Dark Matter(19)
The idea hits me with the force of conviction.
What else could have crashed through me with such debilitating speed?
What else could make me lose touch with my identity and reality in a matter of hours, calling into question everything I thought I knew?
I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Finally, I step outside into the grass.
No more voices.
No more footsteps.
No shadows.
No car engines.
The night feels sturdy and real again.
I already know where I’m headed next.
—
Chicago Mercy is a ten-block trek from my house, and I limp into the harsh light of the ER at 4:05 a.m.
I hate hospitals.
I watched my mother die in one.
Charlie spent the first weeks of his life in a NICU.
The waiting room is practically empty. Aside from me, there’s a night construction worker clutching his arm in a bloody bandage, and a distressed-looking family of three, the father holding a red-faced, wailing baby.
The woman at the front desk looks up from her paperwork, surprisingly bright-eyed considering the hour.
Asks through the Plexiglas, “How can I help you?”
I haven’t thought of what to say, how to even begin to explain my needs.
When I don’t answer right away, she says, “Have you been in an accident?”
“No.”
“You have cuts all over your face.”
“I’m not well,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“I think I need to talk to someone.”
“Are you homeless?”
“No.”
“Where’s your family?”
“I don’t know.”
She looks me up and down—a fast, professional appraisal.
“Your name, sir?”
“Jason.”
“One moment.”
Rising from her chair, she disappears around the corner.
Thirty seconds later, there’s a buzzing sound as the door beside her station unlocks and opens.
The nurse smiles. “Come on back.”
She leads me to a patient room.
“Someone will be right with you.”
As the door closes after her, I take a seat on the examination table and shut my eyes against the glare of the lights. I have never been so tired in my life.
My chin dips.
I straighten.
I almost fell asleep sitting up.
The door opens.
A portly young doctor walks in carrying a clipboard. He’s trailed by a different nurse—a bottle blonde in blue scrubs who wears four-in-the-morning exhaustion like a millstone around her neck.
“It’s Jason?” the doctor asks without offering his hand or attempting to fake his way through the graveyard-shift indifference.
I nod.
“Last name?”
I’m hesitant to give him my full name, but then again, maybe that’s just the brain tumor talking, or whatever has gone wrong inside my head.
“Dessen.”
I spell it for him as he scribbles on what I presume to be an intake form.
“I’m Dr. Randolph, attending physician. What brings you into the ER tonight?”
“I think something is wrong with my mind. Like a tumor or something.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Things aren’t like they should be.”
“Okay. Could you elaborate?”
“I…all right, this is going to sound crazy. Just know that I realize that.”
He glances up from the clipboard.
“My house isn’t my house.”
“I’m not following.”
“It’s just what I said. My house isn’t my house. My family isn’t there. Everything’s much…nicer. It’s all been renovated and—”
“But it’s still your address?”
“Right.”
“So you’re saying the inside is different, but the outside is the same?” He says it like he’s speaking to a child.
“Yeah.”
“Jason, how did you get the cuts on your face? The mud on your clothes?”
“People were chasing me.”
I shouldn’t have told him that, but I’m too tired to filter. I must sound absolutely insane.
“Chasing you.”
“Yes.”
“Who was chasing you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know why they were chasing you?”
“Because…it’s complicated.”
His appraising, skeptical look is far more subtle and trained than the front-desk nurse’s. I almost miss it.
“Have you taken any drugs or alcohol tonight?” he asks.
“Some wine earlier, then whisky, but that was hours ago.”
“Again, I’m sorry—it’s been a very long shift—but what makes you think something is wrong with your mind?”
“Because the last eight hours of my life don’t make sense. It all feels real, but it can’t possibly be.”
“Have you suffered a recent head injury?”
“No. Well. I mean, I think someone hit me in the back of the head. It’s painful to the touch.”