I commiserated. No one knows better than I that it’s not easy to outsmart a mental patient. But before I could say another word, she pleaded with me to speak to fled about Rick—not to ask her to cure him, or even read his mind, but to take him to K-PAX! Then she scurried away, perhaps embarrassed to have finally given up on a very difficult patient. Was she shirking her responsibility? Or was there a different motive? Did she simply think Rick would be genuinely happier there and, as a good doctor, badly wanted that for him? Or was she suggesting that anyone who was having a hard time coping with his life might be happier on K-PAX, including, perhaps, herself? Was she one of the staff members who was thinking of applying for a spot on the roster? Did she fit any of the criteria outlined by fled for passenger status? I was surprised to discover that I knew absolutely nothing about this young psychiatrist, and really very little about what made most of my former colleagues, especially the newer ones, tick.
At this point Dr. Sauer came running down the staircase, his tie askew, his wet lab coat hanging limply out of his bag. When he spotted me he lurched to a stop and laughed crazily before taking off again through the lounge and out the front door, back into the endless rain. The patients and I watched him go without comment, though some of them emitted an uncertain chuckle or two.
A moment later fled came roaring into the lounge. If this was laughter, it was far different from the neurologist’s, and it produced a few genuine guffaws among the inmates. “You humans are hilarious!” she exclaimed.
“Why?” I asked her. “What happened?”
“Your government agents had told him that I might be able to read minds. But of course he wanted to experience that for himself.”
“And?”
“He didn’t waste any time. As soon as he got there, he asked me tell him what he was thinking about.”
“Well?”
“What a mess his head was! There was breakfast, his mother, a teenage daughter, his ex-wife, a few girlfriends, Jesus Christ, something about flaying, shooting rabbits with a BB gun, and a hundred other things—you name it. But those were only the surface thoughts. Underneath all that he was masturbating like a teenager, visiting whorehouses, undressing his sister, screwing a nun, and all kinds of other weird fantasies. If that’s what they were. Someone should write a book about him!”
“So you told him all this?”
“When I described, in intimate detail, what his deepest desires amounted to, he freaked out and tried to rape me!”
“Did he succeed?”
“Not exactly!”
“You mean—”
“Let’s say I offered no resistance.”
I was pretty sure I was going to hear about this from Dartmouth and Wang. “What about the examination?”
“He said I passed….” She threw back her head and emitted a loud “Harrrrruppp!” Everyone roared with her, except for Barney, unfortunately. Whether they all knew what they were laughing about was another matter.
Before fled could disappear again I took her aside and asked her point blank whether she could find the time to read the minds of each of our patients while she was still here, try to find anything we didn’t yet know that might uncover the deeply-buried roots of their problems.
“You mean their sexual fantasies?”
I couldn’t tell whether she was joking or not. “Not just that. I mean everything that’s in there. To find out what the fundamental causes of their mental problems might be.”
She hooted again. “Prot warned me you’d try to trick me into doing your job for you.”
“I don’t have a job. I’m retired, remember?”
“Relax, dr. b. I just have a few more places to visit and I’ll be finished with my study of your life forms.”
“What about your list of travel companions?”
“That, too. And I need to check out a few possible departure sites. After that, I’ll see what I can do for your patients.”
* * *
On the way home I got to thinking about Mrs. Weathers, and aging in general. It’s tough to get old. You tire more easily, and when you rest it doesn’t help as much as it used to. Everything is more difficult except for losing your balance, and things you could once eat with impunity now give you heartburn. You don’t even think as well as you should. And it all comes on so gradually that it’s barely noticeable at first. But eventually there comes a time when you ask yourself: what’s wrong with me? And there inevitably comes another time when it finally hits you: you’re old! Your only consolation is that you’ve lived long enough to get to this state.
At this point you get philosophical. You’re lucky. You have a nice home and family, you’ve got enough money to be reasonably comfortable, you’ll probably live several more years. You can’t do everything you used to, but there are plenty of things you still enjoy. Life is good. Then you remember: in another twenty years or so (an instant!) you’ll be in a nursing home with a batch of feeble old farts like yourself, and this goes on for another few years, until finally you will get sick and die. It makes you wonder what was the point. Then you realize that there is actually one good thing about growing old—you finally know the answer to that question: there isn’t any! There’s only one secret worth knowing: have fun while you can!
At that moment the sun came out and, as always, I forgot about my morbid ruminations.
Later that evening, while I was enjoying myself with a sudoku puzzle (the damn addictive things), Fred called. After his mother got through with him we had a good talk. At last he was taking the plunge! A date hadn’t been set, but this time it was definite. “Which one is it?”
“The ballerina.”
“But you’ve been with her off and on for as long as I can remember….”
“That’s just it—I finally realized that I always come back to her. And we’re not getting any younger, you know.”
“Tell me about it!” I said, and proceeded to unload on him my current thoughts on aging.
After I had gone through it all, his only comment was, “Enjoy myself? Well ‘duh,’ Dad. I’ve known that all my life.” So much for the wisdom of one’s elders.
Our perceptive son went on to tell me about his latest film role in which he would be playing, ironically, an old man, with flashbacks to his past dissolute life. But the main reason he had called, besides announcing his pending engagement, was that I had mentioned Darryl to him at some point, and evidently it stuck with him (I think he’s a little in love with Meg Ryan himself). In any case he had run across someone who looked a lot like Ms. Ryan, and he wondered whether he should send her over to the hospital to meet Darryl. She was a good extemporaneous actress, he said, and could make herself so unpleasant that it might turn him away from the object of his affections forever.
“How soon could she get there?” I asked him.
“Probably sometime next week.”
I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of this myself. “That’s a great idea, Freddie. But it may be too late.”
“Why?”
“Fled is going to read all the patients’ minds. Try to find out what’s really bugging them. Maybe we’ll already know what’s wrong with Darryl before your friend gets there!”
“That’s terrific, Dad. But that doesn’t necessarily mean you can cure them, does it?”
That hadn’t occurred to me, either.
* * *
Goldfarb called me at home on Saturday (I’m beginning to consider having the phone disconnected). So did Will and Laura Chang, Jerry’s staff physician. They all had the same message for me, though they expressed their concern in different ways.
Laura, the first to call, actually sounded angry. “Please tell your patients to leave mine in the hospital where they belong.”
“What patients? I don’t have any patients.”
“Fled. She’s disappeared again, only this time she took Jerry with her.”
“What? Where’d they go?”
“I have no idea, Gene. I thought maybe you could tell me.”
“Try to calm down,” was my unasked advice. “Tell me what happened. Did anyone see them leave?”
“No, but several people saw her come to visit Jerry. Next thing we knew, they were gone.”
“Are you saying she kidnapped him? Or did he leave of his own accord?”
“Who knows?” I could see her frowing in that disarming manner she has. “Don’t get me wrong,” she quickly added. “I don’t mind her talking with Jerry. It’s taking him on a joyride that concerns me. Who knows what it might do to an autistic patient. It might be too much for him. Or maybe he won’t want to come back….”
“All right, I see your point. In the first place, fled isn’t really a patient. In the second, she’s left the hospital several times before, and she always comes back. I think we should just play it cool until Monday. She’s supposed to be meeting me and a translator who can speak with chimpanzees through sign language. I predict she’ll show up right on time.”
“And Jerry?”
“Jerry, too. And he’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
“So until then he’s your responsibility?”
“Well—okay, yes. He’s my responsibility.”
Virginia and Will were also concerned, as was most of the other staff. Again, all I could do was try to maintain calm. Privately, I, too, was as concerned as hell. I wasn’t particularly worried about the outcome of fled’s latest escapade, but I hadn’t a clue what she had in mind for Jerry (who was my own patient for a brief period several years earlier). I didn’t even know where they had gone! Goldfarb invited me to the Monday morning staff meeting to further discuss the problem of fled and her “patientnapping.”
I consoled myself with the thought that, even though he had rarely even left Ward Three, Jerry might actually enjoy getting out of the hospital for a while. After all, who knows what goes on in the mind of a severely autistic patient? Perhaps all those inward thoughts are of marvelous adventures, incredible sights, and he might finally get a chance to actually experience some of those for the first time.
But soon enough (I sincerely hoped), we could all ask him this ourselves.
* * *
Dr. Tewksbury, the chimpanzee whisperer, called me on Sunday afternoon while I was watching a Mets game. She and “Filbert” had arrived in Jersey and were safely ensconced in the home of the friend she had mentioned earlier. Both were well, she informed me, and “rarin’ to go.” I summarized what she should expect from her visit with fled, and instructed her on the best way to get to the Institute, which would involve a drive across the GW Bridge and a short hop over to Amsterdam Avenue. If she found this to be an imposing journey, I offered to meet her somewhere and drive in with her.
“No problem,” she assured me. “I’ve been here before.”
“To MPI??”
“No. To Jersey and the Big Apple. In fact, I was born here.”
“Where?”
“Hoboken.”
“Do you know a Joyce Trexler, who—”
“The world isn’t that small, Dr. Brewer.”
“No, I suppose it isn’t,” I replied wistfully. I assured Dr. Tewksbury that the security people had been informed and would be waiting for her at the gate, see that her van was parked, and she and Filbert would be escorted into the hospital. “You won’t need an ID,” I told her. “Filbert will probably be the only chimpanzee at the gate all day.”
“I can’t wait!” she gushed.
“Great,” I replied. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I almost included Dartmouth and Wang in my farewell.
By the time I got back to the game the Mets were six runs behind.
* * *
They phoned later that evening from God knows where. Karen and I were in the kitchen putting away the dishes and discussing a possible Christmas trip to visit Jenny and Anne in California. Karen took the call, rolled her eyes, and handed me the mobile phone. “Hi guys,” I said cheerfully. There was a pause, perhaps because they didn’t know what to make of the unaccustomed familiarity. Wang patiently explained who he was, and apologized for disturbing me at home on a Sunday. But they had learned somehow of fled’s website, and weren’t too happy about it. In fact, they tried to shut it down, but every time they did, it popped back up again. I asked him how they discovered it. “That’s classified,” he snarled. “The point is, we can’t let her suggest that only vegans are welcome on a trip to K-PAX, can we, Dr. Brewer?”
“What’s wrong with vegans?” I asked weakly (as a result of prot’s visit, I was a vegetarian myself, at least most of the time).
“Everything. Do you realize what this would do to the nation’s economy?”
I reminded him that I was a doctor, not an economist.
“Sir, we’d like you to inform your friend that we cannot, and will not, tolerate an alien coming down here and telling us what to eat. Do you understand my meaning?”
“I’ll pass along your message.”
“Thank you. Now about our neurobiologist—do you recall his visit to your hospital?”
It had only been two days before. “Yes, I do. Dr. Sauer.”
I could hear muffled laughter. “Is that what he called himself? Har, har, har. That’s rich…. Anyway, he tells us that the results of his study are inconclusive. He’ll need several more visits to reach any definite conclusions about her mindreading capabilities.”
“I see.”
“And Dr. Brewer?”
“Yes?”
“Based on his preliminary observations, he’d like to line up several colleagues to join him in performing further tests. Do you think that can be arranged?”
“I’ll ask her.”
“Thank you, sir. And according to Dr. ‘Sauer,’ the sooner the better.”
The dial tone came before I could say “You’re welcome” or “Good-bye.” I thought I heard a noise from above. “I think they were on the roof,” I told my wife.
“Maybe it was Santa Claus,” she said.
If the “boys” knew anything about the upcoming visit from Ellen Tewksbury and Filbert, they didn’t mention it.