Chapter Four: Senseless

Don't ask about my sex life. Charlie imagined Dr.Volkov asking for personal statistics or requiring him to rate his satisfaction level on a scale of one to ten or some such. That isn't what I'm here for, Charlie reasoned he'd say to him, I'm here because I shot a man, and he might be alive, or he might not be, and I'm tired of sleeping by the window with a chair jammed underneath the doorknob. I'm tired of hating my bed because I hate voluntarily climbing in with demons who grill me like onions, tired of hearing noises in the hallway so that I stick my ear to the door, listening for his footsteps, the voice, laughter.

"Dr. Eppes, he's ready."

Charlie was startled then recovered his composure. The receptionist was politely tacit about his reaction and ushered him into the doctor's office. Volkov rose to shake his hand and after introductions, Charlie sat on the couch, thinking twice about whether it was lucky or not to have gotten in on a cancellation, and watched the doctor take a seat in an austere leather chair like those in the movies. He's going to ask, I know it. What's to tell? Soothe the mind; resume operations.

All right, doc, we have fifty minutes to figure this out. Make me normal.

He was disillusioned to find it wasn't this simple. It required almost the entire fifty minutes to fill Volkov in on what had happened to him and Don in the forest and the cave—including Don's recent on-the-job problem with the fire. Just telling the doc how it felt to be abducted ate up fifteen. Charlie retold his tale of helplessness under Reylott's control, how he'd been raced through the woods blindfolded and tied, tripping on rocks, cutting his knees and shoulders, wayward limbs nicking his face.

"How do you feel now?" Volkov said. "Speaking openly about it." The doctor had a casual manner like Don and wore a navy blue blazer over khaki slacks and topsiders. He wrote delicately, using a plain cardboard notepad.

"I remember too much. The dark is…powerful." Charlie smoothed his hand over the couch. It felt new, upholstered in a pattern of emerald green diamond-shapes, outlined in black, a white dot at the center of each diamond.

"Go on, Dr. Eppes—Charlie—it's all confidential."

"I've kept my lamp on low since then." He scrutinized the white dots; they were raised off the fabric and he ran his fingertips over the Braille-like bumps. "I've never been afraid of the dark before."

"It brings back the cave."

Charlie affirmed, wondering how many diamonds covered each decimeter of fabric. He began to calculate as he spoke. "Being stuck there, I knew morning would come, eventually, but…I didn't know what was happening with Don, or if I would make it through the night."

"And your brother? How's he doing?"

"He's of the opinion," Charlie said, "that is if he's aware of his symptoms then that's enough to prevent anymore extreme regressions." Approximately one and a half centimeters in length, one in width for each diamond.

"Most people find talking things through is effective. It can expedite the healing process."

"Don was injured. He needed therapy for his burns."

The doctor sat forward. "You?"

"I had a lump on my head where he hit me. No permanent damage."

"That must've been frightening," Volkov said. "Did you fight back?"

"I didn't know what to do. I know it's a cliché, but it's true what they say, you don't have time to think, just react." Six point seven five per decimeter…seventy centimeters times two times…estimate curvature of the cushions, stretch and fold of the textile, allow for variations…

An awkward silence had ensued and Charlie realized the doctor had been monitoring him. He curtailed his calculations, said, "Why is this so complicated?"

"Your situation? What do you think?" Volkov was the stereotypical shrink, giving him questions to his questions.

Charlie said, "I've never done this before."

"In your work as a mathematician, you're proficient. Can you remember a time when you weren't?"

"No."

Volkov clicked his pen. "You've always been adept at math?"

"It's innate."

"I see. That's relevant." He entered it carefully on his notepad. "I'd like to explore it further some time."

Charlie thought a moment, leaving the diamonds unsolved. He had trouble finishing many tasks of late. "My work comes naturally to me."

"It's a pleasure for you." Volkov checked his watch. "How does it feel for this business, this crime, to be imposed on your day to day living—and your brother's—having it interfere with your job, what you love doing?"

Charlie squeezed the bridge of his nose. "I'm pissed," he said. "I'm extremely pissed." He beat the backrest with a firm slap. "I want to be free of it, yesterday."

"That's why you're here. I want you to do something. Will you work with me?"

Charlie wanted to know what it was before he'd agree.

"Ask Don to come in with you. I'd like to see you together next time."

"He won't go for it. My brother's very independent. I think he'd see this as a sign of weakness."

"How do you see it?"

"My problem or coming here?"

"Both," Volkov said.

Charlie stood to leave; their time was up. "The problem's exhausting. The longer it goes on, the more ineffectual I feel. I've fantasized about locking myself in my study, away from everybody, and not coming out. Bang my head against the sheet rock senseless, make myself normal again."

"Sounds very harmful for you." Volkov put down his notes. "What else do you want to do? Sit, we have a minute or two."

"I'd prefer to go."

"It's all right. Confidential, remember?"

Charlie said, "No one knows?"

"Me and you. But, if you aren't ready, I'm not going to—"

"All right." At the other end, Charlie rested on the couch's fat, overstuffed armrest. "I want a break."

"Do you contemplate hurting yourself?"

"Suicide?" Do I actually come across that ill? "No, the opposite…sorry, I didn't intend to sound so literal about banging my head." He felt silly; he'd revealed more than he was comfortable with but something inside compelled him to continue. "I feel alone, you know? I'd like not to have to think about anything for a while."

"Be cared for?"

Charlie was reluctant to admit it. "Until I feel stronger, 'til I can face the world like I used to, the old Charlie who held three jobs and could carry out a lecture without worrying his brain might get sucked up into a singularity. Who slept like a log and ate with pleasure and could concentrate longer than fifteen seconds." He sighed. "And who didn't sleep with a baseball bat."

"Thanks for your honesty," Volkov said. "And how do you feel about seeing a therapist?"

"Presently, embarrassed."

"Ashamed?"

Charlie lingered by the door. "If it'll help, I'll ask Don."

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