Time Slows During a Sentence | Part One
“I’m not willing to speak about your hallucinations as though they are real — I can only view them as a dream. Like a dream,” Maren told him.
“Why not?”
“Then they are our hallucinations. Look, I wouldn’t normally even speak like this — especially to a patient — but…”
“I’m not a patient, we’re friends — now help me — you gotta help me,” Lee said.
“You’re all patients. Every one and every thing can be looked at, the only difference with a patient is what I write down. And, I suppose, the amount of time I have to look. I’m not analyzing you.”
“You are, you just aren’t going that one step closer. Come on, I can’t guide myself through this, you have to do it. It’s in my head, and it’s in my every waking moment — I can’t stop seeing it — I can live it, and now whenever I do anything else — I am living it. I am this thing that I have become, but it’s all thought. I need you to help me fix it.”
“It’s not that easy — to just fix it, as you say.”
“I’m washing dishes, and I sense dread, and I pause — the dread deepens, and I go to push through and keep on with my life, and the dread deepens. I’m teaching class, and all I can think about — in every pause of every moment — I default back to seeing these things. I am walking down the hall and there is a colleague, and I go to just talk to them, but before I do … Before our paths cross, I start thinking about how that conversation will just be a distraction.”
“From what?” she asked.
“When I am talking to a person, I can’t focus and think about this problem.”
“But, don’t you want a distraction from the dread?”
“There is no distraction from that. Sometimes I will be in the middle of talking to someone and I think, ‘What would happen if I just told them?’”
“Don’t do that,” she said.
“I told you.”
“That’s different, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. I thought that you could see through my mind or sift around and show me something or even put me back together. Again. You have put me back together before.”
“That was different. Recovering from alcoholism is not the same. And, I was shocked that these … other drugs … allowed you to quit alcohol in the way that you did. But, it’s not the same. When you were drinking, you were drinking because it helped you look away from your pain a few times, and then you just didn’t stop drinking for years — chasing a delusion. Alcohol is a delusion. This stuff you are into now — is a hallucination.”
“It’s more than that. It’s a feeling,” he tried to explain.
“What does it feel like?”
“Familiar. So incredibly … impossibly familiar. Like I am living through a memory.”
“Ok, you know what the problem is? You take drugs, and a lot of people do that. Some people even take these drugs and lead normal lives — I keep hearing that these coders making everything in our phones — they take the stuff and go to work. They’re taking a smaller dose. I mean … maybe the next time you decide to go on one of your trips you should just take a little bit. You see — and, please don’t take this personally — some people take drugs and you … well, you take drugs seriously. You think some of it — for all I know you think all of it is real. Sometimes I worry that you think this right now, that this around you is not real. And, listen to me … you can’t do that. You have got to tell me if you start thinking this isn’t real. Or, tell someone.”
“There are parts of it that I cannot remember, you know?”
“I’m sure there are, that makes sense.”
“But, when I take it again — I can remember those parts,” he continued.
“That’s actually very interesting, your brain is par — “
“Just listen … there are parts of it that I can’t remember. If I try to remember them right now, I can only go back to the moment I was forgetting it … trying to pull it back. So, at the time I must have had an experience and then known that I had it, because I wanted to bring it back here with me. Because I can remember … trying to remember. The thing is … when I take it again … I can slowly go back further into those forgotten memories — until I remember them. At this point, I have dozens of these memories that are locked away until I take it again. They build up, and every time I take this stuff … I pick up where I left off.”
The Professor.
“Things sure have changed around here,” Maren said as she sat at his desk, across from Dr. Berkowitz — surrounded by all of his framed accolades.
“Seems like just yesterday you were sitting in that seat in order to talk to me about how you could ‘pull up your grades’ when they were high B’s. Always wanting to do better. Now you sit here as a distinguished practitioner,” he told her.
“Time flies when you’re having fun.”
“And, my how it sits still when you aren’t.”
She rushed through the how-are-you and the how-is-so-and-so small talk as soon as she could.
“Why did you quit?” she asked him.
“I don’t think of it as quitting.”
“I’m sorry — it’s just …” she froze.
“It’s just that you are thinking about quitting?”
“I’m thinking about teaching.”
“So, you are thinking about ‘quitting’ … your words,” he smiled.
“Why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why did you stop?” she pressed him.
“There is no singular ‘why’. No one reason.”
“So, it wasn’t that one patient sank into your head too deeply?”
“That’s the problem for a lot of people, sure, but for me it was several. Several patients made me question everything.”
“What does ‘everything’ encompass for you?”
“There are a lot of minds, and it wasn’t healthy for me to take in all that hurt. My mind had met too many minds.”
“So, you grew fatigued by it. Did anything — in particular — shake you to your core?”
“Going through traumas is difficult, even if we are only hearing about them. You don’t have to see, smell, touch trauma for it to influence you. Anything in particular? No, sometimes it was just hearing a woman talk about how she was going to kill herself after a divorce. Even knowing that she wasn’t — sometimes it was that simple. It sank in — maybe I don’t have the guts to do it — maybe I don’t have the heart. I took my work home with me. It wasn’t healthy. Now I train younger people to be prepared and ready to deal with the mental baggage that comes along with sadness, despair, and the breaking minds of the world. But, something … in particular … seems to have shaken you.”
“It isn’t a patient.”
“Ok, well is it still a person?”
“He’s taking drugs, he is taking psychedelics.”
“That’s interesting — the studies around these mind-altering substances are very intriguing. They seem to help PTSD, repressed memories, and — “
“Do they repress memories?” she cut him off.
“The drugs?”
“Yes, do they repress memories?”
“Not necessarily. I mean the data isn’t exactly conclusive yet, but someone who is under the influence of almost anything could become forgetful. I’d love to speak to your friend or whoever this is — you know the university has even considered bidding for studies here.”
“Don’t.”
“What is it? What do you know? What does this person say about their experiences, what exactly are they taking, what dosages? You know, I’ve read reports of healing experiences.”
“I don’t think you should be studying this. He’s seeing things.”
“Well, there’s certainly an explanation for that. For instance, I’ve read that patients report seeing all sorts of things. They have described ‘walls that breathe’ and lines that wave around — it would be very disorienting. On a stronger dose, they can have powerful imagery when they shut their eyes or are in a dark room. Some of the things they report are very positive and seem to be helpful to them.”
“When they shut their eyes? Wavy lines? No, my friend talks about that as though it is just novelty. That’s just the beginning for him — he’s having powerful hallucinations — full, standing hallucinations.”
“Well, I must speak with him — that is fascinating. What is he taking? How much?”
“Don’t study this stuff. You can’t.”
The Sister.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Maren?”
“This is she; may I ask who is calling?”
“It’s Robin … Lee’s sister.”
“Oh my gosh, it’s been so long since I’ve heard your voice, how are y — “
“Lee isn’t answering his phone. Have you heard from him?”
“No, I haven’t,” Maren told her.
“He hasn’t answered his phone since yesterday morning, and I know that the two of you speak.”
“Well, yes, but I haven’t heard from him.”
“No, I know that the two of you speak about his little ideas. With all of this going on — aren’t you concerned?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing, he probably just lost his phone.”
“He went back to that house.”
“He went ba — “
“He went back home to ‘keep an eye on the place’ again. Are you sure he didn’t mention this to you?”
“He went back home?” Maren tried to mask the worry in her voice.
“He left the city yesterday,” the sister explained.
“Look I’m sure it’s nothing. He probably lost his phone.”
“Knowing everything you know about him, you’re not concerned at all that he drove a hundred miles away and went back to that place?”
“I think that how he decides to heal is his business.”
“Do you know why I never went back?”
“I have an idea.”
“He’s sick, something is wrong with him.”
“He and I have talked about it — I don’t think he is necessarily mentally ill.”
“Oh, isn’t that something? You think you know what’s going on. You know how I know that he’s sick?”
“I don’t think he’s sick.”
“Why the hell would he go back there? Huh? Answer me. Why on Earth would he go back to that place?”
“People grieve in different ways.”
“This isn’t grief. No one is grieving that man. Why would he go back there? He doesn’t care that the man is dead.”
“Maybe he isn’t grieving what he lost, maybe he is grieving what he never had.”
“Has he ever told you about his dad? Our dad?”
“Not lately, he hasn’t said much, but I remember what people used to say.”
“They were both crazy, you know? Our dad was a lunatic, and I don’t know if he drove our mother crazy or if she was that way when those two met, but she left, and he is gone — and Lee should be happy. He should never want to go back to that place. To hell with whatever this hippy-shit is that he’s taking — I’ll tell you how I know he’s sick — he keeps going back to that God-forsaken place we used to call home.”
“Ok, I’ll go check on him,” Maren conceded.
“Do you still remember how to get there?”
“I think so.”
The Place.
She left the city, drove through a couple towns, went to the middle of nowhere, and took a left onto a dirt road. The rocks rolled under her tires making a sound that took her back to her younger years — a sound of nostalgia and loneliness — like driving back in time, she saw what the years had done to the shacks that sat on lots — here and there — along a single lane of dirt.
She went on for a while until the woods cleared on either side of the road, and she could see the open fields of what used to be a farm. Dense and lush in the summer heat, the fertile land was now just grass and weeds.
Were it not for the mailbox, she might have driven right past the house.
The path that led to the house was never truly a ‘driveway’ in the sense that people are used to — instead it had been two steadily-worn, parallel trails that trucks and tractors had carved out over the years, but it was now indistinguishable. It was all overgrown now — as far as her eyes could see — and she drove, trying to follow along with tall, tall grass that had recently been laid down underneath tires, and she went slowly, and the crest of a roof appeared over the top of a rolling hill.
The house sat — almost tucked away — hugging an area of trees that had been purposely left to stand in place. She thought that there might have once been a time when it was all cleaned up — the undergrowth. Maybe it had been a shady spot for children to play, maybe blankets had once been laid down there for a picnic, maybe there was even a tire-swing or something else for a childhood memory, but the woods around it had crept in and been neglected. It looked as though the house would soon be eaten by the wilderness, as though the southern pines itched to grow through the house and hide it from the world for good.
She saw vines that grew up to the top of the house. Paint that had originally been the color of cream was chipping away in large chunks, and they littered the ground. The deck had rotten holes in it, warped boards that peeled away at the sides, and there was an old porch swing attached by only one of its chains.
Plywood sheets were leaning against a wall, and they were old enough to bow and curve against the house. Tools and other random cuts of random boards were stacked in groups under a roof that was less of a shed and more of a lean-to, and there was rust and rot all-the-same, and the structure looked like a stiff breeze would tip it over, and she hoped the entire house wasn’t that dilapidated and shaky.
As she slowed down, she could better hear the sound of grass scraping against the bottom of her car. She got out and stretched her legs and heard the songs of cicadas and grasshoppers taking turns — a noise loud enough to replace that of the city.
She took a finger and wiped a thick layer of dirt off of her car.
She walked up what used-to-be a pathway to the front door and looked at a telescope that was angled up and ready to use. As she passed by it, she found hope that he would be inside sleeping something off.
“Lee!” her knocks became her pounding on an old door that shook and rattled in its threshold. She pulled out her phone and began calling Lee’s number. Calling again and again. She ran back down the path, slung her car’s door open, and slammed a palm against the horn, she hung up and called again, blaring the horn, becoming more and more frantic. Desperate to find him and not what was left of him.
“He’s sick,” she ruminated.
She turned the corner of the house, heading around back, looking through each window as she passed by it. She saw old wood paneling, packed boxes, an air mattress, and a rocking chair. At the back door, knocking, she called his number again.
She made out the faint sound of a ringtone behind her. Running towards it, she entered the tree line where fields became wilderness. Briars scratched at her, but she could hear the ringing more and more with every step.
She went until she saw the phone’s light on the ground and picked it up — a web of cracks covered the screen.
Blood trickled from the bites of skin the thorns had torn from her legs, her shoes sank softly into the mud, and she stood alone as she allowed the feeling of defeat to bubble to the surface.
At what point does she call someone else, she wondered. Who would she call first? The police or the sister?
A branch snapped under Lee’s foot.
“Maren?”
Startled with relief, she turned to see him, standing there, and he seemed to be ok despite having dirty clothes and bloodshot eyes.
“Are you really here?” he asked.
“Are you?! I got worried. You weren’t picking up, and your sister called me.”
“Well, I’m fine. Didn’t take much to get you worried. I didn’t lose my phone all that long ago, I just turned back because I wanted to take a picture of this huge spider over there and noticed I didn’t have it.”
“I don’t think you’ll be taking very many pictures,” she said and showed him the screen.
“Great. Well, can we call my sister from your phone?”
Do You Have Any Ice?
The inside of the house looked almost as bad as the outside. He explained to her that someone had to keep an eye on the place.
“My sister doesn’t want to come back, but like it or not, someone needs to figure out what becomes of all this.”
“Have there been break-ins,” she asked, pointing at a boarded-up window.
“Oh, you know how it is down here. The second word got out the old man was gone, rednecks and jackass kids started coming around. There wasn’t really anything for them to take from here. If they wanted to steal anything, you’d think they’d come and take the tractors … machinery, that’s what is still worth something.”
“Are you ever going to sell the place?”
“I’ve thought about it. I could sell it all as a package deal to some farmer, or maybe someone would want to put a bunch of houses on the land. Location isn’t the best though. Plus, I mean … look, it is peaceful to just get away from it all. Maybe I should build a little get-a-way out here. The city can be stressful.”
“Maybe selling it could bring you closure.”
“Maybe it wouldn’t.”
“You could take the money and buy something just like it — a get-a-way from your get-a-way.”
“Ohhh, nothing will be just like this place. Closure is bullshit, anyway.”
“Closure is not bullshit.”
“Isn’t it just something that people chase after? Life keeps going, though. Then you end up needing more closure. Like we ever got closure? Me and you? Like I’ll ever get closure with my parents? You talk about delusions and hallucinations, but hope is just another form of all that. Just be here, with me, now — it’s more than anyone else has done. No one dies with dignity, and the old man didn’t even live with dignity — I’ve buried him a thousand times. That’s how I can come back. My sister? She doesn’t even have enough closure to come back and handle all of this.”
“Are you high, right now?”
“Let’s just sit back and relax, let’s forget it all for a second.”
“Are you drinking again?” she asked, pointing out several bottles of liquor sitting on a counter.
“Those relics? Dad was an alcoholic,” he said, “…remember?”
“Why haven’t you thrown them out yet?”
“I just haven’t gotten around to it.”
She tilted her head in an accusatory way.
“I’m serious,” he told her, “I don’t have a problem anymore.”
She stared through him.
“I’m serious,” he laughed. “Would you like a drink?”
“We’re not drinking.”
“You can have one. I swear it won’t temp me. I’m better now. I promise, plus you look very stressed.”
“We were worried.”
There was a pause, and she thought about him and looked into his eyes. “Do you have any ice?”
The Final Drink.
The smell of wood burning has a strange sadness to it, and she had been circling back to that in her mind for some time, watching the fire, and there came a deep silence that even Lee could feel. It some how stirred in her that all of the noise was draining away, into an old memory. Maybe it was once again being in the middle of nowhere or managing to forget about the city, and she thought that it might be the fact that she saw the stars for the first time in years, but she was about to have the final drink. The final drink that meant there would be more. That one drink that meant — she wouldn’t be driving home — that, after that drink, she might as well let go.
“You’ll drown underneath the surface.”
“Make me another drink,” she laughed.
“You’ll drown underneath the surface.”
“Shut up,” she laughed. “For real, don’t mock my craft.”
“That’s what you told me. I’m not sure where you heard it or if you made it up, but that’s when I was at rock-bottom. I was at a point, I had already had all that I could stand, but I couldn’t get enough. And, you said to me, ‘You will drown underneath the surface’ and … sure, it was hard to quit, but that’s what did it.”
Her eyes watered, and she knew she needed that final drink.
Did you like the story? Still want to read more?
You can read Part Two here
The full novella is on newbook.store — NewBook is a digital platform to read and publish books, novellas, and shorts.
