In Sight of Stars(8)

Day?—Afternoon

A knock on the door startles me awake.

My mouth is cotton. I’m drenched in sweat.

“Klee Alden?” A tall, thin man, brown-skinned with black hair, glasses, and a white lab coat, enters. He looks vaguely familiar, but I’m not sure.

“Do you remember me? I’m Dr. Ram. I examined you yesterday.” He speaks with an accent, his vowels soft and drawn out, his consonants sharp. He pronounces my first name with something between the long a and long e. Close enough. I sit up and he shakes my hand. “How are we doing today?”

I shrug. “Okay, I guess.”

He directs me to the edge of the bed, and pulls a blood pressure cuff from his pocket. “You look a little flushed.”

“I had a bad dream.”

He wraps the cuff around my upper arm, pumps and squeezes, closing his eyes to count. “Good, excellent,” he says when he’s done. “Dr. Alvarez said you were feeling a little light-headed.”

I nod.

“Still?”

“Yeah, a little, but not as much. I mean, it’s hard to tell … I just woke up.”

“Well, good, then. Excellent. I’d like to keep you on this higher dose of the Aripiprazole for now, but I’ve had them decrease the pain medications. Those tend to be a more likely culprit. And you probably don’t need them any longer.” I nod again, wondering if I should tell him about the hallucinations. But, I don’t want him to think I’m crazier than I must be, because who knows where they’ll put me then.

My eyes dart for the crow and the red-bearded man, but thankfully, they’re not around.

He undoes the cuff, jams it back in his pocket, and reaches into the opposite one, extracting a penlight.

“Look here,” he says, moving the light from right to left, then back again. My eyes follow. “Good,” he says. “Any blurred vision?”

Turn off that fucking light, asshole!

I shake my head, dislodge the memory. “No,” I say, “I don’t think so.”

“Excellent, I think we’re good for now.”

Whatever you say, Doc.

He slips the penlight away, puts his hands on my throat, and gently presses at my glands. His fingers are soft and cold. The cold feels good on my skin.

“Sore throat?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Right, good.

He looks at me and waits. I look away.

“Are you sleeping at all?”

“Yeah, a lot. But I wake up constantly … my dreams are vivid, and weird.”

“To be expected. You’ve been working with Dr. Alvarez.” A statement, not a question, so I nod. “Good. Excellent.”

I almost laugh. Apparently everything about my situation so far ranges from good to excellent.

He writes something in my chart. Paranoid, I stare hard at his pen.

“Mr. Alden, make sure you eat.” He looks down his glasses at me and frowns. “It will help if you keep your stomach full. But for now, I think we should stay the course. Looks like everything is adjusting nicely.”

“Okay.”

“Let Dr. Alvarez know if you have any additional concerns.”

“Right,” I say. “I will.”

He puts his hands back in his coat pockets and tsks at the window beyond me. I twist around to see. Construction equipment has lumbered into view. “A shame,” he says, indicating a large excavator that may as well have parked in front of my window. “It’s been this way for months. An earache and an eyesore.” He shakes his head at the yellow, prehistoric silhouette. “All right, son, I think we’re good for now. We’ll see how you’re feeling tomorrow.” The word “son” makes me flinch. “Holler if you need something.” He heads toward the door.

“Okay, thank you. I will.”

The door closes slowly behind him all but the last few inches.

I lie back down and stare at the excavator, then close my eyes, grateful for its noisy rattle and hum.

Dr. Ram is right: Except for the part where my father is gone and I’m lying here alone in the Adolescent Psychiatric Center at Northhollow missing Sarah so bad I can’t breathe, everything is adjusting just fine.

Day?—Evening

“Come to me my melancholy baby…”

The room is dark, and Sarah is crawling again.

“Cuddle up and don't be blue

All your fears are foolish fancies, dear…”

I sit up.

Not Sarah. I’m in bed. In the Ape Can.

But there was a noise.

Someone is in my room.

But when I switch on the reading light, the room is empty, the rolling table pushed over, alongside my bed. A note and a two-pack of Yodels sit there.

I pick up the paper and read:

Welcome to APCN.

You’re early to bed so I’ve left something sweet to welcome you.

Hope to chat with you soon.

It’s signed:

Sister Agnes Teresa

I pick up the Yodels and turn them in my hand, not trusting if they’re real or some looped-up-on-drugs hallucination. Whatever the case, I’m starving, so I rip open the wrapper and scarf them down.

Day 3—Morning

Sunlight streams in the window.

Someone has let the shades up. I’m not usually such a heavy sleeper.