We Are Monsters (15 page)

Sparks whirled upward when Lacy's body landed on the logs. There was a loud crackling, like the fabric of reality was being ripped apart. Her wet body popped and hissed as the flames enveloped her, white steam began to rise. And then she caught fire. The chanting stopped and the people fell silent. They stood huddled together and watched Lacy burn.

Eli turned his head and saw the man standing beside him, the fire flickering in his eyes. The man turned and looked up at Eli and smiled, his teeth unnaturally bright.

“Beautiful spirit,” he said.

“Yes,” Eli said.

“You have known her a long time.”

Eli thought it was a question. “No,” he said. “Not long enough.”

The man laughed again, a cheerful, infectious laugh.

Eli was shocked to hear himself chuckle.

“No, you have known her many lifetimes. You save her every time.”

Eli turned towards the pyre. Lacy's body was engulfed in yellow flame. “There was nothing I could do.”

“You did everything you were meant to do. Same as before. Now,
you
must accept salvation. Now,
you
must be saved.”

Whatever spell had been cast was beginning to wear off. The man's words began to sound delusional again. Eli nodded in the detached way in which he would with a patient suffering extreme psychosis. He pinched his nose to stifle the sudden smell of roasted pork.

“Come and find me here tomorrow,” the man said.

Eli's flight had been one way. He hadn't thought about what to do after Lacy died. “Here? How will I find you?”

“Ask for Rajamadja,” the man said. And then he fell silent and turned back towards the pyre with its tangle of burning bodies.

Together, they watched as the fire slowly turned to ash.

Acrid smoke burned Eli's nostrils. He opened his eyes. The incense had burned down to the stick. He exhaled deeply and assessed himself. His foot was asleep from the sitting position. He untangled his legs and stood. Before him was a picture of Rajamadja, the emaciated monk who had at one time saved Eli's sanity.

“Where are you now, friend?” Eli said, wondering indeed where his spirit was, knowing his body was nothing more than grey ash beneath the blazing fire of the funeral pyre. “Why can I no longer feel you?”

In the days following Lacy's death Rajamadja had opened Eli's eyes to a world he had never known before. To miracles he'd never imagined possible. Psychiatry offered little explanation for the psychic powers the man appeared to possess.

And, slowly, he had revealed to Eli a purpose, a continuation down a path that he was already on. And he had provided Eli with ways to defend himself against the resistance that worked to distract him from his noble pursuit. Ways in which to fight against his destructive shadow self. But that had been such a long time ago.

Eli snuffed the incense stick against the base of the bamboo stand. His hands were damp and trembling; his heart fluttered irregularly in his chest.

Such a long time ago,
he thought as he put away his cushion and left the room, turning the lights off on his way out. Leaving, he hoped, the ghosts behind.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The sun was slow to rise; it lifted sluggishly into the sky as though still pondering the absurdity of last night's dreams. It was a pastel yellow, round and cartoonish, casting a mellow warmth that dried the morning dew and gently awoke the chirping insects from their slumber. Rays of white, hazy light streamed through the Spanish moss flowing from the ancient oaks lining both sides of Sugar Hill's winding entrance road. The smell of honeysuckle perfumed the air, accented by a richer scent of wet clay.

Normally, these were the days that convinced Eli that all was right with the world. It was nature's way of telling us to take it easy. To chill. To cast aside our petty problems and understand that everything was going to be okay. But, today, it felt like a facade, a trap. A siren song luring him towards a place of danger, inviting him to let down his guard when he needed to be fully alert.

Projections, Eli,
he thought wearily.
You're just projecting again.

But as he crested the hill and saw the great spire of the main building thrusting skyward, it failed to instill in him the usual sense of profound purpose. Rather, it caused his concussed head to throb.

He pulled into his assigned space and parked. His fingers were trembling. He reached into his pant pocket and pulled out a dime and two quarters. He checked the other pocket—empty.

His heart began to race and his stomach turned sour. Time accelerated and the car walls closed in. He saw the frantic look in his eyes reflected in the rearview mirror and cringed.

Then he remembered the change drawer. He flipped it open and there it was—the Xanax pill, its oval shape and orange appearance providing the calm assurance the morning sun no longer could. He crammed it between his teeth and chewed, relishing its acrid taste, its promised potency. He exited the car, feeling confident in the fortitude of his medicated mind.

He had been away for a full week, his longest leave of absence since his sabbatical to India over two decades ago. He knew the timing was poor with the board meeting approaching, but it couldn't be helped. He hadn't planned for a riot-inducing police siege on the hospital.
Unfortunately,
he thought,
I wasn't able to prevent it either.

Eli felt oddly detached from the hospital as he made his way through the side entrance. It felt like he'd been away longer than a week. Like changes had been made in his absence—the floor plan altered, the walls given a fresh coat of paint. It reminded him of returning to school after summer vacation, not knowing what the new semester would bring.

The nurses, normally quick to offer a jubilant hello when they first saw him, were hesitant as he approached. Strangely shy.

“Well, hello ladies. How are we this morning?”

The group of three nurses grew silent, as though caught gossiping. “Just fine, Dr. Alpert. Welcome back, sir.” Their curt formality was out of character.

He walked closer. He saw guarded expressions, but felt a buoyant sense of camaraderie regardless. The Xanax was beginning to take effect. He stopped and stared at them, a bland smile forming on his face. “What? That's all I get? After spending a whole week in the hospital.”

“I thought you was let out on Wednesday,” the nurse said. It did little to make Eli feel loved.

“Well, I was, but…” He scanned their impassive faces.
What is going on?
he thought. He almost felt like hanging his head and pouting in an attempt to garner sympathy. He resisted the urge. “Anyway, it's good to be back.”

They murmured in agreement and found other things to do.

From down the hall he heard a door close. It sounded like the one to Alex's office.

Jerry,
he thought.
Oh God.
He had exchanged messages with Alex, but had yet to actually speak to him since his brother's death. His murder, according to the police. He could understand if Alex wanted a bit of privacy.

He peeked in as he walked past. Alex was at his desk with the phone in his hand. Eli felt a deep sense of compassion for the pain he must feel. The shared pain that he himself felt over Jerry's death. He vaguely realized that the Xanax was responsible for this increasing sense of openness and euphoria. But what did that matter, so long as the emotion was justified? He continued down the hall, passing his own office, ambling along.

Breakfast was just ending and patients were shuffling back to their rooms or to morning sessions. “Morning,” he said to each of them as he walked past.

“Morning,” a few muttered back.

“Ain't morning to me, commie,” said one.

“Fuck your mother,” said another.

Each response made him smile.

He passed Randall's room and paused. He peered in and saw him sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the empty space before him.
Such wasted potential,
Eli thought. Then he had an idea.

He went back to his office and retrieved his key to the supply room. He opened the door and looked around, not noticing the conspicuous absence of the neural imaging equipment. He was too focused on finding a particular item, which he located in the far-back corner, leaning against the wall—the acoustic guitar. He grabbed it and hurried back to Randall's room.

He knocked on the door and entered. Randall slowly turned his head. His eyes were half-lidded and glassy, his lips sunken in. “I've got a request,” Eli said, pulling the guitar out from around his back.

“Huh?” Randall said. He smacked his toothless mouth a couple of times and mumbled, “Huh-uh. I already took 'em. I already took 'em today.” Then he saw the guitar, and his eyes opened in delight.

Eli handed it to him. “You still do requests, don't you?”

Randall strummed the guitar, playing a series of full-bodied chords. Then his fingers picked the strings like a banjo, faster than Eli would have thought possible. Just as suddenly, he pressed his hand against the strings to dampen the sound. “I'll play any damned thing you want to hear!”

He broke into a brief medley, blending the songs together: “Sweet Home Alabama”, followed by “Midnight Rider” and finishing it off with “The Seeker” by The Who. He riffed hardest on the last song. Eli thought for sure he would snap the strings.

The strumming faded away, and once again Eli was struck by the drastic change that music produced in this patient. Just moments ago the man had been nearly catatonic. Now he sounded like he was ready for the recording studio. Eli applauded.

Randall cradled the guitar and bowed his head at Eli's reaction. “So, what do ya want to hear?”

Eli crossed his legs and thumped his lips with a finger as he thought about it. “I was always a big Beach Boys fan.”

“Ah,” Randall said, returning his hands to their playing positions. He began to strum the opening to “Sloop John B”, one of Eli's favorites. Then he began to sing in a clear voice inflected with boyish emotion—this was what Eli had come to refer to as Randall's authentic self. The one before the disorder. It was better than listening to Brian Wilson himself.

Eli watched enraptured, losing himself in the music, the Xanax stripping away his usual inhibitions. He joined Randall in the final chorus, their voices rising to full volume as they sang about feeling so broke up they just wanted to go home.

Eli felt hot tears burning the corners of his eyes. He hadn't ever considered the last lines from a patient's point of view. But hearing Randall bellow out each lyric with such heartfelt passion, Eli knew that he too perceived the significance beyond which the Beach Boys had originally intended. It felt like a moment of understanding. A moment shared.

Eli composed himself. He looked at the concrete wall to keep from crying. “You know, Brian Wilson, the lead singer and songwriter for the Beach Boys, suffered from mental illness. Spent years in a mental health hospital like this one, actually.”

“Yeah?” Randall was gently strumming the guitar with his eyes closed, quietly humming to himself.

“He did. You know, it's always interested me, that fine line between genius and mental illness. It doesn't seem as though true originality can come from a completely stable mind.”

Randall shook his head in pleasure and continued to strum.

“Why do you think that is, Randall?”

Randall quieted the strings. His bloated face, with its sunken lips and protruding cheeks, made him look like a frog. He scratched a patchwork of boyish whiskers that would never form into a beard. “Well,” he said in his raspy voice, “I guess it's because they have access to the thoughts of God. The only people who can get away with that without being called crazy are preachers. And I'm not sure that they actually do what they say they do. Talk to God, I mean. They're the really crazy ones, you ask me.”

Eli leaned over his knee. “What do you mean?”

Randall began to play again. The strings squeaked as he switched chords. “It's the ideas, the songs, the music—they don't come from the brain. It's more like the brain is a radio antenna. It picks up on the songs and ideas from a higher source.

“I guess most people are just tuned in to a channel that lets them see the world a certain way. The normal way. And all the people gifted with genius, they're able to tune in to a channel set to a different frequency where God plays DJ. In their mind they hear angels sing, but it don't always sound like you see in the movies, with golden harpsichords and what have you. It sounds like Jimi Hendrix and Nirvana too. It looks like street graffiti and comes in the form of pornography. People just don't ever relate that with God, but that's what it is.

“But I guess it's enough to fry the mind, sometimes. Or maybe it's just so different from what people are used to that they call it crazy because they don't know what else to call it. It's genius, but it's crazy too.”

“You're right,” Eli said. Their conversations always seemed to veer towards this general point. “Half the patients were put in here because they claim to talk to God. But preachers do the same thing and they're put in positions of power and praised. That's an oversimplification, of course, but it's an interesting insight.”

Eli pressed his palms against his legs and prepared to stand. Randall stopped playing the guitar and extended the neck towards Eli for him to grab. Eli took it away and Randall's eyes glossed over, that sparkle began to fade. He slouched forward and began gumming his lips.

Eli paused. “Hey, why don't you hold on to this?” he said, knowing that it was breaking policy. “Just try and keep it quiet, okay?”

“For real?” Randall's gaping smile revealed red, puckered gums.

“Sure, why not? Listen to the angels for a little while. Let me know what they say.”

He handed the guitar back and Randall's eyes began to shine.