James Hart
Dr. Werner’s waiting room was quite typical. A soft rock radio station played from the receptionist’s desk, various certificates and degrees hung neatly on the wall opposite the chairs, and an overlapping pile of out-of-date magazines were sprawled out in the wide coffee table in the center. Tommy figured that doctors were the ones responsible for keeping those magazines in business; no one he knew had a subscription to Field and Garden.
A soft, crackled clock gong filled the waiting room, and a door swung open from behind the receptionist. Dr. Werner leaned in to whisper to her. She turned to the waiting room to look at the man sunk into his chair. He was staring at the corner of the room.
“Mr. Rhodes? Dr. Werner can see you now.”
Tommy Rhodes got up and walked toward the narrow hallway just outside of the waiting room. He met Dr. Werner, standing halfway behind the door to keep it open for his patient. He smiled, but when Tommy offered his hand, there was an awkward pause before he gave up and walked in.
“Please sit down,” the doctor said cordially. Tommy sat in a Lay-Z-Boy that leaned to the right a few inches. He started moving his eyes around the room. There was a long bookshelf on one side of the room, and two desks: one held a computer and five or six pads of paper. The other housed stationery and a large calendar.
After the long pause, Dr. Werner said, “So Mr. Rhodes, why did you feel like coming in to see me today?”
Tommy’s eyes searched the ceiling. “Well doctor, I suppose it’s because I’m depressed.”
“Okay. Why do you think you’re depressed?”
“Because I’m psychic.”
“You can predict the future?”
“That’s psychic? Ah, I guess that’s not it then. Whatever means you can read the thoughts of others.”
“That’s telepathic.”
“Yeah okay. I’m that then.”
“I see.”
Tommy paused. “No doctor, no you don’t. You don’t believe me. Thinking you have special powers is a psychological disorder, is it not?”
The doctor gave a slight smile. “Yes, it is.”
“Yeah. ‘Confabulations due to depression and low self-esteem.’ Not sure what that means, but you’re thinking it right now.”
“How can you be so sure? I didn’t say I didn’t believe you.”
Tommy Rhodes tapped his head. “Okay, tell me that’s not what you’re thinking.”
“Well, why don’t you tell me more about this power of yours, and why it’s making you depressed. I assume you haven’t always had it?”
“No sir. My wife Karen and our little girl died in an auto accident some years back. I didn’t take to that very well, but I thought I was dealing with it okay. I was being an alcoholic is what I was doing. After awhile, I’d start to hear voices when I wasn’t drinking. Random whispers, like a whole conversation in my head.
“When I finally cleaned myself up and quit drinkin’, they were in my head all the time. And I mean all the time, doc. Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t concentrate… It’s funny, but the alcoholism didn’t screw up my job at the mill nearly as much as these voices.”
Dr. Werner picked up his pad of paper and started to write as he spoke. “How did you feel when you heard the news about your wife and daughter?”
Tommy smiled. “I know you wanna go there, doc. Everyone knows family tragedies are a great starting place for head problems. After awhile, I dealt with it. You hurt for awhile, you deal with the pain, and part of it goes away. I’d rather stick to this telepathic thing for awhile, if that’s all right.”
“Okay. So what did you do?”
“I wanted to see somebody, but I was too worried someone would find out I’m seein’ a shrink. But then I started to put two and two together. I’d listen to the voices, and y’know, I could recognize them. They were from people I knew. And get this, they got worse when I would be around those people. If I was just by myself they’d be random phrases comin’ and goin’. But I’d go over to my neighbor’s to return his gas can and my head would light up with voices. Y’know, his voices.”
“What do these voices say to you?”
“Well, they’re not really ‘speaking’ to me, really. At least it doesn’t seem like that. More like I pick them up. I’ve gotten pretty good at figuring them out, too. Like right now I’m hearing ‘Korskoff’s Syndrome possible need to check depression not coping good lead possibly schizotypal,’ that sort of thing.”
Dr. Werner stopped scribbling on his pad of paper. He placed it on the table beside him and looked up. “Would you say that you became introverted after the death of your family?”
Tommy stared at him.
“Would you say you kept to yourself? Did you see your friends much?”
“Well I usually just keep myself to myself. I had a few friends but yeah, I guess you could say I spent more time alone.”
“Okay. And you think this telepathy is the root of your depression?”
“Oh, I know it is, doc.”
“Not the death of your family?”
“No sir. That was twelve years ago. I think things could have gone back to normal were it not for this telepathy stuff.”
“The voices make it difficult for you to concentrate on everyday tasks?”
“Yeah, but not exactly. I mean, I’ve learned to pretty much deal with ‘em. But it’s what I hear, that’s the thing that bothers me. Trust me, walking into Wal-Mart with this sort of thing going on will change your life.”
“How so?”
“Well…” Tommy frowned and considered how to answer. “People are just…well, weird I guess you could say. You hear the stuff they think about and what they do, and it can be too much. I met a guy just yesterday who kicked his neighbor’s dog to death. Tired of his barking in the morning. He was the nicest guy, too; you’d never guess it by looking at him.
“And what’s worse, what do I do, knowing this stuff? What is there to do? This kind of thing happens all the time, and it’s frustrating to have to listen to it all, day in and day out.”
“Okay. So you heard these voices after your family passed away, you had a bout with alcoholism, and soon afterwards, you started hearing these voices and realized you were telepathic.”
“That’s a good way of summing it up, I guess. What do you think?”
Dr. Werner shifted to the other side of his chair. “Well Mr. Rhodes, I should tell you that it’s my practice to be open and honest with my patients. They do the same for me, so I try to be straightforward with them when I’m giving my opinion.”
“That’s fine.”
“Okay, good. Right now, I think there’s definitely a connection between the loss of your family, your alcoholism, and your current problems.”
“You don’t think I’m telepathic.”
“Truthfully? No, I do not. But I’m certain that you believe you are.”
“So, what’s the official diagnosis? Probably not that Korskoff’s stuff, right? You’re thinking schizotypal personality disorder. Suspiciousness or paranoid ideation, unusual perceptual experiences, lack of close friends or confidants other than first-degree relatives, that sort of thing?”
“You’re familiar with diagnosing schizotypal personality disorder?”
Tommy Rhodes tapped his head. “At least a little bit.”
Dr. Werner picked up his notepad and scribbled more notes. It took him over a minute before he was finished. “Well Mr. Rhodes, there are a few possibilities. Sometimes a patient exhibits almost all the traits of a diagnosis, and sometimes they share a few with several others. I want to try an exercise that may help narrow it down some.”
“Twenty questions?”
The doctor smiled. “Sort of. Only ten, though.”
“Ask away.”
“Okay. Have you ever been officially diagnosed with depression?”
“Nope.”
“Have you recently, or in the past, experienced significant weight changes?”
“Well, how far back you wanna go?”
“When you first started to notice there was a problem with yourself.”
“Well, I lost about eleven pounds when I went back to the mill, so yeah, I guess.”
“Have you had an increased suspiciousness in others or developed paranoid ideas?”
“Not really.”
“Who is the current—”
“—President. Dubya.”
Dr. Werner sighed quietly. “have you lost your motivation to perform ordinary tasks, or felt increased fatigue?”
“Motivation? Sorta. But there’s things that gotta get done, y’know? And no, no increased fatigue.”
“Do you have increased anxiety or increased feelings of guilt?”
“Anxiety? You bet. Hearing what I hear makes me pretty anxious. And guilt? Yeah. I don’t know what I should do about any of it.”
“Okay Mr. Rhodes, now I’m going to repeat a series of numbers. Could you give them back to me in the same order?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, the series is as follows: one, seventeen, sixty-four, eighteen—”
“—Sixteen, five, right? So okay, that’s one, seventeen, sixty-four, eighteen, sixteen, five.”
“Have you ever experienced intense illusions or hallucinations, either visual or auditory?”
“You’re going to put down yes, I know that, but they’re not hallucinations. I think you’re at least open to that idea by know, though.”
Dr. Werner once again took to writing on his notepad, but Tommy interrupted him. “Well doctor, what do you think?”
Without putting down his pen, Dr. Werner said, “Well Mr. Rhodes, there are still a few possibilities. As you said earlier, it could be schizotypal personality disorder. It could be that claiming you have these voices is some kind of coping mechanism. To replace alcohol, it could be that you put this idea in your head because, unlike the loss of your family, it was something you felt you could handle.”
Dr. Werner looked up. “Or, you could really be telepathic, and like you said, your increased awareness has been too much for you to handle.”
The grandfather clock in the corner of the room started clicking, and then produced two loud, crackled gongs. Dr. Werner got up.
“But it seems we are out of time for today. I think you should come visit me again, Mr. Rhodes. After some time with the right kind of therapy, I think you’ll be able to confront the source of your depression.”
Tommy got up, but much more slowly than the doctor. “How about meds?”
“What about them? Do you need them?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, I don’t like to suggest them unless they seem to be necessary, and I don’t think that’s the case. Anyway, I’d like you to meet with me again, okay? You can call us or drop by to make another appointment.”
Remembering his mistake earlier, Dr. Werner extended his hand to Tommy. Tommy Rhodes shook it, but then pulled himself closer to the doctor. Surprised, Dr. Werner tried to let go, but the taller man tightened his grip.
“I’m afraid I wasn’t totally honest with you, doc,” he began. “I’ve found a way to deal with my depression. I figure if I can use the voices I hear for good, I can at least make some sense of it.
“You don’t remember me, but I saw you last week at the Post Office. I stood beside you. It was just for a few minutes, but it was enough. I heard what you did, doctor. Heard it from your own thoughts. I just needed to spend some time with you to get the details. Where’s your wife now, Dr. Werner? Where’s your daughter? I think the police would love to hear where they are.
“I usually just call them right up with stuff like this, but you were nice enough to see me today, so I guess I’ll cut you a deal. I’ll give you three days to tell them yourself what you did. Run if you want, but I know where you’d go. Don’t try to do anything silly with me, either. Told my neighbor where I’d be today and I gave your receptionist a fake address.”
He let go of the doctor’s hand, and opened the exit room door. “Three days,” he said over his shoulder as he made his way to the stairs. Dr. Werner stared at the opened door, hand still extended from when Tommy Rhodes had held it.
© Copyright 2008 James Hart