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Searching For My Shadow – Part I
Great wits are sure to madness near allied,
Thin partitions do their bounds divide. – John Dryden, Absalom and Achitophel
He rises before dawn, takes a shower for precisely 17 minutes, and dresses.
He presses his own clothes. They are crisp, immaculate. As he steps out of his tiny apartment, he straightens his tie.
He walks with quick, unhurried steps towards the hospital. He knows he will never fail to arrive there on time. Held stiffly in his hand is an official-looking briefcase.
He appears at his desk three minutes before work starts, just enough time for him to review his agenda for the day. He glances at the papers before him, cool and seemingly unconcerned.
Something at the corner of his desk catches his eye. There are block letters printed on gold background, matt black against shiny metal.
DR. JONATHAN CRANE
Yes, he'd arrived at where he had wanted to be for so many years. Being a practicing psychiatrist for just two years, he was considered a rookie only in name. His knowledge of psychiatry far surpassed those who had entered this field years before him, although some still argued that he lacked experience.
He had silently challenged their claim in his mind. Experience? I have more experience than anyof you. But when that ran through his mind, his face remained impassive. Emotional baggage must be concealed, kept away. Hush.
It was only through hard work and a twisted passion for the power of the mind that kept him going throughout his university days. Once, he had been so absorbed in the world of knowledge, he denied food and drink for 12 hours. He had been...
Enough of reminiscing, he scolded himself; he had to proceed with his work. The first on the list today was...
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He rang the doorbell. Receiving no answer, he called out, "Mrs. Peacock."
No answer.
He tried calling for her again but received no reply. Just as he was going to phone the house's inhabitants, the door swung open. He peered in and saw a boy running away into the shadows.
He stepped in uninvited. The interior of the house was fairly dark, and it was unkempt as well, with books, clothing, newspapers and other paraphernalia strewn all over the place. His gaze swept across the living room, and located, in a corner, the person that he was looking for.
Walking over to her with deliberate steps, he said in greeting, "Mrs. Peacock. I believe we are supposed to have an appointment at this moment."
A grunt was the reply.
"Since it's our first appointment, I would like you to tell me more about yourself."
She started to sway her bowed head from side to side. Her long blonde hair covered her face.
"Perhaps you can tell me how long you have felt unwell."
Her head jerked up suddenly, and he could see fresh scratches on her face. With an accusatory tone of voice, she retorted, "Who told you I'm sick?"
He was unfazed by this act of self-mutilation. Your husband, who's paying for your medical bills as well, he thought, but knew better than to agitate her further. He kept his silence.
"It must be my face, isn't it? They all see my thoughts through my face; I must scratch the thoughts out...Then they will no longer talk about me."
He raised one questioning eyebrow, "They?"
She whispered, "The people on television."
"What do they say?"
She remained silent for about 20 minutes. Neither spoke a word.
He thought it would be useful for him to understand her domestic behaviour before considering hospitalisation. The apartment was messier than he had imagined, now that his eyes were adjusted to the dim light. It was difficult to move around the apartment without stepping on something. There was a faint stench of vomit. Dirty dishes lay in the kitchen sink, which was filled with murky water. He wondered if the boy that he had seen earlier on had a decent meal in days.
At the doorway of one of the bedrooms, Dr. Crane discovered the boy sitting at a table in his room, apparently absorbed in the task of completing a pencil sketch of a certain cartoon character. The figure that bloomed from the tip of the pencil seemed melancholic, but was dressed elaborately in a costume that could have glittered if the picture was in colour. He remained at the door, not far from where the boy was sitting.
Dr. Crane decided that the boy might help him to understand the family situation a bit better. Mr. Peacock had expressed no desire in elaborating any further on his wife's condition; he had his own family to care for in another city, and it was only out of pity that he contacted the hospital concerning his ex-wife's illness. They had unofficially separated two years ago.
"You draw beautifully."
"Thank you." The boy replied, without looking up from his work. He was still adding the final touches to the picture.
"What is your name?"
"Raphael." And a moment later, the boy looked up at Dr. Crane and asked, "Why are you here?"
He could not have been more than nine years old, although it was his slight frame that might have made him seem younger than he should be. Dr. Crane saw clear blue eyes that mirrored his own. The boy's fair hair was messy and unkempt, but his face was clean. He looked skinny and undernourished. Skin and bones, that's what they used to call him. Dr. Crane tried to ignore how this boy resembled himself when he was young. Such quiet persistence.
He collected himself in time to reply in an even voice, "I'm here to see your mother."
"Are you going to make her better?" He was once again absorbed in his task, his dexterous hand moving swiftly across the paper.
He didn't answer.
"She's sick." Raphael said, matter-of-factly.
"How long has she been unwell?" It was time to steer the conversation towards serious business.
"Since he left. Everything changed."
So, the father's the culprit, covering up for his guilt by forcing his wife to seek psychiatric help. "How old are you?"
"Eleven." The picture was finished, Raphael held it close to his eyes for inspection, squinting.
"What does your mother do at home?"
He held up the picture and showed it to Dr. Crane, saying, "It's Peter Pan."
Dr. Crane was seldom curious. "And why is he so gloomy?"
"He can't find his shadow," was the answer, given as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.
The boy was obviously not willing to speak about his mother's condition. Dr. Crane tried again, "Where is your father?"
A stubborn silence surrounded them. Was it trauma or a fear of acknowledging the gravity of the situation that made the child behave this way? The doctor's eyes wandered and surveyed Raphael's room. The boy had kept it as neatly as he knew how, it seemed. A fragile oasis of calm in the midst of a sandstorm; the eye of a hurricane.
Dr. Crane noticed a pair of spectacles resting in its casing on the boy's table. It must have met with some unfortunate accident or other, for it was misshapen, the frames badly twisted. One of the lenses was missing. He shifted his gaze and focused on the boy. There were bruises on his arms; why hadn't he noticed them at first glance?
Raphael froze; he had felt the doctor staring at him. He turned away, still clutching his picture with thin fingers. Dr. Crane scanned the table once more, and found the information he was looking for on a small card in the casing.
Suddenly, uneven footsteps were heard in the corridor leading up to the room. Mrs. Peacock appeared in the doorway of the room. She screamed, "What are you doing to my son!"
Dr. Crane was taken aback for a moment. He didn't answer, but stared at her as she gathered up the boy in her embrace, the boy clearly unwilling to be held close to her, but not resisting. Raphael closed his eyes.
She glared at the doctor. "You will not touch my son!"
Dr. Crane looked at his watch. Clearing his throat, he said, "I believe our time is up, Mrs. Peacock. I shall see you again next week, and I will discuss with my colleagues regarding your hospitalisation." He felt that there were higher chances of recovery for her if she did not continue dwelling in this place that held terrible memories of a failed marriage and a mind driven by madness.
Without waiting for an answer, he left quickly. He didn't turn back.
To be continued...