Not a muscle moved.
“Okay,” I said, very quietly, “I’d like anyone with fled to please come forward and identify yourself….” I waited. Ten seconds passed. Twenty seconds. Thirty. “Let me repeat that in case you weren’t sure of my meaning. Anyone who is there with fled, please come forward at this time. I promise that no harm will come to you, I just want to talk to you for a minute.”
Another ten seconds went by before fled, or whoever it was, suddenly seemed to shrivel before my eyes. She stayed that way for several minutes, sort of curled up and motionless, in the chair. It was almost as if she were hiding from someone. In my thirty-five years of practice I had never seen anything quite like this, and I was concerned that I might cause her (or him), and ultimately fled, some harm by trying to force her to reveal herself at once. Nevertheless, I decided to gently try. “Hello?”
She remained as she was, trying to seem invisible, perhaps feigning death.
“I’m a doctor. I won’t hurt you. Do you speak English?”
Whoever it was remained curled in a big ball. I waited for several minutes, just watching, hoping she would relax a bit and make a move. She didn’t. It was Robert Porter all over again.
Or was it? All my experience was telling me that something didn’t seem quite right about the situation. The appearance of an “alter ego” seemed too pat, too calculated, perhaps too soon. It was almost as if she were overacting, faking the whole thing. But, of course, I could be wrong. In this business there aren’t any rules. Whatever the case, I couldn’t just leave her sitting there frozen in her chair.
I leaned back and said, a little louder, “Fled, are you there?” The apparent alter sat up a little straighter. “All right, fled, I’m going to count backward from five one. At ‘five’ you’ll begin to awaken, and by the time we get to one, you’ll be completely alert and feeling fine. Five…” She started to come out from wherever she had withdrawn to. “Four…Three…” When I got to “one,” her eyes came into focus. On me.
“Satisfy your morbid curiosity, gene?”
“Not entirely.”
“Well, how close did you come?”
“First of all, you have at least one alter ego.”
“Really? Who?”
“I don’t know. She—if it is a she—wouldn’t talk to me. In fact, she seemed to be afraid to make an appearance at all. I was wondering whether this might give you some idea of who she might be.”
“Someone who’s been badly treated, I should imagine.”
“Thank you, doctor fled. Can you be more specific?”
“Not without more information. What did this being look like?”
“A lot like you.”
“I was joking, doc. If I had an alter ego, she would have to look a lot like me, wouldn’t she?”
“Not necessarily. But let’s get serious for a moment, shall we? Do you have any idea who a putative alter could be, or not? Have you talked to anyone lately—in Congo, perhaps—who might fit the bill?” I took a leap of faith here: “A prostitute, perhaps?”
“I deeply resent that implication! But if you must be serious for a moment: no. No prostitutes, as far as I know.”
“Any other Congolese women?”
“I’ve met a few. Where is this getting us?”
“Not very far. I’ll have to think about it a little more. In the meantime, let me ask you: where else have you been since you got to Earth?”
“Besides here?”
“Yes, dammit. And Congo.”
“Relax, my humorless friend. You’re behaving like Rocky. I’ve been to a smattering of other countries on that continent.”
“Learn anything interesting about their life forms?”
“Plenty.”
“For example…”
“They’re all beautiful places, with a multitude of fascinating beings. Except for the humans, of course. They’re the same everywhere.”
“Okay, let me ask you this: did you find anyone who might qualify as a traveling companion when you return to K-PAX?”
“Yes, indeedy. Quite a few, in fact.”
“Can you tell me who they might be?”
“They might be everyone I’ve encountered. But they’re not.”
“Thank you very much. Could you elaborate on that?”
“I could, but I won’t. The walls might have ears.”
I was worried about the same thing. But I proceeded, nevertheless. “Any of them residents of this institutution?”
“That’s amazing! From Congo to here at light speed!”
“Care to give me any names?”
“I’ll give you all 100,000 names if you like. But not until everything is lined up.”
“Thanks again. Any progress on finding a football stadium or the like? Or setting a date for the trip?”
“I’m still looking into that.”
“Well, will you give me a few days’ notice before you go?”
“If there are a few days left when everything is set, they’re all yours.” She yawned. “Anything else I can do for you today?”
“Jerry would like to meet you. He’s in Ward Three.”
“I know where he is.”
“Oh, and one more thing. Your interview for the British magazine article is scheduled for next Wednesday. Will that be convenient for you?”
“As all get out.” Without another word she got up and loped out. “Don’t forget the veggies,” drifted back from the corridor.
After she had gone I sat there pondering what I had just seen. If fled’s alter ego was for real, and she wasn’t a prostitute, what about the other side of the coin: could she be someone who had been sexually abused? That would explain her reticence to come forward, her attempting to hide from me. But if she were an African woman, how on Earth would we be able to track her down so that we might be able to get help for her? The immensity of the concept again brought to mind the bigger question of whether everyone on Earth has a parallel life somewhere among the stars. It was just so overwhelming. And I had forgotten again to ask fled about Steve…. I told myself I really ought to consider retirement. Then I remembered that I was already retired.
* * *
Thanks to prot’s influence, perhaps, my son Will, despite his lack of experience, has quickly become the hospital’s expert on multiple personality disorder. Sorry—that’s old-fashioned—we call it dissociative identity disorder now, or DID. I wanted to speak to him about fled and her putative alter(s), but he was with a patient, so I left him a note. While I waited, I took a stroll around the lawn, hoping to sort out what I had just seen and heard.
Fled was already there, occupying a corner with the toad man. Everyone else was apparently still keeping his or her distance. I went up to Darryl, another of the former “Magnificent Seven.” The reader might recall that this patient suffers from de Clerambault’s syndrome: in his case, he believes that Meg Ryan is in love with him. On the surface, this doesn’t seem like an unmanageable problem. We all harbor secret desires, but with de Clerambault’s the fantasy is entirely real and occupies much of one’s thoughts and beliefs. Darryl’s room is covered with photos of Ms. Ryan, he has all of her videotaped films (which he’s watched dozens and dozens of times), and copies of most of the magazines that contain articles and pictures of the lovely film star. In fact, he was once her stalker, using every available means to find his way into her home, onto her film sets. He caused her no physical harm, of course—stalkers rarely do—but it must have been unnerving for her to find evidence for the presence of an unknown visitor to her bedroom, to repeatedly spot his face in a crowd. No one has been able to convince him that his feelings are unrequited. Indeed, it must be very difficult for anyone who is deeply in love to comprehend the reality that he or she might not be loved back.