padded rooms shortly so he can move about, restore normal blood flow, and all of that.

  I’m afraid to have him given higher doses of the sedatives, because he’s already approaching the limits of what can be given without risk of long-term brain damage. But I’m also afraid that if we can’t interrupt the cycle of misfiring that his brain is locked into, it’ll become deeply entrenched.

  Dr. Abadi hasn’t been in yet to render a diagnosis and provide a prescription, and I’m slowly going crazy myself. I pace his room in a state of acute misery.

  Dad was right. This is my fault. If I hadn’t let Jamie come here…

  No. I shake off the self-blaming. If something was going to happen to Jamie’s brain, it would have happened no matter where he was living.

  Unless he was under tremendous stress here that I didn’t know about. Maybe college in the big city was proving to be too much, and he didn’t think he could tell his big sister.