Down Among the Dead Men

43

The hallway around the corner seemed different from the rest of the station. Cleaner, better lit.

It almost looked like a hospital corridor.

But this could simply have been Beth’s imagination. The migraine was in full blossom now and her vision kept going in and out of focus, making it difficult to see.

Down at the far end of the hall, a man in a bathrobe and pj’s stood at the pay phone, speaking quietly into the receiver.

That was a first. But then it was her experience that just about anything can happen in a police station.

As she approached, the man hung up and moved past her, nodding and smiling as he went.

Beth didn’t return the smile. The anvil being hammered inside her head made it too difficult to think, let alone respond.

She stepped up to the phone on the wall and picked up the receiver. She was about to reach into her purse for some change when she remembered it had been stolen.

Wonderful. Now what?

Then she realized she could hear a buzzing sound, a dial tone coming from the receiver. Maybe this wasn’t a pay phone, after all, but the Mexican policia’ s version of a courtesy phone. That didn’t explain the coin slot, but Beth wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Putting the receiver to her ear, she dialed 0 and, to her surprise, got a live operator instead of a recording. One who actually spoke English.

The operator asked for a number and Beth gave her Peter’s cell phone from memory.

It was a long-distance call from here, but the operator didn’t seem concerned, and a moment later the line began to ring.

On the third one, a familiar voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Peter, it’s Beth.”

There was silence on the line. And it went on too long.

“Peter?”

“I’m here. What do you want?”

She wasn’t sure where to start. Over the past several months, things had become so strained between them, even a simple conversation was difficult. Her resentment toward him had been too hard to disguise.

But could anyone blame her?

It’s a unique feeling to discover that you’ve been cheated on. A mix of hurt and rage and complete inadequacy. You feel as if you’ve somehow failed the relationship, you wonder about your ability to satisfy your mate both emotionally and physically, and every good memory you have of the two of you together is now tainted, filtered through a nightmare of stained sheets and writhing bodies.

You have been betrayed. The trust is gone.

And in Beth and Peter’s case, that trust was irretrievable.

So, whenever they spoke, her resentment was clear. But she had to tuck it away for now. There were more pressing things to think about, and her head was pounding so hard that she thought she might pass out before she finished telling him what was going on.

“Peter,” she said. “I’m down in Mexico. Baja Norte. Jen and I took a cruise, and after we docked in Playa Azul she disappeared.” Beth started to cry now. “She’s gone, Peter. I don’t know where she went, but I need your-”

“Beth, stop.”

His voice was a slap to the face.

“What?”

“You have to stop calling me like this.”

“What are you talking about? I hardly ever-”

“You’re up to twice a week now. Do you realize that?” A pause. “Of course you don’t.”

Beth was at a loss. He wasn’t making any sense. Other than curt hellos in the office-which was thankfully big enough for some distance-they hadn’t spoken in over a month.

“Peter, listen to me. This isn’t about us. It’s Jen. I think someone may have-”

“Jen’s dead, Beth.”

Another slap. Followed by a rolling wave of nausea.

“She’s been missing for almost a year,” he said. “And we all know what that means.”

“How can you say something like that? That’s crazy.”

“Listen to me. Take a look around you. What do you see?”

“I-”

“Just do it, Beth. Look around.”

Thoroughly confused now, her migraine going into overdrive, Beth looked around the hallway, but it was the same as before. Clean, well lit Wait. No. Not the same.

Through doubling vision, she could see that on the far side of the corridor was what looked like a…

…a nurses’ station.

What the hell?

How could she have missed that?

Turning back to the phone, she discovered that it wasn’t a pay phone at all. Just a small black box mounted on the wall, with no coin slot. A sign next to it read: PATIENT USE ONLY.

And when she glanced down at her clothes, she realized that she, too, was wearing a robe.

She started to tremble.

“Peter, what…?”

“You’re not in Mexico, Beth. You’re in a private rehabilitation clinic in Los Angeles. Jen disappeared almost a year ago and is presumed dead.”

“What?” Beth cried. “That’s impossible. I just saw her-”

“No. You need to focus. Concentrate on the here and now.”

“What are you talking about? Peter, what’s going on?”

“You’re hallucinating,” he said.

“How can that be? That’s crazy.”

Then all at once she realized that it wasn’t so crazy after all, as the corridor around her came into sharp focus, Playa Azul and the police station and the cruise ship and Jen all sliding down a dark memory hole.

And all she could hear was Peter:

“Someone shot you, Beth. Someone shot you in the head.”

Patient’s Journal

Day 58?

10:20 A.M.

I don’t remember the shooting, but I’ll never forget the pain.

That’s what I wrote two days ago.

But I was wrong. I do forget.

And not just the pain, but about where I am. Why I’m here.

Thanks to the bullet fragments lodged in my brain, and the damage to the surrounding tissue, to the three hemorrhagic strokes that I’m lucky to have survived, I’m often whisked away to another place and time. A hallucination so real that I actually believe I’m living it.

Or re living it.

Those two days with Jen did happen.

I know that. They will forever be a part of me.

But for some reason, I can’t seem to get beyond them. I live them over and over, each time as vivid as the last, and the only thing keeping me sane are these few lucid moments when I look around me and see a hospital room. When I can stare down at these words I’ve written and know that there is a part of me fighting this thing, struggling to push through the membrane, to move beyond the darkness into the light.

And while I can remember the pain at these moments, the spiked-heel, hot white pain in my head and the fire in my chest as I lay on wet pavement listening to a distant radio, I can’t for the life of me remember how I got there.

Or how I wound up here.

The last real, fully formed memory I have is of standing in that Mexican police station, nearly a year ago, feeling hurt and frustrated and angry.

But most of all worried.

About a girl I grew up with. A girl I took care of during the worst moments of our lives.

A girl I failed at the most crucial moment of all.

She wasn’t perfect, but neither am I. She was family. The only family I had. And despite our differences, I loved her. I still love her.

And each time I learn that she’s gone is as potent and as heartbreaking as the last.

The doctors tell me that their science is imperfect. That the study of the brain is still a work in progress and they can’t be sure that I’ll ever again be whole. Or that the nightmare I keep reliving will ever stop.

I am trapped, it seems, in my own private hell.

Alone.

Afraid.

And wanting to die.