Lying Season

Page 19

“How many are here?” Dex asked.
“Thirty-three,” the doctor said. “And the numbers diminish each year. Technically, we shouldn’t even have three over thirty, but families get desperate and I have a soft heart.”
I wasn’t sure about that.
“Do you mind if we start setting up for the interview?” Dex asked, bring around the camera and placing it on the desk. With his other hand he produced a few waivers out of his camera bag and placed those along with it.
The doctor eyed them suspiciously before picking the papers up and giving them a very thorough read.
“I hope you two realize why I am letting you do this.”
Dex and I looked at each other.
Dr. Hasselback continued, eyes on the paper, “It’s risky for me to open my doors to a film crew. Too much publicity, the wrong publicity, and I would humiliate myself and my patients.”
“I can assure you that won’t happen,” Dex said.
The doctor looked up at him. “Can you? I hope so. The reason I said OK to this little venture is because you aren’t the sensational type. You’re honest, I believe. I hope, anyway. Sometimes I can’t really believe what it is that you’re writing, but I’ve noticed that even if you are making up every episode, you’re doing it for the right reasons.”
“Which are?” I asked.
He looked surprised and then looked back down at the papers again. “You’re obviously seeing things that aren’t there. Things you want to see. But you’re not making it up for the wrong reasons. For fame. And money.”
I opened my mouth to say something in our defense, but Dex laid his hand on my knee and shot me a subtle, warning look.
“And therefore, I don’t mind if you film here. Because I know from personal experience that you aren’t going to find anything. And I know you won’t embellish on something that isn’t there. However, I’m also agreeing to an interview and this is the most important part. Because an interview, right now, would help shine a little bit of light on this dark corner of the world. The country has forgotten we exist. And I can bring that light back, with you both.”
So the doctor wanted to use us as much as we wanted to use him. I suppose that was perfectly fair. And we were all being honest about it, a major plus.
“That sounds like a great plan, Dr. Hasselback,” Dex said, smiling but uneasily eyeing the papers he had yet to sign. He picked up on that and eventually signed it with a runny pen.
He handed them back to Dex and said, “Shall we begin then? I’m afraid I don’t have all night. You two are free to film in this building for tonight. The third floor. It’s totally empty. I’ll see tomorrow about Thursday and access to Block C.”
I presumed that it was all up to him whether we were going to film Thursday or not, but I let him have his power trip instead of questioning him. I knew how much of an accomplishment this was for Dex to get us any access at all. I especially saw it in the face of Annie Potterson when she realized we had access to a mysterious institute. They knew all right.
Dex lifted the camera up to eye level and aimed it at him. I wondered if I should say something or introduce it but Dex had already hit record. I guess we would edit my part in later. Fine with me. My hair was wet and grody and I probably matched it.
Dex did most of the talking. He seemed to know a lot more about the institute than I had garnered from my brief internet session. That didn’t surprise me at all. The upper hand changed over, at least in this regard.
Dr. Hasselback was just as jittery on camera as he was off camera, but he was forthcoming and passionate about the questions. He gave a thorough history of the place and the challenges of getting funding for America’s struggling mental health victims, before Dex touched on the whole haunted aspect.
“When was the first time you heard Riverside was haunted?” Dex asked.
The doctor laughed, naturally for once, and leaned back in his seat. “I have no idea. Probably the first day for me. I only came on board after medical school. Brought on by my father, who, as I just mentioned, took over the institute after the war. But you must understand, every hospital, every institute…or any place with history, is haunted in some way or another. Every place has stories and a place like this, festered with people who have stories of their own…it’s inevitable.”
“So you don’t believe in ghosts?”
“Heavens, no.”
“Then how do you account for what has happened here?”
Hasselback clasped his hands into a steeple again, and for the first time tonight, looked calm. He lowered his brow and looked at Dex head on. “You tell me, Mr. Dex Foray, what you think has happened here. What you’ve heard.”
Dex pursed his lips for a split second before shrugging. The camera moved a bit. “Just what has been reported around the world. That patients have seen apparitions in their rooms. That visitors have been locked in with their relatives when they try to leave. That nurses hear whispers and footsteps when no one is around. That Block C is occasionally riddled with random, decaying body parts.”
I shivered at that last sentence. I hadn’t read that part. I looked to the doctor for his opinion. His fingers were pressed harder together but his expression hadn’t changed.
“That’s all?” he asked mildly.
“I’m sure it’s not all,” Dex answered. “But it’s enough for us.”
“Well it’s not enough for me. All of that can be explained with two simple words: Mental Hospital. Anything a patient sees can’t be taken seriously.”
“And their families? And your paid staff?”
He managed a quick smile and eased himself out of his chair. He walked over to the window and peered out at the black rain-spattered night. Dex followed him with the camera lens.
“I think it’s contagious, you know,” Hasselback said. “The nurses, the night staff, the old security guards we used to have. These are people who had no connection to the patients at all. But these…diseases. These plays of the mind. They are contagious. And they catch. If this happens to people of rational thought, what happens to family members, when they see their loved ones strapped down to a chair, muttering nonsense about things that aren’t there?”
I wasn’t watching the doctor anymore, I was watching Dex. The camera had faltered down just a little bit and his eyes looked glazed and fearful at the same time. Like he was remembering something. I wanted to reach out for him and bring him back in but the doctor beat me to it.
Hasselback turned around from the window and looked squarely at Dex. “Wouldn’t you say that apparitions are nothing more than a virus? Spread between two people with nothing more than a sneeze. Or a suggestion?”
“Perhaps,” Dex said slowly. We both knew what he was saying. We had thought it before. But we also knew it wasn’t true.
“So you see, then. The way the mind works. No, this hospital or any of its buildings aren’t haunted.”
“Because you personally don’t believe in ghosts,” I pointed out.
“Not in the way that you believe in them. But there are ghosts, oh yes, there are ghosts and they all live here. Because people with mental illness are haunted by ghosts every day. But these are ghosts inside their heads. Ghosts created by chemical imbalances and strengthened through memory. Everyone has ghosts that follow them throughout their lives. Ghosts of the past they wish they’d left behind, ghosts of love they once turned down, ghosts of regret and ghosts of loss. Ghosts of guilt. We all have them. I do. Roundtree does. You both do. And if you don’t deal with your demons, they will haunt you for the rest of your life.”
Dex and I both fell silent, stiffened and awkward. Hasselback’s words hit me hard and I knew they hit Dex hard too. It all made sense. Our personal demons, the ghosts of our past, the things we hid in the closet or under the rug, or inside a hollowed-out book, would eventually find us. Maybe they’d find us in ways that only our mind could imagine and interpret as something supernatural.
But at the same time…that was impossible. Not because it couldn’t happen, but that it wasn’t the case with us. Not with Dex and me. Certainly not me. I wasn’t seeing a dead girl in his living room because I had a hard time letting go of my love for him. I didn’t see Mary because I felt unappreciated by my parents. And I didn’t see Ol’ Roddy because kids teased me when I was young. I saw those things because they were people once and they were haunted by their own pasts and just wanted someone to finally notice. I don’t know why they chose me, but to pretend they were a figment of my imagination was wrong. Evil or not, they were people and deserved at least a bit of recognition, even if they couldn’t have my compassion.
I looked over at Dex. He still had the camera rolling on the doctor during this long pause but his mind was elsewhere. I reached into my purse again and grasped my iPhone in my hand. I gave it a squeeze and let go. I would need it tonight, I knew this much.
“Did that answer your question, Mr. Foray?”
Dex slowly nodded and looked down at the camera. “I think we’ve got enough here.” His voice was lower than usual and as thick as soup.
Hasselback nodded then peered with his rodent eyes at Dex’s arm. He was just in a plain black tee shirt, his jacket on the back of the chair. It was a trifle warm in the room.
“What’s your tattoo of?” Hasselback asked.
Dex looked up at him, brows raised. “On my arm?”
“Yes,” he said patiently and walked over to him to get a better look.
Dex rolled up his sleeve to show him the black, simple-looking fleur-de-lis on his bicep. His bicep instinctively flexed and looked very nice indeed.
The doctor nodded and stood up straight. “The mark of a criminal.”
Dex didn’t move. I flinched.
“What?” I asked, leaning closer to Dex’s arm. Mark of a criminal?
“I assume Dex knows this. That’s why he chose it. The fleur-de-lis is the mark of French nobility, and also the mark of a criminal. They were branded with it, usually on the shoulder or on the back. It showed that they were owned by the monarchy. Are you French, Dex?”
“Yes,” he said, sounding plain. He rolled down his sleeve. The movement was very robotic. I watched them both carefully, not wanting to interrupt.
“There you go. Not that that was hard to deduce. I can see it in your coloring. Dark eyes. Dark hair. Olive skin. You have all the French in you. But not all. You’re a half-breed.”
Dex gave the doctor an annoyed scowl. But the doctor continued, “Sorry. No disrespect. People’s ethnicities say a lot more about them than the people themselves. It’s part of the past and the past is what molds us.”
“We really don’t have time for amateur psychology, doctor,” Dex sneered. I imagined his sneer was as polite as I’ve ever heard it.
“I’m hardly amateur. And I apologize for being curious. I can tell this is all news to her and she wants to know more.”
He pointed his steepled fingers at me. Dex didn’t meet my eyes but kept his focused on the doctor.