It’s not uncommon with most mental illnesses to self-medicate, and yet, for Becky, I hold her in a higher regard. I hold her to her actions more severely.
I’m human.
“I’ve treated your illness with a number of patients,” I say aloud, even though I know she won’t respond. “Had you been my patient, I would’ve seen to it that you got the treatment you needed. You might even be living a healthy life today, still in society, functional and contributing.”
I change the screen over and open another file. This one dated at around the time when Grayson might’ve been living with her. “And because you were a mother, I would’ve made sure that your child wouldn’t have suffered. That, I suppose, I should lay at the doctors’ feet. Grayson should’ve had someone who cared to look out for him.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Becky blink.
It’s the first movement she’s made since I entered her room. I swivel my chair to face her. “Grayson,” I say again.
Blink.
As inconspicuous as I can, I glance around the ro
om, noting the camera in the corner above the door. Most facilities have video to monitor patients, but not audio. I’m not sure if that’s true for this ward, but for me, right now, it’s worth the risk.
I wheel the cart closer to Becky. She’s gripping the armrest, her fingers white.
“You had a son, Becky. His name was Grayson.”
A couple more frantic blinks let me know she’s listening.
“You had a wretched family, didn’t you. A sister that cared nothing for you once the checks no longer came. A brother who abused and traded children. Who you sold your own son to…for what? Money? Drugs? Or just because the burden to care for Grayson became too much?”
Her mouth twitches, her facial features tic in odd arrangements. Then: “Demon.”
The word is barely a wisp of breath, but I heard it. I say his name again, just to be sure. “Grayson.”
“Demon,” she whispers, her milky eyes latching on to mine.
I nod once. Rebecca Sullivan, amid her delusional state, believed her own son to be an evil force. “What did you do to him?”
But just as quickly as she broke through, Becky is gone. Her eyes glazed, gaze staring past me.
I know enough to make the connections. Just like Grayson works each puzzle piece into place, I can see the beveled edges of the jigsaw tearing through the picture, ripping a life apart.
I tap the keyboard, giving myself some action to do for the camera. Eyes trained on the screen, I talk to Becky. She’s still in there somewhere. “Was it all the illness, Becky? Or was it some selfish part of you that made it easy to torture your son? As I said, I’ve treated schizophrenic patients, most having never been violent. Ironic, considering I’ve devoted my career to criminal offenders. But it’s true. With the right medications and treatment plan, you could’ve led a good life.” I glance her way. “Unless the patient suffers violent tendencies. Then the addition of street drugs in the mix is like pouring fuel on a fire. Madness ravages the mind, an uncontrollable brushfire burning, burning…”
A tremor tics at her lips. Just a small reaction, but it’s there.
I lower my voice, more intimate. “I had a patient once who believed he had insects living under his skin. He would claw, nails tearing through flesh, until his arms were bloody. And that’s what it’s like, isn’t it, Becky? Being trapped in there, all the evil things you’ve seen and done crawling inside you like insects. Wiggling beneath your skin, spider legs tickling your flesh from the inside out…but you can’t get to them. You can’t move to even try.”
One of her fingers jumps. Her nails dig into the arm of the chair, and I smile.
“I don’t know which would be worse,” I say. “Raking nails over skin until you bleed, or being paralyzed by the fear. Feeling every insect bite into your flesh and not being able to stop it.”
I reach out and, as lightly as I can, run my fingers over her arm. She flinches, and for a moment, I think a tear might leak free. But she buries her fear. Trapped down in the tormented depths with her. “Now that I know what he fears,” I whisper to her, “I’m going to free him.”
I stand and clear the screen. I leave Grayson’s mother, giving Dr. Collins another grateful “thank you” as I pass by, and I reenter the world armed. I have just one last stop to make, just enough time before my scheduled departure, and I follow the directions to the house—the address I memorized from Becky’s medical file.
I could’ve done just as Dr. Collins suggested; I could’ve called. I could’ve tracked down Becky through searches, hired an investigator if needed. I could’ve gotten access to her medical history. I would’ve come to the same conclusion miles from here, having never needed to fly across an ocean.
That’s not why I’m here.
As I drive up to the house, I know that I had to see it with my own eyes. I want to look at Grayson’s childhood home and envision the boy within, just as he touched the bars in my basement, reverently caressing the iron, connecting to me across time and space.
The house is old—it was probably old when Grayson lived here. Now boarded up, condemned. Abandoned. The ocean breeze whips through the tall grass in the front yard, the gray wood chipped and salted, years of sea spitting against it. This small, winding stretch of oceanfront is called The Burrows.