The Forgetting Place (5 page)

“I awoke the next morning to find my right ankle swollen to twice its normal size, and I couldn't bear weight on it. It was Sunday and my mother, realizing that our doctor's office was closed, took me to the ER for X-rays. I was fortunate that I hadn't broken it, the doctor told us, but I'd suffered a bad sprain and was reliant on crutches for the next two weeks.

“When we got home from the hospital, I expected to see Michael sitting on our front steps waiting for me. But he didn't stop by that day or the next. In fact, a week went by and I saw very little of either of them. At school we would catch each other's eye for a moment in the hallway before pretending we hadn't noticed. In class, we'd sit in our assigned seats, keeping our eyes focused on the teacher or on the pages of our respective books. In my mind, I was convinced they were either angry with me or
embarrassed
for
me, and that either way I was the cause of all that had gone wrong between us.

“I don't know how much time would have elapsed before we spoke to each other if it hadn't been for an art project I decided to take home from school one day. It was a framed painting I'd made the week before. I'd gotten it back that day with a note from the teacher that read, ‘Great use of contrast. This shows real promise.' At a time in my life when I wasn't feeling very happy with myself, I grasped that small piece of praise like a life preserver and held on to it. I wrapped it up in a plastic bag to protect it from the rain and hobbled on my crutches to the waiting school bus. It was awkward to carry, too big to fit into my backpack and tricky to hold on to with my hands occupied with the crutches. I laid it along the outside of my right crutch and held it there with my forearm. It was slow going, and I almost missed the bus, but the driver saw me coming and held the painting for me while I lurched up the steps and into a seat.
So I'd made it halfway,
I thought,
which was good
. But the distance between the bus stop and my house was three blocks off the main road, perpendicular to the route the driver normally took. I disembarked ten minutes later, and I guess I must've looked pretty pathetic working my way down the street because I heard Michael call out to me, ‘Yo, Jason. Wait up,' and a few seconds later I could hear his shoes slapping along the wet sidewalk as he came up behind me.

“‘Here, give me that, you moron,' he said, and I handed him the plastic-bundled painting so I could use my crutches more effectively. He didn't say anything else, just walked beside me in the rain, the two of us looking down at the asphalt, our shoulders hunched slightly against the weather. When we got to my house I opened the door and we stepped inside. I rested my crutches
against the wall and unslung my backpack, dropping it beside me. My parents were both at work and the house was silent except for the sound of our jackets dripping onto the tile floor. We stood there facing each other, neither of us speaking. His eyes met mine only briefly, and then he sort of shrugged and moved toward the door. ‘I'll see ya,' he said, and I panicked, knowing that this was the moment for me to say something, to do what I could to make things right between us.

“‘I'm sorry,' I blurted out, and he paused with his hand on the doorknob.

“‘Yeah, it's okay,' he replied. He took a breath, his left hand raking back the wet brown hair from his forehead. He smiled a little, his hazel eyes regarding me in a way that told me we were still friends, that we'd both been acting like idiots but now all was forgiven. I thought about the years we'd spent together growing up, about the secrets we held on to for each other, about the loyalty that had been built brick by brick like a fortress around us. I wanted to tell him that it was still there, that fortress, and that all we had to do was step inside once again.

“‘I'm sorry I didn't recognize it,' he said, ‘what was developing between us.' I wanted to tell him it didn't matter, that I had recognized it for both of us. ‘Sometimes two people just . . . connect, you know?' he tried to explain, and I nodded. ‘I mean, it's like it's not there one day and the next day it is.' He shifted his stance so that his body was turned more fully in my direction, and I took a half step forward.

“‘The thing is . . . I think I love her,' he said, and I froze, my mouth going dry. ‘Yeah,' he said, more confidently now. ‘I love her, dude. I just didn't know you felt the same.'

“I looked away from him, focusing on the stairs leading up
to our living room. I could feel myself tearing up, could feel my throat getting tight. ‘I don't,' I told him, but he scoffed a little.

“‘It's obvious,' he said. ‘I've seen the way you look at us.'

“I shook my head, remained silent, knowing my voice would betray me.

“‘Just because I'm spending time with her doesn't mean I can't also hang out with you,' he reminded me. ‘We've been friends a long—'

“Without thinking, I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around him, burying my face against his shoulder. I could feel his chest rise and fall against me, could feel the warmth of his body beneath the damp bulk of his jacket. He did nothing for the span of a few seconds, just stood there and let me hold on to him. And then his voice—alarmed, and too loud within the confines of the foyer—was in my ear.

“‘What are you doing?' he asked. ‘Jason, get off me.' He pushed me away with his hands, and I had to step back onto my sprained ankle to keep from falling. I kept my eyes on his this time, and I think I was crying but I'm not sure. He looked at me in disbelief. ‘What's
wrong
with you,' he said, and it wasn't a question but an accusation. In my mind, I could hear Alex asking me the same thing, bewildered by the sudden panic that had taken hold of me as we lay there together on the ice, her arm wrapped around my chest. ‘I've seen the way you look at us,' Michael had said, assuming that the hurt and yearning in my eyes was directed at her, not him. Suddenly, the realization dawned on him, and his face changed as if he'd unexpectedly come across something pungent and revolting.

“That's when he struck me, his arm flashing out so quickly that I think it surprised even him. I took the blow in the left temple,
my head rocking back and to the right as my vision became a kaleidoscope of images in front of me. The house was quiet except for the sound of our breathing, and standing there—blinded by my tears—I remember wondering whether he would hit me again. My arms hung loosely at my sides, refusing to defend me, and I stood there waiting for it—that second blow—and however many more would follow. Instead, I heard something worse: the sound of the door opening and closing as he left. And it was only then that I allowed myself to crumple to the floor, the sobs ripping through me like bullets, the self-loathing rising in a great wave, and a vague awareness that I had uncovered something in myself that I did not want to deal with. I wanted it to disappear for a while inside me, to come out different or not at all.

“The house stood still around me—silent and watchful—and I remember feeling alone in a way I had never experienced before. I did not think about the ramifications of what I'd done, did not consider the price I would pay in the weeks ahead. That would come later. For the time being, I only sat there with my discovery, not knowing what to do with it. The palm of one hand went to my face to wipe away the tears, and when I looked down I noticed a streak of blood crossing the lifeline. I stood up on my one good leg and, situating my crutches beneath my arms, lurched to the bathroom where I inspected myself in the mirror. There was a gash just beneath my left temple—here.” He pointed to the remnants of a faint scar I hadn't noticed before.

“My mom took me back to the hospital to get stitches, and I saw the same doctor who'd treated me for my ankle a week and a half before. When he asked me how it had happened, I gave him some lie about tripping on my crutches, striking my head on the counter. He must not have believed me because he cleared
everyone else out of the exam room, asked me if someone had done this to me, if anyone was hitting me at home. I could feel my face flush at the response—a liar's face—as I told him, ‘No, it was my own fault. I wasn't being careful. I did this to myself.' He studied me for a moment, then pulled out his pen and jotted something down on the chart. I remember wanting to look at what he'd written, convinced that the final diagnosis would not be ‘fall' or ‘laceration,' but rather the same accusatory question that had been posed to me twice over the past month. ‘What's
wrong
with you?' it would say, and for the first time I had an answer.

“I winced when the pinch of the needle entered my body. The burn of the Novocain ebbed into a strange numbness.
What's
wrong
with you?
I thought over and over again as the sutures pulled the edges of my wound together, their futile attempt to return me into something whole. And when I began to cry, Mother squeezed my hand and whispered her own false reassurance—that it would be over soon, that I just had to be brave a few minutes longer.”

I
want to know what he did,” I told Wagner, cornering him near the nurses' station.

“Who?” he asked, glancing uncomfortably at the patients around us and signaling to me, perhaps, that it was inappropriate for us to be seen interacting like this.

I didn't care.

“Jason Edwards,” I said. “My patient—the one who showed up with no court order, no medical records, no written documentation of any kind. I want to know his psychiatric history, his family background, whether he's ever been hospitalized before . . . and I want to know about the events that landed him here—what crime he was charged with.”

“We've been through this before,” Wagner reminded me. “I don't have any more information than you do.”

“
Bullshit,
” I replied. A few heads turned in our direction and I lowered my voice. “You wouldn't have accepted him here otherwise. You can't commit a patient to a state psychiatric hospital without a court order, and you know it. Now, there's
something
you're not telling me about this case, and I want to know what it is.”

He sighed, as if what I was demanding wasn't relevant to my patient's treatment, as if we'd been through this charade a thousand times before. He glanced down at his watch. “I have a meeting in half an hour.”

“Well then,” I pressed, “you've got twenty-five minutes to talk to me.”

Wagner appeared to consider his options. He'd been avoiding me lately; I was almost certain of it. I watched him deliberate a moment longer, then he shook his head with an air of resignation. “Fine,” he said. “You want some background on this case? Come with me.”

I followed him down the hall, feeling the eyes of patients and staff upon us as we exited the dayroom. It irritated me, those stares. I wanted to turn around and tell them to mind their own damn business, that
I
was the only one acting responsibly here. Instead, I focused my attention on the back of Wagner's sport coat, something beige and polyester that made a soft swishing noise with the pendulum movement of his arms as he walked.

When we were both inside his office, he shut the door and went around his large oak desk to a tall wooden cabinet against the far wall. He pulled open the top drawer and fingered his way through a series of files before finding the right one. I took a seat, inwardly reflecting on how ugly this office was with its rigid, unyielding furniture, its decrepit gray carpet, its complete lack of any natural light, its pretentious but cheaply framed diplomas hanging slightly askew on sickly yellow walls. I wondered how he could stand it, or whether he even noticed.

“The case surrounding Mr. Edwards's presence at Menaker involves the death of an individual named Amir Massoud,” he said.

I waited for him to go on, but he seemed to need further prodding. “They knew each other?”

“They were in a relationship,” Wagner replied, tossing a newspaper article on the desktop in front of me. I bent to study it.

MAN STABBED TO DEATH IN SILVER SPRING TOWN HOUSE
the headline said. My eyes scanned the lines of text, taking in the story.

                    
Twenty-five-year-old Amir Massoud was fatally stabbed within his Silver Spring townhome in Montgomery County, Maryland, on the evening of May 12. Police report no signs of forced entry. The victim's domestic partner, 25-year-old Jason Edwards, was taken into custody for questioning, as the incident is suspected to have been the result of a possible domestic dispute. Mr. Massoud was a graduate student in civil engineering at University of Maryland. He is survived by his father and two siblings. Funeral services are scheduled to be held at National Memorial Park in Falls Church, Virginia.

“He was convicted?” I asked Wagner, picturing the quiet, thoughtful face of the patient I'd been interacting with over the past several weeks. We all have the potential for violence, I know—particularly when it comes to crimes of passion—but I was having difficulty imagining Jason wielding a knife in a homicidal rage. It didn't coincide with the impression I'd formed of him.

Charles studied me from across the desk. “Not exactly.”

Of course not, I realized. Jason was in the same category as
most of the other patients here—either deemed psychologically incompetent to stand trial, or the more difficult to obtain judicial finding: not criminally responsible by reason of insanity.

“Did he come to us directly from the court system, or was he transferred here after spending time at another facility?”

“Lise,” he began, “there's more to this case than you're prepared to handle.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. His denigrating tone annoyed the hell out of me, but I tried not to give him the satisfaction of showing it.

“Simply that there are broader forces at work here than you can imagine. Suffice it to say that Jason is only tangentially involved.”

“I don't understand.”

“I know,” he replied. “But unfortunately any further information I provide would be difficult to integrate with what you already know.”

He talks like a true administrator,
I thought,
constructing his sentences with the careful design of conveying as little useful information as possible
. I scowled at him. “What in the hell does
that
mean?”

He shook his head. “I know this puts you in an awkward situation.”

“It puts me in an
impossible
situation,” I corrected him. “I mean”—I raised an exasperated hand into the air and let it fall like dead weight into my lap—“what am I not understanding here, Charles? Is this political? Are you protecting someone?
Jesus,
we have a responsibility—a professional and moral duty—to act in the best interest of our patients.”

“I feel that I'm doing that.”

“
Do you? Do you really?
” I asked.

He regarded me impassively, his features unyielding. “I'm sorry I can't tell you more.”

“One thing is becoming clear to me,” I said, standing to go. “You're allowing yourself to be manipulated by outside influences that have
nothing
to do with the medical management of this patient.” I went to the door, put my hand on the knob, but turned back to look at him one last time before I left. “Your judgment is compromised,” I told him.

He had the audacity to turn those words back on me, as if somehow
he
were the righteous one. “So is y—” he started to respond, but I slipped into the hallway and shut the door behind me before he could finish.