Mr Wicker

by Maria Alexander

  Alicia shook her head but she wanted to cry.

  Malcom’s face looked pained. “Why’d you do this, Leesha? Why didn’t you call someone? Sara and I—we care about you, you know? Lots of people care about you. Don’t you get that? I’m so sorry if we were bad friends. We really do care. Do you understand?”

  Alicia’s gaze fell to her shoes. How could she explain about the void? There were no people in the void. Well wishes brought no light, no hope. The moment that darkness flooded her skull and she took her life, her thinking was so twisted, it was as if nothing and no one else in the universe existed but her and her pain.

  Arnie—who’d been standing a safe distance away to give them some privacy—motioned with his head. “Time for your evaluation, Ms. Baum.”

  Chapter 17

  Feared.

  Dr. Mason Sark sniffed and cleared his throat as he urinated.

  Feared. And desired.

  He sniffed harder, shook himself off, tucked his monster in his boxers, and zipped his trousers. As his habit, he washed his hands in tepid water with a good dose of liquid pink soap while examining his chin in the mirror.

  Dashing. But not excessively so.

  He dried his hands and opened the men’s room with the damp paper towel he’d just used. He stood almost six-feet, five-inches tall, a full foot above the stream of medical personnel milling the hallways. Glacial blue irises drifted nonchalantly as he wiped a strand of hair from his high forehead. He was amused to hear that the nurses on the fifth floor called him “Hugh.”

  Waves of people parted before him. He nodded “Good morning” to those who greeted him and pointedly ignored those who did not, doling out his attention with papal grandiosity.

  As in “Grant.”

  The door to the evaluation room loomed before him. He checked his watch. Two minutes before the nine a.m. evaluation for patient Alicia R. Baum—the one who so kept his ward in a constant state of turbulence. Absolutely flawless timing. The door stood ajar and voices filtered into the hallway. He pressed into the office without a word of warning, relishing the fact that his presence was not expected at the evaluation. The bland office contained a ring of chairs with various staff occupying them. Dr. Paul Stemmle, internist. Arnold Fleischer, R.N. (one of his own, chewing gum, a singularly disgusting habit). Olivia Hoenemier, the overly muscular social worker. Probably lesbian.

  And the troublesome Ms. Baum. She sulked at the far end of the table, arms slung across her chest. He wasn’t much for blonds, but he liked her look. Still, he felt her sort was best kept at arm’s length. Too hard to control. Dr. Sark noted that Alicia was entirely too comfortable there with her attorney.

  Where was that incompetent devil, Farron? He narrowly missed having to take Farron onto his staff. Under the halcyon wings of Dr. Dulac, he nested within the great children’s hospital services where his failing performance could fester like a cracked egg in a forgotten bin. Thanks to the unmitigated negligence of the trustees who made the donation, the funds went to the children’s hospital instead of mental health. They hired a part-time child psychiatrist, while M.H. laid off two more RNs.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Dr. Sark intoned. “Are we ready to begin?”

  “James isn’t here yet,” Dr. Stemmle replied. The other participants shook their heads. “He called fifteen minutes ago from upstairs. He’ll be here soon.”

  Just as Arnie scratched his head and offered to find him, Dr. Farron stepped inside the conference room and closed the door. Heavy lines on his face, he leaned back against the door and tucked a thick chart under his arm. “I apologize for being late,” he said, out of breath. He sat at the table, acknowledging everyone.

  Dr. Sark hated the histrionics of literary depressives. Without exception, they were attention-seeking whores with a sense of entitlement bigger than Mount Rushmore. She had two strikes against her—three if you counted how much he hated her attorney’s hair.

  “Alicia, I want you to meet the members of your evaluation team, some of whom you already know,” Dr. Farron continued. He introduced each by name, including Dr. Sark, who noted her eyes lingering with him. Was she smiling? “So, Alicia,” Dr. Farron asked, “how do you feel?”

  “Alive,” she said, looking directly at Dr. Farron.

  “Can you elaborate?”

  “I’ve had sort of a spiritual awakening these last twenty-four hours,” she replied. “It’s the beginning of a new journey.”

  Dr. Sark rolled his eyes. Snotty artist manipulating the vocabulary of recovery and life coaching.

  Dr. Stemmle asked, “How about your wrists?”

  “They’re kind of sore and weak, but okay. Or at least they will be okay.”

  “You got quite a shiner there on your chin.”

  Alicia said nothing for a moment. “It’s nothing. I was trying to defend a girl in the cafeteria and I was assaulted. I should have minded my own business.”

  Oh, you miserable failure, Farron. You look so disappointed. Clearly she’s hoping to minimize her past behavior with the others. All the better.

  Dr. Farron looked around the table. “Does anyone have any other questions for Alicia?”

  Olivia spoke up. “Alicia, if we were to let you go home, who would you stay with? Or would you be alone?”

  “I’d stay with my grandmother,” she replied. “She’s in town for a bit. I’m sure she’d want to stay with me at the house.”

  Dr. Farron looked uneasy.

  “I’ve missed her,” Alicia added.

  “What about friends? Other family?”

  She admitted that, while she hadn’t much family in the country, she’d neglected her relationships, insisting that she’d start rebuilding connections right away.

  Dr. Farron was strangely quiet. He let Olivia and Paul direct most of the meeting.

  Dr. Sark grew impatient, bringing the session to and end. “Is that all, Dr. Farron?”

  Farron slid Dr. Sark a patronizing look. “That is, in fact, all, Dr. Sark. You can go, Alicia. We’ll talk later.”

  Alicia stood, thanked everyone, and left, saving her last glance for Dr. Farron. Her attorney remained behind.

  Once the door closed, the rancor started. “Obviously, we agree on the condition of this patient,” Dr. Sark said. “She’s medically stable, she’s prescribed Celexa, she’s clearly unhappy in my ward and should be released to her home.”

  Dr. Stemmle nodded. “She’ll have to return in a week to have the stitches removed, and continue with some physical therapy thereafter, but otherwise she’s medically stable.”

  Dr. Farron looked to Arnie. “Arnie?”

  Dr. Sark’s glare settled on Arnie, who scratched his elbow nervously as he spoke. “Ms. Baum had two... incidents...yesterday.” He squirmed as Dr. Sark leaned back, crossing his legs as if shutting a trap. “Um...one at dinner time.” Arnie looked away from Dr. Sark and toward Dr. Farron, whose face reflected far more concern. “She seemed to have a real hard session with Dr. Farron just prior to displaying quite a bit of agitation and was aggressive with another patient.”

  In the slot of silence, Dr. Sark sat up straight in his chair to further settle the matter. “She can continue under your private care, if you wish.”

  “Well, I have to recommend that she stays,” Dr. Farron said. Then, to Alicia’s attorney, “She’s not stable and she can’t stay with her grandmother.”

  “Reasons?” Mr. Shefter asked.

  “This morning her grandmother was admitted for three severe strokes. I can’t believe she was even ambulatory when they found her wandering in the hotel lobby. She’s in surgery as we speak. Dr. Gregg is her surgeon.”

  Dr. Sark folded his hands and leaned forward with a pedantic hunch. “And you think this has bearing on your patient’s stability?” He knew he needed to make an appearance this morning. Arnold’s observations alone would have guaranteed the woman’s stay.

  “She attempted suicide three days ago.” Dr. Farron closed the thick folder. “Her gr
andmother was her primary caregiver from early childhood into her teens. So, sure! Yes! This has some bearing.”

  “Just remember that we do not cater to histrionic artistic types sniffing for sympathy,” Dr. Sark reminded him. “This is the East Bay, not Beverly Hills.”

  “Oh, come on! If she finds out about her grandmother—”

  “And your paternalism is completely out of line, Farron,” Dr. Sark sneered.

  Mr. Shefter looked skeptical. “How did you find out, doctor?”

  “They found my card in her purse. They saw the M.D. and thought maybe I was her physician.”

  Olivia shook her head. “I’m not comfortable with sending her home just yet, either. She has no one to stay with.”

  “Correction,” the attorney said. “My wife and I. We could take care of her. We’re old friends.”

  “That’s good. But she’s having outbursts,” Olivia said, making a note. “She needs more monitoring. James, has she been talking about this spiritual awakening in your sessions?”

  “Oh, yes. I do believe that’s genuine, as she reports having had a near-death experience. She truly is on a spiritual path. And we’re making progress already. I think she’s open to getting better. I just don’t think home is the right environment at the moment.”

  Control over the room slithered from Dr. Sark’s grasp, making him profoundly uncomfortable. “Well, Dr. Farron, perhaps Ms. Baum is not quite ready for release. However, if she continues to be agitated and engage in fights with other patients, I will recommend that she be transferred to county. Her insurance isn’t going to hold up here.” He paused as Farron registered the threat with precisely the level of distress for which Dr. Sark had hoped, judging by the way his eyes flickered as if he’d spotted police lights in his rearview mirror. Farron disliked being out of control as much as anyone. Further, Dr. Sark suspected from the way he looked at Alicia Baum that Farron was attracted to her.

  Dr. Farron nodded as he recovered from the statement. “I’ll continue to work with her until she stabilizes.”

  “I’m sure we’ll do everything that we can,” he said, squinting meanly at Arnie, which made him squirm. Dr. Sark, of course, was completely indifferent to the level of discomfort he had created among the team. Dr. Stemmle and Olivia excused themselves, following Arnie, who escaped Harry Potter-like under a blanket of who-the-hell-cares-about-me-anyway-ness into the hallway.

  Mr. Shefter shook hands with Dr. Farron and the rest of the staff, crestfallen. “This scenario has already been explained to her.”

  Dr. Sark stood to leave, straightening his coat. But before he cleared the exit, Dr. Farron leaned against the door, eyes narrowed with the resolve of a mongoose taunting a cobra.

  The director worked up a biting smile before he delivered his last and worst blow. “She looks a bit like Gina, doesn’t she?”

  And with that, he bid the doctor a good day, having just slaughtered Dr. Farron’s peace of mind. As Dr. Sark left the evaluation room, he smiled to himself.

  Invoke the murdered wife. Good call, Sark.

  Good call.

  Chapter 18

  Alicia was pulled into yet another damned group therapy session immediately after her evaluation. She wanted to ask Rachelle if she could talk to her grandmother. Alicia was dying to ask her about Lillian. No matter how much the therapist tried to involve her, Alicia did not share what had brought her to these rooms, much less what happened in death. It was her precious secret. The therapist did not pressure her, thankfully. Alicia suspected that the therapist was glad enough for the author to slouch indifferently in the corner and not make trouble. Alicia studied each patient as they contributed a piece of personal agony to the pot. She imagined them as characters in a story, wondering what she could steal with impunity.

  After the session, she ate a snack in the cafeteria. Dr. Farron leaned against the wall beside the doorway. She noticed him and an irresistible grin not only sliced through the sludge of her mood, but her entire body lightened. Curiosity about the results of the evaluation faded behind her sheer joy at seeing him. She liked a man who knew when to apologize—What woman wouldn’t?—but his general good humor and caring nature charmed the snakes right out of her basket. He smiled wearily back at her, looking like he’d been beaten with a spiky stick. Today he wore a Transformers tie with Unicron’s metallic orange bat-like wings cut off where they splayed beyond the border against a black background.

  “How are you?” he asked as she walked with him to the elevator.

  “Bored as hell,” she confessed. “I take it back. Hell could never be so boring as this.”

  “I bet,” he replied.

  “Did you watch the DVD?”

  “Not yet, but I promise I will tonight,” he said. “What is it?”

  “Not telling. Promise you’ll watch it.”

  “Okay, I promise,” he said.

  They stepped into the elevator and weariness washed over his haggard face as he leaned against the back wall. When they arrived at Dr. Farron’s office, Alicia stood instead of sitting in the loveseat. “I’m not going home today, am I?”

  Dr. Farron hung his head for a moment. “The consensus is that you aren’t quite stable enough to leave. But,” he interjected, “I think you will be. You’ve just had too much to process in too short a period of time. It sounds like your subconscious mind is opening up. That’s work we can continue after you leave.”

  “Why can’t I go?”

  “The team wants to see more stability. You’ve been to some dark places lately. They want to make sure that when you go home any further events don’t make you spiral.”

  She doubted what he was saying for some reason as her panic for freedom silently shattered the air-conditioned stillness of the office. Paranoia shouted in her ear. Was he keeping her out of spite? But why would he do such a thing? Maybe out of self-interest? He didn’t have the information he wanted about Mr. Wicker. The decision wasn’t his alone, she assured herself. Yet she continued to wonder if he was trustworthy, acknowledging that she wasn’t even certain how to test something like that again. “How much longer do I have to stay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You mean,” she asked, sitting on the edge of the love seat, “I could be here indefinitely?” She felt her eyes heating with tears, but they were burned away with rage.

  “No, no. We usually keep suicide victims for seventy-two hours and then if it’s warranted we put a hold on someone, but they can contest it in court. Besides, your insurance will run out in twenty days.”

  “Twenty days?”

  “Now hang on. You won’t be here anywhere near that long, I’m certain.”

  “Dr. Shark made me stay, didn’t he?”

  “Where did you hear that name?” Dr. Farron asked, as if he knew exactly where she’d heard that name.

  “I can’t tell you.” She suddenly felt protective of Rachelle.

  Dr. Farron opened his mouth in a silent aaahh. That bruised look splotched his face again. “Are you okay? You can call your attorney if you need to.”

  “No, I’m okay. Are you?”

  He smiled. “I’m fine. So, what else is going on?”

  The moment arrived with a salute and a kick to the shins. She had to decide if she was going to trust this man. If she did, he might be able to help her retrieve what she so desperately wanted.

  You left her in the rose garden.

  “I had a dream about the rose garden. It’s not really a rose garden, though. It’s more like some tall rose bushes planted in a circle. It might not have anything to do with the real thing, but it definitely felt familiar.”

  “Really? What else do you remember from the dream?” He pinched his lower lip, puzzling over what she relayed. At last, he interjected, “It has to be there. We can definitely get it, but we have to keep trying. Are you in?”

  “I guess.” They say that men want to leave their mark on the world through either violence or art. Alicia wanted that as much as an
y man did, perhaps more so, and she had recently been robbed on both counts. No art. Impotent violence. What was left? “Besides,” she said, “I heard something weird today. The girl in lockdown—you remember, the one I was trying to defend in the cafeteria? Geri? She told me that I’d left someone named Lillian in the rose garden. Can you believe it? I was dumbfounded.”

  “How bizarre,” he said.

  “It was very creepy. The things is, I don’t remember anyone named Lillian,” Alicia said. “And neither does Geri. She was just talking to the wall. But I have this terrible feeling that I should. Like someone Lillian-shaped has been snipped out of my memory, leaving a black shape where there should be a flesh and blood person.”

  “We can look for her, too. And don’t forget, I’ll be here if you go anywhere traumatic,” he said.

  The darkness came as before in gentle exhalations.

  She found herself out of breath as her wee feet drove hard into the dry grass, hot winds glancing off the balding hillside that bowed far to her left. The sky sizzled with buttery light. Skinned knees burned when she fell in the field. She picked herself up and kept running.

  “Where are you?” Dr. Farron asked from his big, safe nowhere-place.

  “If I cry enough, they will melt from the top of my head,” she replied in her little girl voice.

  As she rounded the bend in the hillside, a chasm appeared to have been carved from the bulging earth. Dead grass bristled around the lips of the opening, eroded by the wind. Cool dirt walls enveloped her as she skirted the iron tracks that stretched into the blackness. Standing on the tracks, she pounded her fists into her thighs and let the sorrow choke her. Her disappointment in the God they talked about in Sunday school class led her deep into that black, soulless place where hope slept and never woke. Another slice of her soul blew away in the Santa Ana winds across the fields and hills of Simi Valley.