Library of Souls
Page 114
“In the letters you mention something called a … Pan … loopticon? What can you tell me about that?”
“I didn’t write the letters,” I said. “Emma did.”
“Sure. Let’s switch gears, then. Tell me about Emma.”
“Doctor,” my mother interrupted, “I don’t think it’s a good idea to encourage—”
“Please, Mrs. Portman.” Dr. Spanger held up a hand. “Jake, tell me about Emma. Is she your girlfriend?”
I saw my dad’s eyebrows rise. I’d never had a girlfriend before. Never so much as been on a date.
“She was, I guess. But now we’re sort of … taking a break.”
Dr. Spanger wrote something down, then tapped her pen against her chin. “And when you imagine her, what does she look like?”
I shrank back in my chair. “What do you mean, imagine her?”
“Oh.” Dr. Spanger pursed her lips. She knew she’d messed up. “What I mean is …”
“Okay, this has gone on long enough,” my father said. “We know you wrote those letters, Jake.”
I nearly jumped out of the chair. “You think I what? That’s not even my handwriting!”
My dad took a letter out of his pocket—the one Emma had left for him. “You wrote this, didn’t you? It’s the same writing.”
“That was Emma, too! Look, her name’s right there!” I grabbed for the letter. My dad whipped it out of reach.
“Sometimes we want things so badly, we imagine they’re real,” Dr. Spanger said.
“You think I’m crazy!” I shouted.
“We don’t use that word in this office,” Dr. Spanger said. “Please calm down, Jake.”
“What about the postmark on the envelopes?” I said, pointing at the letters on Spanger’s desk. “They came all the way from London!”
My father sighed. “You took Photoshop last semester at school, Jakey. I might be old, but I know how easy that sort of thing is to fake.”
“And the photos? Did I fake those, too?”
“They’re your grandpa’s. I’m sure I’ve seen them before.”
By now my head was spinning. I felt exposed and betrayed and horribly embarrassed. And then I stopped talking, because everything I said seemed only to further convince them I had lost my mind.
I sat fuming while they talked about me like I wasn’t in the room. Dr. Spanger’s new diagnosis was that I’d suffered a “radical break with reality,” and that these “peculiars” were part of an elaborate universe of delusions I’d constructed for myself, complete with fantasy girlfriend. Because I was very intelligent, for weeks I’d managed to fool everyone into thinking I was sane, but the letters proved I was far from cured, and could even be a danger to myself. She recommended I be sent to an “in-patient clinic” for “rehabilitation and monitoring” with all due haste—which I understood to be psychiatrist talk for “looney-bin.”
They’d had it all planned out. “It’ll just be for a week or two,” my father said. “It’s a really nice place, super expensive. Think of it as a little vacation.”
“I want my letters.”
Dr. Spanger tucked them back into her folder. “Sorry, Jake,” she said. “We think it’s best if I hold on to them.”
“You lied to me!” I said. Leaping at her desk, I swiped at them, but Spanger was quick and jumped back with the folder in her hand. My dad shouted and grabbed me, and a second later two of my uncles burst through the door. They’d been waiting in the hall the whole time. Bodyguards, in case I made a break for it.
They escorted me out to the parking lot and into the car. My uncles would be living with us for a few days, my mom explained nervously, until a room opened up for me at the clinic.
They were scared to be alone with me. My own parents. Then they’d send me off to a place where I’d be someone else’s problem. The clinic. Like I was going in to have a hurt elbow bandaged. Call a spade a spade: it was an asylum, expensive though it may be. Not a place I could fake swallowing my meds and spit them out later. Not somewhere I could dupe doctors into believing my stories about fugue states and memory loss. They would dope me with antipsychotics and truth serums until I told them every last thing about peculiardom, and with that as proof that I was irredeemably insane, they’d have no choice but to lock me in a padded cell and flush the key down a toilet.
I was well and truly screwed.
* * *
For the next several days I was watched like a criminal, a parent or uncle never more than a room-length away. Everyone was waiting for a call from the clinic. It was a popular place, I guess, but the minute there was an open room—any day now—I would be bundled off.
“We’ll visit every day,” my mom assured me. “It’s just for a few weeks, Jakey, promise.”
Just a few weeks. Yeah, right.
I tried reasoning with them. Begging. I implored them to hire a handwriting expert, so I could prove the letters weren’t mine. When that failed, I reversed myself completely. I admitted to writing the letters (when of course I hadn’t), saying I realized now that I’d invented it all—there were no peculiar children, no ymbrynes, no Emma. This pleased them, but it didn’t change their minds. Later I overheard them whispering to each other and learned that in order to secure me a spot on the waiting list, they’d had to pay for the first week of the clinic—the very expensive clinic—in advance. So there was no backing out.
“I didn’t write the letters,” I said. “Emma did.”
“Sure. Let’s switch gears, then. Tell me about Emma.”
“Doctor,” my mother interrupted, “I don’t think it’s a good idea to encourage—”
“Please, Mrs. Portman.” Dr. Spanger held up a hand. “Jake, tell me about Emma. Is she your girlfriend?”
I saw my dad’s eyebrows rise. I’d never had a girlfriend before. Never so much as been on a date.
“She was, I guess. But now we’re sort of … taking a break.”
Dr. Spanger wrote something down, then tapped her pen against her chin. “And when you imagine her, what does she look like?”
I shrank back in my chair. “What do you mean, imagine her?”
“Oh.” Dr. Spanger pursed her lips. She knew she’d messed up. “What I mean is …”
“Okay, this has gone on long enough,” my father said. “We know you wrote those letters, Jake.”
I nearly jumped out of the chair. “You think I what? That’s not even my handwriting!”
My dad took a letter out of his pocket—the one Emma had left for him. “You wrote this, didn’t you? It’s the same writing.”
“That was Emma, too! Look, her name’s right there!” I grabbed for the letter. My dad whipped it out of reach.
“Sometimes we want things so badly, we imagine they’re real,” Dr. Spanger said.
“You think I’m crazy!” I shouted.
“We don’t use that word in this office,” Dr. Spanger said. “Please calm down, Jake.”
“What about the postmark on the envelopes?” I said, pointing at the letters on Spanger’s desk. “They came all the way from London!”
My father sighed. “You took Photoshop last semester at school, Jakey. I might be old, but I know how easy that sort of thing is to fake.”
“And the photos? Did I fake those, too?”
“They’re your grandpa’s. I’m sure I’ve seen them before.”
By now my head was spinning. I felt exposed and betrayed and horribly embarrassed. And then I stopped talking, because everything I said seemed only to further convince them I had lost my mind.
I sat fuming while they talked about me like I wasn’t in the room. Dr. Spanger’s new diagnosis was that I’d suffered a “radical break with reality,” and that these “peculiars” were part of an elaborate universe of delusions I’d constructed for myself, complete with fantasy girlfriend. Because I was very intelligent, for weeks I’d managed to fool everyone into thinking I was sane, but the letters proved I was far from cured, and could even be a danger to myself. She recommended I be sent to an “in-patient clinic” for “rehabilitation and monitoring” with all due haste—which I understood to be psychiatrist talk for “looney-bin.”
They’d had it all planned out. “It’ll just be for a week or two,” my father said. “It’s a really nice place, super expensive. Think of it as a little vacation.”
“I want my letters.”
Dr. Spanger tucked them back into her folder. “Sorry, Jake,” she said. “We think it’s best if I hold on to them.”
“You lied to me!” I said. Leaping at her desk, I swiped at them, but Spanger was quick and jumped back with the folder in her hand. My dad shouted and grabbed me, and a second later two of my uncles burst through the door. They’d been waiting in the hall the whole time. Bodyguards, in case I made a break for it.
They escorted me out to the parking lot and into the car. My uncles would be living with us for a few days, my mom explained nervously, until a room opened up for me at the clinic.
They were scared to be alone with me. My own parents. Then they’d send me off to a place where I’d be someone else’s problem. The clinic. Like I was going in to have a hurt elbow bandaged. Call a spade a spade: it was an asylum, expensive though it may be. Not a place I could fake swallowing my meds and spit them out later. Not somewhere I could dupe doctors into believing my stories about fugue states and memory loss. They would dope me with antipsychotics and truth serums until I told them every last thing about peculiardom, and with that as proof that I was irredeemably insane, they’d have no choice but to lock me in a padded cell and flush the key down a toilet.
I was well and truly screwed.
* * *
For the next several days I was watched like a criminal, a parent or uncle never more than a room-length away. Everyone was waiting for a call from the clinic. It was a popular place, I guess, but the minute there was an open room—any day now—I would be bundled off.
“We’ll visit every day,” my mom assured me. “It’s just for a few weeks, Jakey, promise.”
Just a few weeks. Yeah, right.
I tried reasoning with them. Begging. I implored them to hire a handwriting expert, so I could prove the letters weren’t mine. When that failed, I reversed myself completely. I admitted to writing the letters (when of course I hadn’t), saying I realized now that I’d invented it all—there were no peculiar children, no ymbrynes, no Emma. This pleased them, but it didn’t change their minds. Later I overheard them whispering to each other and learned that in order to secure me a spot on the waiting list, they’d had to pay for the first week of the clinic—the very expensive clinic—in advance. So there was no backing out.
