On the Edge of Wakefulness
Chapter 4
Light filtered into Todd's room, shadows tiling the floor next to his bed. It had been two days since Todd tried to end his life. Now he lay awake, deeply entrenched in another world. He was uncommunicative, fearful, easily agitated, and often engaged in a whispered dialogue where he vowed to win his battle with Satan. At other times, he would be completely still, eyes open, frozen in a moment only he could see.
He wore loose cotton pajama bottoms and a plain white tee. No socks. He favored a fetal position on his right side. The bandaged arm on which he lay was stretched out in front of him. The other more heavily bandaged arm was folded, covering the side of his head, perhaps trying to quiet sounds which only he heard.
The room was a pastel blue, trimmed with white wood molding. A small antique secretary, bolted down, decorated one wall next to a large double-hung window. The bars on the outside of the glass revealed the true nature of the room. There were two framed watercolor prints of lake scenes bolted to the wall next to one another. One small wooden chair, boasting four legs and a straight back, sat at the secretary.
The room had a viewing window which allowed someone to monitor him. There was a small bathroom next to a closet which allowed for a few belongings to be kept, although there usually weren't too many. Next to the door, there was a control panel that operated the intercom. There was no television since, often, persons with severe mental illness thought the television transmitted more than taped entertainment.
Viki stood outside the window of Todd's room and leaned her forehead against the glass, watching her debilitated brother. One arm was folded against her heart as if holding it together. Her black leather purse hung from her shoulder, her yellow knit skirt and top showing a classic taste in clothing and a serious constitution. She wore small pearl earrings and a delicate gold wedding band on her right hand, in memory of her late husband, Sloan Carpenter. Her blond hair was coiffed neatly, short yet full, framing a conservatively made-up, attractive face.
Dr. Timothy Graham approached her slowly, not wanting to startle her out of her study, "Mrs. Carpenter?"
Viki straightened up, startled nevertheless, "Yes, but please call me Viki." She extended her hand.
He reached for her hand, both his hands holding hers. "Tim Graham. Nice to meet you. Sorry we couldn't talk yesterday."
"No problem."
"Talk in my office?"
Viki took a last lingering look at Todd and then followed Tim compliantly, her head down.
"It's been somewhat hectic here with my recent move from Davis. Can't seem to stop working long enough to get settled." He chuckled. "Anyways, I understand you're Todd's sister and, am I right, you also hold an advanced health directive for him, so you have decision-making abilities?"
Viki nodded in response, just as they reached his office. They both got comfortable. He worked in a cozy place with books piled up in the corners, a computer with an artistic screen saver running, and a practical oak desk on which lay medical files next to a pencil holder, desk calendar, and a single framed photograph.
"Well," he started, "as you can see, your brother is still in a deeply delusional state. He thinks a satanic type entity 'lives inside' of him and the only way to get rid of it is to kill it, which means he has to kill himself."
Viki knew about the Satan fixation. Kevin told her. He told her everything yesterday in her office where she'd buried herself in work. Yes, hiding and sick. Tim Graham apologized for not being available but the truth was… she was too emotionally ill to come in. Didn't feel ready to hear what was happening to her brother. She'd gotten little sleep because the more research she did on self-injury, the more she learned about why rapists rape, the more convinced she was that Todd had suffered the same kind of life she had. And the same way she had suffered a breakdown at a late age, Todd appeared to be going through the same thing.
Viki avoided Tim's direct gaze, instead noticing a few dents in the wood next to the black desk blotter.
"Preliminary tests don't show a chemical basis for his condition as of yet. But we can't rule out drugs yet."
Viki's glanced up, interrupted by a sudden image of street-pushers and prostitutes selling sex for a hit. "Drugs? He's never used drugs that I know of." Knowing she sounded like a typical "mother" in denial, she noticed a silver band on Tim's left forefinger. Wondered about his own history.
Smiling gently at Viki's immediate rejection of the drug possibility, he continued, "Its something we have to check on. This came on too suddenly and sudden onset makes me think drugs. But we're still considering biochemical disorders. Still have to rule out causes such as a brain tumor."
Viki's eyes wandered Tim's office, studying the cockeyed pictures on his wall, probably left behind from the previous occupant.
Tim went on, seeing the disconnect in Viki. She was deeply bothered. He tried to speak gently. "So . . . at this point, we're diagnosing him with brief psychotic disorder with delusions, a general term saying we have no idea what's going on but we know that it came on suddenly and might disappear just as suddenly."
Viki took a breath and redirected her eyes to the doctor, "Now what?"
"Our first goals are safety and stabilization. He's at risk of attempting suicide again. As I told Kevin, he may be hallucinatory, but those visions are real to him. Right now, he's not on any medication other than an occasional sedative when he gets too violent. We've got to detox him to rule out any possibility that this is chemically-induced. A benefit of letting the delusional state continue is revelation - his delusions might tell me what's going on."
"Kevin said he was… restrained?"
"Yeah, he needed them when he woke up, and needed them all day yesterday. Very safe, not uncomfortable. Today, though he's quieter."
Viki watched a curl that lifted awkwardly away from the rest of Tim's hair. She cleared her throat and looked at her hands, "Dr. Wolek told me that he has been ... burning himself using ... cigarettes." She closed her eyes briefly. Returned to her study of the uncooperative lock of hair.
"Yeah, I saw them. Too early to tell what that's about. All in time."
"What if you can't pull him out of this, what if -"
"Let's not play 'what if'. Let's just go day by day." Tim looked at Viki carefully.
She sighed, "Is there anything I can do for him?"
"Nothing now. Keep in touch with me. He'll need a lot of support from people who care about him. Suicidal people generally are plagued with an extremely low sense of self-worth; they need to know that they have value, here, alive. The best way is to be surrounded by people who can assure them of that value." Tim smiled, his eyes bright and hopeful.
"Thank you. I feel like he's in good hands." Viki smiled weakly, noticing the picture on the desk, that of a dark-haired man whose head tilted affectionately toward Tim, the two in a bearhug. They were both laughing and looking at the photographer. There certainly was a lot of love in the make-up of the doctor.
"Doctor, I know how these places work. You'll spend one hour a day, if that… I want to pay you for your undivided attention to him. Drop other patients, drop whatever barriers are in your way. I want my brother well. Please… help him. Will you accommodate me?"
Tim studied Viki, nodded. How could he say no to her? "I'll do whatever I can. Of course."
Blair replaced the telephone back into its cradle, having just finished talking with Dr. Graham. She got an earful. No real answers. He was alive and that's all she really cared about at this point. Blair sat with Starr and brushed her hair, a pleasure often interrupted by giggles of her little girl.
Starr, Todd's pride and joy. Blair worried whether mental illness would affect her life one day. First, the Cramer madness running through Blair's bloodlines and now Todd's own mental illness.
"Mommy, can we see Aunt Viki tomorrow? She promised me roses."
"Of course."
Truth was, Blair knew about Todd's emotional difficulties. While he'd distanced himself from those dark Marty Saybrooke days, he still had a monster inside of him.
She recalled times where their passion got… rough. She could feel his intense titillation, see fire in his eyes, an erection that had come from that… passion. She wouldn't have any of it. She'd take control, overpower him, by letting him know she was not his victim, she was NOT Marty. He would break like a puppy, the violence fading, becoming passive again, submissive. It was how they worked.
But there was a cost.
Afterwards, he would roam the Penthouse tortured and sickened that the animal arose in him again and he could have "hurt" someone he loved. She'd watch him, seeing true pain. She'd leave him alone. Morning would bring a new man, one so passive that she could never understand how that person could ever have raped anyone. He was so ... easy, he would let her do everything. She figured it was Marty's fault what happened to her. She didn't know how to handle him, unlike Blair.
She thought when they were together, he was "better," that somehow she had "fixed" him. Until the end.
Truth was… their was never real trust in their relationship. She had tainted his ability to trust her starting with her love of Cord Roberts and ending with her love of Patrick Thornhart. She fought so hard for so long to convince Todd they were true and she was his one true love... but it never worked. How could it? For every act proving her trustworthiness, she committed ten acts to disprove it. She closed her eyes, pain clenching her heart, and held a squirming Starr close to her. Would Todd be able to return to his daughter, could he return to a "normal' life, one which he so desperately wanted?
Today… she did not think so.
Kevin Buchanan stretched his legs as he walked off the plane in Charleston, West Virginia, feeling the cool autumn breeze. He looked down at his notes, including the investigator's report, and sighed, burdened with this self-imposed duty he needed to carry out: finding Todd.
First step...uncover Michelle Chant, beginning with her parents. According to records, they moved from Chicago in her fourteenth year to the Charleston suburbs.
Once off the plane, he rented a Jeep and headed to the Jasper Woods neighborhood. Parked in front of the Chant home. Kevin had spoken to Mrs. Chant the previous day and she said she would meet, albeit reluctantly. She didn't understand why a Pennsylvania news reporter would want to talk about Michelle. There was nothing to say.
He rang the doorbell of the two-story mountain-type home. The door opened, revealing a mature woman with short brown hair and traces of freckles across her nose. While dressed casually, each accessory adorning her thin body and each strand of hair lay perfectly in place. She smiled stiffly and introduced herself.
"You must be Kevin. I'm Beatrice Chant."
Kevin reached to shake her hand, saying, "Thank you for seeing me."
Mrs. Chant did not offer hers in return, turning immediately. "Come in. Would you like tea or something?"
"No, thanks. Don't want to take too much of your time." Kevin smiled, following the woman to a quaint living room decorated with antiques and family pictures. A stereo and T.V. occupied one corner of the room faced by a cozy sofa and matching recliner on the opposite corner. A carefully-tended garden was visible through large French doors on one end of the room.
Kevin sat on the sofa, sinking deep into the cushions. Mrs. Chant sat across from him on a hard leather-bound bench. "Several months ago, a young woman was murdered in our city under terrible circumstances."
"Oh my," she said, maintaining that same coldness.
"I thought that a particular individual had something to do with it so I investigated his background. I learned he'd been good friends with your daughter. Do you know Todd Manning?"
Mrs. Chant had an impenetrable blank look and coolly said she didn't know him. She did offer up that Michelle had been a reserved girl and rarely shared anything personal with her. She described a sad girl who lost her real father in a tragic car accident. Charles Chant was Mrs. Chant's second husband and had adopted Michelle.
"In fact, that will always be my deepest sorrow. That she could not share what was in her head with us. As you probably know, she killed herself about eight years ago. Didn't leave a note. Silent until the end." Bitterness colored her words.
"Did she keep a diary or journal or anything that would tell us why she did that?" Kevin asked.
"No," she replied sharply.
"Why did you leave Chicago so suddenly back when she was 14? Did it have something to do with Todd Manning?" The question clearly surprised Mrs. Chant and she became defensive.
"What's it of your business? My daughter is dead. Her relationship with him…" She slammed her mouth shut. She revealed a truth. She DID know Todd and Michelle DID have a relationship with him. Kevin smiled inwardly. He'd caught her.
"I'm sorry," he said. "You see, Mr. Manning has suffered a breakdown of sorts and he's been mentioning your daughter's name. I hoped for some additional information to perhaps better understand his involvement in the murder. I apologize if I've offended you."
Mrs. Chant sighed impatiently, clearly uncomfortable. "Look, something happened to Michelle that year. She was depressed and traumatized. We couldn't help her. We didn't know what had happened and she refused to talk about it. She was a very hardheaded girl. We decided to leave Chicago thinking the change would do her good."
"Did she improve?"
Her eyes flashed annoyance at the continuing interview. "She did, somewhat. But she was never the same again. We tried to get her into therapy many, many times. We . . . did the best we could. We gave that girl everything she could have ever wanted."
Kevin saw a glimmer of a person passing by the open doors of the living room. Mrs. Chant's eyes looked past Kevin for a moment and then returned to him, "One day, she just snapped. She became depressed again, only this time it was to a depth we'd not seen before. She disappeared and the rest is . . . history." Mrs. Chant's voice finally cracked a little and tears welled in her eyes. She put her head down, "I'm sorry." Her voice was hard.
"No, I'm sorry to force you to relive this."
"I relive it every day, Mr. Buchanan." She regained her partial loss of composure and looked coolly at her interviewer. At that moment, someone walked into the room. He turned his head to see the visitor and stopped cold.
He was facing a 15-year-old version of Todd Manning.
"Mr. Buchanan, please meet my son, Jedediah."
Holy SHIT.
After a violent splash into the river's glassy skin, Todd sank deep into the black. He touched bottom and water began to rush past him, like the receding tide at an ocean's beach. He lifted himself up, finding himself in a place he thought to be the inside of a . . . volcano? Where did the water go?
He patted himself down, noticing he was dry. He watched oozing hot lava flow past him, around an island of hardened black rock on which he was standing. A rotting, foul smell choked him, indefinable moans encircled him. Todd's bare feet were close to the edge of his small island and he stepped back, moving toward the middle.
He started to sweat so he took off the flannel shirt and threw it away. A rumbling sound rolled through the cave, increasing in loudness and vibration. Todd felt afraid and whipped around to see where the sound was coming from. He grew increasingly terrified. He jumped at a sudden deafening laugh. He covered his ears, trying to block the familiar sound out.
"So you made it down here!" The laugh mocked Todd and he crouched in self-protection. "I am so glad to see you again. It has been a long time. I am looking forward to having you, to be entertained by you once again." The voice howled in sustained laughter, low, deep and threatening.
Inhuman.
There was no place to hide here. It suddenly dawned on Todd where he was. He was in Hell, in the glorious presence of Satan himself, Peter Manning.
Dr. Timothy Graham held Todd from behind on the floor against the wall as he thrashed uncontrollably in the doctor's arms, seemingly unable to breathe and definitely not able to talk. Todd soundlessly banged his head back into Tim's chest, emitting only gasps, rubbing his feet against the floor in desperation to get away. Couldn't escape though. Tim offered verbal assurances, knowing it was useless. He waited for the orderlies.
Running feet pounded down the hall and exploded into the room. Two orderlies emerged, one carrying a syringe. Michael, the bigger guy, held Todd's head to stop him from injuring Tim. Sarah, the second orderly, quickly injected the medicine into Todd's thigh and soon he stopped kicking and butting his head, tears falling quietly. His breathing soon slowed at which point Tim relaxed his hold, leaning against the wall.
"Well, that wasn't exactly productive …" Tim flashed an expression of frustration, speaking more to himself. "All the tests are coming up negative. He's all over the place. Damn."
Todd lay in Tim's arms, motionless and disconnected from everything. His eyes were open, staring at nothing, breathing evenly. Tim explained to the orderlies what had happened. He did this more for his own purposes, so he could sort out the events and better recall them for his report.
"When I came to check on him, he was up and pacing and I thought maybe he pulled out of the psychosis. I tried to get him to respond to me, but he didn't – just continued in his private conversation. Anyway, he got very agitated and began throwing himself against the door to get out. Absolutely terrified."
Sarah kneeled down to talk to Todd, "Todd? You're safe. It's ok, you're ok. Can you get up by yourself?"
Todd remained completely unresponsive. Easily, Michael grabbed Todd beneath his shoulders and Sarah grabbed him by his legs. The two carried him to the bed, placing him gently down. Tim stood up, watched, and mentally made notes, organizing, trying to solve this latest puzzle.
"We'll wait this out a few more days. Then we'll start the gamut of meds and see what works." He rubbed his face, shaking his head, folding his arms across his chest. Todd closed his eyes, curling up into that same fetal position, one arm on the side of his head.
Tim walked down the hall with Michael.
"Hey, I'm not a doctor or anything, but I gotta tell you, his obsession with the devil and all that really reminds me of some people I helped out in L.A. They were methamphetamine addicts and man when they hit big, those devil hallucinations would just...I don't know. It was pretty wild."
"Methamphetamine … well the tox screen will tell us for sure."
"The shit's pretty uncommon here in PA. I don't know if it's part of the routine work-up."
"I'll check on it, thanks." He smiled at his assistant, patting him on the back and getting a modest shrug in response.
Tim looked down and spotted a single strand of Todd's golden hair clinging to his black shirt. He pulled it off and let it twirl gently to the floor.
Kevin felt as if someone punched him in the gut, seeing Jedediah. Instinct grabbed him by the shoulders, screaming the parentage of Jedediah, and it sure as hell wasn't Beatrice and Charles Chant. The young man looked quizzically at Kevin, "Umm, you here about my … sister?"
"Jedediah, go finish your homework. I need to finish up with Mr. Buchanan."
The boy shot an angry look. "Sure, Mom," he snapped, "I get it. 'Kids ought to be seen and not heard.' Hey, maybe I can call you to get some information about-" He gave a spiteful look to his mother, "-breaking into the newspaper business?" Jedediah concluded with a wry smile that was all too familiar to Kevin.
"Sure, yeah, definitely, here's my card. Call the number anytime."
"Hey, thanks."
Kevin smiled and watched Jedediah head back up the stairs, taking two or three steps at a time, indignant as hell. Holy SHIT.
"Spirited kid. I guess to be 15?"
"Yes, almost 16. Are you through, Mr. Buchanan? This has been . . . trying."
"One last question, did Michelle have any good friends that she would have turned to in Chicago or here?"
After a second of irritated reflection, she said, "The only one I remember was a Georgianna, Georgianna Calhoun from Chicago. Odd girl - I never approved of her - but she was one of Michelle's only friends. They didn't talk much after the move, however."
Kevin thanked Mrs. Chant and left with as much information as he was going to get. Michelle and Todd had to have been lovers and Jedediah was the result. It made sense, timewise. Kevin concluded her pregnancy might have been the reason the family left so abruptly in the middle of the school year. Question was, did Todd rape her? Did he know he had a son? Did Jedediah know who his parents really were? And now there was this friend Georgianna Calhoun, another name to follow up on.
Shifting the car into gear, Kevin got back on the road and headed to the small town of Fayetteville, near the place where Michelle jumped to her death. Something must have drawn her there. Maybe he'd get more answers there.
Kevin awoke in the small town of Fayetteville having reached there late afternoon the previous day. The rapids of the New River were the main attraction so there was an unusually high number of businesses catering to the naturist lifestyle. Fayetteville was at heart a small town. He was still focused on his earlier encounter with Beatrice Chant, especially on the fact that young Jedediah was most likely Todd's son. Of course, there was always the possibility that it was mere coincidence. He shook his head, doubting it, the resemblance too uncanny. He grabbed a quick breakfast in a small cafe and considered his next move in his campaign for the truth: the police station.
After parking his car, Kevin walked into the modest city building. The expressions and attitudes of the officers were suspicious and resentful. Big city folk were not welcome despite the fact that they were a main source of municipal and commercial income. And even though Kevin came from a small town also, Llanview was close enough to Philly to be considered the big city.
The clerk at the front desk barely acknowledged Kevin as he walked up. Gave an impatient, "Yeah?"
"I need information about a suicide of a young girl from Charleston, Michelle Chant?"
"Never heard of her. Plenty of suicides though. Teenagers always throwin' themselves into the river, bungy jumpin' or extreme divin' or somethin'." He began some paperwork and appeared to be finished with the conversation.
"Is it possible I can look at your records and see for myself what you might have?"
"Look, I don't know where ya' come from, but around here, we don't let just any person view our reports. So why don't ya' just move along and let us work?" The clerk returned to his paperwork.
Kevin leaned on the counter and took a breath, turning on an act, "Hey. Come on, guy, cut me a break. I'm working on this project for my boss and he's really . . . ya' know . . . eager. Think ya' can get me a sneak look at the reports?" Kevin smiled pleadingly.
The clerk looked around, wary but somewhat sympathetic to Kevin's plight, "Here, tell Jill in the basement that I said it was ok, she'll give ya' the file. But I better see ya' outta here in half an hour or I throw ya' out myself." The clerk looked down, conversation over.
Kevin took the hint and headed for the basement immediately - no wasting time in this place.
The records' secretary, a woman with long nails and big blond hair held up by a gaudy barrette, sat at a small desk in front of a huge darkish room stacked with rows and rows of files. There were large tables to her left, evidently the place for reading.
"Yeah?" She asked without looking up, continuing to check off items on a list in front of her.
"The guy upstairs with the bad attitude, Karl, he said that I could look at a file . . . on a Michelle Chant?"
The secretary looked up, nodded, snapped gum. She scrolled through various screens on her computer monitor, finally landing on one. "Here we go, file number SD897436. This way." When they reached a dark corner in the back of the room, she pulled a rather thin file out of a dilapidated box.
"Here you go," she handed Kevin the file, and split. He walked back to the tables and plopped down. Opened the file. Found himself staring at Michelle Chant.
This… this was Todd's Michelle.
Lava flowed around the island, the liquid rock fiery and deadly. Todd cowered, shaking his head, "No. No. This isn't real, this isn't real." Peter Manning sat in front of him, mammoth in size, his unmistakable face warped by a grotesque soul, skin crawling and alive. His eyes illuminated yellow. His teeth were black and pointed, all canines. The throne was monstrous, a mildew green and slithering, the king an embodiment of pure evil. Todd could hear his gravelly breathing, sounding like a hungry lion.
Gaining courage, he spoke, "You ruined my life."
"Did I? You developed into a man because of all the excellent training I submitted you to. I beamed with pride when you murdered Guy Armitage! You got away with it, unlike your screw-up with that little whore, Marty."
"Shut up about her, you son of a bitch!" He choked on the last outcry, old feelings of inadequacy firing out at the disapproving glare of his father, mockery beneath it. Irrational insecurity emerged, not at performing any evil act, but at living, at existing.
Peter roared, bloody saliva falling out of his mouth. "Oh look, the little Mama's boy has returned! You always were such a pussy."
"Why am I here?" A few long twisting worms dropped unexpectedly out of Todd's hair and he cringed, understanding that his body was changing, merging with what was around him.
"You've finally made it to the big time. When you slashed those pretty veins and arteries of yours, you condemned yourself to eternal Hell. Last straw. No Purgatory for you. No Paradise for you. Not with such a beautiful record of accomplishments. You're all mine now." Peter smiled widely.
"Can't be … I repented for my sins, I made up to those women, to Marty. I was wrong - it was wrong to hurt them! Like it was wrong to hurt . . . to hurt . . . " He froze, unable to continue.
"To hurt … who? Yourself?"
Todd doubled over in pain, excruciating pain, unable to breathe. His eyes watered. "Oh God," he gasped. He felt his insides burning, searing. His head and eyes felt pressured as if they'd explode.
"Ah, so you DO recall that final little party of ours."
Straining, Todd managed to scream in spite of the unbearable pain, "SHUT UP! You're paying for that! Look at you! I don't belong here! I'm different from you! I AM NOT YOU!" He was choking on the stench of Hell and pain wracked his entire body. Todd, now on his knees, looked up at Peter Manning. "I don't rape anymore. I understand how wrong it is now. I don't feel that anger anymore."
"Oh really, Saint Todd? I seem to recall a little punch of Tea Delgado, your beloved wife. I seem to recall you tossing her out of the Penthouse - naked - so she'd have to find shelter from you in the midst of a blizzard. Don't tell me …"
"That was something else! You don't know shit!" The pain intensified with each passing moment. He cried out, tears falling.
Peter roared and began to speak with a resonating growl, "You moron. I - AM - YOU. YOU - ARE - ME. You will never escape your real self, our past. I was there the first time you beat a kid in school and I was there the first time you brutalized Tea. I was there every time you raped a woman and every time you tore Blair apart over custody. I was there when you terrorized that lawyer and when you held the Buchanan family hostage. I was there every time you rejected love. And guess what…. I plan to be there when you RAPE your precious children, when you do to them, what I did to you. Such fucking HARMONY, my son!"
Todd screamed, his own voice beastly, and lunged forward in an attempt to kill Peter, but the end of the island prevented him from doing so, space suddenly separating the two. The lava swelled and called to him, the voices of the condemned loud, deafening. On his knees again, he screamed and screamed.
There was no escape, and nobody to hear him.
Todd shot up in bed, panting, sweating. Eyes roved the room, finding an unrecognizable place. Standing up, he nearly fell. Once re-oriented, he faced the window hoping for familiarity, finding none still. He looked at both his bandaged arms and down at his bare feet, hair hanging long and messy in his face. Now the recognition came. Dark focus returned.
He knew his job – someone had interfered.
Lifting his right arm, Todd began pulling at the thick bandages. Pull. Tear. Drop. Pull. Tear. Drop. Pull. Tear. Drop.
Tim had been researching a medication protocol. A bad meth reaction made sense as the cause of his patient'smental disturbance. There'd been a decline over time which could point to drug abuse, and the hallucinations and delusions had come on suddenly. The suicide attempt appeared to be a culmination, a peak. It all made perfect sense.
Drug-induced psychosis.
The good thing was that if this was drug-triggered, he should be coming to consciousness pretty quickly. The next thing would be to resolve what had brought such a powerful, successful man as Todd, one who'd picked himself up by the proverbial bootstraps, to his knees this way? His history lay in his thick file: life story from his sister and a criminal record from Llanview PD. But that was only part of the picture. One never knew what secrets might be hidden within a person's psyche.
He stretched his arms and sat back in his chair, his eyes tired from spending so much time looking at that god-forsaken computer. Tim glanced at his watch: 2:30 p.m. Time for a visit - his patient had been sleeping for quite a number of hours.
When Tim approached the window to Todd's room, he was momentarily pleased at seeing Todd standing, and not cowering in bed. The feeling of comfort was short-lived. The muscles of Todd's shoulders were moving in a way that looked like he was struggling with something. He looked busy. With a leap of his heart, Tim noticed a long trail of white gauze hanging off of Todd's right arm. He immediately unlocked the door and pressed the emergency switch for assistance.
Tim walked into the room carefully, stepping toward Todd's left side, being sure to keep a safe distance. Todd remained occupied with his grisly task, seemingly unaware of the doctor's presence. He'd managed to get the thick bandaging off his right arm and was picking at his wounds, blood oozing from the scraped-off scabs and stitches that he had managed to remove with his fingers and fingernails. Sweating, intense and focused. He clenched his jaw, lips tight in a scowl.
Michael and Sarah came to the room door and stood quietly, visibly disturbed by the sight. Tim cautiously reached out, "You're hurting yourself, Todd. Please, let me help you."
Todd turned his head slowly and looked directly at Tim, light eyes full of hate. "Who did this? Who got in my way?" He spoke in low, menacing tones.
"We couldn't let you die. We won't let you die. You're a loved person. You're needed. You're a human being who has a right to be here."
Clenching his teeth, Todd answered, "I don't choose to be here. I had a job to do and you stopped me. I won't - allow it - again."
"I understand how you feel. But you won't be able to complete your job as long as you're here with us. Our job is to keep you safe. We won't let you hurt yourself."
"Like hell you won't!" With each outburst of words, he pounded a tight fist against his chest, "I'M in control here! I AM! You are NOTHING!" His mouth twisted in anger, eyes glazed over with barely-controlled rage. He stepped towards Tim, threateningly, but Tim remained solid on his feet wanting to show that he wasn't afraid and was only there to help. He put a hand up to the orderlies to stop them from making moves towards Todd. He figured he could handle this … he was big and didn't think Todd had the strength to overpower him.
"Yeah, of course you're in control. We'll never take that away from you. But we will stop you when it comes to hurting yourself."
"No! ESPECIALLY when it comes to that! It's all my CHOICE!" At his last words, Todd pushed Tim violently, slamming his hands on the doctor's chest and knocking him back against the wall. Tim gasped, shocked at the power in the hit, power that didn't show in Todd's slender build. Michael ran behind Todd and grabbed him, Todd screaming, "Let go of me! No one controls me! NO ONE!" He fought Michael hard but lost quickly as he was put into a powerful hold. Todd continued to yell fiercely, held down by Michael on the floor now.
"Calm down or you'll get a sedative or restraints!"
Todd continued to fight, growling, but then seemed to give up, "No restraints … no fucking restraints … no, no, no …"
He realized he couldn't escape Michael's grip on him. Finally, he stopped entirely, breathing hard. He had some recall of ropes or straps being tied around his wrists and shook away the memory. Couldn't get more specific than that. Old… old….
Michael said he was going to release him slowly and that if he started fighting once more, he'd have to put him in a hold again, increasing the chances for restraints and/or a sedative. Todd nodded angrily, a bull downed by the matador, and closed his eyes in brief surrender. Michael let Todd go and he crawled away, placing himself up against the wall below the window. Blood reddened his arm and rubbed off on his white tee-shirt. The bandage trailed next to him. He glared at his observers, looking like a caged creature.
Tim breathed quietly in relief, moving closer to Todd, "Will you let me check your arm?" Carefully he reached for Todd, except Todd jerked himself away and glared at Tim defensively, growling like an animal.
"Look, this is a losing battle. Either you willingly let us help you, or you'll be sedated so we can repair the damage."
After some moments, Todd let Tim take his arm, but his blazing eyes never left the doctor's face.
"Sarah, just butterfly these cuts and re-wrap the arm. We'll get the on-call to come over and do what's necessary. Todd, will you let the on-call doctor repair the sutures?"
Todd only grunted.
"Is that a yes?"
Teeth clenched, he grumbled, "Yes."
"Good then, Sarah's going to tape the injuries and re-wrap your arm."
As the doctor walked out the door, Todd eyed Tim and said once more in that menacing tone, "I - control - my life. And - I - decide when to end it."
"I know, Todd. I know."
Tim walked to his office and took a deep breath as he fell into his chair. He might still be delusional, but he was conscious and aware.
"And so the games begin. . ."
On one side of the file were a couple of handwritten reports, the first one with Michelle's picture attached. He studied her picture carefully, a snapshot of her sitting in a chaise-lounge on a closed porch. She wasn't smiling, medium length reddish-brown hair cascading over her shoulders. Sadness in her face took in Kevin, mesmerized him. The freckles made her appear younger than she was, but her pretty face - no, a beautiful face - was alluring. She possessed a knowingness that aged her. Kevin tried to imagine her as a young girl, alone, to herself. Perfect for a quiet, shy young man like Todd must have been.
Before he changed.
The file gave out the usual general information - Michelle listed as a missing person. He read reports of two witnesses, but noticed that a third page had been torn out of the file, the top still on the file's prongs. Kevin recorded the information into his notebook, noting that Bud Wilkinson and Wilma Plankett had seen Michelle jump, both saying they were seated at a picnic area next to the jumping point, a place he planned on visiting.
Finally, he looked at the closing report. It ran down the efforts of the police force to locate Michelle's body which consisted of a search of the surrounding areas and a dragging of the river for as much of an area as was possible. The search was called off after only forty-eight hours. That seemed far too short a time period. Stapled to the back of the file was a half-page form for telephone messages. A phone call from Charles Chant had been taken by an officer - "frantic" was written beside his name. In the note section of the form, handwriting indicated that Mr. Chant was assured the search was continuing and that they would make all efforts at retrieving Michelle's body. The message was dated about a month after the search ended. There was nothing else in the file. Kevin went through the entire file again and took the names of all the officers involved.
He got up and handed the file back to the secretary. At that moment, his cell buzzed. Kevin looked at the number and didn't recognize it. He walked outside the building and called the number back.
A young voice answered the phone, one unfamiliar to Kevin. He immediately thought it was a wrong number and briefly considered hanging up.
"Yeah, this is Kevin Buchanan, someone called me at this number."
"Yeah … I did, Jed Chant. You told me I could call you anytime."
Kevin felt strange. Was his guess correct about who Jed was? "Of course," he said. Curious as all get-out. "What's up?"
"Look, I'm not calling about working for no damn newspaper. I'm calling about Michelle, my real mother."
Holy SHIT.
To Be Continued …