Christopher couldn’t remember if he was asleep or awake. He looked down at his legs. He didn’t understand why they were so short. Or why he was in a hospital gown. Or why he was in a hospital room. He looked down at his hands expecting to see an old woman’s wrinkled hands. The hands that belonged to Mrs. Keizer. But he didn’t.
“Why do I have little boy’s hands?” he wondered to himself.
After all, ever since the Christmas Pageant, he could have sworn he was Mrs. Keizer. He didn’t know why. All he did was touch her arm. Maybe it was the meds they gave him. But her life passed before him like a home movie, playing on the inside of his eyelids.
I’m a little girl. I am an honors student. I am going to college. Look at that boy over there in the gymnasium. What’s your name? Joe Keizer? My name is Lynn Wilkinson. It’s nice to meet you. Yes, I’m free this Saturday night. And the Saturday after that. I am looking down at my hands. Oh, my God. The engagement ring is going on my finger. We are holding hands in the church. I am not Lynn Wilkinson anymore. I am Mrs. Joseph Keizer now.
Christopher sat up in bed. He looked into the window and saw a little boy’s reflection. But when he closed his eyes, the reflection was Mrs. Keizer’s home movie.
Joe! Joe! I’m pregnant. It’s a girl! Let’s name her Stephanie after my mother. Okay. Fine. Kathleen after yours. Kathy Keizer you come here right this minute! Wait until your father sees what you did. Joe, stop it. She’s freezing. Let her come into the kitchen. Fine, then I will! Joe stop! You’re hurting me. Joe, please. Our baby is a teenager. Our baby is graduating. Our baby is getting married. She won’t be Kathy Keizer anymore. She’ll be Mrs. Bradford Collins. Joe, she’s pregnant! Joe, we have a grandson! Bradford Wesley Collins III! What a regal name. Joe, what’s wrong!? Joe! Joe! Wake up! Joe!
Christopher opened his eyes and saw that nice woman coming out of the bathroom. What was her name again? Mrs. Reese. Yes. That was it. Kate Reese.
“Can you hear me, Christopher?” she asked.
Mrs. Reese turned the pillow to the cold side to make him more comfortable. Christopher closed his eyes, and her concerned face was replaced by Mrs. Keizer’s memories. Flickering like an old movie with each blink of the eye.
No, Brady. Grandpa died. I know. I miss him, too. We had been married for forty…forty…God, how long had it been? Forty something? It’s on the tip of my tongue. God, why can’t I remember? I’m not feeling right. I can’t remember where I put my…my name. What do you mean my name is Lynn Keizer? Since when? I don’t remember getting married. No, you’re wrong. I’m not Mrs. Keizer. My name is…my name is…Lynn…I don’t remember. Who are you? Kathleen who? Who is that little boy with you? He’s not my grandson. I don’t know that kid. Nurse! Someone stole my memories! Someone stole my name! Don’t tell me to calm down! Don’t you know what’s happening? Don’t you understand? Death is coming. Death is here. We’ll die on Christmas Day!
Mrs. Reese brought a straw to his mouth to drink. He tasted ice-cold apple juice. It was the most delicious he’d ever had. He loved it more than even Froot Loops. But old women don’t like Froot Loops. So, he wasn’t an old woman, was he? He was a little boy with little-boy hands.
“That’s it, honey. How are you, Christopher?”
His name was Christopher. That’s right. Mrs. Reese wasn’t a nurse. She was his mother. They were in the hospital together. The doctor was holding a chart. The doctor thought it was a fever, but Christopher knew it wasn’t. He had just had Alzheimer’s for a couple days. That’s all.
“How are you feeling, son?” the doctor asked.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“Are you sure, Christopher?” his mother asked.
He wanted to tell his mother the truth. He wanted to tell her that he could still feel Mrs. Keizer’s suffering. Her illness ravaged his joints. He didn’t know if he could walk. Let alone stand. But he couldn’t tell her with the doctor here.
Not the doctor who was scratching his arm.
“Yes, Mom. I’m fine,” Christopher said.
The doctor brought the stethoscope to Christopher’s chest. The cold metal touched his skin, and the itch shot through him. The doctor’s entire medical school education flowed into Christopher’s mind in an instant. The doctor thought it was the temperature of the stethoscope. He shook it and tried again.
I don’t understand this. The boy’s lungs are fine. His heart rate is normal. I’ve run every test, and everything checks out. He has no fever according to the thermometer, but it looks like this kid is…dying.
Christopher forced a smile. They couldn’t know how sick he was. Sick meant drugs, and drugs meant sleep, and sleep meant the hissing lady. But the itch was so powerful that it was going to sweep him out to sea. Christopher had nowhere to put it, so he took a massive breath and brought it deep into his lungs.
“That’s a good deep breath, son,” the doctor said kindly.
The itch spread through Christopher’s body, bringing with it all the people the doctor saw that day. Their aches and pains. Their fevers and headaches. Christopher could feel the blade going into Mr. Henderson’s neck. Fifty years of marriage all thrown into one plunge of a bread knife.
I made you ten thousand dinners with this knife!
The flu was everywhere. But it wasn’t the flu. It was the hissing lady on the other side of the glass. He was sure of it. Christopher’s mother gave him another sip of cold apple juice. It tasted like Mr. Henderson’s blood running down the kitchen table. Christopher wanted to throw up, but he couldn’t. They would never let him out. He had to get out of here.
“That’s delicious, Mom. Thank you.”
Christopher could feel the hissing lady in the room. Watching them all. Playing them all like puppets with strings. Strings like the mailbox people. Strings like the Balloon Derby. She is beginning to get inside people’s minds now to use their eyes. The giant eye is getting bigger. The evil is inside the doctor now. He is scratching his palm. The one where he kept the cheat sheets in medical school.
“Mrs. Reese, there is nothing psychically wrong with your son.”
“Doctor, feel his forehead…”
“The thermometer says ninety-eight point six degrees.”
“Then, it’s broken…”
“We’ve tried three of them. They’re not all broken. He doesn’t have a fever.”
“You could cook an egg on his forehead.”
“Mrs. Reese, your son doesn’t have a fever.”
Christopher could feel his mother’s outrage growing. She kept a steady voice.
“What about the nosebleeds?”
“He’s not a hemophiliac, Mrs. Reese.”
“But his nose won’t stop bleeding…”
“We ran tests. He’s not a hemophiliac.”
“Then, what does he have?”
“We don’t know.”
Her anger was growing. All of their anger was growing.
“You don’t know? You’ve pricked and prodded him for two days…and you don’t fucking know!?”
“Mrs. Reese, please calm down.”
“I will not fucking calm down. Run some more tests.”
“We have. Blood work. PET scans. Brain scans.”
The hissing lady is…
The hissing lady is…getting stronger.
“Run some more fucking tests!”
“There are no more tests! We’ve run them! He has nothing, Mrs. Reese!”
“BUT LOOK AT HIM!”
She pointed to her little boy, and Christopher saw himself through her eyes. He was pale as a ghost. His nose crusted with blood. He wanted to tell her that the hissing lady was in the room right now making everyone hate each other. But he didn’t dare because then…
“Mrs. Reese, is there a history of mental illness in the family?”
…he might sound insane.
“Is there a history of mental illness in the family?” the doctor repeated.
The room was quiet. Christopher watched his mother sit very still. She gave no response. The doctor seemed grateful to have a calm moment. He began to speak, his voice as tentative as if he were tiptoeing his way through every syllable.
“Mrs. Reese, the reason I ask is that I’ve seen psychosomatic illnesses in children many times. Whenever I can’t find a physical reason, it’s usually because there is a psychiatric one.”
Christopher looked at his mother. Her face was expressionless, but as he held her hand, he could see a glimpse of the home movie she kept so guarded. On her knees. Cleaning the bathtub. Her hands raw from Clorox. Her husband’s blood never came out. So, she moved away. And she never stopped moving.
“My son is not crazy,” she said.
“Mrs. Reese, you said he ripped apart his own neck in school. Self-harm is one of the signs—”
“It was a nightmare. Kids have nightmares.”
The doctor held his tongue. For a moment.
The doctor thinks…the doctor thinks…I have something serious. He has seen schizophrenia in children. It can show up in kids younger than me. The doctor is…the doctor is…working for the hissing lady. But he doesn’t know it.
“Mrs. Reese, I’m trying to help your son. Not hurt him. I could call the child psychiatrist right now. He could do a quick evaluation. If he rules out mental illness, I’ll run all the physical tests again. Deal?”
The silence hung in the room. Ten seconds that felt like an hour. But eventually, Christopher’s mother gave a nod. The doctor returned the favor and made a quick call to the child psychiatrist. After he hung up the phone, he tried to put a positive spin on the situation.
“I know this seems like a dark cloud, Mrs. Reese, but there is a silver lining,” he said. “There isn’t anything wrong with your son physically.”
He scratched his palm and smiled.
“We can thank God for that.”