--7--
Beck took off his glasses and rubbed at his tired eyes. He hadn't been able to sleep at all and it was beginning to catch up with him. Placing his glasses on his desk he reached for the filing cabinet just off to his right, which he'd spent maybe an hour placing when he'd first taken the job so it was as far away from the desk as possible without being out of reach. He tugged open the bottom drawer and pulled out a thick beige file marked 'Rafkin, Dennis T.'.
He placed the file on the desk in front of him with a wide yawn. It was 3pm, it was too hot and he felt like if he closed his eyes for more than a blink he'd fall asleep, despite the loud whirr of the fan and the low incessant drone that was the hospital. He opened the file, gave the bridge of his nose one last pinch then put back on his glasses.
He'd read the file before, of course. He'd been over it three or four times, as he had all of his patients' files. He remembered many of the details, remembered his friend Chris Van Bremen's concerns and even their first meeting, three months before. He glanced through his medical history, at the medications prescribed by Dr. Van Bremen - he had seemed to find it necessary to prescribe regular doses of painkillers and antidepressants. Dennis had been prescribed neither during his three-month stay and seemed none the worse for it. Either Van Bremen had prescribed them in the wrong dosage or they hadn't been working at all.
This worried Beck. He wasn't sure how to proceed after Dennis' recent psychotic episode, out in the courtyard, claiming to have seen a ghost or some such. He'd wondered if his files could provide some insight, but he hadn't held out much hope since he'd read them all before and known that Dennis had never before professed any belief that he had psychic abilities, or that he saw ghosts. This seemed to be a new manifestation of his illness.
He supposed if nothing else this new development helped to explain Dennis' condition. Obviously if he believed that he saw flashes of a person's life when touched, and those flashes were painful to him, he wouldn't want to be touched. And the idea that he saw ghosts explained his psychotic episodes. However, this 'breakthrough' of sorts did not make Dr. Beck feel any more comfortable about Dennis' progress. If anything, discovering these beliefs only made his treatment more difficult. It had been easier when Beck believed it was brought on by childhood molestation.
There was a knock on the door and after a call of 'come in', Dennis entered the room. He didn't seem himself, more despondent than usual, with little of his common vigour. He sat down opposite Beck at his desk and leant back his the chair, letting his head fall back and his hands hang by his sides. He sighed.
"Is something bothering you, Dennis?" Beck asked, knitting his fingers and leaning forward on his elbows.
"Fuck no. You just think I'm insane, that's all", Dennis replied, not moving his head. Beck watched the muscles in his neck contract as he spoke and the movement of his Adams apple as he swallowed. He'd never really noticed how pale Dennis' skin was until that moment, almost like he'd hardly set foot out of doors in over a year. He found himself wondering if that was the case.
"I don't think you're insane", he told him in a patient tone, restraining himself adding the word 'yet' under his breath. "But what happened yesterday does cause me some concern, yes".
"Yeah, concern that I might be losing it", Dennis muttered.
Beck shuffled his files for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "Dennis, could you tell me what happened yesterday?" Silence. Beck clicked his pen a couple of times. "You told me that you think you're psychic. Is that right?"
"No, Doc - I didn't tell you that I *think* I'm psychic. I told you that I *am* psychic. There's a difference".
"Yes, yes there is". Beck made a note. "And you said that you see flashes when touched".
"Yep. Someone so much as brushes up against me and I get a whole lifetime's worth of shit in an instant".
"Why don't you wear gloves?"
"Gloves?"
"So people don't touch you".
"Because it doesn't work like that, genius. I could be wearing a fucking lead breastplate and I'd still be able to tell you the name of your fifth grade English teacher if you put a hand on me".
Beck leant back in his chair, arms resting against his chest, fingers steepled. "So what was her name?" He knew he was being petty. He knew it was unprofessional. He was trying to tell himself that his adversarial manner was due wholly to a belief that it might benefit Dennis if his powers were proved fictional, but he knew it was more to do with his chosen area of psychology; suddenly he felt cheated into taking Dennis' case and not referring him to another member of staff. Any number of them would have gladly taken him off his hands and probably bought him a bottle of good scotch for the privilege.
"Mrs. Sanchez".
Beck frowned. "What did you say?" he asked, suddenly cold despite the blazing midday heat.
Dennis tilted his head forward, looking straight into his eyes. "Mrs. Sanchez", he repeated.
"How did you know that?" Beck demanded, leaning forward again. "You couldn't possibly have known that".
"I told you, I'm psychic".
"So what was. the name of my. seventh grade math tutor?"
Dennis shrugged. "Damned if I know".
"I thought you said you were psychic".
"I am. But do you really think I go around remembering every little detail of each and every person I happen to touch in my entire life? I have a hard enough time remembering *my* seventh grade math tutor without remembering fifty thousand other people's. I remember fifth grade English teachers and middle names and I try to forget the rest. Christ, do you know how confusing it is having all these memories from all these other people floating around in my head? Sometimes I get confused and I can't remember if what I think I remember really happened to me or whether it happened to that woman I just walked into at the bus stop or the homeless guy I tripped over at the station, y'know? Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I have to check to make sure that my hand's still there because some guy working at the hardware store lost his in a car accident and for some twisted reason I think that was me. Sometimes I'll wake up and the only thing I remember is watching my wife or my mother or my fucking kids dying in a house fire or some psycho carjacker plunging a knife into my chest, but you know, I don't have a wife and kids and I don't even have a fucking drivers license, let alone a car to have carjacked. So no, Doc, I can't tell you the name of your seventh grade math tutor".
Beck nodded. "Touch me again and tell me".
"Fuck you".
"You're saying you're psychic, Dennis. I'm asking you to prove it. Is that so difficult?"
"Yes! Has it escaped your notice that I touch you and I get a migraine that lasts the whole fucking day? You think I enjoy that shit?"
Beck shrugged. "Well, it's up to you, Dennis. You can either prove it or not. If you touch me and you can tell me the name of my seventh grade math tutor, you'll have proved that you're telling the truth. If you can't, well, you'll have proved that you need my help more than you realise. And if you don't at least try, well, I can't help you at all. It's up to you".
Dennis frowned and shifted uncomfortably in his chair, one hand grasping tightly at the chair arm and one rubbing hard at his mouth. Beck could see that he was conflicted, trying to make a decision. He guessed that it was hard for Dennis, to submit to a test that could prove or disprove his 'abilities'. On one hand he had to do it to prove that he wasn't making it up, and on the other he couldn't do it because it would prove that he was. Of course, it never crossed Beck's mind that Dennis was telling the truth, that really the only thing stopping him was searing head pains. And why would it occur to him? Beck was a psychiatrist, and until he'd met Dennis he'd known with absolute certainty that psychics were the stuff of fairytale.
"Look, I'm not asking you to believe me", he said at last, head tilted down, peering up at him from under his eyebrows. "Well, okay, I guess I am. But what I'm really asking you to do is help me. You don't understand just how much this fucking hurts".
"That's your choice, Dennis. You admitted yourself here, remember? You're free to leave whenever you choose".
"Fuck". Dennis frowned and looked down, wringing his hands in his lap, almost rocking in his seat. "Oh fuck. I'll do it. Hell, it's only pain, right?"
Beck nodded. And Dennis tentatively leant forward in his seat, reaching out his arm across the desk with its sea of papers, over his file where he recognised his photo, out to Dr. Beck's hand. He touched him.
Dennis exhaled sharply and his face contorted, froze in position. He grimaced, every muscle in his body tensing, the veins standing out in his forehead. It seemed he was in genuine pain. Beck realised that his mouth was hanging open and he shut it with a snap; Dennis' eyes flew open and he threw himself back into his seat, groaning.
"So?" Dennis gasped in a couple more breaths, rubbing slowly at his temples. "Dennis, his name".
"Nice try, Doc", he said at last. "It wasn't a he, it was a she. Alice Nowinski. Her husband taught gym and you had the biggest crush on her."
Beck couldn't answer. His mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came out. He had no words to say.
Because Dennis was right. In seventh grade his math tutor was Alice Nowinski, wife of the football coach. She'd had the prettiest red hair and the longest legs he'd ever seen, and he'd been so jealous of that big NFL reject of a husband of hers. He'd see her watching him from the window while they were doing tests, that glorious smile of hers reserved just for him. And Dennis had seen it all.
Dennis was telling the truth. He really was psychic.
***
Beck took off his glasses and rubbed at his tired eyes. He hadn't been able to sleep at all and it was beginning to catch up with him. Placing his glasses on his desk he reached for the filing cabinet just off to his right, which he'd spent maybe an hour placing when he'd first taken the job so it was as far away from the desk as possible without being out of reach. He tugged open the bottom drawer and pulled out a thick beige file marked 'Rafkin, Dennis T.'.
He placed the file on the desk in front of him with a wide yawn. It was 3pm, it was too hot and he felt like if he closed his eyes for more than a blink he'd fall asleep, despite the loud whirr of the fan and the low incessant drone that was the hospital. He opened the file, gave the bridge of his nose one last pinch then put back on his glasses.
He'd read the file before, of course. He'd been over it three or four times, as he had all of his patients' files. He remembered many of the details, remembered his friend Chris Van Bremen's concerns and even their first meeting, three months before. He glanced through his medical history, at the medications prescribed by Dr. Van Bremen - he had seemed to find it necessary to prescribe regular doses of painkillers and antidepressants. Dennis had been prescribed neither during his three-month stay and seemed none the worse for it. Either Van Bremen had prescribed them in the wrong dosage or they hadn't been working at all.
This worried Beck. He wasn't sure how to proceed after Dennis' recent psychotic episode, out in the courtyard, claiming to have seen a ghost or some such. He'd wondered if his files could provide some insight, but he hadn't held out much hope since he'd read them all before and known that Dennis had never before professed any belief that he had psychic abilities, or that he saw ghosts. This seemed to be a new manifestation of his illness.
He supposed if nothing else this new development helped to explain Dennis' condition. Obviously if he believed that he saw flashes of a person's life when touched, and those flashes were painful to him, he wouldn't want to be touched. And the idea that he saw ghosts explained his psychotic episodes. However, this 'breakthrough' of sorts did not make Dr. Beck feel any more comfortable about Dennis' progress. If anything, discovering these beliefs only made his treatment more difficult. It had been easier when Beck believed it was brought on by childhood molestation.
There was a knock on the door and after a call of 'come in', Dennis entered the room. He didn't seem himself, more despondent than usual, with little of his common vigour. He sat down opposite Beck at his desk and leant back his the chair, letting his head fall back and his hands hang by his sides. He sighed.
"Is something bothering you, Dennis?" Beck asked, knitting his fingers and leaning forward on his elbows.
"Fuck no. You just think I'm insane, that's all", Dennis replied, not moving his head. Beck watched the muscles in his neck contract as he spoke and the movement of his Adams apple as he swallowed. He'd never really noticed how pale Dennis' skin was until that moment, almost like he'd hardly set foot out of doors in over a year. He found himself wondering if that was the case.
"I don't think you're insane", he told him in a patient tone, restraining himself adding the word 'yet' under his breath. "But what happened yesterday does cause me some concern, yes".
"Yeah, concern that I might be losing it", Dennis muttered.
Beck shuffled his files for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "Dennis, could you tell me what happened yesterday?" Silence. Beck clicked his pen a couple of times. "You told me that you think you're psychic. Is that right?"
"No, Doc - I didn't tell you that I *think* I'm psychic. I told you that I *am* psychic. There's a difference".
"Yes, yes there is". Beck made a note. "And you said that you see flashes when touched".
"Yep. Someone so much as brushes up against me and I get a whole lifetime's worth of shit in an instant".
"Why don't you wear gloves?"
"Gloves?"
"So people don't touch you".
"Because it doesn't work like that, genius. I could be wearing a fucking lead breastplate and I'd still be able to tell you the name of your fifth grade English teacher if you put a hand on me".
Beck leant back in his chair, arms resting against his chest, fingers steepled. "So what was her name?" He knew he was being petty. He knew it was unprofessional. He was trying to tell himself that his adversarial manner was due wholly to a belief that it might benefit Dennis if his powers were proved fictional, but he knew it was more to do with his chosen area of psychology; suddenly he felt cheated into taking Dennis' case and not referring him to another member of staff. Any number of them would have gladly taken him off his hands and probably bought him a bottle of good scotch for the privilege.
"Mrs. Sanchez".
Beck frowned. "What did you say?" he asked, suddenly cold despite the blazing midday heat.
Dennis tilted his head forward, looking straight into his eyes. "Mrs. Sanchez", he repeated.
"How did you know that?" Beck demanded, leaning forward again. "You couldn't possibly have known that".
"I told you, I'm psychic".
"So what was. the name of my. seventh grade math tutor?"
Dennis shrugged. "Damned if I know".
"I thought you said you were psychic".
"I am. But do you really think I go around remembering every little detail of each and every person I happen to touch in my entire life? I have a hard enough time remembering *my* seventh grade math tutor without remembering fifty thousand other people's. I remember fifth grade English teachers and middle names and I try to forget the rest. Christ, do you know how confusing it is having all these memories from all these other people floating around in my head? Sometimes I get confused and I can't remember if what I think I remember really happened to me or whether it happened to that woman I just walked into at the bus stop or the homeless guy I tripped over at the station, y'know? Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I have to check to make sure that my hand's still there because some guy working at the hardware store lost his in a car accident and for some twisted reason I think that was me. Sometimes I'll wake up and the only thing I remember is watching my wife or my mother or my fucking kids dying in a house fire or some psycho carjacker plunging a knife into my chest, but you know, I don't have a wife and kids and I don't even have a fucking drivers license, let alone a car to have carjacked. So no, Doc, I can't tell you the name of your seventh grade math tutor".
Beck nodded. "Touch me again and tell me".
"Fuck you".
"You're saying you're psychic, Dennis. I'm asking you to prove it. Is that so difficult?"
"Yes! Has it escaped your notice that I touch you and I get a migraine that lasts the whole fucking day? You think I enjoy that shit?"
Beck shrugged. "Well, it's up to you, Dennis. You can either prove it or not. If you touch me and you can tell me the name of my seventh grade math tutor, you'll have proved that you're telling the truth. If you can't, well, you'll have proved that you need my help more than you realise. And if you don't at least try, well, I can't help you at all. It's up to you".
Dennis frowned and shifted uncomfortably in his chair, one hand grasping tightly at the chair arm and one rubbing hard at his mouth. Beck could see that he was conflicted, trying to make a decision. He guessed that it was hard for Dennis, to submit to a test that could prove or disprove his 'abilities'. On one hand he had to do it to prove that he wasn't making it up, and on the other he couldn't do it because it would prove that he was. Of course, it never crossed Beck's mind that Dennis was telling the truth, that really the only thing stopping him was searing head pains. And why would it occur to him? Beck was a psychiatrist, and until he'd met Dennis he'd known with absolute certainty that psychics were the stuff of fairytale.
"Look, I'm not asking you to believe me", he said at last, head tilted down, peering up at him from under his eyebrows. "Well, okay, I guess I am. But what I'm really asking you to do is help me. You don't understand just how much this fucking hurts".
"That's your choice, Dennis. You admitted yourself here, remember? You're free to leave whenever you choose".
"Fuck". Dennis frowned and looked down, wringing his hands in his lap, almost rocking in his seat. "Oh fuck. I'll do it. Hell, it's only pain, right?"
Beck nodded. And Dennis tentatively leant forward in his seat, reaching out his arm across the desk with its sea of papers, over his file where he recognised his photo, out to Dr. Beck's hand. He touched him.
Dennis exhaled sharply and his face contorted, froze in position. He grimaced, every muscle in his body tensing, the veins standing out in his forehead. It seemed he was in genuine pain. Beck realised that his mouth was hanging open and he shut it with a snap; Dennis' eyes flew open and he threw himself back into his seat, groaning.
"So?" Dennis gasped in a couple more breaths, rubbing slowly at his temples. "Dennis, his name".
"Nice try, Doc", he said at last. "It wasn't a he, it was a she. Alice Nowinski. Her husband taught gym and you had the biggest crush on her."
Beck couldn't answer. His mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came out. He had no words to say.
Because Dennis was right. In seventh grade his math tutor was Alice Nowinski, wife of the football coach. She'd had the prettiest red hair and the longest legs he'd ever seen, and he'd been so jealous of that big NFL reject of a husband of hers. He'd see her watching him from the window while they were doing tests, that glorious smile of hers reserved just for him. And Dennis had seen it all.
Dennis was telling the truth. He really was psychic.
***