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Searching For My Shadow – Part III
A door stood ajar. Voices floating out of the small gap.
"It's regarding her hospitalisation, sir. I think she may be..."
"Yes, yes, she should be moved to our hospital, put her on Thorazine..."
"And what about the child?"
"Oh, I'll get the welfare officers to deal with that. Meanwhile, the father is supposed to be responsible for him."
"But he's only..."
"I know what I doing, Crane; do not question my authority."
Dr. Crane nodded briefly, and left. He reminded himself never to bother protesting against his senior's indifference.
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A week later, Dr. Crane was doing his rounds in the suicide observation ward when he came across Raphael. The boy was standing beside his mother, who was sedated and unresponsive. She lay straight on her back, stared at the ceiling through the slits of her eyes and did not acknowledge her son. Dr. Crane continued walking down the aisle with even steps, pausing briefly at the end of her bed to read the nurses' observation of her daily behaviour.
The report stated that although she no longer spoke about the voices and the broadcasting of her thoughts, she took several minutes to answer simple questions, such as those regarding her meals or general hygiene. He looked up from the clipboard and saw that Raphael was staring at the ceiling. He walked away.
A voice behind him asked, "What's there on the ceiling?"
Dr. Crane stopped, but didn't turn back, "What do you see?"
"Nothing."
A pause. Raphael fixes his eyes on his mother's face. "She hasn't answered my question for half an hour."
"The drugs are keeping her calm."
He lifts his head, and stares at Dr. Crane, angry tears swimming in his eyes, "You've taken my mother away from me."
Dr. Crane kept quiet. The child's grief is his own to bear; there's nothing you can do about it. He bowed his head.
Suddenly, the boy ran to him and grabbed his arm, pulling, not letting go. The doctor swiveled around and allowed himself to be lowered to his knees so that he was now facing the boy. The boy was surprisingly strong for his stature, and being held by such a tight grip was an assault on his senses. Dr. Crane did not like to be touched, nor did he like to lay hands on others of his own free will.
But there can always be exceptions.
Raphael had released Dr. Crane's arm. With some effort, the latter raised his hands and placed them firmly on the boy's shoulders. "Be still," he commanded gently.
He did not reply, but was numbly led out of the ward. He kept glancing back as he followed the doctor down the corridor and towards the cafeteria.
Pointing to a chair, Dr. Crane said, "Take a seat."
He obeyed, but put his head down of the table and covered it with his arms. It looked as though his head had been swallowed by green sweater.
Dr. Crane walked to the vending machine and stared at it for a moment, undecided. He slid in a coin and punched a button. A can of grape juice fell out; and he picked it up, the thin aluminium cool against the warmth of his fingers. He returned to the table and sat in front of the boy. Deft fingers pried open the can, and he set it at the edge of the boy's elbow. "Drink," he said.
Raphael stirred, and raised his head. He glared fiercely at the man before him, tears glistening on both cheeks. Dr. Crane, face still expressionless, nodded to the can and said, "Drink."
He shook his head, sullen. "I want her to go home," and added, "She wants to go home too."
"She may hurt herself, and you as well, if she isn't hospitalised."
"I don't care. I don't want to live with my father, in another city. Besides, she's never done anything to me," he argued.
You never know. Dr. Crane held the can of juice and offered it to the boy, "Drink."
Raphael reluctantly accepted the can, but gulped down a couple of mouthfuls. When he set the can down again, the part of his face between his upper lip and his nose was stained, a sticky purple-coloured juice moustache.
I'm leaving it there to ferment, maybe it'll become wine after a while, says Julien.
Don't be silly, he replies, clean your mouth.
I won't, she laughs, and smears her sticky fingers on his cheek.
You're going to be late for school, he says. He tries to be serious, but gives in and smiles back, ruffling her hair with one hand.
He offered a paper napkin to the boy, but he refused it, choosing instead to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. Dr. Crane wondered why it did not leave a stain on the dark green material.
"Go home."
Raphael looked into his eyes. He shivered slightly, and said, "I'm afraid."
Dr. Crane dropped his gaze so that he saw only the grey coloured surface of the table. There was a tense silence for several seconds.
The boy continued, searching in his backpack, and fished out a piece of paper. "I just wanted to tell you, he's found it."
It was similar to the first drawing he'd seen, but now the eyes of Peter Pan were filled with fear. The character shrank away from his own shadow cast on the ground. "And now that Wendy has sewn it to his heel, it'll never go away. It's staying for good," he adds, in a self-satisfied manner. "I have something for you to see."
Dr. Crane, who was previously absorbed in the picture, recovered and replied, "Another day, perhaps."
Raphael picked up his bag. Before he left, he said, "Thanks for the drink," leaving the doctor to his thoughts.
In the cafeteria, a lone figure casts one long shadow.
To be continued...