MONDAY
My name is Edward Avery, and I am the Port-A-Potty for all of your problems.I sit here, seemingly more important than you, with my volumes of leather-bound books behind me, and I listen to you. I write. Sometimes I care. I’ve been doing this for 12 years. My hair is starting to grey, but I still love coming to work. It pays well, especially with this economic depression. More and more people are freaking out, so they tell their sob stories and fears to me at a nice hourly rate. Most of these people are boring, honestly, but every now and then, I get a good one.
I kind of get a kick out of how they can’t see what I’m writing. They see me jotting notes down, adding a thoughtful “Mhmm,” every now and then, and they think I’m doing some deep psychological shit, like I’m pointing out syndromes or drawing diagrams to help figure out why they’re so messed up. I’d say about half the time, I’m making a grocery list. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still listening, but if you have something run-of-the-mill like simply depression or a worry that your husband is cheating on you, I’ve heard it a million times.
“But how does that make you feel?”
Skim milk, eggs, Cheez-Its.
“Were you close with your father before he passed away?”
Toilet paper, bread, white wine.
“Has your uncle ever touched you inappropriately?”
Oatmeal, bleach, tomatoes.
It’s the really messed-up ones that keep me coming into work. Like today, I talked with a woman who was having some marital problems. Some women can only orgasm on top, some can only orgasm on bottom; we found out that she can only orgasm while listening to the Star-Spangled Banner. It’s a rather rare affliction, as you can imagine.
TUESDAY
Today wasn’t too bad. I talked with a woman, who, after eight months of marriage, was already bored and wanting to sleep with her husband’s best friend. She lives down the street for me. See, that’s another great thing about being a psychiatrist in a small town like this. I know your innermost fears. I know what you’re thinking. Eventually, it defines you.I don’t see Brad McVeigh filling up his car at the gas station. I see the guy, who at 55 years old, is still deathly afraid of clowns.
I don’t see Amy Kern walking her dog. I see the woman with an Electra complex.
I don’t see Josh Hendrickson at the movie theater with a buddy or two. I see the poor kid who’s scared to tell his parents that he’s gay.
Today, I was lucky, though. With no appointments after three, I was able to sneak home early, get into my comfy clothes and watch TV. Carolyn was sweet enough to cook dinner, another worry gone from my mind. At around 10, we crawled into bed, as we’ve done for 14 years, and went to sleep.
WEDNESDAY?
I jolted up, my face iced with sweat.Holy shit.
Where are my glasses?
I squint, looking at my alarm clock. It says, maybe, 3:30. Could be 8:30. Who knows?
I had a disturbing feeling of déjà vu. I sat, half naked, trying to figure out what just happened. I remember running, being chased. By who or what, I don’t know. I don’t remember looking back to see. I remember jumping a fence. I remember being scared for my life. I just knew I had to get away from this person. I remember it being dark. I remember looking, no, feeling like shit.
I remember running across a street.
Then I woke up.
That’s what I remember. But it all seemed so familiar.
I had to lie back down. I tried to go to sleep, and eventually did, only to have to wake up a couple hours later.
WEDNESDAY
As soon as she walked into my office, I knew.Last night rushed back to me, knocking me into reality.
Angela Friedman is 24 years old, a junior college student and really a sweet girl. She’s got blonde hair and blue eyes. One of them has a black ring around it, poorly masked by makeup.
“So, Miss Friedman, how have things gone since we talked last week?”
She sat in the leather chair next to me, crouched over, arms around her stomach, looking at the floor.
“Well… I don’t know. I moved back in with him the other day. He said he was sorry. He told me he really loved me.”
I’m holding her file, flipping through the pages. Shortly after I read the reminder to pick up some more salsa at the grocery store, I saw the notes from last week’s meeting. She told me how the previous night, her boyfriend tried to beat her again. She had to run away. She went to her mom’s house, which was a little less than a mile away. She jumped a fence, going through someone’s backyard to get away from him.
Then I knew. Had to just be a coincidence. I knew that Angela was scheduled for today, and she was one of the few people I did truly care about. That was why I had the dream, of course.
We talked more. She said that she was scared of leaving, that he’d find her. I told her to find a friend outside of town for a while, to clear her head for a week and see if she still feels the same way. This wasn’t a good situation for her. She deserved better.
Angela left after a while, thanking me, tears in her eyes.
I got ready for my 1 o’clock appointment, a new patient.
Grant Weimer is 17 years old, thin but not malnourished. The kind of kid you could see volunteering at a soup kitchen in his spare time. He wasn’t anything outstanding, but he had a trusting smile.
His eyes, though, gave me reason to think otherwise.
THURSDAY
It took me a little while to realize where I was. I was sitting at a desk. I remember looking up at a teacher, whose words slurred like his (or her) Peanuts pedagogical counterpart.It stopped talking.
I looked down at a blank sheet of paper. It looked back at me, growling.
I took another look at the teacher. It looked like… no… it couldn’t be. Mrs. Jean, my Psychology 101 professor, freshman year. Maybe. I recognized it as her, but it didn’t look like her.
I remember not knowing what was on the test. It was blank for me, but I looked to my right, and his paper had questions.
I looked at the clock.
It inched closer to 12. What that meant — the end of the exam, the end of the day, the end of time — I didn’t know. I just knew that I had to finish this before the hands of that black-and-white clock pointed north.
I looked at that other paper again. It was wrong, but it felt so right.
Mrs. Jean shot me a glare. A Medusa look.
The clock struck 12. I woke up. Sweating again.
Shit.
I sat up, scared. I reached over to my nightstand, picking up my glasses, putting them on. It was 2:37 in the morning. I was careful not to disturb Carolyn, who was snoring quite loudly. When we first started dating, she sounded like a kitten while sleeping. Now it sounds like she’s swallowed one.
That sense of déjà vu rejoined me. I pushed the covers aside, lifting myself out of bed, and reached for my briefcase. I took it to the living room, going over yesterday’s notes.
Grant Weimer:
- 17 years old, student at Kennedy High
- Says he really wants to get into Duke
- Call Carolyn, ask if she can take “Snakes on a Plane” back to Blockbuster
- “I feel so pressured to do well”
- “I can’t tell my parents… I’m so ashamed. Everyone else was doing it, too. The teacher wasn’t looking.”
- He’s going to be valedictorian, too stressed to write speech
I stopped there. I’d read enough. I realized what was happening. For the first time in a while, I didn’t want to go to work today. Maybe these dreams were a warning, telling me I need to listen more. I had that sinking feeling in my stomach, but I knew I had to continue. This isn’t some office job where if you call in sick, you just miss out on paperwork. I work with people. You can’t just e-mail them in.
I put the file away, closed my briefcase and went back to bed. I cuddled Carolyn tight. She’s always been a heavy sleeper, thank God, so she couldn’t feel my fear.
I went in to work that morning, saw the first name on my schedule and felt my heart stop. I had a bad feeling.
Gerald White (he hated being called “Jerry”). 53 years old. Former stockbroker. Lost his job two weeks ago. Wife left him for a 25-year-old last month. Improving, but still a long way from recovery.
Gerald walked into my office. Normally dressed in a suit and tie, he flopped into the leather chair wearing an old workout shirt and sweatpants. He was sweating heavily, mainly around the armpits. He said he tried going for a run this morning to take his mind off things.
“Are you ok?”
“No… I don’t know. Last night… I…”
“It’s okay. You can tell me.”
I wanted to hear what he was saying, but ignore him completely.
“Last night…”
He wiped his eyes. Could’ve been sweat. Could’ve been tears.
“Last night… I tried to commit suicide. I took every pill I could find — antidepressants, aspirins, vitamins. I couldn’t take it. I don’t see the point anymore. I fucked that up too! I threw everything back up. What do I do now?”
I told him to be thankful he’s alive now, there is a reason for it. I told him to find a friend or family member and go see a movie or something tonight. I gave him my cell phone number, telling him to call me if he feels these emotions come back tonight.
He left, feeling relieved. I stumbled through the rest of my appointments. Trying to focus, hoping I’d be dreaming their nightmare, not Gerald’s.
I went home at about 5, which was normal. I went through the door and saw that Carolyn was already home from work. Beat me by a few minutes. I gave her the biggest hug ever and told her everything. I couldn’t go to sleep tonight.
Suicide brought back such painful memories. I could remember when I was 18, a senior in high school and still full of hope. I walked home from school and found my older brother Jason, lifeless on his bed with an empty bottle of painkillers in one hand and a love note to some slut in the other. I was the one that had to tell my parents. Since then, I’ve wanted to help people so they wouldn’t have to go through the same thing.
Carolyn understood. She stuck with me, watching TV until the wee hours of the night. After a while, though, her hand went limp. I could feel her heavy head on my shoulder. She was out.
FRIDAY
I rationalized this. It’s a dream. It can’t hurt. I need to sleep. I looked at the clock — 2:17. I can do this. I took my glasses off, setting them by the nightstand. I looked up at the roof, at the oatmeal-like nook and crannies. I started counting them.One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
And so on.
I lost count after 100. I did not want to go to sleep. I tossed and turned.
I looked at the clock. It was blurry.
I was slipping. I felt the walls closing in. I had to get out. I wrangled with my covers like they were trapping me in. I wasn’t about to go to sleep. Goddamnit, no. This was too much. Everything started coming back to me. Jason’s pale blue face on his pale blue pillow. Picturing Gerald popping pills like M&Ms. Remembering the truly crazy people I’ve talked to in all of my years as a psychiatrist. The guy who thinks the Prime Minister of Canada is going to take over the world. The woman who couldn’t trust anything related to the number four. The man who thought Buddha has a ghost penis living in his cereal. Okay, maybe I made that last one up.
???
This room was suffocating me.I had to get out. Now.
I was in my boxers and a t-shirt. I grabbed my keys, leaving the house and walking to my car. Did I lock the door? Did I close the door? I don’t know. I don’t care, either.
I drove. There was no one on the roads. I didn’t care about stop signs or even stop lights. I drove out to the booneys, watching the dotted yellow lines blur. Darkness swallowed me.
I lost control at some point, steering haphazardly. I could see a hint of dawn, so I knew I was getting closer to day. But it was still dark.
I went through a fence.
I think.
I saw water.
I felt water.
I took a breath.
I didn’t wake up.
