Schasm (Schasm Series) (3 page)

I head for the coat closet and prepare myself for the arctic weather and our twenty-minute trek to see my doctor. “It’s cold out today, dress warm,” she shouts…because apparently I need her instructions to dress properly for the day. After nineteen winters here, I think I know what the seasonal weather entails.

I open the hallway closet and pull out multiple layers of outerwear. I cover myself with two layers of knit gloves, two knit scarves, a hat, earmuffs, tall glacier hiking boots and a down jacket that’s large enough to fit a gorilla. It’s excessive, but the cold hurts too much to go outside without it.

I pry open the front door that leads to subzero temperatures. Before I can blink, I'm slapped in the face by a wallop of windblown snow flying off of our oak tree from the last blizzard. I've already taken the first step outside, so there’s no going back now. I groan from the cold and make a break for the driveway, climbing into my mother’s ridiculous medical van. I plop myself in the third and last row of the vehicle. I sit back there so I can avoid excessive babbling from her on the trip. I’ve realized that a cross-country flight with a screaming baby is preferable to sitting in the car with my nagging mother for a quick twenty-minute car ride.

My mother springs into the car, her shivering loud and exaggerated. She sounds like an old steam heater. She turns the heat knob to the highest level, and I can sense the incoming barrage of questions.

“Why are you wearing so many layers of clothes again? I said dress warm, not like an Eskimo. You’re going to get overheated like that. And you look ridiculous.” She sighs and shakes her head. “Take one of those scarves off, at least?"

I pretend I didn’t hear her.

"I can’t imagine what the doctors at the hospital must think of the way you dress. And why are you sitting in the backseat?” I just stare out the window. “Chloe, are you even listening to me?” She waves her hands in the rearview mirror to get my attention. She glares at me, awaiting at least one response. I scowl into the mirror and slide my headphones over my ears. I hope I’ve made it clear that I’m not going to respond or listen anymore, but I’m sure that won’t stop her.

After twelve years, these trips filled with nagging questions have gotten old. I’ve tried explaining to her so many times that she treats me like a child, and that I'm capable of deciding what’s best for me. But the doctor is an expert at filling her head with generic academic information about some other illness they compare my condition to. He’s also convinced her that my situation is far worse than it really is.

With the assistance of my foam-covered headphones and portable cassette player that I found in the basement, I’m able to block everything out of my ears. But my eyes still collect the beauty of the snow covering the streets like a white blanket. I hate how cold it makes things, but it is beautiful just after it falls. It’s so rare to see open space and bare land anywhere in the suburbs of Boston. I try to appreciate the last pieces of nature left in this area.

“Chloe?” my mother’s muffled voice shouts over my music. “Can you even hear me through those things?”

Unfortunately, I can. But I pretend I can’t.

The snow-covered field is mesmerizing. I stare as it whizzes by.

Snow melting into a blur and turns into the texture of sand…

“Chloe?” her muted shout interrupts me again.

But I keep my focus on the sand that leads my eyes to a blue ocean rather than the white winter sky.

And
the branches of pine trees curl outward as they turn into palm trees
…

My thoughts are overwhelmed by the sensation of choking on water. It’s flooding my throat. I try to cough up the liquid, but instead of purging my lungs, I end up inhaling more. I choke even harder. I can’t breathe, and my vision is becoming blurry. All I see are strange curved lines. My thoughts become frenzied. All I can do is try to breathe through the choking. It seems useless…I just end up inhaling more water. I try to open my eyes again, but they burn as if someone has rubbed soap in them.

I finally regain some of my vision. I struggle to figure out what’s going on around me as the scorching sensation returns. A feeling of impending blackness comes over me as I succumb to the sensation of drowning. I feel weightless and numb. My body gives up the struggle. I let go…until I feel two arms slide underneath me, one under my knees and the other around my back. I’m lifted up with ease, carried, and then placed back down again.

Pressure is applied to my chest and air is being blown into my mouth.
Someone is trying to resuscitate me.
My lips are covered with a smooth, dispassionate sensation. I feel the rush of trapped water gurgling up my lungs, traveling through my throat and out of my mouth. I gasp for air, and after a few free breaths, I open my eyes.

There’s a guy in front of me, dripping wet, kneeling over my body and looking at me with great concern as he tries to catch his own breath.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly. His mouth is still only inches from mine.

I think he’s talking to me…
My heart pounds. Who is he? Can I even respond? I try, but all I can do is cough up more water…right in his face.
Awesome.

He lifts my head off the ground, forcing my airway to open a bit more. It seems to help with my breathing. Another grueling minute passes of me coughing up more water. My eyes dart from side to side, searching for familiar things…something that tells me where I am. I’m sitting just a few feet away from the ocean. A crowd of people has gathered and are gawking at me.

More people have noticed me…

I’ve been here many times before, but I’ve always been alone. Completely alone. Now, there are others.

I try to speak again. “I think I’m okay.” My words come out in a rasp. “Can you hear me?” I ask.

“Um…yes,” he says, smiling as if I’ve just asked the most absurd question. “I can hear you.”

“Oh. Good.” It’s all I can come up with. “You aren’t real, though… are you?”

His eyes relax. “Yes, I am. And so are you. And so is the ocean. You swallowed too much of it…crazy girl.” He hands me a beach towel. “I think you fell asleep too close to the water’s edge. The tide comes in quick around here. You need to be more careful.” He flips his blond curls away from his astounding blue eyes.

Astounding
is an understatement.

I realize what’s happened and I just want to evaporate into the sand after the utter humiliation of having this lifeguard or whoever he is save me from drowning in only a few inches of water. “I will,” I say as heat rushes through my cheeks. “And thank you.”

 “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks me again. His voice is soft and sweet.

My face is scorching hot now. “Yes…I’ll be fine.”

He’s still staring at me…or more like gazing. I get the feeling he does not intend to leave my side until he sees for himself how okay I am. Maybe he’s waiting for me to peel myself off the ground. I know I should stand up and prove that I’m okay to end this awkwardness, but I can’t move. And I don’t really want to.

Why is he looking at me like I’m someone special?

He reaches toward my face and pushes the wet hair away from my eyes, then glides his hand down my cheek. His touch sends shivers up my spine. My entire body feels frozen and warm at the same time. He wraps his large tanned fingers around my elbow. “Here,” he says, “let me help you up.” His touch makes my stomach tingle.

He pulls me gently to my feet, but he doesn’t remove his hand from my elbow. “No more drowning for you." He grins and leans toward my ear. "You’re way too beautiful to be lost under the water.”

Beautiful?
This incredibly attractive lifeguard just told me I was beautiful. Am I still alive? I must be, because my heart is beating out of my chest at the simple thought of someone finding me beautiful. My mother has always made it clear that my looks are nothing to be proud of. I haven’t disagreed with her yet.

“I’ll try to be more careful,” I say with a smile. My cheeks flush.

His eyes search mine as if he already knows me. “I hope I’ll see you again sometime…without your head underwater.” His thick, wet lashes wink at me.

Before I can get another word out, he walks away, disappearing into the blinding afternoon sun.

My imagination has been pretty good to me today.

CHAPTER THREE

MENTAL INSTITUTION

“
LET GO OF ME!
”
I shriek as I kick and hit my way through the attack.

I focus on my mother’s freezing hands and see four other unknown hands attempting to restrain me as well. They’re covered in medical gloves that lead up under their white lab coats. Everything here is white…or turquoise, or pink. Soft, peaceful colors help the patients relax. They don’t think twice about ripping someone out of a daydream, though.

I'm forced into a wheelchair. It isn’t the first time it’s happened. People who check in here seem to be considered incapable of walking into a mental institution without force. I can understand that part; I'm not sure I could imagine patients volunteering to walk themselves into this place.

We approach the front entrance. Through one of the windows I can see some of the patients in the recreation room. Some of them are rocking back and forth; some look as if they’re crying. Others are staring at inanimate objects. How can they compare me to them?

The tall, black metal doors in front of me make it clear: there is no way of escaping once you’ve been condemned to this place. The five-story brick edifice looks ancient—at least two hundred years old—and the building includes a clock tower straight out of
A Nightmare on Elm Street
. It appears to be twice as tall as the main structure. It’s the perfect setting for a horror movie. Or a horror reality.

The automatic front doors open. I’m greeted by the scent of alcohol and ammonia, which always stings my nose and burns my throat. I feel like I’m about to gag from the fumes, just as my attention turns to the patients who always congregate near the door.

I call them the Greeters.

One of them is an older man, bald and overweight. He bows his head toward me as he tips his invisible hat. The second greeter is a teenage girl with stringy brown hair and large, sunken eyes. Her body is so frail; it looks as if her bones might shatter if she fell over. She creeps me out the most. She’s always trying to reach for me with her long, bony fingers and sharp fingernails. The last greeter is a short, middle-aged man with spiky brown hair. He has two missing front teeth. He likes to stare a lot and says “Hi” over and over until I’m out of hearing range. I'm just glad he doesn't try to follow me.

These three greeters are the reason why I try not to make friends here. If I ever did, I’d be fearful of the doctors thinking that I’ve become one of
them
.

We arrive safe and sound at my final destination: the Frankenstein chair, as I call it. It’s made of cherry wood, sits about six feet tall with white padding wrapped around the armrests, the seat, the foot restraints and the tiny oval-shaped headrest. There are a half dozen long white straps woven through all the openings. They’ll constrain my limbs. My least favorite part is when they tape the dozen wires to my forehead with little patches. It takes forever to peel the glue off afterward. I hate that, too.

The only good thing about this place is that I'm encouraged to escape. In my way, at least. The doctors allow me to drift so they can monitor my brain activity. It’s supposed to help them analyze the mental roller coaster they think I’m on. They’re welcome to watch my brain waves fluctuate all they want. They will never know where I actually am. It’s amazing to think about how many days of my life I’ve been plugged into this chair, and how many pieces of paper have been wasted with little squiggly lines of my brain activity. And yet they still have no answers for my mother about what causes this, and why they can’t fix me. Maybe it’s because
there’s nothing wrong with me
. But that sort of diagnosis will never happen.

To help induce my alternate state, they place a solid black screen about ten inches in front of me, leaving me with nowhere else to look. I often find myself drifting away after only a few short moments. It seems to be the case this time too.

I have a strong desire to go back to the beach, but I never get to choose where my mind takes me. This time, I appear to be spinning in a dark tunnel with no light on the other end. As the darkness fades, I find myself sitting at the bistro table once again. But knowing that others can communicate with me now, I’m not sure I want to be here with the crowd that stared at me the way they did this morning. I need to have a better look around, to find out why they were looking at me. Maybe I’ll actually be able to figure out where I am this time. There has to be some reason why I keep ending up here.

I can see a little farther through my blurred vision now. My eyes focus on a younger couple sitting to my right, and an older middle-aged man sitting to my left. The couple is deep in conversation about… wedding plans, I think. They’re discussing the number of people to invite and what would be appropriate for a menu. Listening to them makes me wonder what will be important to me when I’m planning my own wedding someday. I laugh at the thought, wondering what my mother would do if she heard such a crazy notion. She’d probably rip the electrodes right off my head. I notice something a bit odd about the man and woman making wedding plans: they’re dressed in formal attire from another century. The woman has a long daytime dress with a floral pattern, with her hair wound in a tight knot and pinned on the top of her head. The man is wearing an outdated suit; his hair is greased down flat against his head, enough to see the reflection of the hovering light bouncing off each strand.

I glance over to the older man to find that he is also dressed in apparel that isn’t contemporary, or even from the past fifty years. I must have stared at him for one second too long. I seem to have attracted his attention. He’s looking right at me…he’s trying to figure out who I am, what I’m doing here.