31
I listen carefullyas Edmond begins to describe the multi-dimensional state referred to as psychosis. He goes on for several minutes about the variety of personality disorders that can lead to the diagnosis—including schizophrenia, delusional disorder, and the like—and the various things that can exacerbate it, such as misuse of illegal drugs. He follows that up with a clinical description of what happens to a person experiencing psychosis: hallucinations, disordered thinking, delusions, and sometimes catatonia, where the individual is completely lost in their fantasy world and non-responsive to outside stimuli.
Which of course I’m already familiar with.
“But I didn’t have any of those personality disorders you mentioned,” I interrupt, agitated. “I never abused drugs. I’d never been diagnosed with any medical problems, mental or otherwise. How could someone like me, specifically, become psychotic? What would be the trigger?”
In the following silence, I can tell that he’s carefully choosing his words.
“You may not have had a formal diagnosis of depression, but you were undoubtedly depressed.”
When I don’t say anything, he continues. “Your relationship with your husband was strained. You’d discovered he was having an affair…with someone much younger than you. Even before that, the two of you had been drifting apart, and you felt extremely lonely. You told me you were having trouble with the idea of turning forty in a few years, and you longed for another child, but didn’t want one with your husband because of what a poor father you found him to be. Inattentive and cold were your exact words.”
Two things he had in common with his alter ego in my hallucination. “Go on.”
“Then…the accident happened.”
He lets it hang there for a moment in all its monstrosity.
“Shortly after the accident, you were diagnosed with a terminal illness.” His voice gentles. “And when you were eventually confined to a wheelchair as the disease progressed, you experienced what we refer to as a psychotic break. Simply put, your mind could no longer handle the stress and pain of reality, so it kicked into self-defense mode and took you on a beautiful vacation.”
Anguished, I close my eyes. An image of James appears behind my lids. He’s heartbreakingly handsome. His beautiful blue eyes burn as brightly as they always did.
I whisper, “It felt more real to me than this does, talking with you right now.” A thought occurs to me, and I open my eyes. “How do I know this is real? How can I be sure I’m not hallucinating you?”
Edmond shrugs. “It’s a legitimate question. I’ve never experienced a hallucination, but every patient I’ve worked with gives the same account: there was no discernible difference between their hallucinations and ‘real’ life.”
Hope surges inside me again. My heart pounding, I say eagerly, “So maybe this is all a dream? Maybe one day I’ll wake up and be back in France with James?”
Edmond leans back in his chair. He exhales heavily, then rubs a hand over his eyes. When he speaks again, he sounds weary. “I know it’s tempting to believe. But if there’s anything I’ve learned in my time on Earth, it’s this: if it seems to good to be true, it is.”
Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. “That’s not proof of anything.”
“No one can offer you proof of reality, not even Einstein himself. But just because it can’t be proven doesn’t mean the sun won’t rise tomorrow. It will.”
When I only stare at him with a challenging look, unsatisfied by his answers, he takes a different approach.
“Let’s talk about the man you call James.”
The way he says James’s name makes me feel defensive. “What about him?”
“He’s beautiful. By your own description, an Adonis. He’s soulful. Artistic. Attentive. Accomplished. Intelligent.” Edmond pauses. “He’s also ruggedly masculine and strong, incredibly virile and sexually experienced, but also conveniently single…and has been celibate for years. But the moment he sees you, he falls in love. Forgive me for saying so, but that only ever happens in a romance novel. That’s not real life.”
Miserable, I mutter, “I never said he fell in love the minute he saw me.”
On a roll now, Edmond ignores me. “This beautiful man pursues you relentlessly. You have an intense sexual and emotional connection with him, despite knowing him a very short time. He makes you feel desired, needed, and happy for the first time in many years.”
I groan. “Okay, you’ve made your point! I created the perfect man!”
“So perfect he becomes the dark knight who slays the dragon of your guilt. The thing your conscious mind cannot bear to face: you were the cause of your child’s death. Instead, Emmie’s death came from an assassin’s bullet—a bullet meant for your husband. Thereby excusing you of wrongdoing and shifting the blame to him.”
Edmond’s voice lowers. “And when your James killed the killer, the circle was complete. Justice was served. You lived happily-ever-after in a beautiful place untouched by the outside world and even conceived a child with the man who set everything right. The man who, ironically, brought death only to those deserving of it. The killer with a code of honor.”
After another pause, Edmond adds, “The only killers who have a moral code, my dear, are fictional.” His voice grows pityingly tender. “Or figments of our imagination.”
I don’t realize I’m crying until the room begins to blur.
Edmond presses a button on the intercom on his desk. “Catherine, would you have Ernest come to my office, please?”
Standing, Edmond grabs tissues from a box next to his phone and comes around his desk to blot my cheeks with them. “I’m sorry, Olivia,” he murmurs. “I know this is difficult. What you’re feeling is normal. You’ve experienced a loss, and you’re grieving. Allow yourself to grieve the loss of James and your time together, then turn all your focus and energy on healing. And I meant what I said about writing a book: not only could it be of value to others, I believe it would be good therapy for you to get it all out.”
Ernest arrives, looking alarmed to find me in tears. He sends an accusing glare toward Edmond, then grabs the handles of my chair and guides me to the door.
“Wait.”
Ernest leans over to cock an inquisitive brow at me.
“I need to ask him something before we go.”