NUMB, Judy Colella [i am malala young readers edition .TXT] 📗

slight hitch in her walk from a bad back. A laundress, she had raised Issa alone after a boating accident had left her widowed many years earlier.

Issa sighed and closed her eyes. Her neurological condition had deprived her of much of her long-term memory, while leaving only recent events clear. If only –

Sitting straighter, her eyes flashed open – neurological condition! That morning, Kyria had gotten a phone call from the neurologist who had saved her husband’s life. Apparently, he was arriving earlier than scheduled for Kyrios Johanan’s check up. If anyone could help Issa with her problem, this doctor could! Would it be too much to ask if he could at least examine her? The other problem, the one she’d discussed with no one, and which no one else seemed to have noticed, could wait.

Yes. That was what she would do. The stupid shopping would only take a few hours, even if she did have to stop and visit the Kyria’s friend first. But either way, Issa was determined to get back to Paros before the doctor was gone. Because she’d been the one to give the message to her employer, she knew the doctor would be arriving later that afternoon. She had not been there the last time he’d visited, so she didn’t know how long the check-ups took. Still, there was a chance he might not have left by the time she got back.

Satisfied with her plan, she sat back again, smiling. Maybe she could finally be cured.

*8*

 

 

Jax rubbed his eyes, the computer screen’s light beginning to cause a more serious fatigue than the trip to see his family.

After an early evening meal, he’d gotten himself settled in his old room, then gone into Jett’s to look for clues. Other than a few empty hangers in the closet and two gaps on the shoe rack, there was no indication that his brother had gone. He stared around, baffled, but then his gaze swept past the corner, only to return with a snap of his fingers – of course! The computer!

If what was in the letter was a clue, it indicated Jett would have done some research. Where does one go for help like that? Sitting at the desk and starting up the state-of-the-art PC, Jax had immediately checked the search engine’s history. A long list of rehabilitation centers, mental hospitals, sanitariums and hospitals known for accommodating those with severe mental disorders popped up. Any one of them would have fit, but which? And most recent one listed wasn’t necessarily the one Jett had chosen.

Now, three hours and four cups of coffee later, Jax had narrowed the list to eight, based on what he knew about his brother’s view of things. He blinked several times, sat back, and sipped at the fourth cup of caffeine, cold but still effective. One of the places was only four miles away. He considered it, thinking Jett may have chosen it as a hide-in-plain-sight location.

No. That was too subterfuge-oriented; Jett’s mind was far more straightforward. Delete.

The next one to catch his attention did so because of its size – massive. A great place in which to get lost. The only problem was its high-profile patient list. Being so high-profile himself, Jett would never put himself in a hospital that not only got lots of media attention, but that, because of the size of its staff, increased the odds of one of them having a big mouth. Well, then. Delete.

Wait - odds…in this, he and Jett thought very much alike, so instead of trying to come to a conclusion based on psychology, he began to apply mathematics. This was common ground that suddenly made the whole process, and its conclusion, clear. Only one of the places on the list ran parallel with the numerical and logical answer to the formula he’d applied, and after doing a little on-line research, Jax was convinced he was right. Far enough away, not too large, extremely familiar to the psychiatric community and hardly at all by the rest of the population, this one had all the correct indicators, fit every model he could throw at it, every formula into which he inserted it.

The Bluebird Foundation. Cute. Jax wondered if its name was a sly reference to the proverbial “bluebird of happiness.” Possibly. Irrelevant. What mattered was that this was the only hospital that Jett would have gone to in order to save his life. Of course, what was most important wasn’t so much the place’s reputation as how willing his brother was to allow them to keep him from committing suicide. He had a feeling that to succeed, they would have to be extraordinary. Like Jett himself, only more.

Yawning, Jax shut down the computer and went to his room. A quick glance at his watch told him it was too late bother his parents with what he’d found – not that he had told them what he was doing. Besides, he was exhausted and needed to sleep. The morning would be soon enough to discuss this.

A quick shower, set the alarm, put on the pajamas still in one of the dresser drawers – that made him smile – and he slid under the covers with a sigh. Within minutes, he was asleep.

 

*******

 

Therapy. Therapy, therapy, therapy…sounds like “syrupy” with a lisp. Why so much therapy? Physical therapy for my hands, physical therapy for my shoulders and foot, group therapy for my attitude, private therapy for my screwed up mind…blah, blah, blah. I want to jump out a window and fly away. Maybe that’s why they still keep me strapped down when I’m not doing THERAPY!!!!

He was sitting up, at least, and could stare out the window through which he would have jumped given half a chance. Still strapped in, yes, but they’d moved him to a bed that could be adjusted into several positions for greater comfort.

A television sat on a shelf high up in one corner of the room, but it had been turned off. Without words, he had indicated that he didn’t want to watch it. The last time the nurse had turned it on, he’d yelled and begun thrashing about as best he could in his restraints. So she’d turned it off, and he’d grown quiet again. Looking up at it now, he could make out his reflection in the flat, shiny screen.

Not much to look at these days, eh? Your hair is a mess, your face is all bony, and you’re strapped in like Frankenstein’s monster. Are you a monster? Who are you, anyway? Do you have a name? No. No, no, no, no, no. No name. No past. No history, nope. Shut the fuck up!

He turned his head so he didn’t have to see himself and concentrated instead on the lack of scenery outside his wired window. A bird flew past. He bared his teeth, silently daring it to try that again. Instead, he saw something that might have been a bird, but was too far away – besides, its wings weren’t flapping. A plane or a jet, and why was that last word to be avoided? A plane, then.

Planes flew. They also stopped flying, sometimes involuntarily. When that happened, they could hit the ground and be pulverized. Or hit the ocean.

He turned away from the window and began making sounds. No words, sounds. Like harsh groans, which eventually turned into deep-throated screams, then subsided, becoming silence without thought. Nothing. Stare at nothing. Hmmm. His mind emptied itself, after a while not even recognizing things within his eyes’ view. He stayed like that for a long, long time.

Eventually, though, Jett noticed that the room had gone dark. He blinked, and was about to try sleeping, but the door opened and lights were switched on. He blinked again, this time with discomfort.

“Time for your medication, dude.” This nurse was male, and he smiled as he held up two tablets and a cup of water. “You okay? We heard you making some noise before. Maybe you can talk to the doctor about it at your group session this evening, yes?”

Jett felt like spitting the pills into the man’s eye for even suggesting such a thing. Oh, why bother. They’ll just inject you, make you sleep, and you’ll start dreaming. When he fell asleep naturally, the dreams didn’t come. When he was heavily medicated, though, the dreams not only were constant, they were horrible. So he nodded without thinking, for something to do that seemed right, perhaps.

“Good. You relax now. By the way, I was asked to tell you that if you stopped trying to hurt yourself, they’d let you get up and move around a little. You wouldn’t have to be wheeled into your sessions, either.”

I know. I’ve heard that before. But you can’t keep me from seeing things that make me think, and that’s when I start looking for ways to fill my head with painful distractions. Didn’t you realize that?

“Still not talking. Okay.” With a deep sigh that Jett found theatrical enough to warrant a smirk, the nurse took the cup and headed for the door. “Hope to see you later.”

Hope. There is no hope. Yoda said, “there is no ‘try’” but that’s stupid. It’s hope that isn’t possible, you idiotic green-faced puppet! Get up and move around…why? Why bother? I have no strength anymore, don’t want any. No reason for it these days. I have to pee. Dammit. Better push that fucking button to get the fucking nurse back in here. Hey, I used a bad word three times today! Yay, me! I must be getting liberated! He looked down at his restraints and almost burst out laughing. But he didn’t. He remembered the person in one of his dreams who had told him it would be okay to use bad words. So, no, he didn’t laugh.

He cried.

 

*******

 

“You can’t keep this up, my friend.”

How am I your friend? I don’t know you. Heck, I don’t seem to know anything. Right?

“Look at me. Please. I’m trying to help you. That is why you came here, isn’t it?” The psychiatrist stared for a moment, then reached out, grasped Jett by his upper arms, and shook him gently – the young man’s shoulders were still not well-healed enough for anything rougher. “Look at me. Unless you want me to use your name?”

So you use blackmail. Ah. Fine. I’m looking. Who are you? I forgot the name you said. Whatever. I’m looking.

“I know you’re in there. You have to mourn. You do know how important mourning is, don’t you?”

Jett let his gaze wander to the window, to the early daylight.

“No. You know I don’t mean that. Mourning. With a ‘u’. If you keep avoiding the truth, you’ll never get past it. The longer you stay where you are, the less likely your mind will ever be able to go anywhere else. You can’t get past the sorrow until you deal with it. You have to face your loss.”

If I were Freud, I’d peer at you over my glasses, tap my lips with a pencil, and with a thick Austrian or German accent – don’t recall which – I’d say, “And what have you lost? Do you still hate your father?” Then you’d…naw. If I did that, you’d get all