The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions Book 2) (9 page)

I try to process this information. Why would a doctor need to take me to a private room to talk? How bad is the news he wants to give me? Or did my family and friends cause such a ruckus that there is going to be a ‘tell Darren off’ session?

We don’t end up going far. There is a little office room to the side of the large hall. The nurse closes the door and starts preparing some kind of medication.

“What are you doing?” I say, trying to sound calm. I’m afraid of needles, and the stuff she’s prepping looks to be a shot.

“Just something for the pain,” she says.

“I don’t need anything,” I say. “I’d rather have the pain I have now than the pinprick of a needle.”

She approaches me, smiles, and takes the cable that goes from my IV to my hand. She unplugs it and connects it to the syringe she’s holding.

“See, no shot,” she says.

“I still don’t want the shot until you tell me what’s in it—”

Her pressing the syringe cuts me off.

My heart rate picks up.

Did she just give me a shot after I explicitly told her not to? Why would she do that?

Suddenly, a wave of warmth begins to spread though my body, causing some of my worries to dissipate.

No, something is not right.
I force myself to think through the happy, comfortable feelings spreading through me. It’s beginning to be difficult to care, but with a herculean effort, I make myself worry again.

Maybe she wants to steal your organs,
I tell myself, trying to come up with the scariest scenario.

Time seems to slow down for a moment, and then the noises of the hospital disappear.

I find myself lying in bed next to my other self, and I’m overcome with momentary relief.

I made it. I phased into the Quiet.

My head is now completely clear of whatever she gave me, and I’m determined to figure out what the fuck just happened.

I get up and look at myself. My frozen self’s pupils are tiny, like pinpricks. This must be the effect of whatever drug she gave me, as her own pupils are the normal black circle one would expect in a well-lit room.

Fleetingly, I note the bandage around my head; it looks as ridiculous as I thought, but that’s not what I care about right this moment. I’d be willing to walk around Times Square bandaged up like a mummy, if that would help me get out of this predicament.

I notice that not only do I feel free from the drug she gave me, but the pain from my wound is also nonexistent, as is always the case in the Quiet.

I walk over to the woman and look through her pockets.

She has a real-looking hospital ID, which is a good sign. She’s an RN named Betty March. That’s encouraging to some degree—she knows about drugs and how to deliver them. But surely they aren’t allowed to force something into someone’s veins under these circumstances.

Time to do a little Reading, I decide, and touch her temple.

* * *

“Your boyfriend will be seen soon. Please go back and wait,” we say to the girl who’s been pestering the staff.

I, Darren, realize that this is a memory in which
we
just spoke with Mira. She’s without Bert or my mother, which means this memory happened a while back. Whatever I’m looking for in Betty’s memories—and I’m not yet sure what that is—happens later. I decide to experience every moment from here to the present to make sure I understand why she did what she did.

As the memories go by, I develop a healthy respect for the nursing profession. It’s tough. Finally, I get to what I think I need. She’s in the ladies room at the time.

We’re sitting on the toilet, and time stops. There are now more of us in Betty’s head.

The feeling I have is the same as the one I had in the head of that Russian gangster, the one controlled by the mystery Pusher. I feel the presence of another mind—a spooky apparition that has no gender or identity. It’s just a feeling that there’s someone else here.

Like before, the Pusher starts giving instructions. This time, though, as I follow the instructions Betty is getting, I feel a chill overtake my disembodied mind.

‘Walk up to Darren Wang Goldberg,’ is accompanied by mental images of where my bed is located and what I look like, plus a desire to help a person in need.

‘Take the patient to a private room,’ is accompanied by mental images and instruction that the doctor wants to have a conversation with the patient. A conversation that is likely going to upset the rest of the people in the room.

‘Administer 10mg of morphine by injection,’ is accompanied by images of a patient suffering, doctor’s orders, and a warning about a patient who’s confused and who might resist the shot.

‘Forget the injection,’ is the next instruction, and it is accompanied by a feeling of blankness. Of emptiness. A Zen-like state of not thinking about anything at all and being at peace.

‘Take the pillow, place it on the patient’s face, and hold it there.’ This macabre instruction is accompanied by a whole mental story. In this story, the person Betty is to smother has been begging her to do this for years. He’s suffering terrible pain that even drugs can’t make better. Incongruently, feelings of hatred for the patient are also introduced. The Pusher’s instructions seem to say that this is the person who beat Betty and put her in the hospital, the monster who killed Betty’s little boy.

Although somewhat in shock, I manage to think of how interesting it is to witness the way Pushing is supposed to work. I mean, when I tried it, I did it intuitively, using only a very basic example of this Pusher’s work. This is much more subtle. Much more sick. If Betty does what she’s instructed to do—and I have no doubt that she will—it will be proof that Pushers truly can make a person do anything they want. The justifications given don’t even need to make complete sense. Just some hook into the person’s mind is all that seems to be required. Just provide any
rationale, and the victim does what you mentally force them to do.

Morbidly fascinated, I let the memory unfold.
With precision, Betty carries out each instruction the Pusher has given her. As Betty performs each task, she seems to genuinely believe the instructions and the back stories the Pusher provided. When I asked her where she was taking me, she was convinced that I was going to speak to the doctor. She wasn’t being deceitful at all. What I find particularly frightening is that each step of the way, she seems to have only a vague idea of what happened previously. It’s a lot like a dream in which things seem to make sense, but don’t upon awakening.

It’s likely that by the time she starts killing my drugged, unconscious self with a pillow, she won’t even recall the morphine shot she gave me.

The full implications of my position begin to dawn on me as I exit Betty’s mind.

* * *

I’m back in the Quiet with the knowledge that the Pusher is trying to kill me—that maybe he has already killed me.

If that dose of morphine was too much, I might die of an overdose before the nurse even gets to me with the pillow. And if the injection doesn’t kill me, the suffocation certainly will. I don’t doubt that the Pusher knows what he’s doing, nor do I doubt that Betty is going to do as he instructed her.

Why is he trying to kill me? Is it because of my helping Eugene and Mira yesterday? That doesn’t fully make sense to me. If anyone did something outstanding to save Mira, it was Caleb. Or did the Pusher think I was the brains of the operation? That’s flattering, I guess, but completely wrong in this case.

I can’t think about this too long, though. Not when I’m uncertain whether I can still save myself.

A dozen possibilities run through my mind. Can I Push the nurse myself and override what my nemesis just did? But what if she kills me anyway? Or changes tactics? Or does it even faster? I don’t dare trust my life to something like that. Not unless I first put something more surefire into play.

Exiting the room, I look around.

Jackpot.

Just outside the room is a mountain of a man. An angry mountain named Frank, according to his name tag.

I touch his arm and focus.

* * *

This fucking hospital is like a zoo, we think angrily. No one has paid any attention to Lidia for hours. We have to find someone in charge and try to talk some sense into them.

I disassociate from Frank’s thoughts. His plight is familiar. This place is definitely a dump. From what I gleaned in his mind, his wife needs attention much more than I do.

I feel a twinge of guilt over what I’m about to do. Frank might end up in trouble. Plus, I will be messing with his mind—and he’s done nothing wrong.

But self-preservation wins over other scruples, and I try to replicate what I did earlier today.

‘There is a woman in the other room who needs help. She’s having a seizure and needs someone strong to hold her down until the doctors arrive. Otherwise, she might hurt herself or others. Perhaps helping her will get someone to want to do us a favor, and Lidia will get help faster. It’s simple: just walk in, give the woman in there a huge bear hug, and don’t let go. If she starts struggling too much, fall on the ground with her in your arms. Lie there until the doctors arrive to save her.’

I work different variations of the same scenario in Frank’s mind. Compared to what I saw in nurse Betty’s mind, a lot of my instructions are probably redundant. But now is not the time to try to perfect my Pushing technique. I need to cover all the bases.

Hopeful that the whole ‘smothering me with a pillow’ bit might now be avoided, I leave Frank’s mind.

* * *

Next, I go searching for a doctor.

If I overdose from the shot the nurse gave me, a doctor might be able to save me. They do it to TV junkies all the time. Maybe I need an adrenaline shot to the heart, like in
Pulp Fiction
.

In general, I read that it’s rather difficult to die in a hospital if you have doctors around. That’s why people sign those ‘do not resuscitate’ papers. They don’t want to be saved under certain conditions.

But first you have to
find
a doctor. I run around the floor in the Quiet, trying to stay within a short distance of the room where my unconscious self is.

I don’t find a doctor, but there is a young woman whose ID states that she’s a resident. I touch her earlobe and focus.

* * *

Twenty-two hours on the job. We drink the espresso-spiked latte, but it’s now as effective as chamomile tea when it comes to holding on to some semblance of sanity.

I, Darren, disassociate from Jane’s thoughts. I’m wary of entrusting her with the mission I have in mind, given how tired she is. That she’s here in this condition and expected to treat patients borders on criminal negligence. I don’t have much choice, though. She’s the only person I can use in close proximity to the room where my physical body is.

First, I need to pillage her memories for a solution, to zero in on a memory of a specific topic. I did something like that once before, when I was searching for memories of my biological parents in Sara’s mind.

I decide to try the same method, only being more intentional about it. The topic is morphine overdose. I try to feel light, as if I’m trying to get deeper into someone’s memories. At the same time, I try to think of ODing patients.

“Jane, you will want to see this procedure,” Dr. Mickler says as we’re half-running after him.

“What’s wrong with him?” we ask, looking at the thin, pale-looking guy on the table.

“Heroin,” Dr. Mickler says.

I let the rescue scene unfold. There was no shot to the heart as in the movie. Instead, they used a drug called Narcan, which has a Naloxone Hydro-something as an active ingredient. It’s very promising, as it saved the guy from that heroin overdose, and his vitals were very bad.

I scan more of Jane’s memories, trying to find information about this drug. I learn that it will work for morphine just as well as it works for heroin.

I begin Pushing.

‘Get Narcan. Go to a room.’ I provide a mental picture of the path to the room.

‘Don’t get sidetracked when you see the nurse having an episode there. She’s being held by the police. The key priority is to help the patient the nurse accidentally hurt. She gave him 10mg of morphine.’

I play out different ways the whole thing could unfold. When I feel like there’s no other path for Jane but to save me, I reluctantly exit her mind.

* * *

I feel marginally better now that I’ve done something to fix the situation. I decide to get back to my body, phase out, resist falling asleep, wait a few moments, and then phase into the Quiet to see if my unwilling helpers are beginning their assigned work.

I walk back into the room, touch my frozen self’s hand, and hear the noises of the hospital return.

I feel great. I’m not even all that concerned that Betty is about to try to kill me. The only thought I have is that it’s no wonder people ruin their lives taking this morphine stuff. It’s pretty awesome.

Somewhere I hear a door open. I’m only mildly interested.

I see Betty with a pillow in her hands. This reminds me that I’m supposed to remember something, but I’m distracted by this strange itch that I’m feeling on my arm. When I scratch the itch, it feels amazing.

Then Betty lowers the pillow on my face.

My respiration rate is slower than usual from the morphine; a memory surfaces, and through my opiate haze, I realize this pillow will make it even harder for me to breathe.

Phase into the Quiet, that’s what I’m supposed to do. But it requires me to be scared, which is hard at the moment, even with the knowledge that I’m being suffocated.

Suddenly, the pillow is gone from my face.

I hear a thud, which is supposed to mean something to me.

I make my best attempt to phase into the Quiet, but I feel like I’m floating instead.

My lids feel heavy. Very heavy.

I close my eyes, hoping this will help me concentrate.

Maybe if I snooze just for a moment . . .

* * *

I’m wide awake and completely sober.

Every hint of pleasantness from the morphine is but a distant memory.

I’m feeling sick.

Something is in my arm, something that’s hurting me, so I rip at it. There is a moment of pain and then relief.

I open my eyes and see that I’m holding the IV.

In front of me is Jane, the resident I Pushed, who looks surprised to be there.

She’s holding the other end of the IV cable I just took out of my arm; attached to it is a syringe. I assume the drug, Narcan, is in it, which means my Pushing worked.

On the floor is Frank, the guy whom I used to tackle Betty, the nurse who just tried to kill me. She’s cursing and trying to escape Frank, but he doesn’t let go.

I’m overcome with a powerful wave of nausea and get sick onto the bed.

After all the pudding and my morning smoothie are gone from my system, I feel a tiny bit better. Well enough to unhook myself from the monitor, get up off the bed, and get away from the mess.

“You might want to help them,” I tell Jane and quickly exit the room, heading back to where my bed was standing previously.

The whole gang—Mira, my moms, and Bert—are standing there. Their chat is interrupted by Sara, the first of them to see me. She begins waving.

I inhale deeply, smile, and wave back at them as I approach.

“Hello,” I say, trying my best to ignore another wave of nausea. My intent is to make it seem like I’m feeling much better, or in other words, to lie.

“What are you doing up?” Sara says instead of a greeting. I guess, unlike me, she doesn’t feel like it’s been days since we saw each other.

“I needed to use the bathroom,” I lie. “I’m feeling much better, having walked a bit.”

“That’s good. Movement is life,” Sara says. She likes to dish out such pearls of wisdom from time to time. I’d normally tease her about it, but I’m in no mood right now.

“Where is your bed?” Mira says, her eyes narrowing.

She’s sharp, this one. I should’ve probably talked to her in the Quiet first. She’s not the one I’m trying to fool right now.

“I think they’re changing the sheets,” I say, having no idea of the plausibility of this statement.

“Well, you’ll be happy to know that we spoke to the doctor,” Sara says. “The bullet just grazed your head. The X-ray shows no fragments of the bullet and no skull fractures. Those couple of stitches are all the damage done. You hurt yourself worse that time you fell off the monkey bars.”

“Or that time you fell off the shopping cart in Key Food,” Lucy adds.

“Great,” I say, interrupting the torrent of embarrassing incidents. “That means I can check out when I want, right?”

“The doctor promised he really would come by to see you after lunch. He said that if you want to check out at that point, he’ll let you,” Lucy says. “I’d make sure you’re feeling one hundred percent before doing that.”

Bert clears his throat. “Well, dude, I was just waiting to say good-bye. I have to go. Work, you know.”

“Sure, thanks for stopping by.” I pat him on the shoulder.

“We actually have to go also,” Sara says, looking at Lucy. “Now that we know you’re going to be okay. But you should eat something. According to your friend—” she nods her head toward Mira, “—all you’ve had is pudding and some Jell-O.”

I can’t believe my luck. I was just about to invent a way to get rid of them, but they’re doing it for me.

“Sure, Mom, I’m actually going to head into the cafeteria right after you leave,” I say. “Mira, do you want to go with me?”

“Of course,” Mira says. “But there’s a better option. My brother is almost here, so we can take you to a restaurant, get you some real food. Afterwards, we can have you back for that conversation with the doctor.”

“Great,” I say. “That works even better.”

In reality, food is the last thing I want right now. I’m still feeling sick. What I do want is to be far away from this hellhole.

“Okay then,” Sara says, giving me a hug. “Albert, let’s walk out together. Let Mira and Darren decide where they’re going to eat.”

I think I catch her winking at Bert as she says that.

“Oh, Lucy, Kyle had to leave, so you don’t have a ride,” I say, remembering Kyle’s quick departure.

“Right. He texted me. That’s why I’m leaving now. I’m sharing a cab with your mother.” She smiles and kisses my cheek.

“It was great to meet you, Lucy . . . Sara . . . Bert . . .” Mira gives each of my moms a hug, and Bert a kiss on the cheek. Must be a Russian thing.

“So where do you want to go to eat?” Mira says when they get out of earshot.

“I’m not actually hungry. I want us to get out of here quickly, though,” I say, and start walking toward the exit.

“What’s wrong?” Mira says, catching up with me.

“I’m feeling pretty sick—I just didn’t want to worry my moms,” I say. “I need fresh air.”

“If you’re sick, you should stay at the hospital,” she counters, but I keep increasing my pace.

“There’s something more going on,” she says when I avoid the elevator. “You’re taking the stairs on purpose. You don’t want to run into your family and friend on the way out.”

“You’re right. Can I please explain when we get out of here? Otherwise, we might get delayed by hospital security or something worse,” I say. “I got into a bit of trouble. I want to tell both you and Eugene about what happened. He would want to know.”

“Okay,” she says. “Let me check on him.”

We walk the rest of the stairs in silence, Mira messing with her phone.

“Okay, he’s parked near the south-side exit,” she says. “It’s this way.”

I follow her.

“You know you’re very lucky,” she says out of nowhere.

“I am? Why?” Spotting Eugene’s car, I head for it.

“Your family,” she says. “It must be nice to have people who care about you so much.”

“I guess,” I say, shrugging. “Though it can sometimes be a nuisance.”

“People never appreciate what they have.” There’s a bitter note in her voice, and I wince internally as I remember that her parents are dead. Shit. I didn’t mean to be so insensitive. I rack my brain for something to say as we approach Eugene’s car, a Camry, and get in.

“How are you?” Eugene says, giving me a concerned look.

“I’m fine. Just a scratch. Please start driving—I want to get out of here. There’s something I need to tell you guys.”

In the moments that follow, I describe the attempt on my life. When I get to the part about the Pusher, Mira orders Eugene to stop the car. He complies, pulling over to the side of the road as I continue with my tale.

I don’t sugarcoat my Pushing, even though I know that I might be losing whatever pity-induced goodwill I might’ve had with Mira. I hope she appreciates my honesty, though. I hope she sees I had no real choice in the matter.

“That’s pretty insane,” Eugene says when I’m done. His eyes are wide with shock.

Mira doesn’t say anything. Instead, she looks like she’s concentrating.

“Darren’s right about the Pusher,” she says after a moment. “The fucker who killed our parents was there, at the hospital.”