The Forgetting Place (29 page)

T
he next day was the first of what would turn out to be a five-day stretch of Indian summer. I'd slept poorly the night before, my sleep disturbed by dreams of Uncle Jim and the sound of someone screaming at the end of the hall. I'd pulled the pillow up over my head, tried to get back to sleep. I suppose that when one lives in a psychiatric hospital, such nightly disturbances are not uncommon. Strange how I'd been residing here for the past five years, but was experiencing many of these things as if for the first time.

In the morning, I showered, dressed, and entered the general population room. There was a short line of patients at the window to the nurses' station, and I took my place in line. When I reached the window, there was Amber, my reliable barista, meeting me with a warm smile, a small paper cup of medication—“A few morsels,” she said—and a cup of water to wash the pills down. The water found its way to my stomach, but not the pills. It was irresponsible of me to cheek them—reckless after all I'd been through—but the reality of what I'd done five years ago was too fresh, too raw in my memory. My thoughts kept returning to the feel of the knife in my hand, the soft give of flesh as the
blade entered his chest, the shock and confusion in Amir's eyes as he looked down at me—bright red blood dripping from his hand, making tracks along my forehead. In a few minutes, the blood would be purple and coagulated. It would take even less time for him to be dead.

There are routines here to be followed, daily rituals to distract us from the wasted passage of our lives. Morning medications are among those rituals, and over the next few weeks I became adept at avoiding those medications when I could. It was not that I wanted to sabotage all that I had worked for, only that I longed to forget, longed for the full protection of this place: an asylum from all that I'd done.

As the weeks passed, I became reacquainted with my brother, who arrived on most mornings around nine and stayed until my group session at eleven. It was mid-November now, and the weather was turning once again, the days growing shorter, tree limbs stretched naked against the vast gray mantle of sky.

“I've been thinking about Uncle Jim,” I told him. Jason and I were walking the open grounds, the way we'd done in a different season several months ago. We'd come to Menaker's west end, where the property looked out over the Severn River.

Jason was quiet for a while, considering. “What happened to him doesn't have to happen to you, Lise. The path he chose isn't your path.”

I closed my eyes. Ten days after my only visit to see him, they'd found Uncle Jim hanging from the showerhead, legs folded under him, the towel cinched tight around his neck.

I'd cried plenty, hadn't understood it. He'd seemed
so much better
the last time I'd seen him: optimistic and full of life.

“It's when patients are at the greatest risk for suicide,” the psy
chiatrist at Spring Grove had explained to my parents—a conversation my mother conveyed to me later. “Patients typically don't attempt suicide when the symptoms of the disease are at their worst. It's often during recovery, when they have the focus and energy to formulate a plan—to engage in an attempt.”

Maybe he finally understood what he had done,
I thought,
how close he'd come to killing that child. Maybe he got a good look at how the rest of his life would be and wanted none of it
.

In my mind, when I pictured him hanging naked in the shower, his neck torqued at a severe and fatal angle, I imagined that he'd taken a marker and scrawled “The Dog and Pony Show” across his chest before he died. An apology of sorts. A last message to me that he'd tried but just couldn't stomach the road ahead any longer. There was no evidence for this, of course, and even if he'd done such a thing, they never would've told me. Still, that was the image I pictured. I couldn't help it.

I've been sick for a long time,
he'd told me.
Long as I can remember. It gets better and worse, but it never goes away. Not completely. It's a part of me, you know? Something I've got to deal with.

Jason and I moved on in silence, both of us trapped in our private thoughts. I could still see the river far below us, the earth beyond the fence at this section of the property giving way to that great empty space. For a moment, I was out there, stepping into the abyss—could almost feel myself falling.

We were nearing the front gate at the southern end when I felt something reach out and snatch at my leg. I stopped to look down, noted the tear in my pants. A piece of bramble clung to the fabric. There was no pain—not yet—but when I lifted the leg of my pants to inspect the wound I could see that the thorns had carved a deep gouge in the flesh.

“You're bleeding,” Jason noted, but I told him it was nothing—just a scratch, really.

“We're about done for the day, anyway. I'll go inside and clean up,” I assured him. “There's a bathroom next to my office.”

Jason started to say something, then stopped, his mouth going slack.

“What do you mean ‘next to my office'?”

I frowned, not understanding the point of his question. He knew the place I was referring to. We'd held several of our sessions there already.

“Who are you?” he asked, but there was a guarded wariness to his expression, as if the answer he expected might be toxic. I could sense the paranoia radiating from his skin, the product of his disease.

“I'm Lise Shields, your doctor,” I told him. It wasn't clear if he was hearing me. The color was quickly draining from his face.

“
Tony,
” I called over to the watchman's booth. “
I need help with this patient.
”

“What is it, Lise?” Tony asked, stepping toward us, radio in hand.

“I don't know,” I answered. “Some type of reaction to the medication, maybe. I need you to stay with him for a minute while I get a stretcher.”

I turned and walked briskly in the direction of the medical building. I'd increased the dosage of Jason's medications too quickly, I realized. His body had not been able to handle it. It was not the first time I'd witnessed this in a patient, and unfortunately I did not think it would be the last. The human mind is a delicate creature, susceptible to many influences. The stability of
the patients I treat here is tenuous. It is important to understand that from the beginning.

Because there are individuals here who will never leave—who will never reside outside of these grounds. Their pathology runs too deep. They will never be restored to sanity, will never return to their former lives. And the danger, I am afraid—and the great tragedy for those who love them—is to cling to the hope that they will.

L
et's not confuse what is real from what is imagined.
The Forgetting Place
is a work of fiction, and I've taken significant creative liberties in the portrayal of mental illness and the psychiatric institutions in this story. As with most diseases, symptoms vary depending on the individual, and the array of symptoms depicted within these pages are not necessarily representative of those experienced by most patients. It is also important not to lose sight of the human being attached to the disease, and I hope that I've done justice to that principle along the way. Likewise, the men and women who dedicate their lives to the treatment of people with mental illness provide a heroic and invaluable service to both patients and their families, and this story is not intended to suggest otherwise.

Thanks goes to my wife, Lorie, who reads my early drafts, is aware of my many faults, and loves me anyway. Dr. Jay Menaker was kind enough to lend his name to the fictional psychiatric institution depicted in these pages, trusting my assurance that the choice bared no reflection on his own state of mind. My brilliant editor is Jessica Williams, who once again had an unfailing eye for what the story needed throughout its development, and was
not shy—thank God—about challenging me to bring everything I had to the table. The publishing team at William Morrow continues to support me with their talent and enthusiasm, and my agent, Paul Lucas, is a Jedi Master in all things literary and provides me with sound advice and enough peace of mind that I can keep my attention focused where it should be.

My usual support group came into play—as they always do—and the list includes so many friends, colleagues, and family members that I dare not even begin to list them for fear of adding another fifty pages to the end of this book. Suffice it to say that I am grateful for every one of you.

This novel is dedicated to my parents, who are the polar opposite of the distant and emotionally absent parents depicted in the story. They've been in my corner since the very beginning, and I've tried to emulate them in many ways. Thanks, guys. For everything.

And thanks to you, reader, for sharing your time and imagination—for joining me in this fictional world for a while. More than anything else, it's your presence that makes it all worthwhile.

John Burley
August 1, 2014

Photo by Rebecca Stark

JOHN BURLEY
is the award-winning author of
The Absence of Mercy
, which won the National Black Ribbon Award recognizing a new voice in suspense writing. He attended medical school in Chicago and completed his emergency medicine residency at University of Maryland Medical Center and R. Adams Cowley Shock Trauma Center in Baltimore. He continues to serve as an emergency medicine physician in Northern California, where he lives with his wife, daughter, and Great Dane.

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The Absence of Mercy

Cover design by Adam Johnson

Cover photographs: women © by Steven J. Gelberg/Trevillion Images; asylum courtesy of the Library of Congress

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THE FORGETTING PLACE
. Copyright © 2015 by John Burley. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

ISBN: 978-0-06-222740-9

EPUB Edition February 2015 ISBN 9780062227416

Version: 02112015

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