Pandemonium

“That woman” was twenty feet away, a stack of folders and thick books the size of photo albums in her arms. She’d been ferrying them into the dining room while Dr. Waldheim sorted them into piles on the long table, and the Other Dr. Waldheim sat at the table studying the screen of a laptop newer and thinner than the one O’Connell had broken. The empty wheelchair took up the spot next to him. O’Connell set down her load and glanced up at me. I stepped out of the archway, out of her line of sight, and leaned against the stainless steel face of the refrigerator.

It took me many minutes to explain to Mom that I’d left of my own free will, that I was working out things with these new therapists O’Connell knew, that I was fine. It was clear that she didn’t believe me. Or if she believed me, she didn’t understand. How could I sneak out of the hospital when I was still hurt? How could I leave Lew alone like that?

“So when are they letting him out?” I said. A second distraction attempt.

“He’s going to be released tomorrow. We’re going to start driving back in the afternoon. But if you come back, we’ll wait for you. We have both cars.”

“Mom, I wish I could, but I can’t right now.”

“Del, you’re only getting deeper in trouble.” Her voice shook, and I realized it had been years—maybe as far back as my pool accident in high school—since I’d heard her sound so sad, so truly dismayed.

“The police want to talk to you about that doctor who died downtown. And the people you’ve been seeing—this Bertram person won’t stop visiting Lew, and that old woman at the motel. There are things they’re not saying, Del. It’s not just me, Amra thinks so too. And this woman you left with—she’s a priest?”

I started to answer and she interrupted me. “Del, you need to be careful. These people will tell you they have all the answers. They’ll make all kinds of promises. But they can’t help you. Come home, talk to someone objective, someone we trust. I’ll call Dr. Aaron. I’m sure she can—”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I can’t.”

She kept talking. All I could do was repeat that I was sorry, that I couldn’t come back home, that she shouldn’t worry about me. I couldn’t tell her that she was talking to an imposter.

“Take care of Lew,” I said. “I’ll call again as soon as I can.”

I hung up the phone. Braced myself against the stove, leaning over the cold cast-iron burners. Breathing. Still fucking breathing. O’Connell moved into my peripheral vision. After a while she said, “We have some things we’d like you to look at.”

“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

Meg and Fred Waldheim looked up as I came in, seemed to study me as I sat opposite the wheelchair. I had to give them this much: they didn’t look afraid. Fred seemed positively fascinated, like a bombsniffing dog nosing a dubious suitcase. Meg said, “You must be struggling to come to terms with the situation.”

I picked up one of the books. Smokestack Johnny Routes, 1946–1986. “What situation is that, exactly?” I said. Fred nodded, as if I’d made an excellent point. “We only saw what happened during the session, what you saw on the video,” he said. His beard obscured his mouth so that it was hard to tell when his lips were moving. Maybe it was a ventriloquist act, and I was supposed to play along and talk to the wheelchair. “We can make guesses, but no one can tell us what it means but you.”

“Bullshit. We all know what’s going on.”

“Why don’t you tell us?” Meg said. Soft, comforting Meg. I shook my head. They might be grand wizards of an elite Gnostic/Jungian secret society, but they sounded like every psychiatrist I’d ever met.

“All right then, let me explain it to you. I’m a fucking demon, okay?” Meg blinked, but didn’t interrupt me. “Something happened when I was—when Del was five. The Hellion took him, but it didn’t let go. He stayed. He went native.”

I was crying again, dammit. I never had controlled everything about this body. Not the way I’d controlled Lew.