K-PAX IV: A New Visitor From The Constellation Lyra

CHAPTER FOUR

When I got to the hospital on Friday fled wasn’t in Room 520—Goldfarb’s examination room—nor was she in the game room or the quiet room, where I ran across Rocky, sulking as usual. Something about him always rubbed me the wrong way. My fault, not his. After all, he couldn’t help being the way he was: endlessly offended by a perceived cross word, an unintentional negative gesture or facial expression.

In Rocky’s case the problem originated not with his parents, as do most mental difficulties, but with an older brother. When he was growing up he couldn’t win at anything. Ever. Games, sports, puzzles, arguments. He simply didn’t have the development and experience to compete with his big brother. Yet he kept trying until he finally became old enough to outdo his sibling in something, and then the situation became even worse. Whenever it looked as if he were going to succeed, the brother would cheat. And if that didn’t work, he would simply quit. Rocky literally couldn’t win. The frustration became too enormous to bear. The result was that he became severely paranoid, unable to interact with anyone without looking for a card up that person’s sleeve. As a result of this sibling abuse (only recently recognized for the serious problem it is) everyone became, in Rocky’s mind, an older brother.

As sad as his situation is, his constant bickering and general nastiness antagonize everyone who meets him, including, I’m sorry to say, me. “What’s the problem, Rocky? Who crossed you this time?”

“Why do you want to know?”

I absentmindedly checked my watch. “It’s just that you seemed a little upset.”

“You looked at your watch! I won’t forget that!”

“Well, yes, I did. I’m sorry, I have an appointment.”

He sneered, “And whoever it’s with is more important than me, is that it?”

“Not at all, Rocky. But I’m not your doctor. If you believe that, you should talk to Dr. Roberts about it.”

“He checks his watch, too! He’s such a prick!”

“Have you asked him not to?”

“Wouldn’t do any good. There’s a clock in his office. He can’t take his eyes off it.”

“Maybe it’s not about you. Maybe he just wants to know what time it is.”

“He does want to know what time it is. So he knows how long he still has to talk to me. The fucking jerk!”

“Have you discussed this with him?”

“Wouldn’t do any good. He’d just find some other excuse to look at it.”

“Does it bother you that much?”

“Of course it bothers me! It would bother anyone!”

“Tell him!”

“Wouldn’t do any good. But I’ll get even….”

“How will you get even, Rocky?”

“Next time I see him I’m not going to say a word. I’m just gonna sit there and stare at the clock. Same as him.”

Unforgivably, I checked my watch again. “I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to run.”

He assured me through clenched teeth that he understood perfectly. An afterthought: “Who is this goddamn important person you’re meeting with?”

“Fled.”

“See? Even an ape is more important than me! You’re a bigger prick than Roberts is!”

“She’s not an ape, Rock. She’s a—”

But he had already turned around and was walking away. I started to call out that she was no more important to me than he was, but it wouldn’t have done any good.

* * *

On the way back to Room 520 I started to think again about what might happen if I were to find an alter ego lurking in fled’s impenetrable mind. What if he/she didn’t speak English, for example? I remembered (primarily because I had only recently listened to the tapes of our sessions) what prot had said about the Congolese people: “Besides the four official languages and french, there are an amazing number of native dialects.” What if the person spoke one of those dialects? (Or French, for that matter, or one of the four official languages, whatever they might be?)

The door was locked, but nevertheless fled was inside, apparently having just showed up. “How did you—?”

“You sapiens are constantly mystified, aren’t you? Why don’t you just accept the fact that you don’t know everything? Indeed, if I may be blunt, you don’t know much of anything.”

“Really, fled? We’ve figured out how the atom works. What happened after the Big Bang. How life evolved from a few organic compounds into us. We know something about almost everything. And we learn more every day!”

“Really, gene? If you’re such great learners, why have you been in the same rut for thousands of years? Stuck with the same tired, old religions, willing to fight any war that comes along or create one if it doesn’t, constantly striving for more wealth, endlessly multiplying and subduing without any thought for the consequences. You might be learning, but it’s a damn slow process, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not really,” I shot back. “We could probably prevent an asteroid or comet from destroying the Earth if need be.”

She hooted: “How are you going to stop a comet when you can’t even deal with a hurricane?”

I took a deep breath. I took another deep breath. “You may be right, fled. But today—”

“Where are the veggies?”

“Sorry, I forgot about them. Next time for sure.”

She scowled, or maybe it was a pout, but said nothing.

“Today we’re going to try to find out who’s crawling around in your brain, remember? We’re going to see what you can tell me about your past when I put you under hypnosis.”

“Fine. Let’s get the show on the road.”

“Great. Okay, I’m going to roll my chair around the desk so that nothing will be between us. Is that all right?”

She spread her legs apart. “Whatever you say, Dr. B. Enjoy.”

“No, dammit. Put your legs together. Thank you!”

“Killjoy!”

“Never mind that. Okay, we’re going to start now. Are you ready?”

“Go for it.”

Like prot, and unlike Robert Porter, fled seemed willing and eager to cooperate. Though this never hurts, it doesn’t guarantee that anything productive will come out of the procedure. “Okay, now I’m going to count from one to five. By the time I get to five—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know all that. Get on with it.”

“One….” Fled’s eyes had already begun to droop. I hoped she wasn’t faking it. “Two….” She was having trouble keeping them open. I thought I heard her murmur, “That’s amazing….”

“Three.” Her eyes were closed. On “four” her head began to slump toward her chest, and on “five” her arms and legs completely relaxed. Clearly, she was “under.”

“Fled?”

She mumbled something unintelligible.

“Okay, fled, you may raise your head and open your eyes if you want.” When she did, she looked rather dreamy, like a child awakening. “All right. Now I want you to describe your first sexual experience….”

Softly: “It went pretty fast. It was what you would probably call a “quickie.”

“I see. And how old were you?”

“A few—uh—you call them ‘months,’ I think.”

“Anyone else around?”

“Sure. All kinds of beings.”

“They all stand around and watch?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Your mother watched, too?”

“Naturally.”

“Are you happy? Do you feel safe?”

“Of course. Why shouldn’t I?”

“No reason.”

For the next forty-five minutes I asked her to describe her sexual activities and any other events of note that she could remember, beginning when she was two years old, three, four, all the way up to her present age of twenty-three. She recalled nothing especially evocative or unusual. K-PAX seemed—for want of a better word—dull, even with the endless sex. Any hope I had harbored that something was going to crawl out of her closet dissipated like a drop of water in a hot skillet.

“All right. Now just relax. Close your eyes if you like.”

Her eyes drooped a little, but stayed open.

“Now I’m going to speak to someone else. You may listen or not, as you wish.”

She didn’t make a sound or gesture, but she seemed to be listening.

“Just relax, and think about nothing. Keep your mind open, and try to accept whatever happens, whoever might appear in this room.”

Not a muscle moved.

“Okay,” I said, very quietly, “I’d like anyone with fled to please come forward and identify yourself….” I waited. Ten seconds passed. Twenty seconds. Thirty. “Let me repeat that in case you weren’t sure of my meaning. Anyone who is there with fled, please come forward at this time. I promise that no harm will come to you, I just want to talk to you for a minute.”

Another ten seconds went by before fled, or whoever it was, suddenly seemed to shrivel before my eyes. She stayed that way for several minutes, sort of curled up and motionless, in the chair. It was almost as if she were hiding from someone. In my thirty-five years of practice I had never seen anything quite like this, and I was concerned that I might cause her (or him), and ultimately fled, some harm by trying to force her to reveal herself at once. Nevertheless, I decided to gently try. “Hello?”

She remained as she was, trying to seem invisible, perhaps feigning death.

“I’m a doctor. I won’t hurt you. Do you speak English?”

Whoever it was remained curled in a big ball. I waited for several minutes, just watching, hoping she would relax a bit and make a move. She didn’t. It was Robert Porter all over again.

Or was it? All my experience was telling me that something didn’t seem quite right about the situation. The appearance of an “alter ego” seemed too pat, too calculated, perhaps too soon. It was almost as if she were overacting, faking the whole thing. But, of course, I could be wrong. In this business there aren’t any rules. Whatever the case, I couldn’t just leave her sitting there frozen in her chair.

I leaned back and said, a little louder, “Fled, are you there?” The apparent alter sat up a little straighter. “All right, fled, I’m going to count backward from five one. At ‘five’ you’ll begin to awaken, and by the time we get to one, you’ll be completely alert and feeling fine. Five…” She started to come out from wherever she had withdrawn to. “Four…Three…” When I got to “one,” her eyes came into focus. On me.

“Satisfy your morbid curiosity, gene?”

“Not entirely.”

“Well, how close did you come?”

“First of all, you have at least one alter ego.”

“Really? Who?”

“I don’t know. She—if it is a she—wouldn’t talk to me. In fact, she seemed to be afraid to make an appearance at all. I was wondering whether this might give you some idea of who she might be.”

“Someone who’s been badly treated, I should imagine.”

“Thank you, doctor fled. Can you be more specific?”

“Not without more information. What did this being look like?”

“A lot like you.”

“I was joking, doc. If I had an alter ego, she would have to look a lot like me, wouldn’t she?”

“Not necessarily. But let’s get serious for a moment, shall we? Do you have any idea who a putative alter could be, or not? Have you talked to anyone lately—in Congo, perhaps—who might fit the bill?” I took a leap of faith here: “A prostitute, perhaps?”

“I deeply resent that implication! But if you must be serious for a moment: no. No prostitutes, as far as I know.”

“Any other Congolese women?”

“I’ve met a few. Where is this getting us?”

“Not very far. I’ll have to think about it a little more. In the meantime, let me ask you: where else have you been since you got to Earth?”

“Besides here?”

“Yes, dammit. And Congo.”

“Relax, my humorless friend. You’re behaving like Rocky. I’ve been to a smattering of other countries on that continent.”

“Learn anything interesting about their life forms?”

“Plenty.”

“For example…”

“They’re all beautiful places, with a multitude of fascinating beings. Except for the humans, of course. They’re the same everywhere.”

“Okay, let me ask you this: did you find anyone who might qualify as a traveling companion when you return to K-PAX?”

“Yes, indeedy. Quite a few, in fact.”

“Can you tell me who they might be?”

“They might be everyone I’ve encountered. But they’re not.”

“Thank you very much. Could you elaborate on that?”

“I could, but I won’t. The walls might have ears.”

I was worried about the same thing. But I proceeded, nevertheless. “Any of them residents of this institutution?”

“That’s amazing! From Congo to here at light speed!”

“Care to give me any names?”

“I’ll give you all 100,000 names if you like. But not until everything is lined up.”

“Thanks again. Any progress on finding a football stadium or the like? Or setting a date for the trip?”

“I’m still looking into that.”

“Well, will you give me a few days’ notice before you go?”

“If there are a few days left when everything is set, they’re all yours.” She yawned. “Anything else I can do for you today?”

“Jerry would like to meet you. He’s in Ward Three.”

“I know where he is.”

“Oh, and one more thing. Your interview for the British magazine article is scheduled for next Wednesday. Will that be convenient for you?”

“As all get out.” Without another word she got up and loped out. “Don’t forget the veggies,” drifted back from the corridor.

After she had gone I sat there pondering what I had just seen. If fled’s alter ego was for real, and she wasn’t a prostitute, what about the other side of the coin: could she be someone who had been sexually abused? That would explain her reticence to come forward, her attempting to hide from me. But if she were an African woman, how on Earth would we be able to track her down so that we might be able to get help for her? The immensity of the concept again brought to mind the bigger question of whether everyone on Earth has a parallel life somewhere among the stars. It was just so overwhelming. And I had forgotten again to ask fled about Steve…. I told myself I really ought to consider retirement. Then I remembered that I was already retired.

* * *

Thanks to prot’s influence, perhaps, my son Will, despite his lack of experience, has quickly become the hospital’s expert on multiple personality disorder. Sorry—that’s old-fashioned—we call it dissociative identity disorder now, or DID. I wanted to speak to him about fled and her putative alter(s), but he was with a patient, so I left him a note. While I waited, I took a stroll around the lawn, hoping to sort out what I had just seen and heard.

Fled was already there, occupying a corner with the toad man. Everyone else was apparently still keeping his or her distance. I went up to Darryl, another of the former “Magnificent Seven.” The reader might recall that this patient suffers from de Clerambault’s syndrome: in his case, he believes that Meg Ryan is in love with him. On the surface, this doesn’t seem like an unmanageable problem. We all harbor secret desires, but with de Clerambault’s the fantasy is entirely real and occupies much of one’s thoughts and beliefs. Darryl’s room is covered with photos of Ms. Ryan, he has all of her videotaped films (which he’s watched dozens and dozens of times), and copies of most of the magazines that contain articles and pictures of the lovely film star. In fact, he was once her stalker, using every available means to find his way into her home, onto her film sets. He caused her no physical harm, of course—stalkers rarely do—but it must have been unnerving for her to find evidence for the presence of an unknown visitor to her bedroom, to repeatedly spot his face in a crowd. No one has been able to convince him that his feelings are unrequited. Indeed, it must be very difficult for anyone who is deeply in love to comprehend the reality that he or she might not be loved back.

But how did Darryl, who has never actually met the woman, get the idea that Meg was in love with him in the first place? When he attended the premiere of one of her films—SleeplessinSeattle, I think it was—it seemed to him that her beautiful smile (she was being interviewed outside the theater prior to the showing) was directed to him alone. He crawled under the barricade and tried to cross the street to speak with her, but was restrained by the studio’s security people. For months he followed her, believing that his love was being denied her by jealous cops. One thing led to another and, after he was finally arrested for harassment, he ended up in a New Jersey mental institution and eventually with us. Drug treatments have proven ineffective, as has psychoanalysis (Will inherited him from Carl Beamish, now on temporary leave), and poor Darryl now waits impatiently for her to visit him at the hospital. In fact, he always keeps some cake or cookies in his room for just such an eventuality.

Instead, he got fled.

I sidled up to him and asked him what he thought of our newest visitor. “I’m a little afraid of her, Dr. Brewer,” he replied. “We all are.”

“Why? She seems pretty harmless to me.”

“She’s so big and strong, and kind of repulsive. It’s like having a gorilla running around loose.”

“But she’s not a gorilla. Or a chimpanzee, either. She’s not even from Earth.”

“How do we know she can be trusted? If we say the wrong thing to her, maybe she’ll turn on us.”

Oddly, despite Goldfarb’s warning, I hadn’t thought about fled in quite that way. There’s a well-known television show from the old TwilightZone series called “To Serve Man.” It turned out that the aliens had come to take some of us back as a source of protein. The eponymous, undecipherable tome they had brought along was a cookbook. Could fled have ulterior motives for her visit that we were unaware of?

“There’s fled over there with Howard,” I told Darryl. He doesn’t seem too worried about her.”

“Howard is as big and repulsive as she is,” he reminded me.

* * *

I finally found Will on his way to a meeting, and I accompanied him to the conference room. “Got your note, Dad—sorry I was occupied. How long are you going to be here today?”

“Not much longer. I promised your mother we’d do something this afternoon. Go for a drive, or maybe a movie.”

“You guys used to go to a lot of movies, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Your mom loved Humphrey Bogart.”

“Humphrey Who?”

“You mean you don’t—”

“Just kidding, Pop. He was way before my time, but I know who Bogie is. Casablanca is one of Dawn’s favorite films. So—what did you want to talk about?”

“I think I found fled’s alter ego.”

“Really? Who is it?”

“I don’t know. Whoever it is doesn’t seem to want to talk to me.”

“That could mean a couple of things.”

“Like what?”

“Well, she could be an outlaw. Or afraid of doctors. Or maybe she’s just shy. Or maybe….”

“Yes? Yes?”

“Fled is a K-PAXian, right? But she resembles most a large chimpanzee. Maybe your elusive personality is an ape!”

“A chimpanzee! That’s it, Will! Why didn’t I think of that? That’s why fled’s spent most of her time in Congo. And why her alter ego seemed to be a phony. The mannerisms would be different from those of a human being!” We both pondered this possibility as we shuffled along. “But if you’re right,” I said, “how can I ever communicate with her? Or maybe it’s a ‘him.’”

My genes smiled at me. “I’d say you need someone to translate.”

“That makes sense, but who do we know that can speak English and chimpan—”

“How about fled?”

“Oh. Right. But can that be done? How can we get her to speak with her own alter ego?”

“I don’t know Dad. Let me think about that.”

We got to the conference room. Inside, I could see the staff dropping their things on the table, getting some food for themselves. Despite the obvious advantages of retirement, I did miss the give-and-take I knew would be going on there. The camaraderie. At the same time, I didn’t really want to go back to work full-time, even if I were up-to-date on the latest advances, which I definitely was not. As my wife has pointed out on many occasions, there comes a time to quit working and enjoy life before it’s too late.

“I’ll call you this weekend!” he shouted as he disappeared into the room.

“Enjoy your meeting,” I murmured wistfully.

* * *

I was up early on Saturday dreamily munching a bowl of corn flakes—while thinking about fled, of course—when there came a gentle tap at the kitchen door. Flower started barking. Even though I couldn’t see anyone at the window, I knew who it had to be. Karen was still sleeping, so I shushed Flower and stepped outside.

While Dartmouth hovered in the background, Wang sprung up and flashed his familiar badge. “Can’t you shut that dog up?” he inquired politely, through clenched teeth.

“She wouldn’t hurt a fly; she spits them out!” I was becoming a trifle annoyed by their nagging persistence. “Are you going to be coming here every day?”

“If that’s what it takes, yes, sir!” he replied cheerfully. Then, as an afterthought, perhaps: “Sorry to bother you at breakfast.”

“How did you know I was eating breakfast?”

He looked around furtively, as if for spies. “You have a flake in your beard.”

I brushed it off. “Can’t you at least make it every other day? That’s how often I see her.”

“Depends on what’s going on, Dr. Brewer. Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

“A walk? Can’t we just talk here? In back of the house?”

“We prefer not to take any chances on being overheard.”

Just like in the movies, I thought. But I had supposed that was fiction. “Overheard by whom?”

“By terrorists.”

“You think terrorists are bugging the house??”

Dartmouth held up a sober hand. “Not to worry, Dr. Brewer. We’re bugging the house, too.” Wang gave him a stern look and his partner hung his head.

“The government is bugging our house? Why?”

“To catch the terrorists, of course!” Wang whispered.

“And how many have you caught by bugging the house?”

“None so far.”

“Then it would seem to be a waste of time, wouldn’t it?”

“Not at all, sir. As long as we’re bugging the house, they’re afraid to come around. You see how well that works?”

I thought about the old psychiatry joke about the elephants. “Well, do you bug every house in the area?”

“Of course. And as a result, it’s one of the safest parts of the country. Bear in mind, though, that a neighbor of yours could still be one of them. Anyone could be a terrorist, you know. We’ve got it covered both ways.” He smacked his hands together—hard. “It’s beautiful, when you think about it.”

We don’t have a sidewalk, so we turned into the road. “I’m just curious—how many federal agents are there, anyway?”

“That’s classified,” Wang quickly replied. Dartmouth tripped over something, but caught himself before he dived onto the asphalt. “But let me put it this way: everyone you know could be working with us.”

I felt as though I had eaten a portobello. “All right, let’s get this over with. Exactly why are you here now?”

“We’ve learned that she can read minds. Is that right, sir?”

“Why? Is that illegal?”

“How does she do that?”

“She says it has something to do with electromagnetic waves. Otherwise, I haven’t a clue.”

“We need to talk to her. Would that be all right with you, Dr. Brewer?”

“It’s not that simple. I don’t run the hospital. As a matter of fact, I’m retired. And technically, she’s not a patient. You’ll have to speak with Dr. Goldfarb about that.”

“We already have.”

“Well? What did she tell you?”

“She said we should talk to you about it.”

I thought: I don’t need this shit, Virginia. But what the hell—I was certain that fled could handle herself in any situation. “I’ll ask her if she wants to speak to you. What, exactly, do you want to get from her?”

“We need to know how she can read minds, sir. Critical to our national security. With your permission, we’d like to bring in a neuroscientist to examine her.”

Dartmouth suddenly whipped out his enormous weapon and stuck it into a bush. After wiggling it around for a moment and drawing no response, he sheathed it again.

“What if she refuses to talk to him?” I asked nervously.

Wang’s features hardened. “I remind you, sir, that this is highly sensitive material. We would appreciate your speaking to her about this. And it would be wise not to discuss the matter with anyone else. Do you understand?”

“No.”

He sighed. “Consider this: if our enemies could learn to read our minds…”

I thought about Walt Kelly, but kept that to myself. “What about my wife?” I inquired. “Okay if I discuss it with her?”

“That’s up to you, Dr. Brewer. But if you do, we’ll find out about it. Now, if you don’t mind, let’s turn around very slowly and return to the house, shall we?”

I complied, but before I had gone six feet I heard my companions crashing through the brush.

* * *

Will called Sunday evening. He was obviously excited. I thought: that’s probably the way I used to sound. “You could make a videotape of fled under hypnosis!” he suggested. “If you could get her chimpanzee alter ego—if that’s what she is—to utter something, or even to make a facial expression or gesture of some kind, maybe fled could make some sense of it and identify her.”

“Sounds like a good idea, Will!” It occurred to me that Dartmouth and Wang might think so, too. But I couldn’t think of anything catastrophic they could possibly do with this information.

“Want me to set something up for you?”

I didn’t know whether to be grateful for this suggestion or to resent it; Will knows I’m not particularly adept in the technical department. “Thanks, son. I’d appreciate that.”

“Fled’s gone again, by the way.”

“Any idea where?”

“Probably back to Africa. She seems to like it there. But she said she’d be available tomorrow for your meeting with her. And that you should expect a surprise.”

“What kind of surprise?”

“She didn’t say. I suppose if she had told me, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted any more surprises from fled.

“What are you guys planning for this evening?”

“Not much. We’re probably going to sit around and plot the overthrow of the government.”

“Huh?”

“Just a joke, son. Actually, we dearly love all three branches of our leadership. Executive, legislative, judicial—they’re all magnificent. And they’ve been keeping the elephants out of the neighborhood, too!”

“Dad, did you have some mushrooms for dinner, by any chance?”