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When
he speaketh fair, believe
him not: for there are seven
abominations in his heart.
--Proverbs 26:25
"Are
you ready to go?"
"Yes."
"You know what I mean when I ask you that?"
"Yes."
"And you feel ready."
"I do."
About to leave psychiatric care at a Virginia military
hospital, Doctor Clay Adams, forty-nine, sat precariously in a small leather
chair. His six-foot-two frame shifted as he searched for the position best
supported by such a delicate piece of furniture. It was the kind of chair set
out in waiting rooms and solariums, a hard, cold, one-size-fits-most chair.
Doctor Adams was nothing like most, as the woman sitting across the cluttered
desk from him well knew.
Doctor Lindsey was his
physical opposite, a five-foot tall, well rounded blond in her fifties. As his
therapist, she had asked him into her office for a few words. His case file sat
in her lap, representing ten weeks of hard work toward the goal of his release.
During that time, she had seen his dark side--the angry, brooding Clay, his
feelings of betrayal impeding his own progress--but the man sitting before her
today remained pleasant and cooperative, flashing a grin that, as her mother
used to say, "would charm the angels from the heavens." His salt and
pepper hair was neatly combed, his mustache recently trimmed. All told, he
looked fantastic, a distinct contrast to the broken and deluded man she had
first met.
"Clay, concerning your plans for after you walk out that
door..." she began, pausing to decide whether his fidgeting was merely due
to the chair. His gray-green eyes remained fixed upon her, waiting for her to
complete her thought, not rushing her like he used to. "...what have you
decided?"
He answered slowly. "Well, I've been thinking about
that."
"Good."
"I want to start a
science center. You know...for kids."
She regarded him a
moment, then put on a pair of reading glasses that hung from her neck and looked
inside his file. "I never knew you had an interest in children."
"I have an interest
in science."
The understatement made
her smile. His Yale degrees included
medicine, astronomy, and physics, and his most recent of high-profile employers
was NASA. It would seem he could easily embark on any number of lucrative
careers. "Why a science center?"
"If I do something
productive with my time, that also benefits
the community, I would still feel like I'm contributing."
"Of course. That's
important. But don't they already have a
science museum in the area?"
"A marine museum,
yes. What I want to do is different. Dinosaurs, mummies, space, ecology--you
name it--all included in a sort of theme park."
Her silence was hard to
read.
"With rides..."
She leafed through his
file, as unhurried as ever.
"Sounds expensive.
Where will you get the funding?"
"Grants. Private
donations. And I have my pension, and some property I inherited. An old estate
of my uncle's. He had no kids, so he left it to me. It has a mansion that needs
some work, but I think it would make a great museum."
"Where is it?"
"In
Chesapeake."
"I suppose it has
possibilities," she mused. "But such a big project, Clay. It'll take
quite a commitment."
He shifted again in the
chair, trying to find a way to lean on one elbow. All attempts were futile, so
he gave it up as he told her, "I need to keep busy."
That, she couldn't deny.
His type A personality was deeply ingrained,
and a contributing factor to his being here. Otherwise, she had found him hard
to diagnose. His symptoms didn't fall in line with any known form of mental
illness. He had no rituals and wasn't paranoid, didn't hear voices or receive
extraterrestrial transmissions. His only obsession was a stranded space alien he
had to catch and show NASA. They sent him to her because of her high security
clearance, but officially denied the existence of any such alien. She ultimately
settled on treating him for severe anxiety and stress, attributing his temporary
psychosis to mental and physical exhaustion.
Once he opened up in
therapy, a childhood spent immersed in science-fiction, while his mother drank
and his father ran around, explained a lot. Disinterested parents, private
school, boys that bullied, girls that shunned, all served to mold him, with the
only bright spot being a science teacher who recognized his potential. His
scientific aptitude had taken him far in life, but his motivation for success
lay within the bruised psyche of a neglected, rejected, little boy.
That he still had issues
was certain, but at least he no longer believed in his stranded alien. The man
definitely needed a healthy outlet for his intellectual energy, and wanting to
benefit the community was an honorable
sentiment, if he could sustain it under the pressures that would come with his
proposed park. Clay wasn't people-oriented, long ago leaving his medical
practice to pursue a less interpersonal career. Still, he had the right to
explore his options, and the only way to find out how much he could handle was
to let him try, but not without a safety net.
"Clay, you've worked
hard, and come a long way." She closed his file and removed her glasses.
"I do want you to be prepared for some
bumps ahead. You've refused our housing arrangements, and I understand that. But
don't get too self-sufficient. I can't stress this enough--take your meds."
"I know."
"It's just
temporary. When you're adjusted, we'll try easing
you off."
"All right."
"Officially, you've
been retired from your position at NASA, with full benefits, contingent on your
continued involvement in therapy."
He didn't reply to this,
just looked at the floor.
"They only
want--"
"I know," he
interrupted, but his voice was controlled, and he half-smiled when he returned
his gaze to her. "I know what they
want."
A silent moment passed
before she plopped his case file on her desk. "Well then," she briskly
advised, "I'll see you next Thursday at two. Enjoy the celebration out
there, Clay. Make it your own."
Later, looking out the
window of his Virginia Beach hotel room, Doctor Adams raised a glass of
champagne toward the heavens. The toilet in his bathroom had just swallowed
almost all of the pills left in his medicine bottle. Three capsules remained
floating in the bowl, as buoyantly defiant as the man himself. In preparation
for this momentous occasion, he'd secretly reduced his own dosage while still in
the hospital. Now that he was out, he needed a clear head, to plan.
His television blared a
countdown, thousands of voices shouting, "Ten, nine, eight, seven..."
"To you, old
boy," he toasted an unseen companion.
"...six, five,
four..."
"May we meet again
soon."
"...three, two,
one...happy new year!"
As he sipped the
champagne, an explosion of bright colors lit up the sky and reflected in the
water, while on the television the voices heartily switched from counting down
to singing Auld Langsyne.
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