Apprehensions and Other Delusions (13 page)

“Thank you,” she said, rising. “I am very tired.” She started for the door. “I’d appreciate as much information as you can give me on the nature of his delusions. That way I can deal with him more effectively.”

“Of course, of course; I will have all the information you need made ready,” said the director. “I’ll arrange for you to talk with Dottore Chiodo this evening.” He rose and remained standing until she left his office; then he went to the window and looked out on the vine-covered Tuscan hill, taking solace in the beauty he saw.

* * *

Doctor Chiodo and Director Biancchi had a glass of pale sherry and a small plate of cheese pastries waiting for Jane when she came into the study at the Institute; it was glowing dusk beyond the windows as the day drained away to darkness. The building itself was alive with sounds, for most of the residents were being given their dinners just now, and some were expressing themselves vociferously. Director Biancchi shut the door, muffling the loudest of the noises.

“Does Thomas eat on his own?” Jane asked when their introductions were complete. She was in no mood to dawdle over social pleasantries, and sensed that the two men would be glad to lose themselves in small talk if they had the opportunity.

“Yes, he can feed himself,” said Doctor Chiodo. “He is messy—he claims his beak gets in the way, that he can’t hold on to utensils with his talons—but he is capable of eating food.” He sighed.

“That’s something,” Jane said, trying to make herself more alert, for in spite of her nap she still felt swathed in cotton wool.

“You would think that the hallucinations are the product of a fixation in childhood, but if that is the case, he has not revealed it to me directly or indirectly. He is not very forthcoming about when he began to experience these perceptual episodes.” He sipped his sherry. “I have rarely encountered such consistency in a delusion as he appears to have.”

“You’ve had him here for three weeks; given the severity of his condition, that doesn’t seem a long time, if, as you suppose, the hallucinations have been building for some considerable period. Your report suggests as much.” Jane did not want to be the first to sit down, but she found standing about awkward. “I spoke to his mother at length before I left St. Louis; she told me he has drawn monsters all his life, most of them similar to monsters in comic books. She supposed he would grow out of it in time. She was under the impression he had given it up before his father became ill.”

“And he may have done,” said Doctor Chiodo. “But if that was the case, something triggered a resurgence of those perceptions. Perhaps his father’s illness contributed to the son’s deterioration, assuming such predilections existed before his father became ill, as I suppose must be the case, given the comprehensive nature of his delusions.” He popped one of the little pastries into his mouth, chewed it vigorously, then finished off his sherry before going on. “And given the possible connection to a family tragedy, I want to have one more hour with him before I inform him he is to be taken home.”

This startled Jane a bit. “Why delay telling him?”

“I am concerned about his understanding of the reason for his return home; it would be better for him if he did not perceive it as a punishment.” He poured more sherry into his glass and held out the crystal decanter to Jane and then to Director Biancchi; only the director accepted his offer. “I would like to try to discover more about his home life before I send him back into it, no matter how briefly, in order to minimize the possible distress he might suffer because of it: surely his family would prefer he not respond negatively to this transfer? He will need proper care, of course, and the sooner he is hospitalized, the better for everyone.”

Jane nodded, frowning as she spoke. “I think his mother wants to have him at home, in familiar surroundings, for a few days before she arranges ... anything. She’s hired me to stay with them until—” She stopped, not knowing how to explain Catherine Ashen’s hopes to the two men.

“If you will pardon me for saying so, Nurse Wallace,” Director Biancchi said in the silence, “Missus Ashen is not being very wise. I know this must be very painful for her, but if her son had suffered a medical injury, she would want to speed him to the best hospital she could find as soon as he arrived. This emergency is as genuine as broken bones are, and needs as expert care as soon as possible if he is to have any hope of a good recovery.” He glanced at Doctor Chiodo. “Wouldn’t you agree, Giacomo?”

“Most certainly. It cannot be sufficiently elucidated.” He gave Jane a long, thoughtful look. “You have experience with delusional patients. Surely you must know that what you and I see as normal and reassuring—familiar—can be terrifying to a patient in Thomas’s condition?”

Jane resented his patronizing tone but kept that to herself. “I’ve worked in the field for seventeen years, Doctor Chiodo. I have a grasp of the problem.”

Doctor Chiodo metaphorically retreated. “An excellent one, I am certain.” He coughed gently. “I will be sure you have enough medication to keep him quiet for as long as necessary. I only wanted to impress upon you the volatility of his current state.”

“I believe you made the problem clear in your notes, Doctor,” said Jane, a bit stiffly. “Rest assured, I will not underestimate the severity of his condition.” She looked from the doctor to the director and back again, hoping the intensity of her gaze would be sufficient emphasis to convince them of her conviction. “He is my responsibility now, not yours.” As she said this she saw the two men exchange a glance that was clearly an indication of shared relief.

“As you say, Nurse Wallace: Thomas Ashen is your responsibility now,” Director Biancchi concurred.

* * *

Thomas’s head lolled as he was buckled into his first-class seat; an attractive stewardess hovered nearby, her features distorted by worry. “You’re sure he won’t cause any trouble?” she asked Jane uneasily; her Midwestern accent revealed her origins as much as her fresh-faced good looks.

“He’ll sleep for five hours; I have a second dose to administer later,” Jane replied, more efficient than cordial. “There is no reason for concern while he is dozing, and I will give him my full attention once he awakes.” She had shepherded him through Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci airport, maneuvering his wheelchair with the ease of long experience, making sure he was undisturbed by the press of travelers around them. Now that he was aboard the plane and in his seat, Jane knew she could relax.

“Well, at least first-class is half empty,” said the stewardess, sighing as she readied herself to tend to the other passengers.

Jane made a careful check of Thomas’s seat belt, then wiped his lip of the shine of drool. She hesitated in this simple act, noticing that his flesh felt unexpectedly hard.

Thomas half-opened one eye and tried to make sense of her face. “Oh,” he mumbled. “You’re one of the sad ones.” The eye closed and his head rolled onto his shoulder. “Long beak,” he added, then fell deeply asleep.

A short while later the plane lunged into the air, heading northwest for Montreal, St. Louis, and Houston. The sound of the engines penetrated Thomas’s drugged slumber for a brief instant; he saw the stewardess in the crew seat beside the door, and he gave a little shriek of dismay. “Teeth, long teeth,” he whispered, then looked away toward the window, and went pale as he slipped back into his stupor.

If that’s the worst I have to deal with, Jane told herself, this is going to be an easy flight, and let the acceleration and climb push her back against the padded seat until the pilot announced that they had reached cruising altitude. Relaxing, Jane let herself be lulled by the loud purr of the engines as the plane continued onward.

“Something to drink, ma’am?” the stewardess asked a short time later; she studied Thomas’s slack visage and adjusted her own smile. “He’s really out of it, isn’t he?”

“As required, for his safety and that of the rest of your passengers,” said Jane, more sharply than she had intended. “Hot coffee, black, and something light to eat—a croissant, or scone.”

The stewardess stared at her. “Ma’am?”

“That’s what I’d like for now—coffee and breakfast pastry. I don’t care what the hour is.” Jane sat straighter, squinting as she saw the stewardess move back. There was the oddest look about her, thought Jane, a shininess that seemed out of place on so perfectly made-up a face. She dismissed this as the oddity of the moment, a nervousness left over from getting Thomas to the plane. When the coffee was brought, Jane noticed the shine again, but out of the corner of her eye; again she dismissed it, reminding herself that she was a jittery flier. She leaned back, sipping on her coffee, and stared past Thomas out into the cerulean expanse. When the stewardess returned with two croissants and a sticky bun to accompany her coffee, Jane saw the suggestion of a chitinous mass on the stewardess’s face; she ignored it.

There were two movies to choose from for the personal screens, and Jane selected the costume drama about skullduggery at the court of Elizabeth I; it held her attention even though she found it heavy-handed and anachronistic. Only twice did she find her attention wavering: once when the stewardess brought around an elegant tray of cheeses, and once when the man in the seat across the aisle rose to go to the bathroom and revealed a long trunk dangling from the front of his face. Jane blinked and the proboscis disappeared; she reimmersed herself in the sixteenth-century drama as quickly as possible.

Over Nova Scotia Thomas became restless and struggled against his seat belt, murmuring bits of protestations that caught Jane’s attention. She reached over to quiet him and found herself staring into his open eyes. “You know. You know,” he said, his voice made distant by his drugs. “Don’t pretend.”

“Of course not,” said Jane, reaching for the kit that contained the tranquilizers he would need for the rest of the journey. “Don’t upset yourself.” As she administered the injection, she thought she saw a gleeful grimace on the beaked face of the stewardess, but in an instant it was gone, and the young woman’s smile had nothing sinister about it.

“Is he going to be okay?” the stewardess asked as Thomas nodded off into sleep once again.

“Oh, yes; I think so,” said Jane, doing her best to sound optimistic.

The stewardess patted Thomas’s shoulder. “Good.”

Thomas shuddered and huddled back into his seat as if he were aware of the presence of the stewardess and found her frightening.

As Jane settled herself again, she noticed the long, distorted arms of the other stewardess in first-class, and she suppressed a shudder, reminding herself that delusional people could be very persuasive; no doubt Thomas had gotten to her. She closed her eyes, and kept them closed until the plane landed at Montreal. Watching some of the passengers leave the plane, she reminded herself that none of them really had such heads, or such limbs. Frightening as they were, they could not be as hideous as what she saw. It was impossible.

* * *

Thomas’s mother, her carefully maintained appearance less than perfect for once, sat in the living room, her hand to her eyes. “We hoped the year in Florence would do the trick,” she said wearily, turning the last word to a tasteless joke. She collected herself enough to look up at her brother as he came in from seeing Thomas off in the ambulance. “What did they say?” Her spindly arms ended in narrow paws, more like a cat’s than a human hand.

“They’ll call you tonight, when they have completed their evaluation.” He sat down heavily in the recliner that had been Alec’s special chair. He stared at his hands as he spoke to the third person in the room. He seemed wholly unaware that his vest enclosed not ribs but a birdcage in which sat a monstrous crow with a lizard’s tail. “I don’t know what to say. We thought he was doing so well.” The last words were lost in the wail of the ambulance siren as it pulled away from the house.

Jane Wallace could think of nothing to say to either Thomas’s mother or uncle. She decided to try the oblique approach. “You told me he wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary until this morning?”

“No.” Catherine Ashen sighed, glancing uneasily at her brother. “Well, not for Thomas. He kept to himself when he got home. He spent most of yesterday looking out his window, making sketches. He said he was showing the lie.” Her voice grew unsteady but she kept on. “They weren’t of anything specific. Just the street. You know, perspective drawings, sketches of the houses along the block. They’re very good,” she finished desperately.

“Thomas is a talented young man,” Jordon Pace announced as if saying it importantly enough would create a validity through ponderousness.

“No one who has seen his work doubts that.” She tried to think of something more she could say that would help Thomas’s family to deal with his obsessions, but nothing came to mind.

“He says the monsters are self-portraits,” his mother whispered. “He drew a number of them yesterday, every one worse than the last. How can he think that? He’s such a handsome young man. Everyone thinks so.” Her cheeks colored, as if she expected to be contradicted.

Jane sighed. “That has been part of his pattern. That’s what Doctor Chiodo’s evaluation says.”

“And it’s absurd,” Jordon Pace announced firmly. “It’s foolishness.”

“No it isn’t,” said Jane firmly. “It isn’t foolishness.” She studied the man for a long moment, trying to decide how to approach him. “If he believes his work is self-portraiture, then we have to assume that, in some sense, he is telling the truth.” It was as much as she dared to say, and she kept her voice low, not wanting to give herself away to such a creature as his uncle.

Catherine put her hand to her mouth; her fingers were trembling. “I can’t bear to think that,” she confessed, her head lowering and her eyes averted.

“For now, you will help him the most if you do not argue with him, especially about his art.” Jane gave Uncle Jordon a steady look. “This isn’t something he can be coaxed or cajoled out of.”

Jordon Pace pursed his lips. “I should have taken him in hand as soon as Alec became ill,” he said, inclining his head toward his sister. “I should have, Cathy. I’m sorry I didn’t.”