A Cure for Madness (10 page)

Finally, it was our turn to pay.

“Help me with the cart,” I asked Wes after the last bag had been loaded in.

Someone tried to grab a bag, but Wes bodychecked him and yelled, “Nice try, motherfucker!”

We pushed our way to the doors, jockeying with the other shoppers as though this were a survival game of bumper cars. As soon as we emptied our treasures into the trunk, our cart was whisked away by a heavily pregnant woman. Around us, car horns blared as drivers jockeyed for parking spots. The screech of tires and a grinding crunch made me whip around—two cars had collided. Their drivers got out and started hurling obscenities at each other.

“Move your fucking car!” a man bellowed at me from his SUV. Wes rolled down the window and gave him the finger, and I quickly put the car in reverse before someone brought out a baseball bat—or worse, a gun.

Neither of us said a word until we got home. We sat in the relative calm of our parents’ driveway. I flexed my fingers, which were sore from gripping the wheel too tightly. Finally Wes lit up a smoke and said, “Well, looks like the world has gone to shit.”

I couldn’t argue with him there.

W
e stayed up late and watched
Forrest Gump
on the old VHS player. I stayed glued to my phone, tracking the news as it spread across the country. But there were no new developments, no new announcements from the CDC. Finally my phone pinged with a response from Kenneth.

Re: the note. Are you sure you haven’t been exposed?

Yes
, I answered.

Let’s touch base tomorrow before your flight.

That was it. I texted a response but got nothing back. He was probably overwhelmed. I couldn’t help but worry. He was on the front lines. Surely they’d all be wearing protective gear by now—but what if it was too late?

Finally, beyond exhausted, I dragged myself to bed. My parents had changed nothing in my old room, except now the closet was full of my mom’s sewing supplies instead of my clothes. The bed was still there, made up with my old bedding. “For guests,” she would have said. But I knew the truth: she’d kept it there for me. I didn’t want to sleep there, but I was too tired to look for an air mattress, and I knew from experience the sofa would kill my back. So I lay in my childhood bed in the midst of all that pink and tried without success to stop the hamster wheel spinning in my mind.

Eventually, exhaustion must have won over, because I was startled awake by the ringing of the doorbell. I sat upright so quickly my head spun. Maybe it was just a dream. The doorbell rang again—it wasn’t. I checked the time: eight o’clock.

I stretched and yawned, thinking it must be Rob. I pulled on some jeans under my nightgown and topped it with a hoodie.

The bell rang again.

“Coming!” I tried to yell, but it came out in a squeak. I peered through the peephole, but it wasn’t Rob standing on the front step. It was a man I didn’t recognize, wearing a dark suit. He had a white mask over his mouth and nose.

“What the . . . ?” I muttered as I fumbled with the lock and opened the door a crack, leaving the chain in place. “Yes?” I said, squinting at him.

“Good morning, Ms. Campbell,” he said. “I’m sorry to disturb you at home. My name is Dr. Stuart Hansen. I’m with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.” When I didn’t respond, he said, “May I come in?”

I took off the chain opened the door wider, letting him into the foyer.

Dr. Hansen nodded at me. “Thank you. I’ll keep my distance. You understand.”

“Yeah, social distancing. I saw it on the news yesterday.”

“Ah, well then, that makes my job a bit easier,” Dr. Hansen said. “You already understand the seriousness of the situation. I’m in charge of directing operations here in Clarkeston for the CDC. I’m here to speak with you about your brother. You’re his legal guardian, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“I’d like to bring Wes in for some more tests.”

I scowled, suppressing a yawn. “More? He already had an extra round of testing, and the nurse said the results came back fine.”

“I assure you that he is well, and there is nothing for you to worry about,” he said. “I would also like to give you my condolences on the recent loss of your parents.”

How did he know about that? “Thanks. But what does the CDC want with Wes?”

Dr. Hansen cleared his throat. “This is off the record, of course. As part of our investigation into this new, er, phenomenon, we ran some additional tests on your brother while he was in the hospital’s care. It was an ideal time to determine the similarities between the brain of someone with Gaspereau and that of someone with schizophrenia, since the two conditions seem to have similar symptoms.”

I took a step back and crossed my arms. “Okay, that sounds wrong on a whole lot of levels, but keep talking.”

“What we found was . . . intriguing. We’d like to do some follow-up tests as soon as possible. Right away, in fact. He shouldn’t have been released when he was. It was a clerical error in the . . . confusion. We don’t yet have all the information we need.”

“But he’s not infected with Gaspereau, right? Why do you still need him?”

Dr. Hansen pressed his lips together and stared at the floor. “He’s not infected, no. Quite the opposite. It’s all theoretical at this point . . . but I believe your brother may hold the key to helping us develop a treatment for Gaspereau.”

I uncrossed my arms and stared at him. “Are you serious?” I asked. “You might be able to find a cure?” The smell of Emma’s burning hair came back to me. What horror were her children going through? If there was a cure . . .

“It’s far too early to tell,” he said hastily, “which is why I need your brother to come in for some additional tests.”

“Nope. Not gonna happen,” Wes said from the top of the stairs.
Shit
. How long had he been listening? Dr. Hansen followed me to the bottom of the staircase. Wes was sitting on the top step, his hands gripping his knees. “I told you at the hospital, I’m done. Now fuck off. Get out of our house.”

“Hey, Wes, I didn’t know you were up,” I said. “This is Dr. Hansen.”

“Dr. Frankenstein, you mean.”

“Hello there, Wes,” Dr. Hansen said with a sidelong glance at me.

“Dr. Hansen was saying that they’d like you to go in for a few more tests. It might help them find a cure for Gaspereau,” I said, unsure of how much Wes had overheard.

“And I was saying get the fuck out of my house,” Wes retorted, getting to his feet.

“We just want what’s best for everyone,” Dr. Hansen said in a tone that was probably meant to be soothing but came out wooden and condescending. “Don’t you want to help stop this disease before it spreads to the rest of the country?”

Wes’s footsteps fell heavily on the stairs. “I said”—stomp—“get out.” Stomp. “No more”—stomp—“doctors.”

He reached the bottom. I stepped between him and the doctor, who hadn’t yet retreated. “Wes, maybe we should hear him out,” I said, holding my palms out, facing him. “Remember, the guy who killed Mom and Dad probably had Gaspereau—this might stop that from happening to anyone else!”

“Don’t believe them!” Wes snarled. “I remember these guys—what was supposed to be a simple blood test turned into scans and all other kinds of shit. I told you, I’m just a guinea pig to them! I’m not going anywhere.”

“Can you wait outside?” I said to Dr. Hansen. “Let me just talk to him for a minute.”

The doctor didn’t look thrilled, but he nodded and backed out of the entryway, closing the door behind him. I could still see his shape through the frosted glass.

“Listen, it’s not a big deal,” I told Wes. “He said it’s just a theory at this point. Don’t you want to help? What if they’re able to find a cure?”

He snorted. “You’re so naive.”

“I’m not naive; I’m realistic. Come on. When was the last time you contributed to society? Helped someone?”

“You have no idea. I help people all the time, where it really matters—in the spiritual realm.”

“I’m talking about
this
realm, where people are really suffering and dying and doing horrible things in spite of themselves because of this disease. What do you even do all day? Just sit around? Maybe this is your chance to give back to the world. Do something for someone else for a change.”

I knew I risked setting him off. But I couldn’t stop, now that I had started. It felt too good to finally say out loud what I had been thinking for years. “Look at all the things people have given up for you—how much Mom and Dad sacrificed. Did you know they had to remortgage the house? Do you have any idea what it’s cost our family? How about showing a little gratitude? You could help a lot of people here. Make your life mean something.”

“Are you saying my life doesn’t mean anything?” he growled. His expression had darkened; his eyes narrowed.

“Of course not. It’s just . . . it could mean more.”

A knock on the door. “I’m sorry, but time really is of the essence,” Dr. Hansen said, stepping back into the foyer.

“He still doesn’t want to go,” I explained, leaving Wes at the bottom of the stairs and meeting Dr. Hansen by the door.

“I’m afraid your brother has no choice,” he said to me in an undertone. “It’s a matter of public safety.”

Wes overheard this. “No choice? You’re gonna drag me there? I’d like to see you try.” He pulled a kitchen knife from his waistband behind his back and brandished it at the doctor.

“Oh my God!” I cried. When had he taken the knife? I should have locked them away. “Put that down!”

“Wes, if you come with us quietly, we’ll just do a few more simple tests and then you can head back home,” Dr. Hansen said. “You don’t want to go back to the psych ward, do you?”

“I’m never going back there,” Wes said, his face turning red and blotchy. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

“Please, just stop,” I begged. “You’re making everything worse. Just . . . give me the knife. Please.” I edged toward him, hoping he wouldn’t slash the blade across my face. I locked eyes with him, conveying as much compassion and understanding as I could muster. “Just give it to me, and we’ll talk, okay?”

There was so much fear in his eyes I almost hesitated before taking the knife he held out to me. I tossed it across the room, out of reach.

“Thank you,” Dr. Hansen said to me. Then he opened the door. “Wes, if you’ll just come with me . . .”

“What the fuck!” Wes shouted. “I told you I’m not going anywhere with you!” Then he bolted through the living room.

To my surprise, Dr. Hansen sprinted after him, speaking into a small radio in his hand. “He’s going out the back.” Stunned, I followed just in time to see Wes heave the patio door open and vault over the railing to land in the backyard.

“Oh God,” I breathed.

Two men in army fatigues were on him before he could get up. “Stop! Don’t hurt him!” I cried out. I thundered down the patio stairs toward them.

Wes was fighting the men, but they were stronger—and better trained—than he was. They wrestled him toward the front yard.

Lights went on in the homes across the street. An ambulance and a couple of dark cars were parked in front of our house. As though on cue, they flashed red, white, and blue lights, filling the street with color.

“Clare!” Wes yelled. “Help me!”

Before I could say anything, Dr. Hansen reappeared at my side. “I’m sorry for this, Clare. We have to use whatever means necessary to end this. You’re doing the right thing. He’ll be well treated, I assure you.”

I’m sure we all have moments in our lives that we cannot look back on without regret, without physical revulsion, without a burning in our cheeks. My modus operandi has always been to try and pretend these moments never happened, to wall them off with the other unpleasant aspects of my life. But there’s also something powerful about embracing the worst parts of yourself, the parts you hope no one ever finds out about. To admit that you are not all light and hope and bravery, that you are both hero and villain in your life’s story.

Deep down, I was glad they were taking him. If the government was going to be responsible for Wes, that meant I didn’t have to be. I was free to get the hell out of Dodge and start pretending this entire episode had just been a crazy, fucked-up nightmare. I could return to Seattle, where everything was as it should be.

And so I let them take him without putting up a fight . . . even though I knew he was afraid, even though I knew there was something deeply wrong with the whole situation. I watched as they dragged him into the back of an ambulance, as his body sagged after being stabbed with a needle. I nodded blankly at Dr. Hansen’s assurances that he would keep in touch, and took his card. He thanked me again for my cooperation and held out a gloved hand. In a tiny, useless act of rebellion, I didn’t shake it. Instead, I went back inside
and closed the door.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I spent the next hour roaming around the house, visiting each empty room and wallowing in the memories they offered up like gruesome sacrifices. A poem I had written as a child was taped on my mother’s mirror.

I love you, Mommy

I love you a lot.

If I had money,

I’d buy you a yacht.

Why had she kept such a thing? Beside the poem was a sketch of one of our old cats that Wes had drawn, back when he had a steady hand. Such small mementos of a simpler time.

I headed toward the basement but stopped at the top of the stairs. As a little girl I had refused to go down there alone, convinced that ghosts would come out of the fake wood paneling and murder me. That had been years ago, but now the house seemed truly haunted. I chided myself for entertaining such infantile fears and forced myself down the stairs, flicking the light switch on the wall. The basement was dark and chilly, so I grabbed an afghan my grandmother had made from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around my shoulders.

I ducked into the crawl space to see if my dad’s guns were still hidden there under a blanket. They weren’t, which was a relief. It would be best for everyone if Wes came back to a gun-free home.

My dad’s office and workshop were in the back, filled with relics from careers as a salesman, a woodworking shop owner, a trucker, and the manager of a small shipping company. Everything was covered in a thin coat of wood dust; apparently he had been using it more as a shop than as an office lately. A framed picture of my brother and me at Disney World hung on the wall. I looked about thirteen years old, and Mickey Mouse had each of us wrapped in one of his arms in a group hug. I didn’t remember the moment, but in the picture I looked like I was enjoying it. Even Wes appeared to be happy.

The safe sat in the corner of the office. I squatted next to it and tried to remember the combination. It took me three tries to get it right, but eventually the handle snapped down and I yanked the heavy door open. I pulled things out one by one: a roll of gold coins, some strange-looking silver coins, and a stack of hockey cards.
Whoa.
Three Wayne Gretzky rookie cards in mint condition. How much would they be worth now?

Then I found the will. I opened it up and started to read before setting it down again. There were decisions to be made that were more pressing than the contents of my parents’ will.

Rob answered on the first ring. “Morning, Clare. Did you get a flight?”

“It’s not until tonight,” I said. “Wes had to go back in for more tests this morning.”

“Really? Why?”

“I’ll explain later. What should we do about the wake? The governor said no public gatherings . . .”

“Bah. I don’t care what they say, and neither will half the town. They can wear masks if they’d like, but I still think we should give people a chance to pay their respects. Besides, it’s been advertised in the paper, so some folks are going to show up. Would be a shame if we canceled it—especially if you’re still here. We can always see how the wake goes and then make a decision about the funeral.”

Wes will be mad he missed the viewing. He wanted to say good-bye . . .

I groaned. As much as I hated small talk, the thought of being trapped alone with the ghosts in my parents’ house was even worse. “Okay. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

Rob and I were alone at the funeral home for the first hour of the viewing. Well, alone with the two urns containing my parents’ ashes. Rob had blown up a picture of the two of them sitting on his deck last summer. My mom’s head was leaning in to meet my dad’s, and they both wore peaceful, satisfied smiles. It was a good picture; it was how they should be remembered.

Rob asked about Wes, and I told him about the visit from Dr. Hansen. I left out the part about them dragging Wes out of the backyard by force, but my face burned at the memory.

He whistled softly, the sound slightly muffled by the mask I’d insisted he wear. “I wonder what other tests they’re doing.”

I shrugged, ignoring the queasiness in my stomach. “He said the procedures would be simple. If it helps them find a cure for Gaspereau . . .”

“I guess. But I can’t see Wes being too happy about it.”

“Well, I’m sure he’ll understand eventually, if it works. The greater good and all that.”

I was saved by the arrival of my parents’ young replacement pastor and his wife. They were wearing masks, and they made an awkward kind of bow instead of shaking our hands. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Pastor Steve said. “Your parents were wonderful people.”

“I’ve been crying nonstop since it happened,” Pastor Steve’s wife added. “I’m sure you have been, too.” She looked about twenty, with waist-length blonde hair and so much foundation it was rubbing off on the edges of her mask. She went to hug me but then checked herself. “I’m sorry. I wish I could.” I, for one, was glad she couldn’t. “Is your brother here? The one who is . . . different?” She looked around the room, as though hoping he might pop out from behind the curtains.

“He doesn’t really like crowds,” I said, and she nodded sympathetically. This was not a woman with whom I would willingly share my secrets.

“You know, the Lord works in mysterious ways,” she said, leaning in to whisper, as though we were co-conspirators in the Lord’s plan. “Everything happens for a reason. We just won’t know what it is until eternity.”

I wondered if social isolation protocols precluded me from punching her in the face.

Rob must have read my intent, because he quickly intervened. “How are you liking the new church, Sylvia?” he asked, and she turned her tear-filled eyes on him.

A soft touch on my arm made me jump. It was Kenneth. Beside him was a little girl with deep brown eyes and shoulder-length black hair. A streak of hot pink peeked out from underneath the black strands. She wore a pink medical mask around her mouth and nose, but her eyes were dancing.

“Hey!” I exclaimed, too brightly. This was the only good surprise to land on me in a long time. “You came.”

“Hi,” he said. “We shouldn’t be here, but I wanted to see you after . . . everything. How are you doing?”

“Thank you for coming. And you must be Maisie.” I squatted down to her level.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m sorry about your parents.”

“That’s so sweet. Thank you. Your dad’s told me lots about you.”

“He’s told me lots about you, too,” she said. I raised an eyebrow at Kenneth, who looked flustered.

“So how’s it going?” he said, indicating the rest of the mostly empty room.

“So far? Torture.”

“I thought you might feel that way, which is why I brought you this.” He presented me with a travel mug emblazoned with the logo of Reid’s Coffee Shop.

“Coffee?”

“With whiskey,” he whispered, winking as he handed it to me.

“My favorite drink,” I said, lifting my mask enough to take a big gulp. I winced as it burned a path down my throat. “You’re the best,” I croaked.

“Small crowd,” he observed, looking around. Pastor Steve and Sylvia were standing with my uncle over by the urns, admiring the wreaths and bouquets of flowers that my parents’ friends and family had sent in lieu of their presence. We sat down in the blue padded chairs that lined the room. Maisie pulled an iPad mini out of her backpack and settled back into her chair.

“She’s adorable,” I whispered.

“Thanks. I made her myself.”

“I’ve been worried about you. How is it going at the hospital?”

“Insane—quite literally. They wanted me to pull a double shift, but I’ve got this little monkey to think of.” He ruffled Maisie’s hair. She smiled up at him, then returned to her game.

“What are they doing? How are they handling this?”

“The CDC is in charge, and they’ve sent in extra supplies—protective gear and sanitation units. Everyone’s getting retrained on pandemic procedures.”

“What about the people who are sick?”

He looked away. “They’re trying . . . different things. How’s your brother?”

“Fine, I think.” I told him the same story I’d told Rob, again making it sound as if Wes had gone willingly.

Kenneth wasn’t so easily convinced. “You do know you have a choice, right?” he said. “He doesn’t have to undergo any medical procedures without your consent, if you’re his legal guardian.”

“I know,” I said, staring at my coffee mug.

“Did the doctor say what kind of tests they’re doing?”

“No. He just said it might help them find a treatment.”

He was quiet for a moment, then asked, “So you leave tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t the funeral tomorrow?”

“I don’t think we’ll still have it, to be honest. I mean, if people are afraid to come to the wake, no one’s going to risk going to a funeral. We can always have a memorial service . . . later.”

His gaze was intense, and my pulse quickened. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. After another moment, he said, “Well, I brought you this.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, then handed it to me.

It was a note declaring me Gaspereau-free. His signature sprawled across the bottom of the page.

I carefully refolded it and placed it in my purse. “Thank you.”

He nodded. “I should go. I have to take Maisie to my mom’s before I head back to the hospital.” His eyes lingered on my face.

“Of course.” I pushed down a twinge of disappointment. I wanted him to stay, to help me make sense of all this. But I was the one with a plane to catch.

He stood. “Time to go, Maisie.”

The little girl jumped off her seat. “Bye, Clare!” she said brightly.

“Bye, Maisie. I’m so glad I got to meet you.”

“Me too.”

Kenneth took his daughter’s hand. “It was good to see you, Clare. Have a good flight. And enjoy the coffee.”

“Thanks again,” I said. “Maybe . . . stay in touch?”

His eyes crinkled. “I’d like that.”

I watched him go, resisting the urge to call after him. Then I saw, in horror, that Sylvia was coming back toward me, a sparkling glint in her eye. “So who was
that
young man?” she asked, though he was probably ten years her senior.

“An old friend,” I said icily.

“Well, that’s nice. We need friends to support us in times like these.”

“Yes, we do,” I said. “Excuse me. I have to go to the bathroom.”

I took my time. When I returned, Pastor Steve and Sylvia had left and a few others had arrived.

“It was kind of them to come,” Rob said, reading the expression in my eyes.

“It was,” I admitted. We waited, mostly in silence, and made small talk with my parents’ friends. A few of them shared fond memories of Mom and Dad, but the talk inevitably turned to Gaspereau.

I stood in a circle with three ladies from my mom’s women’s group from church. After they gave condolences, one of them said, “I went to refill my prescription this morning, just in case they run out. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I heard that the army is going to completely quarantine the town,” another whispered.

“But what if we run out of food?” the third asked, looking anxious.

“I thought the governor said they would deliver food and supplies if you just called the hotline.”

One of the women snorted. “Who would do the delivering? I can’t imagine them sending Meals on Wheels to people’s homes. What if someone in the house was infected?”

“I’m sure it won’t get that bad,” I interjected. “The government knows what it’s doing. And they’re working hard to develop a treatment. Maybe it will all be over soon.”

The oldest of the ladies shook her head. “It’s a different world now, Clare. Some of us lived through the war. We know how to go without, how to make things stretch. My mother had to feed a family of six on half a dozen eggs and a pound of cheese a week. These days, everyone wants to get as much as they can for as little as they can. They want the government to give them everything.”

The other ladies nodded in agreement, then started comparing stories of how their own parents and grandparents had coped during World War II. I politely excused myself to greet some newcomers.

There were never more than five or six people in the room at a time, and no one stayed for long—it was hardly the wake my parents would have wanted, or deserved.

Between thanking people for their condolences and controlling my tongue in response to their ill-expressed platitudes, I thought of Wes and how he was doing, whether they’d had to keep him sedated, and what kind of information they might be able to gather from their tests. What if it didn’t work? What if they were hurting him? Was he scared? In pain?
Maybe it will be over soon. And Wes will be a hero
. If they really did find a cure, he’d have no choice but to forgive me.

Finally, the last visitors left, and Rob came over to me. I’d been staring through a small stained-glass window in the outer wall, seeing nothing. He pulled his mask down. “Well, kid, I think we’re done for the day.” I nodded. “When I talked to Pastor Steve earlier, he agreed that we should postpone the funeral until this is all over.” I nodded again. “Why don’t you come home with me, and I’ll order in some early dinner? Your flight doesn’t leave for a few hours, right?”