Henry Franks(13)
Henry shrugged.
“Just a thought.”
“It’ll be cooler soon.”
“November isn’t actually soon,” she said. “How’s school?”
He shrugged again. “It’s school.”
“Two word answers aren’t really much better than one, Henry.”
Is my father’s name Frank Franks or are the pictures of me? But he didn’t ask that particular question out loud. If Franks isn’t my father’s real name, what’s my name? But he didn’t ask that question either.
“A lot more police outside the hospital,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“This morning. On the bus, when we drove past, it was surrounded.”
“Do you always notice the hospital?”
Henry shook his head, hiding behind his hair. “It’s big.”
“Does it bother you?”
“People who can’t remember who they are get sent there,” he said, the words bitten off and harsh.
“Is that what you’re afraid of?”
“Would it help?” he asked.
“What?”
“Going there; would it help?”
Dr. Saville tapped her pen against the pad, her head cocked to the side. “The Georgia Regional Psychiatric Hospital is for criminals who have been admitted for detention and treatment, Henry. Not for teenage boys who survived accidents.”
“It’s still big,” he said with a half-smile.
“Yes, it is,” she said. “Any dreams lately?”
“My dad switched the dosages around on me,” he said. “I don’t dream as much now.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“I miss Elizabeth,” he said and closed his eyes.
“Henry?”
“In my dreams now, I don’t recognize anyone. Or any place. Like they’re not my dreams.”
“Maybe they’re people and places you’ve forgotten?”
He pressed his hands into his legs. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“They call me Victor.”
“That’s not really your name, Henry.”
“That’s what they tell me.” He smiled and then shrugged. “How would I know?”
“Have you talked to your father about any of this?”
“We don’t … well, no,” he said. “That’s not what we do.”
“What?”
“Talk.”
“About this?” she asked.
“About anything. I don’t think he likes me very much.”
Dr. Saville’s pen stopped and she looked up at him over her notebook. “Why do you say that?”
“Mom died.”
“That’s it?”
Henry wiped his eyes. “I should have died too. It’s been hard on him, I guess.”
“You lived, Henry.”
“I forget what my mother looked like as soon as I stop looking at her picture, like she’s a stranger and the photo came in the frame from the store.”
“Post-traumatic stress and retrograde amnesia, that’s what we’ve been working on,” Dr. Saville said. “It’s a process.”
“It’s not working.”
“It takes time.”
“I can’t remember her name.”
“Henry.” She stretched her hand out, resting long fingers against the arm of his chair for just a moment.
He slammed his head back, striking the fabric with a dull thud, and then looked at her through the fall of his hair with red eyes. His breath came hard and fast, hyperventilating. “I can’t remember me.”
“Take deep breaths.”
“I can’t.”
“Henry!” Dr. Saville reached his side in one step, and then moved back as his arms flailed out.
“I—” He rocked back and forth, banging his head against the chair. “I—” He blinked, over and over again, the motions erratic and strained as he clawed at his skin, leaving faint trails of blood behind.
“Deep breaths, Henry.”
Dr. Saville knelt in front of him and held his hands down after he drew blood from the scar on his wrist. He shook like a wild animal cornered after a fight; his thrashing banged his skull against her chin. “Breathe, Henry.”
His heart hammered against his ribs and he couldn’t catch his breath.
“Breathe.” She took a deep breath. “Slow, Henry, remember?”
When he looked up at her, a trail of blood ran from her bottom lip, and the bright red caught his attention more than her words.
“Breathe,” she said before she took another deep breath. “Count to ten, Henry.”
And he did.
“Again.”
Together, they held their breath. Inhale. Exhale. Again. Until she released him and he collapsed into the chair.
“You need to practice your relaxation techniques more.”
“You’re bleeding,” he said, pointing at her chin.
Dr. Saville grabbed a tissue and wiped her face.
Henry hung his head between his knees, letting his hair fall back in front of his eyes. “I’m sorry.”