Exodus 2022 (3 page)

“Why are you treating us like this? What are you thinking?”

Goss swiveled on his stool, removed his glasses, and fixed Ella with a contemptuous gaze.

“I’m thinking,” said the doctor, “that your pal here single-handedly trashed a wonderful island business this morning, and hurt a very good friend of mine in the process.”

“Wait a second. Joe didn’t—”

“I’m
thinking
,” Goss continued, “that this is some kind of game you two are playing.”

“Game?” Ella yelled.

“Doctor Goss,” said Joe, “I can’t explain what happened at the motel. I can’t even remember most of it now. But I swear to you, I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone, and I wasn’t playing games.”

Goss said, “I talked to the detective, Mr. Stanton. I read the health history you gave the nurse. You suffered, allegedly, a stupendous hallucination this morning. A hallucination you shared with everyone at the Breakwater. You screamed, at the top of your lungs, about a kidnapping. A murder. An imaginary kid. Acted completely out of your mind. Such a hallucination could mean that you were suffering from, say, posttraumatic stress disorder—except that you aren’t in the military or any similarly stressful line of work. You could be psychotic, or schizophrenic, and yet you report no history whatsoever of mental illness.”

“Doc—”

“You could have a high fever, or a catastrophic disease, yet clearly, you do not. This could be drug-induced. But, of course you both swear no drugs are involved.”

“You can’t just diagnose off the cuff like this,” Ella said. “He needs tests. An MRI, a CAT scan. Joe could have a brain tumor or something.”

The doctor shrugged. “Anything’s possible. And if you’re not both full of shit, I’d urge you to get it checked out. We don’t have that equipment here. Catch the next ferry for Seattle. Or better yet, an air-evac helicopter. Get those tests. By all means. Right away.”

A NURSE FOLLOWED
Joe and Ella outside, into the clinic parking lot. “I’d like to apologize,” she said. “For Dr. Goss’s behavior. I’m Carla.”

They stopped and turned, Ella still furious. “What the hell
was
that?” she asked. “Why is that guy allowed to see patients? Why is such an asshole allowed to go anywhere
near
patients?”

“He should have retired a long time ago,” admitted the nurse. “A lot of us think so. I’m really sorry.”

The apology seemed to soothe Ella, and she and Carla discussed Joe’s ordeal, talking in medical jargon about tests and procedures. Joe pretended to listen, but soon zoned out. Not because he was tired or disinterested. It was more than that.

The hallucination had come back.

The realization made him catch his breath, like a quick jab to the gut.

It’s back.

It was there, on the periphery of his conscious mind. A glimmer. A mirage shimmering in the distance.

Joe’s heart began to thump.

I’m afraid
, Joe thought.

Afraid of what?
he asked himself.

Afraid of losing my mind. Afraid of—
he went ahead and thought it—
dying.

Don’t write the script.
It was something he told parishioners in counseling.
You don’t know what this is.

I know it’s bad. I know hallucinations are rare. Drug addicts hallucinate. Serious alcoholics. Mental patients. If you’re hallucinating and you’re not any of those things, it means you’re sick. Maybe really sick.

Don’t write the script.

His heart thumped harder, his fear edging toward panic. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He could feel himself drifting into the hallucination again.

Breathe. You’re in control. You’re okay.

Ella and Carla kept chatting in the sunshine, oblivious to his discomfort.

I’m okay. I’m just afraid. And that’s okay.

Breathe.

The self-talk worked, or seemed to. His progress toward the hallucination stopped. It was still there, like a storm beyond the next ridge, but it was no longer drawing him in.

Breathe. I’m in control.

What is this?
Joe wondered.

Dr. Goss was wrong about the morning’s events being a prank. And Spinell was wrong about Joe being a drug addict, but Joe understood how they’d arrived at their conclusions. He probably would have thought “drug addict” too, if he’d seen someone stumbling around a parking lot, shrieking about a nonexistent kid.

Can I look?

The question materialized out of thin air, startling him.

Can I see what this is and stay in control?

His limbs tingled. He shivered.

Can I look over the ridge? Into the storm? Into the hallucination?
Can I do that without getting sucked in?

He wasn’t sure, but he suddenly wanted to try. He had the feeling that if he could peer inside the thing, he might be able to understand what was going on.

Carla said, “What about an ambulance—or air-evac? I can make the call.”

“Insurance would never pay for it,” Ella replied. “And he doesn’t have the money, and—”

Joe tuned out again.

Go for it. Look, but stay in control.

Stay in control.

In control.

He stepped over the ridge.

Stay in control.

“Well, I would definitely get in to see someone right away when you get back,” Carla said. “And—”

He was close to the hallucination now, but also detached from it.

I’m observing this
, he thought.
Not living it. That’s progress.

He relaxed a little and let the hallucination envelop him. It felt like walking back into a dream and seeing every detail with perfect clarity.

Love.

The rawness of the feeling shocked him. Pure, deep love. The close, tender, unique love a parent feels for a child. The kind only a parent can understand. The kind that could induce one to step in front of a bus, or walk through fire, if the situation called for it.

Grief!

Grief flowed through him now. Stabbed his heart. The exquisite grief of a parent who has lost a child.

Joe was not a parent. Had never had a child. He knew what it felt like now, though. And he knew in his bones what it was like to see one’s child die.

And now an image flitted by. A “picture” to accompany the tsunami of emotion. The picture was fragile. Unstable. Barely there. A fragment of a thought.

He tried to seize the image. Hold it. But the harder he tried, the more quickly it faded. It was like trying to catch mist in the sunrise. And then he was outside the hallucination again, on top of the ridge, and only one clear image remained: He was in his little rental house in Bremerton, standing near the entry, looking back down the hall, toward the small kitchen and the sliding glass door to the deck. The door stood open and the sun shone bright on his meager backyard. Ella swept past him, hand in hand with a little girl.

The girl had long red hair, like Ella, and she smiled as she passed, eyes bright and full of life.

They walked outside…and were gone. That was it. All there was.

It was the briefest sliver of a memory, though Joe felt certain there was more. The whole story was there, if only he could access it.

Is this our daughter?
The little girl certainly resembled Ella.
Am I seeing the future?

He turned the notion in his mind. Contemplated it. It was an answer, but he felt in his gut that it was not the right one. He couldn’t explain it, but the image seemed wrong somehow. It seemed—fake.

The grief, loss, and agony that had consumed him in the Breakwater—that lingered in his mind and body still—
that
was real. But the image? It was a lie. Somehow, it was a lie. Joe knew this in his heart.

He tried to understand, but it was too much to process. He shifted his focus. Took a breath.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Is this
a vision? A sign?

Or am I sick?

He focused on his faith. His belief in God.

I believe in God with all my heart
, he thought.
But—

But he was also a skeptic.

I believe that God speaks to us.

But not like this.

The tumult in his mind was too harsh. Too loud. Too abrasive to be of divine origin. He hoped so anyway. This hallucination, or vision, or whatever it was, was the equivalent of someone screaming in his face.

He stepped off the ridge and descended into the storm one final time.

Stay in control.

Ella and Carla stopped talking and turned Joe’s way. His face had gone blank again.

He was peripherally aware of their attention.
I’ll explain in a minute,
he thought.

Stay in control. In control.

The hallucination swept over him.

This loss is new. Fresh. Unbearable. It would be better to die than actually live through this kind of grief.

He tried to understand.

Who is Lorna Gwin?

Nothing. 

He couldn’t conjure another image. Just grief. Overwhelming grief.

“Joe?”

Ella and Carla were moving toward him now. “Joe? You okay? Joe!”

Joe let the vision slip away. Opened his eyes. 

“It’s all right,” he said, steadying himself. 

He stood there with Ella and Carla. In the sunshine. In the real world. Birds sang. A lawn mower droned nearby.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Really.”

THEY DROVE IN
Ella’s blue Jetta, Ella at the wheel. She looked worried.

“Relax,” said Joe. “Everything’s gonna be fine.”

Ella glanced at the blue-green knot on his forehead and winced. “Keep the ice on that,” she said.

“Yes, Nurse Tollefson.”

They wound their way through Friday Harbor, toward the ferry terminal. The sun shone bright and the sidewalks overflowed with tourists.

Joe said, “Thanks for defending me back there, in the clinic.”

Ella shook her head. “What a jerk that doctor is. Should have his license revoked.”

Joe gazed out the window. Kept the ice pack in place. “Made sense, a little bit, seeing as how he’s friends with the motel owner. What happened with that guy anyway? And with the detective? I don’t remember anything between when I hit the driveway, and the clinic.”

Ella sighed, “The detective, Palmer, told me he has a full caseload and doesn’t want to go through the hassle of prosecuting you. But Spinell insisted.”

“Spinell’s the motel owner?”

Ella nodded. “Palmer told me you’re probably looking at some petty municipal court charges. Disorderly conduct. Disturbing the peace. You’ll have to appear in court up here at some point. Or Spinell might calm down and drop the charges.”

Joe stared out the passenger window. “Spinell has a right to be pissed,” he said. “I would be if I was him.”

“Spinell is a mean old man with no compassion. Same as his doctor friend.”

“It’s not that bad. I miss anything else?”

“Yeah. Palmer says we’re supposed to stay away from the Breakwater for at least forty-eight hours, or risk trespass charges.”

Joe laughed. “I’m thinking it’ll be more like forty-eight
years
before I go back to the Breakwater. That’s fine.”

Joe watched Ella drive. Looked at the scenery. It was a beautiful day.

“I am so sorry about this,” he said, after a while. “This was not my plan for the weekend.”

“I know it wasn’t, sweetie. I’m worried about you.”

Joe nodded. “Yeah. I wish I knew what the heck just happened.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“I’d love to, if I could remember anything that made sense. The whole morning’s like a dream. I see little shreds of it, but mostly it’s just”—he shook his head—“Surreal. Like it didn’t really happen to me. Like it was somebody else screaming and acting crazy. But then there are these clear fragments, so that I know it really
was
me.”

“Who’s Lorna Gwin?” Ella asked. “Do you know anyone named Lorna Gwin?”

“No.” Joe laughed. “I have no freaking idea where that came from.”

They rounded a bend and Ella slowed. “Oh great,” she said. “Maybe we
should
try an air evac.” 

The ferry terminal was just ahead and vehicles clogged the vast lots of the holding area. Cars idled in the lanes leading to the ticket booths, and a giant reader board proclaimed a three-boat wait.

“Pull over for a second,” said Joe.

Ella eased the Jetta onto the shoulder. “But we should get in line.”

“No. Let’s not waste half the day sitting in a parking lot.” 

“But—”

“It’s still morning. It’s a beautiful day. And we weren’t even planning to leave until tomorrow.”

“Joe, sweetie,” Ella said patiently. “You need to see a doctor, okay?”

“I just saw one.”

Ella rolled her eyes. “A
good
doctor. Seriously, we gotta get you home. Get you tested. Checked out.”

“I know,” said Joe. “I know. But I’m feeling better. Much better as the day goes on.”

He smiled his most disarming smile. “I’m almost back to normal. Let’s get some food, go for a drive, have a picnic on the beach. Nothing strenuous—just hang out together and chill.” 

He could tell the idea appealed to her. He said, “We’ll let the traffic die down, that’s all. Catch a late afternoon boat.”

Ella leaned toward him, raised her sunglasses, and gently pulled the ice pack away from his forehead so she could see his bruise. “You really think you’re doing better? How’s your bump?”

“Great. No headache at all.”

“Liar.” 

“Seriously. I feel good.”

Ella sighed. “All right. We’ll stay. But you have to promise to tell me if you feel any weirdness.”

“I will.”

“Dizziness, light-headedness, nausea. Anything at all.”