Perfect Strangers

Ilisten carefully as Edmond begins to describe the multi-dimensional state referred to as psychosis. He goes on for several minutes about the variety of personality disorders that can lead to the diagnosis—including schizophrenia, delusional disorder, and the like—and the various things that can exacerbate it, such as misuse of illegal drugs. He follows that up with a clinical description of what happens to a person experiencing psychosis: hallucinations, disordered thinking, delusions, and sometimes catatonia, where the individual is completely lost in their fantasy world and non-responsive to outside stimuli.

Which of course I’m already familiar with.

“But I didn’t have any of those personality disorders you mentioned,” I interrupt, agitated. “I never abused drugs. I’d never been diagnosed with any medical problems, mental or otherwise. How could someone like me, specifically, become psychotic? What would be the trigger?”

In the following silence, I can tell that he’s carefully choosing his words.

“You may not have had a formal diagnosis of depression, but you were undoubtedly depressed.”

When I don’t say anything, he continues. “Your relationship with your husband was strained. You’d discovered he was having an affair…with someone much younger than you. Even before that, the two of you had been drifting apart, and you felt extremely lonely. You told me you were having trouble with the idea of turning forty in a few years, and you longed for another child, but didn’t want one with your husband because of what a poor father you found him to be. Inattentive and cold were your exact words.”Property © 2024 N0(v)elDrama.Org.

Two things he had in common with his alter ego in my hallucination. “Go on.”

“Then…the accident happened.”

He lets it hang there for a moment in all its monstrosity.

“Shortly after the accident, you were diagnosed with a terminal illness.” His voice gentles. “And when you were eventually confined to a wheelchair as the disease progressed, you experienced what we refer to as a psychotic break. Simply put, your mind could no longer handle the stress and pain of reality, so it kicked into self-defense mode and took you on a beautiful vacation.”

Anguished, I close my eyes. An image of James appears behind my lids. He’s heartbreakingly handsome. His beautiful blue eyes burn as brightly as they always did.

I whisper, “It felt more real to me than this does, talking with you right now.” A thought occurs to me, and I open my eyes. “How do I know this is real? How can I be sure I’m not hallucinating you?”

Edmond shrugs. “It’s a legitimate question. I’ve never experienced a hallucination, but every patient I’ve worked with gives the same account: there was no discernible difference between their hallucinations and ‘real’ life.”

Hope surges inside me again. My heart pounding, I say eagerly, “So maybe this is all a dream? Maybe one day I’ll wake up and be back in France with James?”

Edmond leans back in his chair. He exhales heavily, then rubs a hand over his eyes. When he speaks again, he sounds weary. “I know it’s tempting to believe. But if there’s anything I’ve learned in my time on Earth, it’s this: if it seems to good to be true, it is.”

Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. “That’s not proof of anything.”

“No one can offer you proof of reality, not even Einstein himself. But just because it can’t be proven doesn’t mean the sun won’t rise tomorrow. It will.”

When I only stare at him with a challenging look, unsatisfied by his answers, he takes a different approach.

“Let’s talk about the man you call James.”

The way he says James’s name makes me feel defensive. “What about him?”

“He’s beautiful. By your own description, an Adonis. He’s soulful. Artistic. Attentive. Accomplished. Intelligent.” Edmond pauses. “He’s also ruggedly masculine and strong, incredibly virile and sexually experienced, but also conveniently single…and has been celibate for years. But the moment he sees you, he falls in love. Forgive me for saying so, but that only ever happens in a romance novel. That’s not real life.”

Miserable, I mutter, “I never said he fell in love the minute he saw me.”

On a roll now, Edmond ignores me. “This beautiful man pursues you relentlessly. You have an intense sexual and emotional connection with him, despite knowing him a very short time. He makes you feel desired, needed, and happy for the first time in many years.”

I groan. “Okay, you’ve made your point! I created the perfect man!”

“So perfect he becomes the dark knight who slays the dragon of your guilt. The thing your conscious mind cannot bear to face: you were the cause of your child’s death. Instead, Emmie’s death came from an assassin’s bullet—a bullet meant for your husband. Thereby excusing you of wrongdoing and shifting the blame to him.”

Edmond’s voice lowers. “And when your James killed the killer, the circle was complete. Justice was served. You lived happily-ever-after in a beautiful place untouched by the outside world and even conceived a child with the man who set everything right. The man who, ironically, brought death only to those deserving of it. The killer with a code of honor.”

After another pause, Edmond adds, “The only killers who have a moral code, my dear, are fictional.” His voice grows pityingly tender. “Or figments of our imagination.”

I don’t realize I’m crying until the room begins to blur.

Edmond presses a button on the intercom on his desk. “Catherine, would you have Ernest come to my office, please?”

Standing, Edmond grabs tissues from a box next to his phone and comes around his desk to blot my cheeks with them. “I’m sorry, Olivia,” he murmurs. “I know this is difficult. What you’re feeling is normal. You’ve experienced a loss, and you’re grieving. Allow yourself to grieve the loss of James and your time together, then turn all your focus and energy on healing. And I meant what I said about writing a book: not only could it be of value to others, I believe it would be good therapy for you to get it all out.”

Ernest arrives, looking alarmed to find me in tears. He sends an accusing glare toward Edmond, then grabs the handles of my chair and guides me to the door.

“Wait.”

Ernest leans over to cock an inquisitive brow at me.

“I need to ask him something before we go.”

Looking as if he doesn’t agree at all with this decision, Ernest swings my chair around so I’m facing Edmond. He’s behind his big oak desk again, hands folded over the manila file that I assume contains all the dirt on me there is to dig.

I say, “You didn’t tell me about the warning signs of psychosis.”

“Ah. Yes. Well, typically patients report things like unusual sensitivity to light and noise, memory problems, withdrawal from social relationships, increased suspiciousness or aggression, inappropriate laughter or crying…”

He goes on. I don’t recall any of the symptoms he’s listing happening to me.

Irritated, I interrupt him. “What if there weren’t any of those signs? Could there be something else? Like…like a main cause? A single event that would be the straw that breaks the camel’s back?”

Edmond gazes at me with deep sympathy shining in his eyes. “I know it would be reassuring to have a sole trigger we could point to, but the reality is that the onset of psychosis is typically a slow downward slide, not an abrupt snap. I’ll send a list of symptoms home with you today so your husband can be on the lookout for any unusual behavior. Keep on top of your meds and let your psychiatrist know immediately if you start to feel anything odd.”

He picks up his pen and begins to write on a pad of paper, and just like that, I’m dismissed.

As Ernest wheels me out of the office and back to the dayroom, he starts to sing softly to himself. He has a beautiful smooth bass voice that goes perfectly with the soulful tune of the song.

Still distracted by my meeting with Edmond, I ask, “What is that you’re singing? It’s pretty.”

“Old gospel song. You recognize it?”

It sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it. “Should I?”

He chuckles. “They been playin’ the album it’s from in the lounge every Sunday since you got here, sweetheart.”

So that’s why it sounds familiar. “Who’s the artist?”

“Legendary gospel singer who died about twenty years ago. Name was James Blackwood.”

I close my eyes and let the pain burn through me until I’m nothing inside but ashes.

It’s getting dark by the time Chris picks me up in a wheelchair-accessible van on loan from the body shop where he works. It doesn’t belong to the shop: a client left it for repair.

We exchange a muted greeting without meeting each other’s eyes.

The other patients watch from the lounge windows on the third floor as Ernest loads me into the van in the parking lot while a reluctant Chris stands nearby, watching, looking like he needs an airsickness bag.

When I’m securely buckled into the back, my wheelchair strapped down so it can’t roll around during the ride, Ernest leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “Gonna miss you, Miss Olivia. You take care now, you hear?”

“You, too, Ernest,” I say, fighting tears. I wish like hell I could hug him.

Then the back doors are closing. I watch through the third-story windows as a thrashing and screaming Gigi is dragged off by an orderly. A few feet away, Gaspard raises a thin hand in farewell. It’s the first time he’s ever acknowledged me.

He turns and shuffles out of sight of the windows. Chris guns the engine and we pull away.

I don’t break down until later, much later, after Chris is snoring on the sofa in the living room and I’m alone in the dark in the master bedroom, lying on the dirty sheets where he left me, in a soiled diaper that’s starting to smell.

The next day begins the routine that passes for what I call “life.”

The caregiver arrives promptly at 8am, startling Chris from a sound sleep. He’d forgotten she was coming.

“Good thing you got here when you did, or I’d be late for work,” he says, scratching his belly as he leads her into the master bedroom. He sends me an irritated glance. “With all the excitement yesterday, I forgot to set my alarm.”

The caregiver, a robust German woman named Maria after Julie Andrews’ singing nanny character in The Sound of Music—I swear I couldn’t make this shit up—has what I call a forceful personality. Meaning that she intimidates the holy hell out of Chris, who starts avoiding her the second after she gives him a vicious scolding for leaving me alone all night in my “state.”

I like her immediately.

When she asks me how I got on before she came, I tell her my husband cared for me. She darkly mutters a few things in German that sound frightening, possibly because they’re in German. Then, in English, she tells me not to worry because Maria is in charge now—as I’ll come to discover, she enjoys referring to herself in the third person—and everything is going to be swell from here on out.

I think that’s an exaggeration, but I don’t call her on it. Right now, I need all the friends I can get.

Maria changes my diaper, bathes me, feeds me, and cleans the house, all with the masterful efficiency for which the Germans are famous. By the time Kelly comes to visit at noon, my home is sparkling, my stomach is full, and I’m—dare I say it?—in a good mood.

Or at least a non-suicidal one.

Kelly takes one look at me sitting propped up in bed and promptly bursts into tears.

“You’re welcome to some of my anti-depressants,” I tell her. “Now please come over here and give me a hug before I start crying, too.”

She drops the bag she’s carrying on the floor and runs to me. I’m engulfed in a hug and a cloud of her floral perfume.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice choked. “I don’t mean to be such a wuss. It’s just so good to see you.”

I know she means it’s good to see me here at home and not in the awful mental institution where she’d been visiting me daily to read me books. Hemingway’s books, because my real life is Opposite Land from my delusional one.

In this life, I love the macho old goat. Go figure.

“It’s good to see you, too. Did you bring it?”

Sniffling, she withdraws, nods, and wipes her wet cheeks with her fingers. “Yup. Do you want me to turn it on and leave you alone, or should I stay?”

I think about that for a minute. “Will it be too weird for you to listen to? Because if you think you can handle all the gory details of my delusions, I’d like you here. Moral support and whatnot.”

She says softly, “Sure, babe. I’d love to stay.” After a beat, she adds, “Are you allowed to drink alcohol? Because I brought snacks and a bottle of rosé. I figured if you wanted me around while you did your recording thing, we’d probably both need some booze.”

I beam at her. She’s such a good fucking friend. “Nope, I’m not supposed to drink. Now crack open that bottle, pour me a big ol’ glass, and settle in, because I’m gonna tell you a story that will blow. Your. Mind. By the way, you’re in it.”

“Oh God. Did I have bad hair?”

She’s always had this weird insecurity about her hair, which is thick, shiny, and glorious. For some reason, she lives in fear of it all falling out.

I smile blandly at her. “I couldn’t tell, because you shaved it all off in an act of radical feminism. You also grew out your armpit and leg hair and stopped wearing deodorant.”

When she stares balefully at me, I sigh and give up. “I only talked to you on the phone, but you sounded like you had fabulous hair. Happy?”

She claps, then hops up from the edge of the bed to retrieve the bag she came with. From it, she produces a small tape recorder, which she sets on my lap. Then she brings out a cheese plate complete with crackers and salami, a bunch of green grapes, and the bottle of rosé.

“Wow. We’re picnicking. This is awesome, Kell.”

“Twist off wine caps are a genius invention,” she says, cheerfully tossing the metal cap aside. It lands on the floor and rolls under the bed. I smile, imagining Maria on her hands and knees later, muttering German curses as she retrieves it.

Then Kelly stops short. Looking around, she says, “Oh fuck.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t bring any straws!”

It takes me a second before I understand. Then I start laughing. “Then you’ll just have to hold my glass for me and give me little sips whenever I demand them, won’t you, nurse?”

Kelly’s expression sours. “I think you’re enjoying that idea a little too much, princess.” She pours some of the wine into two plastic cups, then sets the bottle on my bedside table.

“Cheers,” she says, tapping the cups together.

“Cheers, bitch. I love you.”

“I love you, too, babe.” Trying to quickly blink away the moisture in her eyes, she lifts one of the cups to my lips so I can drink.

It’s cold, tart, and delicious. I swallow, smacking my lips. “Yummy. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She throws her head back and downs her entire cup of wine.

Laughing, I say, “Some things never change.”

Shrugging, she pours herself another cupful. “You have to drink rosé before it gets warm. There’s nothing more depressing than room temperature pink wine.”

“Except maybe the dayroom at the Rockland Psychiatric Center.”

Kelly freezes in horror, looking at me with wide eyes.

“Oh stop,” I say wearily. “If I can’t joke about it, it’ll be way worse.”

After a moment, she sends me a tentative smile. “Does this mean I can still call you a nutjob like I used to before you were technically a nutjob?”

“I’d be offended if you didn’t. Now give me another sip of my wine and turn this recorder thingy on. Let’s get started.”

And that’s how the dictation of my memoir of catatonic psychosis began.

When it was finished five weeks later, I titled it Until September.

Because fate isn’t the only one with a dark sense of humor.