by Chris Raven
“Eric Armstrong.”
“Yes, Doctor... He says his name is Eric Armstrong. Yes, of course.”
The woman hangs up the phone and looks at me with interest. I look to the two sides of the reception, waiting for men to appear in the size of wardrobes dressed in white robes ready to throw me out of there without any concerns. However, the woman smiles at me and points out a row of moss-green chairs resting against a wall.
“If you’d be so kind as to wait, Dr. Atkins will see you soon.”
I don’t feel like sitting. I’m too nervous to be still. However, I obey. I don’t want to look like a caged animal. I sit, I cross my legs, I uncross them, I look at my hands and I try unsuccessfully to find a fingernail long enough to bite... In the end, I decide to take a magazine of the tidy heap that rests on a low table that is in front of me. All of them are psychology magazines, with the type of headlines such as “Ten tips to be happy” or “natural remedies against depression and stress”. I know they are rubbish, but reading has always helped me to relax and at this moment I need it urgently. I have no idea of the answers I’m going to find today, but I’m sure they’re going to further disturb my life. Since I found that damn book I have had the impression that the world as I knew has crumbled and that I have only the option to go ahead on an unknown and scary path. And I’m afraid, whatever they tell me here, it’s not going to be something that allows me to forget everything and go back to my previous life.
After a time that seems eternal to me, I hear the footsteps of clogs coming up the hallway. I see a small, slender man dressed in a white robe. He wears huge black-paste glasses and tries to disguise his incipient baldness combing to one side the four hairs left in his crown. He comes up to me and he holds my hand. He has a smart look and a candid smile, of those that commercials usually have and that makes you trust them from the first moment.
“Mr. Armstrong? I am Doctor Atkins.” The man shakes my hand with energy while I seat. “Come with me, please.”
The doctor guides me to double doors leading to a bright, airy hallway. I am surprised by the tranquility and light of this place. I imagined a dark and gloomy place, in which the echo of our footsteps would be interrupted by tears and heartbreaking cries. There’s no such thing. Only people in pajamas strolling quietly, accompanied by a soft surrounding music. Anyway, I keep looking at the guards, dressed in white, who walk the hallway with watchful eyes.
Most of the doors in the rooms are opened and I can see that there is no one inside. A couple of women go by with their cleaning carts, putting everything in order. Apart from the four or five patients who walk up and down, the rest of the floor seems empty. I clean my throat a couple of times to get Dr. Atkins’ attention.
“Isn’t this too quiet? I thought you’d have a lot more patients.”
“We have them, but most of them are outside, doing activities in the garden, walking with a visit or just enjoying the day.” The man looks at me from top to bottom before we go on talking. “The receptionist told me that you asked for Anne Austen, that you were interested in the book she wrote.”
“Yes, it is. I want to thank you for seeing me. I need to talk to her...”
“Why?”
That very direct question surprises me. He has put himself in front of me, implying that we will not take a single step further if my answer does not satisfy him. He has a sincere smile and behind his glasses I can see a look that expresses genuine interest and seems to invite me to speak. However, I cannot help but think that this man makes his living by discovering the cracks in the mind of his fellows and I suspect that, although he thought that mine had been spared, it is still possible to perceive its joints. My brain is going to a thousand revolutions per minute, trying to make a simple, credible and reasonable story, but I know that while he is looking at me as if he evaluated me, I will not be able to plan anything. I repeat that I should have called on the phone first or at least have invented a good story on the way here. Now I will have no choice but to tell the truth, however crazy it sounds.
“I know it’s going to sound crazy, but I met a girl named Anne Austen when I was a kid and I lived in Swanton. I know she couldn’t write that book because she was murdered when she was only 12 years old. That book, The Lake Crimes, narrates the murders of Anne and two other friends of mine. I think the person who wrote it may have more information, which could help me know what happened.”
“I would love it to be like so, but I’m afraid it’s not going to be that simple.”
He starts walking again. I don’t know what his last sentence would mean, but it looks like at least he’s not going to kick me out. A few steps ahead, we crossed a door and accessed a glazed gallery. From there you can see the back gardens of the hospital. Many people are walking by them, sunbathing on the benches or enjoying a bit of reading. There’s even a group that seems to be following a gardening class. It would look a lot like any park of a city if it were not because half of the people go in pajamas and robes and because of the presence always vigilant of the guards. In spite of that, the stamp is nice. It offers an impression of peace and tranquility, of secret garden hidden in which they can take refuge from a society that does not understand them.
Suddenly, I realize that we are not alone in the gallery. At the other end is a woman. She is dressed entirely in white, with a nightgown topped by a broad ruffle of lace that reaches almost to the ankles, showing her bare feet. The woman has her arms down on both sides of her body and her head thrown forward. Her long brown hair hides her face. As we approach her, I’m getting more and more nervous. She doesn’t react. She does not make the slightest move before the sound of our footsteps. The doctor has not said a word since we have entered the gallery, has not referred to her at any time, so I think that maybe that woman is not there, that only I can see her. Or maybe none of this is real, that I’m still locked in a meaningless dream that I can’t wake up to.
I look at the doctor and I realize that his look is also fixed on the woman in the corner. That reassures me. He’s watching her too, I’m not hallucinating. I try to approach her but Dr. Atkins spreads an arm towards me to make me stop. I guess he doesn’t want to scare the woman, even though she still doesn’t give any sign noticing our presence. She continues with her head low and her hair hiding her face. For a moment I think of the stupid idea that when we remove the hair, I’ll see Anne’s face. It’s been fifteen years, but she would still be her. She’ll have her bright look and her smile, which would make her different among a million women. And then I would realize that, as I always believed when I was a kid, she didn’t die, that what we buried in that white box was nothing more than a doll, a fake copy... She has been locked up here all this time and she wrote the book so that I could read it and find her in order to take her out of this place and bring her back to life.
All these delusions fade as soon as Doctor Atkins puts a hand under her chin and makes her raise her head. The woman allows him to do so, and stays in the position that he has marked as if she was a mannequin without will. It’s not Anne, it doesn’t look like her at all. She’s a woman of about forty, with a very pale skin. There’s no sign of joy on her face. She keeps her lips a little open and her eyes are just two pieces of dull, lifeless glass. No trace of energy in that face, only the expression of someone who is contemplating something far away that does not understand and that others cannot see.
“Joan, this guy has come to see you because of the book you wrote. He wants you to tell him if you know anything more about the lake’s crimes.” The doctor keeps silent for a few seconds, waiting for an answer that doesn’t occur. “His name is Eric. I thought you might want to talk to him.”
The woman remains motionless as a wax statue. A couple of minutes later, seeing that she still doesn’t react, the doctor denies with his head and asks me to follow him. We leave the gallery and sit on a garden bench. From my position, I can see the woman, who seems to observe without losing detail. I know she can’t see us, th
at her mind is far away, lost in another dimension, but, still, I would feel a lot more comfortable if I stopped feeling her dead look upon us. I turn towards the doctor to stop seeing her, although I continue watching her through the corner of the eye. For some strange reason, she frightens me. I suspect that at any moment she could react and jump on me.
“Is she the one who wrote the book?”
“Yes, but, as you can see, I don’t think I’ll be able to get much information from her. She’s catatonic. She does not react to any stimuli.”
I can’t believe I have such bad luck. If I had found the book earlier, if I had been quicker, I might have come to talk to her before she fell into this state. Now I’ll have to wait for it to pass and I can talk to her again and I have no idea how long someone can be like this.
“Has she been in that state long?”
“About 20 years, since her adolescence.”
“But that cannot be true...” I deny with my head as I try to understand. That woman doesn’t move or talk. “If she’s been like this for twenty years, how could she write the book?”
“It’s a mystery. I’ve never seen anything like it. That woman’s name is Joan. She was admitted here twenty years ago with a diagnosis of catatonic schizophrenia. During all the time she’s been here, no drug or treatment has made her react.” The doctor removes his glasses and he wipes them with the lower part of his white coat while he shakes his head to say no. “Suddenly, one day she moved on her own from the corner where we had placed her to one of the tables where a craft workshop was being held. She took a wax painting and began to write, relentlessly, until she finished that book. When she had written it all, she went on with the illustrations.”
“Did you try to talk to her while she was writing?”
“Yes, but she didn’t react. Have you seen those mediums who write in a state of trance?”
I nod, while my mind is filled with images of women with blank eyes ripping the paper in which they try to write as hard as if they tried to stab the pages. I look at the woman in the gallery again. In spite of the midday sun, my whole body shudders at a shiver.
“She was like that for several hours. When she was over, she collapsed on the table, breathing hard. It looks like she’s just run a marathon. I approached her and called her by her name. She raised her head and said, «I’m not Joan. I’m Anne Austen.»”
“So what did you do?”
“Follow the flow. Any information she can provide me could be useful for her therapy. She told me her name was Anne, who lived in Swanton, who was twelve years old and wanted to be a writer. She said that what she had written on those pages was her most important work so far and that it was necessary to be published. She insisted that we ended up contacting her sister. She agreed to pay for the publication of the book, I guess hoping that it could help Joan’s recovery. She came here to pick up the manuscript and to take note of any indication she had to give for the publication. As much as her sister tried to convince her to make a small run first, to see if it worked, Joan insisted that three thousand volumes should be published and that they should only be distributed by Vermont bookstores. She was so upset every time her sister tried to make her see that they were too many, that, at the end, the poor woman agreed. Once it was all set up, Joan again plunged into silence.”
My experience as a bookseller makes this story even more crippy. Very few books sell three thousand copies in Vermont. This woman probably has no idea of the sales figures of bookstores, but it still sounds strange. If she wanted to sell a lot of books, why restricting the sales only to this state?
“Didn’t you ask her why she needed so many copies if she just wanted to sell them in Vermont?”
“Yes. Of course we asked. Her answer is the reason I have agreed to receive you. The only thing she said, over and over again, was «the book has to get to Eric. »”
V
I remain quiet a few seconds, trying to assimilate the doctor’s last words. I think this must be a joke, a rehearsed speech that they release to the gossip people that come asking about their patients without having any right to that information. However, the serious look of Dr. Atkins, who stares at me waiting for me to clarify this madness, convinces me that he is honest. I deny with my head and shrug.
“I don’t understand. I don’t know that woman at all. I swear we haven’t seen each other in our lives. Do you think she was referring to me?”
“I don’t know. She’s been here for almost twenty years, so I see it’s very difficult that you were acquainted. And, from what I remember from her record, she has never resided in Swanton.
“So where did she get that information from? She could have seen something about the crimes in the news and that this information has been spinning in her head for all these years, right?”
“We don’t allow patients to watch the news. There are too many disturbing stories in them. The only thing I can think of is that someone would comment on these crimes in her presence: Some relative, someone from the hospital staff... She’s so quiet that sometimes we forget she’s there.”
“Do you think that it might have been so?”
“Well, you say the description of the murders and the names of the victims coincide... I doubt that anyone would talk in her presence about the crimes in such detail and that she has kept that information in her head all this time, but we don’t know how her brain works or what she may be thinking. I think it’s the simplest explanation.”
“Not very convincing...”
“I know, but the other possible explanation is that Joan has been possessed by the spirit of a girl killed many years ago who has used her to get to communicate with you. Does that seem more convincing to you?”
I deny with my head and lower the look to nail it to the ground, trying to find some other question that can help me clarify all this. The doctor removes his glasses again and rubs the crystals with his white coat, giving me time to organize my ideas. After a few seconds, I raise my head to look at Joan, who remains still in the same position.
“What happened to her?” Why is she here?”
“I can’t give you that information. Patient records are confidential.”
“I understand, but I need to understand what’s going on. I would appreciate any information you can give me.” I breathe deeply, looking for an argument that can convince him, but I find nothing. “I need to understand all of this. I really need it.”
Now it’s Doctor Atkins’ turn to look down and think it over. For a few seconds, he shakes his head in denial, as if he was quarreling with himself. When he finally looks at me, he approaches a little more and, even though there is no one around us, he lowers his voice to whisper like a conspirator.
“Joan began to have problems from a very small age, four or five years old. She was suffering from night terrors. She woke up very frightened, screaming and crying. Many children suffer from night terrors and these usually disappear on their own as the child grows, so they were not given importance. When Joan entered kindergarten, her professors warned something was going bad. The girl did not relate to any of her classmates. She was always isolated, talking to herself. At first, they thought she would have an invisible friend, something that is also very common in young children.”
“And was that so?” I ask him to encourage him to continue.
“No. They realized that she wasn’t talking to that invisible being like a child talks to a friend. She was scared and asked them to go away and leave her alone. When they asked her who she was talking to, she refused to answer. She said they just wanted to talk to her and that they had told her that they would hurt anyone who tried to pry. As she grew, the night terrors were increasing, and she became more withdrawn and skittish. Her family sought the best child psychiatrists until they found a doctor who got the girl to open up and tell her what was wrong with her. The little girl confessed that she was talking to ghosts, that the spirits of the dead were chasing her.”
“And what did they
want?”
“Joan said they wanted nothing. They yelled at her, they cried, they threatened her, they chased her... As you can suppose, she was diagnosed with a childhood psychosis and started taking medication, but no treatment was effective. She was more and more frightened, more isolated from the world... By the time she was fourteen years old, she had already comitted several suicide attempts and had to be admitted. She begged us to let her die, she said she couldn’t bear it anymore, that there was nothing that could help her.”
The doctor returns to remain silent for a few seconds, looking at the impassive figure of Joan. He shakes his head again and sighs, feeling sorry for not being able to help her.
“At seventeen years old, she went into a catatonic state. I guess her mind couldn’t stand it any longer and decided to disconnect.”
I also gaze towards the gallery. His story is so familiar to me that a shiver runs through my whole body. For a second, I can almost see myself at her side, standing, dressed in white, with the hair even more scrambled, the mouth ajar and the gaze lost. If my parents hadn’t taken me out of Swanton, if they hadn’t done all the sacrifices they made to rip me out of my nightmare world, I could be a twin figure who would accompany Joan into her world of madness.
I spend all the way back home, thinking about Dr. Atkins’ words. This whole thing sucks. I’ve wasted a lot of miles in search of an answer and the only thing I’ve found are more and more questions. Nothing he has told me sounds like a rational and logical explanation. I wanted to close this riddle and forget about it to continue my life, but all I’ve got is Joan’s image, static, dead in life, prisoner within her mind and defeated by her demons. It will remain engraved in my brain. I’m sure I’ll have nightmares with her.
While the car is devouring mile after mile, I feel my anxiety is on the rise. What am I supposed to do now? Forget everything? Convince me that someone must have commented on the crimes of Swanton in front of Joan and, after years and years of spinning in her sick mind, it exploded and made her write that book? How do I explain that she knows the names of all the victims? How do I explain that she wrote that book for me? Yes, I know that there are thousands of people in the world who are called Eric and that the book can be addressed to any of them. My rational mind knows that, but I know that explanation is a real shit. I can’t explain why, but I know, with total and overwhelming security, that Anne made Joan write that story and that she did it for me to read it and help her. But how? What am I supposed to do?
