...
The next morning Oliver got to work early. He'd been so aggravated the night before that he hadn't slept much, but the demeanor he presented when he arrived at the asylum was as well-groomed and professional as ever. The only sign he wasn't well-rested was in the shadows beneath his dark eyes.
He went in through the main entrance with the intention to head directly to his office but the Reverend Monsignor stopped him in the foyer.
"Good morning, Doctor Thredson," the priest smiled.
"Good morning," he returned perfunctorily. "How are you?"
"Well enough," said the Monsignor. He fell into step with the doctor, determined to chat with him. "I was wanting to let you know: There's been a slight change to your patient roster."
That was significant enough to distract the doctor from his thoughts of Ben. "What?"
"There's a patient. Billie Dean Howard," the priest said, wringing his hands. "You know her?"
"Yes. The radio psychic."
"Yes. She's— I would like you to take over as her primary therapist. She's having... issues with Doctor Galloway. Nothing serious. She just doesn't feel comfortable with him."
"Is she kin of yours?" It hadn't escaped Thredson that the Monsignor and the patient shared a last name.
The priest gave him an apologetic smile. "A cousin. Distant. But she's a nice girl. I'd like to see her get the best treatment Briarcliff can offer."
The words stroked the psychiatrist's ego and for the first time that morning, Oliver Thredson smiled. "I appreciate your confidence."
Monsignor Reverend Howard smiled and gave the doctor's shoulder a quick pat. "I knew I could count on you."
Thredson paused in the hall, holding up a hand. "Before I commit to anything, I need to discuss something with you. As you know, I've been working with Tate Langdon—the clocktower shooter—"
"Ah. Yes."
"I feel I've been making some real progress but Doctor Harmon—" Oliver hesitated and pushed his thick-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. "While I understand his interest in my patient, his attempts to inject himself into Mr. Langdon's treatment plan are counterproductive to my work with him. Is there any way you could... make it known to him that there are boundaries here at Briarcliff we, as professionals, need to maintain? For the sake of the patients."
The Reverend Monsignor seemed to understand what he was getting at and nodded. "Of course."
Oliver smiled again. "Thank you." He started to walk again.
"I'll have Sister Mary Clarence bring Ms. Howard's file by your office later," the priest said as they parted company.
...
Tuesday
Tate had grown up with two older siblings who were clinically defined as retarded. They called his sister, Adelaide, a Mongoloid idiot. They didn't even have a catch-all term to describe Beauregard apart from 'freak'.
But Beau was no freak. He was the most beautiful person Tate had ever met. Beau never got angry. He never lied. He was full of love and hugs and gentleness. Even though his body didn't work right and he couldn't talk like most people, Tate never had to wonder what was in his heart or what he meant.
So when he met Vita in Briarcliff's common room, Tate wasn't put off by her lumpy, misshapen appearance or the fact that her body seemed to twitch and flail beyond her control. She moved like she was on the deck of a typhoon-tossed ship, every gesture wildly exaggerated and uncoordinated. It was a familiar type of abnormality. He'd seen her once or twice, in the commons or in the pill line, but he hadn't actually interacted with her till the day he went to see what was on the bookshelf near the piano.
Vita's favorite place to be in the commons was beside that bookcase. It gave her easy access to the grubby cloth picture books on the bottom shelf and people didn't step on her as much there. Her legs were so twisted and heavy with bubble-like growths of flesh, walking was uncomfortable; something she did only when she had to.
She was technically in her forties but she had the mind of a five year old and when Tate came over she smiled up at him like she'd been waiting all her life to see him. It was a sloppy smile: She drooled and her tongue stuck out briefly without her consent. But her teeth were surprisingly straight for one so deformed.
"What a pretty smile you have," Tate said.
Vita wasn't used to compliments. Her green eyes got really wide and her grin got super huge. She turned her head coyly and flailed, deeply flattered.
"What are you reading?" he asked then, noticing the fabric book on the floor in front of her.
The deformed woman grabbed the book and threw it at him happily. Because it was made of colored felt, it bounced harmlessly off his shoulder. He smiled and picked it up. Turning the pages, he could see it used to be a toddler's busy book but all the buttons and laces and interactive pieces had been removed. The felt dress-up doll had no hair or eyes. There were just some black smudges where the eyes used to be and a ghastly red gash of a thread mouth, frayed at one corner so badly it looked like it was a freshly-fed vampire to Tate.
"What a great book," he said, pumping in conviction he didn't feel.
He handed it back to her and she snatched it happily.
"I'm Tate," he said.
"Vee-da!" she said, slapping her chest with a crooked hand. "Vee-da!" Then she laughed, amused by her own cleverness.
Tate smiled, both dimples showing. "That's a great name. Vita. It means 'life'." He shifted in his crouch beside her, propping his elbows on his knees. "Tate means 'cheerful'. Together, we're a cheerful life."
He couldn't help a bitter laugh at the irony. Encouraged, Vita crowed a laugh too, though it was more delight at his talking to her than it was her getting the joke. And then a pair of legs ran between them. Tate looked up and saw a skinny naked man attached to the legs. The man had a weird, distorted look on his face and he grabbed Vita's book right out of her hand. She squealed like a stuck pig.
"Hey!" Tate objected, rising to his feet. "You can't just take that from her!"
On eye-level with the old guy, Tate could tell that he, too, was retarded. He wasn't as bad off as Vita but he had the same sloped features Addie had. He had a mean look in his disproportionate eyes as he gripped the cloth book with both hands.
"Mine!" he said loudly.
"It's not yours," Tate said, trying to be patient. "Give it back."
Vita continued to squeal and flail on the floor, working up to a full tantrum.
"Mine!" the man repeated, even more loudly. He stomped his bare feet, making a slapping noise on the tile. "It's mine!"
Tate glanced around the room. There were only two staff members monitoring the commons and they were busy talking to each other. So Tate reached over and yanked the book out of the old man's hands. The guy tried to take it back but the teen scampered back out of reach.
Immediately the naked man began to howl. The sound echoed in the room and caught the attention of the orderlies.
"It's mine! It's mine! It's MINE!" the naked man shrieked and launched himself at Tate.
Tate backpedaled further, hiding the book behind his back. "Back off!"
With looks of annoyance the orderlies left their spots and closed in. Tate saw them coming and felt panic begin to rise. But he couldn't just give the book back to the crazy guy. It was Vita's.
The naked man lashed out while Tate was distracted and caught him in the side of the head with a balled-up fist. It wasn't a proper punch but it still hurt. Then the orderlies were there. Tate was afraid they were going to dog-pile him but they both grabbed the naked man, who started to scream bloody murder.
Surprised, Tate just stood there and watched them haul the guy away. One of the guards punched the hysterical retarded man in the head twice and that dazed him enough to get him out of the room without further incident. His shouts resumed further up the hall, echoing hollowly before fading away.
There was a brief moment of stillness that followed in which the only sound was that of the record player grinding out "Dominique", just like it always did. Then life resumed in the commons.
"Here," Tate said, handing the book back to the disabled woman on the floor. "Sorry."
Vita smiled her drippy, happy smile at him again and hugged the book. "Tate!" she crowed. "Tate! Tate! Tate!"
"What was that all about?" Shelley wanted to know. She'd seen who was involved in the meltdown and had come over to investigate.
Tate shrugged. "That guy took Vita's book. I took it back for her."
"That was nice of you," Shelley said. "You're such a gentleman." She crowded up close to him from behind then. "You deserve a reward." She ran her hands up his back.
"Not now," he said, shaking her off. "Me and Vita were talking about books."
Shelley stepped back and looked at him like he was loaded. "You'd rather spend time with her than fuck me?"
Vita waved her book about, oblivious to the conversation.
Tate shrugged and plopped down next to Vita. "I just don't feel like it right now. Okay, Shelley?"
She stood there glaring at him in outrage for a few seconds longer. "Fine!" she declared at last, folding her arms. "Fuck you. I'll find somebody else to have fun with. I don't need you. Lots of guys here want a piece of my action."
"Yeah, I know," he said, letting his irritation get the better of him. He clamped down on it quickly before he said something he might regret later. "Look. My head just really hurts right now. Catch me after lunch pill line."
"Whatever," huffed Shelley. She stormed off then to find someone else to proposition. Someone who wouldn't say no.
Tate watched her till Vita threw the book at him again. It bounced off his thigh and onto the floor. He grinned and picked it up so he could look at the tattered pages with her.
...
Oliver was just finishing reading Billie Dean's file when a there was a knock at his door. He had wanted to spend the time listening to the tape Dr. Harmon had left on his desk but there was no time for that. He would have to listen to it later. A frustrating but necessary delay.
"Come in."
The door opened and a woman in her late twenties stepped in. Her blonde hair hung flat around her face, stripped of the fancy coif it had held when she had first arrived at Briarcliff. Her manicure was a disaster, too, but she still managed to carry herself with grace and dignity.
"Doctor Thredson?"
"Yes," he said, putting on a mild smile. "Please. Sit. Ms. Howard. Is it all right if I call you Billie Dean?"
She nodded a smile and sat down, arranging her blue jumper primly. While she made herself comfortable, the doctor started the tape recorder that would save her session.
"Do you smoke?" Dr. Thredson asked, offering her the pack.
"Yes." She smiled and took one, then accepted the lighter he handed her. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," he smiled in return. "So how have you been adjusting to life here at Briarcliff?"
Billie Dean grimaced and pulled a drag off the cigarette she held. "Just that: Adjusting."
"I understand you had a radio show before you came here," the doctor prompted.
She tried to smile but the look soured before it could surface. "I did. A pretty damned successful one, too."
"Do you genuinely believe you see and speak to ghosts?" he asked carefully.
Billie Dean folded one arm over her middle and propped the other elbow on it so she could keep her cigarette hovering close to her lips. "I don't 'believe' it, doctor. I know I do. I have for a few years now."
Thredson's second important patient also believed she could interact with the dead. Two people hardly qualified as 'mass hysteria' but the coincidence was worthy of notice.
"This isn't an ability you were born with?" prompted the doctor. He figured he would indulge her delusion for the sake of mapping it out better. See how it compared to Tate's.
"No," she said with a flicker of a rueful smile. "I happened to have a very enlightening conversation with my maid one day in the bathroom. She was dead at the time. Horrible mess. Suicide. You'd think a maid would have better sense than to leave such a scene behind." It was supposed to be a joke, but she was in too bitter a mood to deliver it with her usual flair.
"What sorts of things do ghosts tell you?"
Billie Dean could tell he was just feeling her out; that he didn't really believe in her skills as a medium. She was used to much ruder skepticism so it didn't bother her. "Different ones say different things. They're just people. They have wants and fears and worries and problems, just like the living. The main difference is they have less power to do anything about them than the living do."
The creativity of her delusion privately amazed Thredson. "Were you interested in ghosts and hauntings growing up?"
"No," she smirked. She pulled a drag off her cigarette and exhaled. "Sure, I read a Nancy Drew book or two in my time, but I was brought up in a sensible household. Believe me, if I could? I would be rid of this 'gift' of mine. But it's not in my power to control it. I can channel it, to a degree, but I can't shut the dead out entirely. I had one of them in my room just the other night."
"Here at Briarcliff?" Dr. Thredson asked, fascinated.
"Yes, sir," she said, snubbing out the cigarette butt. "I think she wanted my help."
"Did you see her? Or just hear her?"
"I only saw her," said the woman.
"Interesting." Thredson was making avid notes. "What did she look like?"
"She's a little girl," Billie Dean said, remembering. "Skinny and neglected. Pale. Long, blond hair. She wanted me to follow her. She was beckoning to me but then she passed through the door and was gone."
"What do you think she wanted?"
"I have no idea."
"How long was she with you?"
"Only a few seconds. Not even a minute, I'd say."
"Is this typical of things you see?"
"There is no typical thing I see, Doctor Thredson," the medium corrected mildly. "Every spirit is different, and so is every encounter."
"I see." The therapist lit a cigarette of his own. "Your radio show. How does that fit in?"
"I would take calls and letters from listeners," Billie Dean supplied. "People who wanted to talk to their dead loved ones."
The doctor consulted his file folder. "I understand you were brought here in regards to your stalking a family about their missing son?"
Billie Dean sighed. "He came to me. Just the sweetest thing. His name was Isaac. He was eight. He..." She paused as emotion briefly overtook her. It was always difficult to think about the details of the dead, more so when it was a child. "He didn't know... where his body was," she said, speaking softer. Tears swam in her eyes. "He just knew he'd been playing near the woods when the strange man asked him to help him find his lost puppy. He told me the man... choked him. And stabbed him. And left him in the woods. A thrill kill of convenience."
She blinked and patted away the tears that slid down her cheeks. "He wanted to let his parents know what had happened so they wouldn't have to wonder anymore. He said they were making themselves sick with not knowing. He thought if they knew... they could focus on finding his body and move on with their lives."
"What did you do then?"
"Well, I went to them," Billie Dean explained. Her voice was thick with emotion. "What else could I do? He needed my help. No one was..." She looked pained and her eyes got moist again. "No one was there for him when he needed help. How could I say no?" She tried a smile but it faltered and died quickly. "So I tried calling them. I told them who I was. They'd heard of me and weren't interested. Skeptics. They thought I was trying to use their tragedy to boost my career. They didn't want to speak to me. But I'd made a promise to Isaac, so I went to their home. They shut me out again."
She plucked a tissue from the box on the desk and delicately dabbed her nose. Once she'd thrown it away she folded her hands in her lap and looked at Dr. Thredson, pretty face drawn with feeling. "The poor boy was so distraught! He wanted so badly for them to understand. But they just... couldn't." She sighed heavily, her gaze falling to the floor. "The third time I went, the police were waiting. As far as I know, his body is still out there in the woods. That poor boy!"
When he'd agreed to take her on as a patient, the doctor had been less than thrilled. He already had a full patient load and couldn't spend as much time as he wanted with them as it was. Tate alone required a great deal of personal attention. But, after hearing her story, the doctor was enthralled.
"You seem to have a strong maternal instinct," he commented, deciding not to address the general delusion yet. "But there's no mention in your file of your having children of your own."
The blonde woman smiled dryly. "No. There wouldn't be. I'm sterile."
. ..
1957 - Nevada
Operation Plumbbob was in full swing and so were experiments in nearby towns— towns that didn't know they were getting hit with fallout from the explosions. Children played in the nuclear ash that fell from the sky like it was snow. Along with the fallout, the town Billie Dean lived in was also unwittingly being used for human testing. Pregnant mothers were spoon-fed a 'medicine' they were told was a prenatal vitamin that was, in reality, radioactive iron that would later kill their babies. Another study involved a group of mentally disabled children, tricked into joining a "science club", who were then fed radioactive chemicals as part of their "club activities".
Billie Dean grew up in the thick of the nuclear testing as unaware of her situation as anyone. In the years that would follow she would see her childhood friends drop dead from uterine, renal, and colon cancer. She would see malformed stillborns and adults with incurable rashes and hair loss. Babies born with debilitating birth defects who were shipped off to places like Briarcliff. Remarkably, Billie Dean would be spared most of the ill effects of radiation poisoning, but her womb was permanently damaged.
. ..
"I'm sorry," said Dr. Thredson sympathetically. "You wanted a family?"
"It's part of the American dream, isn't it?" She smiled to cover the pain. "For a while, I thought of my career as sort of a child. But. Well. Now that I'm here..."
"Let's stay focused on the now," the doctor encouraged gently.
"So what happens now?" she said.
Thredson sat back in his chair. "The strategy at this point is counseling. You don't seem dangerous to me," he smiled encouragingly and she smiled back, wan though the look was.
"You're going to... try to talk me out of believing I can see dead people?"
The doctor's smile widened a little. "I'm hoping to discover with you why you feel the need to believe what you do."
She arched a brow at him. "You think I want decaying corpses waking me up in the middle of the night, moaning and dripping on me?"
"Is that something that happens to you often?"
Billie Dean looked sour. "Not often. But it has happened more than once."
"And what did you do?"
Normally a person's disbelief didn't bother the medium but his gently probing questions weren't born of interest in the paranormal. He was mapping her out and she was getting tired of it.
"I dealt with it," she said wearily. "Like I deal with everything life throws at me."
"What's wrong, Billie Dean?"
She sat back and crossed her legs primly. "Nothing, doctor. I'm just tired. I haven't slept well since I've been here. I'm not used to the noises. Do you think we could wrap this up? I'd really like to go lay down."
Dr. Thredson nodded, making a mental note of the moment and subject matter when her mood shifted. "I think we're at a good point to stop," he agreed. "It was nice to talk with you. I'll set up your next session. Sister Mary Eunice will let you know when it is."
After Billie Dean left, Oliver sat as his desk, deep in thought. Could she be... the one?
...
Author's Note:
About the bit regarding nuclear testing in 1957: For the purposes of this story, I had three majorly horrible classified acts happen in one town. In reality, all three types of testing DID take place in the USA but not all at the same place. Funny. That doesn't read as comforting as I thought it would. The fact is... The government has notoriously done testing on civilians without their consent, on the insane and infirmed, and on military recruits for decades. Most of the stuff from the 50s is now declassified, so you can read up on it yourself if you're curious. Crazy stuff.
Next chapter things get uglier. We're starting the slippery slope into the deep dark now. If you've read my fics before, you know I like to play nice when we start out. I call it the kiss before the kill. Getcha all comfy-cozy then pull the rug out. Yep. That's when the real fun begins.
Oh. You didn't know I was playing nice? You might want to bail out now if you're scared.
