Monday was one of those days when, for some reason, I felt discombobulated, as if I were on the outside looking in. I wasn’t pleased with what I saw.
There was something about prot, something all-consuming, that made everything else seem unimportant by comparison. All of my “free” time seemed to go into his (Robert’s) case. When I wasn’t studying my notes or listening to the tapes, I was thinking about them.
Some of the other staff members were beginning to slide down this slippery slope as well. During the regular Monday meeting most of them were astonished by the revelation that prot seemed able to remember being born, and even lying in the womb. Some, especially Thorstein, saw this as a golden opportunity, suggesting I spend several more sessions pinning down the earliest moment prot could recall.
Our newest young psychiatrist, Laura Chang, agreed. She herself wanted to “pick his brain,” after hours if necessary, pointing out that perhaps the root of many mental difficulties lay in the very earliest moments of our experience. It is her view, in fact, that certain formative patterns might be initiated in the late-stage embryo, who must be quite mystified indeed by all the harsh sounds he hears, the strange smells and tastes he may be aware of, assuming, of course, that he is conscious (her hypothesis) at times. I could understand their motives, having stated in the past that much could be learned from prot’s apparent depth of knowledge about many esoteric subjects, whatever its nature. I reminded everyone yet again that our responsibility was to Robert, not to prot, and that this should be the basis for any protocol.
The meeting ended with a discussion of the upcoming outing, for those patients who wanted, and were able, to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and notice of a long-overdue visit by the popular psychologist known to the public as “America’s TV shrink,” who had abruptly cancelled a similar trip two years earlier for personal reasons.
Afterward, I invited Goldfarb for coffee in the doctors’ dining room, intending to speak with her about the crowd of people hanging around the gate. But she had her own agenda, high on the list of which was an attempt to schedule formal interviews between prot and some of her patients. I peered into those thick glasses, behind which her eyes looked like pinpoints, and tried to change the subject back to the circus going on out front. But she had no interest in dealing with it unless there were some disturbance or other. I pointed out that they were her responsibility. She accepted this and went over to refill her cup. I have never known anyone who could drink hot coffee as fast as Goldfarb.
The other reason I had wanted to speak with her was to talk her into allowing me temporary leave from some of my duties, particularly those of an optional or peripheral nature, such as the various hospital and university committees I served on and, especially, chairing the one overseeing the completion, if ever, of the new wing. I even tried to foist off a few of my most difficult patients (Frankie and Linus) on her or another colleague, and blatantly inquired about the possibility of someone taking over my lecture course. Hoping this would be the coup d’état, I added, “I’m thinking of retiring next summer.”
Goldfarb broke into a nasal giggle. She drained her steaming cup, got up and strode out, still chuckling. As she left I heard her whinny, “You’ll never retire!”
On my way out to give my afternoon lecture at Columbia, I ran into Giselle. “Isn’t it great?” she chirped.
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“Like they said, all they wanted was to talk to prot.”
“Who? Oh, you mean the people—Well, is he going to—”
“He already did.”
“What? He talked to them?”
“Yesterday.”
“I see. And what did he tell them?”
“He said he didn’t have room for them all on this trip.”
“You mean they all want to go with him?”
“Not all. But some of them did.”
“What was their reaction to being left behind?”
“They asked him to come back for them!”
“And is he going to do that?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“He’s already said he’s never coming back, remember?”
“What did they think about that?”
“Not much until he told them someone else might do it.” She waited, her brown eyes twinkling like a cat that had just finished a canary.
“Well, when is the next K-PAXian due to come for them?”
“He couldn’t say. In fact, he couldn’t guarantee that anyone from K-PAX would ever visit the Earth again.”
“Didn’t this make things worse?”
“Not when he told them we already have K-PAX here. He says the Earth could be just like K-PAX if we wanted it badly enough. Nobody said anything for a while, until a twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy asked him, ‘How do we do that?’” She paused again in her mischievous way.
Milton slouched by, grumbling, “Hemorrhoids are a pain in the ass....”
I asked her impatiently, “Okay, I’m curious. What was the answer?”
“He said, ‘That’s up to you.’”
“That’s what I figured he’d say.”
“And then he went back in.”
“So why are they still here?”
“They’re not. But it doesn’t make any difference.”
“Why not?”
“Because they were soon replaced by another group. They wanted to speak with prot, too.”
“God, is there no end to this?”
“These people aren’t crazy, Dr. B. You should go out and talk to them some time. There are plumbers, housewives, accountants, factory workers and—well, you name it. I’d write an article about them if there were time.”
“Why isn’t there time?”
“If prot takes Rob with him, I expect to go, too.”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t you know for sure?”
She looked as if she’d been shot. “Not exactly. I guess I’d better ask him about that.”
“What if prot doesn’t find Rob? Then you’ll stay behind with him, correct?”
“He’ll find him!”
“One more thing: Don’t let him talk to anybody from the media. We’ve got enough trouble without that.”
“Easier said than done!”
The afternoon lecture went surprisingly well. When I told the students that a colleague in Germany was prepared to receive prot at 9:15 in the morning, “Oliver Sacks” volunteered to organize a “surveillance committee” to man every entrance to the hospital and monitor prot’s possible comings and goings.
Another can of worms. Inasmuch as there was nothing to lose, however, I agreed. “But be discreet. I don’t want anyone hanging around before nine or after ten o’clock. And you have to stay outside the wards. Fair enough?”
This seemed to satisfy everyone concerned, and I went on with the lecture, which, as I suspected, was one of the most muddled I ever presented. Nonetheless, the students gave me their rapt attention and, except for the scratching of pens on paper, were supremely attentive. Or perhaps they were merely mulling over prot’s possible origins, as was I.
In fact, it was sometime during the presentation that a chilling thought popped into my head: How did prot’s boyhood on K-PAX compare with his alter ego’s tragic life here on Earth?
* * *
I came prepared for my next session with prot, having listened by then to all of the tapes of our earlier meetings, re-read his “report,” and watched the video of his television appearance. There was no way I was going to allow him to sidetrack the interview with his superior memory and quibbling about small details. In fact, I decided to emphasize the seriousness of the hour by forgoing the fruit.
“That’s the main reason I’m here!” he wailed. He sat facing me glumly, his Cheshire-cat grin only a memory. It occurred to me that maybe he was putting me on.
I started the tape recorder. “Did you find Rob?”
“Checked every closet and behind every tree. He’s nowhere to be found. Maybe he went back to Guelph.”
“How would he get out without anyone noticing him?”
“Maybe he never came in.”
I nodded pleasantly. “Prot, I have a colleague in Germany who wants to see you for a moment.” I handed him a slip of paper. “Here’s the address.”
Prot studied the information. “I’ll try to squeeze it in.”
“No—you don’t understand. He wants to see you now. At 9:15 this morning.”
“Your sense of humour still needs work gino. I’ve already performed this stunt for you. Even if I did it again you’d never believe it. You’d think it was some kind of trick.”
“No I wouldn’t! This would be the proof we need that you’re really who you say you are!”
“How many times do I have to prove it?”
“Just this once.”
“Sorry. No can do.”
“Why the hell not?”
“I told you already. Besides, what if Robert shows up while I’m gone?”
“But Dr. Ehrhart is waiting!”
“Has he nothing else to do?”
“He has plenty to do!”
“So do I!”
“So you refuse to cooperate.”
“I’m here, ain’t I?”
Even though I knew he couldn’t zip off to Germany or anywhere else, I had rarely been angrier in a session with a patient of mine. “Prot,” I screeched, “why don’t you just admit it? You can’t do it, can you?”
“Of course I can.”
“You’re not from K-PAX, are you? You’re a fake and a phony! Everyone knows it!”
“Surely not everyone.”
“It’s because of the fruit, isn’t it?”
“Nope. We’re not a petty, vindictive species like some others I could name.”
“A lot of people are going to be disappointed.”
“Won’t be the last time.”
I stared at him for a while to emphasize my displeasure. “Dr. Ehrhart claims that other ‘K-PAXians’ are popping up around the world.”
“Could be. Or maybe they’re lunatics.”
Grabbing a yellow pad, I said, rather petulantly, I’m sure, “All right, damn it, tell me more about your phony boyhood.”
“You never get enough, do you, doc?”
“I may make an exception in your case.”
“No you won’t. You’re bound and determined to pry every little secret from everyone here.”
“That’s what psychiatrists are for.”
“That so? I thought they were for making piles of money to ‘feed their families,’ like every other sapiens in this godforsaken place” (he meant the Earth).
Recalling that Robert’s family had been exceptionally poor, I asked him, “You don’t like the capitalist system very much, do you, prot?”
“Frankly, my dear, it sucks.”
“What’s wrong with it? It’s worked pretty well throughout our history.”
“Then why do you have so many problems?”
“Look. If there were no trading or bartering, no legal tender, everyone would have to grow his own food, make his own clothes, produce his own transportation, and all the rest. A terrible waste of time and energy, wouldn’t you say?”
“At last I understand what’s wrong with you—you’re all nuts!”
“No need for insults, prot, or whoever you are.”
“Merely an observation, my thin-skinned friend. None of you seems to have the ability to see a bigger picture, to figure out the consequences of your actions, or even to look at a problem rationally. You’re a bunch of wild-eyed schizophrenics!”
“What problem?” I calmly asked him.
“And on top of that, you can’t follow a conversation. Look. You’ve given me the pros of the money system. Have you given any thought to the cons?”
“I suppose you’re talking about the way some people abuse it.”
“That’s a start.”
“Well, I suppose it must seem unfair to the disadvantaged.”
“Keep going....”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Do you ever listen to the evening news? Read a newspaper?”
“Sometimes.”
“What’s the result of all that brainwashing?”
“Brainwashing?”
He tapped his fingers together and looked up at the ceiling.
“What’s the result of all the focus on the ‘economy,’ on ‘jobs,’ on ‘growth,’ on—”
“But everyone benefits when—”
“Really, gene? Do all your beings benefit? Do the elephants and tigers benefit? Does your PLANET benefit?”
“You’re repeating yourself. That’s exactly what you said on TV two years ago.”
“And you didn’t hear it then, either!”
“But everyone is already aware of the environment. We all know about global warming. Scientists in every country are studying the problem——”
Prot guffawed. “When are you humans going to stop ‘studying’ your problems and start doing something about them?”
“We are doing something about this one! We’re trying to reduce greenhouse gases to 1990 levels, for example.”
“Har har har—you people kill me! It’s 1990 levels that are causing the problem!”
“You don’t understand. We have to balance one benefit against another. We have to compro—”
“Compromising on your environment is like removing half a tumor.”
“It’s not that simple, prot. Jobs are at stake. Lives are at stake.”
“Exactly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re trapped in a quagmire of money and you can’t seem to find a way out of it. In the meantime, your PLANET is dying. And the really nutty thing about it is that you hardly even notice. Catastrophe is right around the corner, and when you get there you’ll all wring your hands and pretend you didn’t see it coming.”
“And how much time do you figure we have left, exactly?”
“Twenty-three years,” he said matter-of-factly.
“You mean our species has only twenty-three years left on Earth?”
“Did I say that, doc? I mean that if the necessary changes aren’t made by that time, certain events will be set in motion and then there will be no stopping the slide.”
“And how did you arrive at that figure?”
“I didn’t. It was worked out by another K-PAXian.”
“Based on what?”
“She used the data from my report. It’s simple. You can do it yourself. All you need is a primitive computer….”
“If it’s so simple, why didn’t you work it out?”
“Same reason you didn’t—I don’t give a damn what happens to your murderous, self-centered species. What saddens me is that you’re taking all the other beings with you.”
“I give a damn!”
“Then why haven’t you worked it out?”
“Look, prot, maybe you’re right,” I said to mollify him. “But it’s time to get on with our session, okay?”
“Sure,” he shrugged. “Why not? It’s not my problem, anyway.”
“Because you’ll be leaving us soon.”
“Righto.”
“Back to K-PAX, where there are no problems.”
“Exactly.”
“Tell me more about your boyhood there. Were you poor?”
“No one is ‘poor’ on K-PAX! Or rich, either. It’s a meaningless concept.”
“Tell me what your early childhood was like.”
He stared at the empty fruit bowl. Finally he said, “Okay—how early is early?”
“Oh, up to the age of six, say.”
“Your years, of course.”
“Or the K-PAXian equivalent.”
“To tell you everything would take me about six years, wouldn’t it? You got that much time, gino?”
“Dammit, prot, just give me the highlights.”
“The whole thing was a highlight. Wasn’t yours?”
I sighed. “All right. Let’s say you’re five. In Earth terms, of course. It’s your fifth birthday today. Is there a party for you? A birthday cake?”
“None of the above.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t have cakes on K-PAX. Or parties. Or birthdays.”
“No birthdays?”
“Our annual cycles vary a bit depending on—well, I don’t suppose you want to go into the ASTRONOMICAL details.”
“Not just now.”
“I didn’t think so. In any case, nobody cares when someone was born or how old he is. It’s completely irrelevant.”
“What about friends? Are they irrelevant, too?”
“You need to re-read your own books. Everyone on K-PAX is a ‘friend.’ We don’t have ‘enemies.’ We just don’t need them, as you seem to.”
“Naturally. Pets?”
“Certainly not.”
“Toys? Games?”
“Not the kind you mean.”
“What kind is that?”
“We don’t have ‘monopoly’ to teach us the value of making money. Or toy soldiers to teach us the importance of the military. Or dolls to teach us the joys of parenthood. None of that crap.” He thought a moment. “Besides, all of life is a game. On K-PAX life is fun. Right from the start.”
“Nary a problem, is that right?”
“Only little ones, but even those are fun.”
“What sorts of little fun problems did you have to deal with?”
“Oh, you know—scrapes and bruises, an occasional stomach ache, that sort of thing.”
“Those don’t sound like much fun to me.”
“It’s a part of life, don’tcha know.”
“Ever get into a fight with one of your ‘friends’?”
“No one fights on K-PAX.”
“So how do you get the scrapes and bruises? Does someone punish you for behaving badly?”
“No one behaves badly. What’s the point? And if we did, there would be no punishment.”
“But someone gave you the bruises, didn’t they?”
“Didn’t you ever fall out of a tree, my human friend?”
“Once or twice. You never had an abusive uncle, anything like that?”
“Where do you get this ‘uncle’ shit? I told you—I don’t know from ‘uncle’!”
“All right. Anyone else bother you when you were a small boy? A passerby, perhaps?”
“Of course not!”
“Okay—what sorts of things did you do when you were little?”
“I watched the korms [birds], ran with the aps [small, elephant-like creatures]. I learned the names of the fruits and grains, studied the stars, traveled around, spent some time in the libraries, ate, slept—you know: I did whatever needed to be done and, after that, whatever I felt like doing.”
“Did you have a bicycle? Roller skates?”
“Nah. Who needs those things?”
“You just walked wherever you wanted to go?”
“It’s a good way to get around, and you see more than you do going by light.”
“What about that? I mean, when did you first experience light travel?”
“Right away. Of course I rode along with someone else until I figured out how to do it.”
“When you were five?”
“Long before that.”
“Who did you ride with?”
“Whoever was around.”
“Of course. And who were you staying with when you were five years old?”
He slapped his forehead. “No one ‘stays’ with anyone on K-PAX. We like to move around.”
“Why is that?”
“K-PAX is a big place. There’s a lot to see.” (Unlike tiny Guelph, Montana.)
“Did anyone you knew die when you were six?”
That shot flew over his head, apparently. “Probably an ancient fart or two. Hardly anyone ever dies on K-PAX.”
“So you’ve told me. All right, prot. Our time is up for today. You can go now. I’ll see you on Friday.”
He jumped up and jogged to the door. “Don’t take any wooden nickels!” he shouted on his way out.
I assumed he was putting me on again.
George must have thought the “light-travel” experiment had been a great joke. When I returned to my inner office I found a fax from him with a picture of a very old horse, ribs showing, head hanging down. An arrow identified the bony critter as “prot.” I thought about calling him to explain the situation, but just then Giselle showed up. She seemed in much better spirits than she had for some time. When I mentioned this obvious change, she exclaimed that if prot found Rob and took him to K-PAX, she would definitely get to go along, too!
“He told you that?”
“Yep!”
“My godson going, too?”
“Yep!”
“Then I guess you’d better help him find Rob, right?”
The smile vanished. “How can I do that?”
I asked her to start by filling in any missing details she might have about Rob’s background, things she might have learned in her two years of sitting at the breakfast table with him, watching movies, making plans over a glass of wine, and all the other occasions which contribute to a happy and intimate relationship. Unfortunately, she didn’t know much more about him than I did. They rarely discussed his childhood—it was painful for him (and for her as well)—or his previous marriage (for the same reasons). However, she did tell me a couple of surprising things about his likes and dislikes. For example, although he was interested in most scientific subjects, including field biology, the focus of his academic studies, he actually disliked astronomy. He wouldn’t even watch reruns of the old Star Trek series or the myriad spin-offs. Another peculiar characteristic was his abhorrence of bathtubs. He took showers exclusively, and wouldn’t even enter the bathroom when she was in the tub.
I thought: Did something happen while little Robin was taking a bath? “Anything else you can think of?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Any religious beliefs?”
“Rob isn’t an atheist, but he’s not very religious, either. More of an agnostic, I suppose.”
“Did he ever tell you about his toy soldiers, discuss the war in Vietnam, anything like that?”
“He has toy soldiers?”
“When he was a boy he did.”
“So did my brothers and everybody else I know.”
“Did he ever rail about being poor when he was growing up, or profess any negative feelings about the free-enterprise system? Or what it might be doing to the environment?”
“He’s a biologist, Dr. B. Of course he talks about the degradation of the environment. But he has never showed any communist leanings, anything like that, if that’s what you mean.”
“Does he think the Earth is going to hell in a handbag?”
“No more than anyone else. Why? Did prot tell you Rob had radical ideas on all these things?”
“Not exactly. I’m still trying to get a handle on Rob’s problems. Do me a favor, Giselle. Will you think about this some more, and when we meet again could you give me a report on anything unusual that might come to mind about Rob’s behavior the past couple of years? And make me a complete list of his likes and dislikes, particularly any strong ones. Will you do that?”
She blinked those big, doelike eyes. “Sure, if you think it will help.”
I chose not to divulge my misgivings about that.
As I was passing through the lounge I encountered Frankie sitting in her customary place on the wide windowsill staring at the lawn. I asked her why she didn’t get her coat on and go outside for a walk. She replied, characteristically, “It’s shitty out there.”
“Frankie, it’s a beautiful day!”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” she scowled. “Or so they say. I wouldn’t know—I’ve never encountered it.”
“Don’t you think the sunshine is beautiful? The green grass, especially in late November? The leaves blowing in the wind?”
“What’s so beautiful about death and decay?” She stared at my left cheek. “That’s the ugliest mole I’ve ever seen.”
“Isn’t there anything you think is beautiful?”
“K-PAX sounds pretty damn good.”
“Nothing good about the Earth? How about the mountains? The seashore? Music? You like opera?”
“Can’t stand it.”
“Why?”
“They’re all just fucking glorified soaps. Make me want to puke,” she added before waddling off and nearly running into Alice, who was in her “giant” phase, clomping through the lounge with enormous, loud steps. She shrugged Frankie off as if she were a mosquito.
It was times like these that I wished I had gone into some other line of work. Frankie always left me depressed. She holds all of us responsible for the death of her mother, who was given the wrong medication when she was in a hospital for some minor ailment. It was a famous case back then, and I remember reading about it myself. But accidents happen, even to the best of us, and Frankie might have come to realize that, had her father not killed himself a year later, followed by an older sister. (Ironically, the nurse responsible for the mix-up married Frankie’s lawyer and became a wealthy and well-respected woman.) Though Frankie herself shows no tendency toward suicide, she remains hopelessly embittered toward everyone and everything. Of all the patients here she seemed the least likely to get any help from prot—he had a difficult time with human relations himself.
I heard a commotion behind me. “Dr. Brewer! Dr. Brewer!”
Wondering what crisis was breaking this time, I turned to find Milton running toward me. “Uncle Miltie” wasn’t wearing his usual funny hat, nor was his shirttail sticking out through his fly. In fact he looked like a different person altogether. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe this was the “real” Milton.
“Dr. Brewer!” he panted as he slid to a stop in front of me. “Let me out! Prot says I’m cured!”
“Well, Milton, I’d prefer you let the rest of us be the judge of that.”
“No—you don’t understand. I am cured.”
“I know you believe that, and maybe it’s true. Would you like to schedule an appointment so we can talk about it?”
“No need!”
“Really? Convince me. What makes you think you’re well enough to leave us?”
“Prot says so.”
I studied him for a minute. Gone were any obvious signs of psychosis. He was steady, clear-eyed, not going for laughs. This was a man who had lost his entire family in the holocaust. Not through some stupid mistake, as in Frankie’s case, but as a result of one of the blackest periods in human history. Yet all the profound sadness underlying his jokes and clowning was no longer clouding his eyes. “Tell me—what happened to you today?”
“I spoke with prot. He had the answer to all my problems.”
“What is that?”
“Forget our history.”
“Forget the holocaust??”
“Forget everything! We don’t have to live in the past, regretting everything we’ve done or that anyone else has done. We don’t have to look for retribution, to continue the cycle over and over. We don’t even have to forgive anyone. We can start all over, as if the events of the past never happened. This can be day one! It is for me!”
“Does this make sense to you, Milton?”
“Perfect sense, Dr. Brewer.”
“And you think your memories won’t come back?”
“Of course they won’t. There is no past! This is the beginning of time!”
“I’d like to talk to you about this some more, but I want to speak with prot first. That okay with you?”
“Whatever you say. Should I plan to move down to Ward One?”
“That’s up to Dr. Goldfarb and the assignment committee, but I think there’s a good chance of that if you continue to improve.”
“I guarantee it. You’d be surprised what a burden the past can be!”
“That I won’t argue with!”
When I got back to my office our esteemed director was there, pacing back and forth, smoking a cigarette. Goldfarb stopped smoking ten years ago.
“What’s wrong?” I asked her.
“You remember the visit we had from the CIA after prot’s TV appearance two years ago?”
“How could I forget? They reminded me of Laurel and Hardy.”
“Well, they’re back.”
“What did they want?”
“They wanted to know why we hadn’t told them prot had returned. They wanted to talk to him.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I asked them if they had a search warrant.” Like my daughter Abby, Goldfarb is among the last of the liberals.
“Did they have one?”
“No. But they did have a request signed by the President.”
“You mean the President?”
“The.”
“How did they know prot was here?”
“Everyone seems to know that.”
“So did you give them the go-ahead?”
“No. I said I had to speak to his doctor first.”
“What do they want to talk to him about?”
“They want to know how he’s able to travel at light speed. For security reasons, they tell me.”
“I’m tempted to deny their request.”
“Are you prepared to deny one from the President of the United States?”
“Maybe.”
“Good! To tell you the truth, I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“But I think the decision should be up to prot.”
She tamped out the cigarette on her watch crystal (an old habit) and dropped the butt into a jacket pocket. “That’s only the beginning.”
“What do you mean?”
“They want to be here when he leaves.”
“What for?”
“Same thing. They want to set up cameras and all sorts of other equipment to record the event.”
“How they going to get all that into his little room?”
“They’ve already thought of that. They want him to use the lounge.”
“Of course you said no to that.”
She examined her shoetops, which were suede and matched her green wool skirt. “Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
“I offered them a compromise. I said only if we let the press in to cover it, too.”
“What? You want to——”
“There’s a difference between meddling in a patient’s affairs and simply observing him. If they keep out of the way and don’t try to interfere with whatever happens ...”
“That’s a pretty fine distinction.”
“Look. The new wing is running a million and a half over estimates. We’re going to need all the publicity we can get to generate the funds necessary to complete the goddamn thing.”
“Something’s funny?”
“I was just thinking: prot’s going to love ending his visit with another fundraising appearance.”
After she left I realized I had forgotten to tell her about Milton.