At the Stroke of Madness

CHAPTER 30

“Tell me about your illness,” he said while sitting on the edge of the bed.

Joan had been asleep. It had to be the middle of the night. But when the light snapped on she woke with a jerk. And there he was. She had to squint to see him, sitting at the foot of the bed, watching her. Staring at her.

She could smell him, a combination of wet dirt and human sweat, as if he had just come in after digging in the woods. Oh, God! Had he been digging her grave?

“What did you say?” She tried to wipe at the sleep from her eyes, only then remembering the leather restraints. Alarm spread through her body. Her muscles ached. She strained to reach her face, to push the strands of hair from her mouth, noticing how very dry her skin had gotten, almost crusty at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Perhaps there were no more tears, was no more saliva inside her. Was that possible? Could a person cry herself dry?

She felt the fear already clawing at her. Felt his eyes examining her. Her stomach growled and for a brief moment she realized she was hungry. “What time is it?” She tried to stay calm. If she didn’t panic maybe it wouldn’t trigger the madman in him.

“Tell me about your disease, your hormone deficiency.”

“What?”

“You know, the hormone deficiency. Which hormone is it?”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” she lied, but she knew exactly what he was talking about. She had told him that a hormone deficiency was the cause of her struggle with her weight. She had lied, embarrassed to admit that it had only been a lack of self-discipline. Oh, dear God. What had her lies gotten her into? She glanced around the room, at the containers and the skulls above her. Is that what he wanted from her?

“Tell me what gland. Is it the pituitary? Or did you say the thyroid?” He continued in almost a singsong tone, as if trying to coax her into sharing. “You know the hormone that makes you fat? Or I guess it’s the lack of a hormone, right? You told me about it. Remember? I think you said it had something to do with your thyroid, but I can’t remember. Is it the thyroid?”

She looked over his shoulder at the jars that lined the shelves. There were a variety of shapes and sizes: mason jars and pickle jars with the labels scratched out and taped over with new labels. From a distance she could see only globs, but after recognizing the breast implants, she now realized these containers must hold other specimens, bits and pieces of human tissue. And now he was asking about her thyroid. Oh, Jesus! Was that why he had always been interested? Did he have a jar ready to plop it into?

“I don’t know,” she managed to say over the lump in her throat. “I mean, they don’t know.” Her lips quivered and she pulled the covers up over her shoulders as best she could, pretending it was because of the cold and not the fear.

“But I thought you said it was your thyroid?” He sounded like a little boy, almost pouting.

“No, no, not the thyroid. No, not at all.” She tried to sound sure of herself. She needed to convince him. “In fact, they discounted the thyroid. Discounted it altogether. You know, it may just be a lack of self-discipline.”

“Self-discipline?”

His brow furrowed—puzzled, not angry—as he thought about this. Maybe it was only the tinge of blue fluorescent light from the aquarium, but he reminded her of a little boy again. Even the way he was sitting, cross-legged with one foot tucked under himself, his hands in his lap, his eyes hooded with exhaustion and his hair tousled as if he, too, had just been awakened.

She wondered if he was trying to figure out how he might bottle her self-discipline, or rather lack of self-discipline. Would he try to find another answer? Then she caught a glimpse of shiny metal. Her empty stomach plunged. In his folded hands that sat quietly in his lap, he held what looked like a boning knife.

Her muscles tightened. Her eyes darted around the room. The panic crawled up from her empty stomach, on the verge of becoming a scream.

He had come for her thyroid. He planned to cut it out. Would he even bother to kill her first? Oh, dear God.

Then suddenly he said, “I never thought you looked fat at all.” He was looking down at his hands and glanced up at her with a smile, a shy, boyish smile. It reminded her of the way he had been when they first met, polite and quiet with interested eyes that listened and wanted to please.

“Thank you,” she said, forcing herself to smile.

“Sometimes doctors make mistakes, you know.” He looked sad now as he stood up, and every nerve in her body prepared itself. “They don’t know everything,” he told her.

And then he turned and left.