I'll See You In Your Dreams (24 page)

“Evidently you found her!” said Paul.

“Yes, indeed! She started up with a bit of skepticism, as is typical. Of course, the others became riveted by her bravery. I knew I had them. I simply validated Mrs. Miranda for her astute intelligence and pleaded for her to stand as leader of ‘Mothers of the Hearts Entire Revitalization and Sanity’ or MOTHERS.

“Of course, all her friends burst into applause, and I knew her ego would take over. After all, I’m a psychiatrist. I informed her of the need for vast sums of money to help these unfortunate creatures and that, as a volunteer, her rewards would be in heaven.”

“How is she raising such large amounts of money?” asked Paul.

“She attends a large church, which she has pulled onto the bandwagon. She also is speaking at local schools, touting the need and value of people studying psychiatry and preparing to purchase their household supply of heroin as soon as it becomes available.

“When will our shipment arrive?” Ludwig asked.

“Any day now,” Paul responded with enthusiasm.

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The doorbell rang. Paul leaned forward and looked out the window. A boy of about twelve was leaning his bicycle on the fence in front of Paul’s house. Paul realized the bell was his announcement that he had a telegram from Western Union for this address. The kid disappeared from view as he stepped under the porch roof to knock on the front door.

Paul bounded down the stairs and opened the door. A freckle-faced kid with red hair and protruding ears announced crisply, “Western Union telegram.”

Paul took the telegram, paid the delivery boy, and begrudgingly tipped him ten cents. He wouldn’t have tipped at all, but didn’t want to give this cretin something to gossip about. He closed the door and bounded back up to his room.

Ludwig turned as Paul came back in. “Who is it from?”

Paul unfolded the telegram. He read a moment. “Oh my god, we’re screwed.” The blood drained from his face.

“What are you talking about?”

Ludwig suddenly was on his feet. Paul handed him the telegram. Ludwig read it.

“We must eliminate the source of this investigation,” Ludwig said without emotion, but with conviction.

“We must have him killed as he arrives in Los Angeles, before he has a chance to spread whatever lies he has acquired.”

Paul seemed dazed. “Killed, who, how?”

“We have five days to arrange it. I’ll leave for Los Angeles tomorrow morning. I will see to the details. You call off the Pinkertons. In five days Sam and Colton will meet a tragic fate at the hands of robbers. Our dynasty will prevail!”

Ludwig stood and retrieved the daily Republican from his bed. “Besides, who would believe a negro? Did you see this article?” 

Paul took the newspaper and began to read the article that Ludwig was tapping with his finger.

“We, the psychiatrists, are the ultimate eminence grise, the power behind the throne. Remember, this is indisputable science from the American Journal of Psychiatry and it goes to all doctors and authorities everywhere:”

The Negro Problem from the Physician's Point of View: The Negro brain is a thousand years behind that of the white man's brain in its evolutionary data. Genital Peculiarities of the Negro, stallion-like passion and entire willingness to run any risk and brave any peril for the gratification of his frenetic lust, making the Negro a menace to the Caucasian race. A classical education for a Negro whose proper vocation is the raising of rice or cotton is as much out of place as a piano in a Hottentot's tent. Morality was a joke among Negro society. They are just as devoid of ethical sentiment or consciousness as the fly and the maggot. Benjamin Rush, father of American psychiatry has coined the word anarchia to describe a mental illness suffered by some Negroes that caused them to think that they should also vote, which is a delusion and threat to white property owners. Rush elaborated on effective solutions to such form of madness. Terror, he noted was especially powerful in affecting a cure, the Negro suffered from a congenital leprosy, now labeled Negritude, which, appeared in so mild a form that excess pigmentation was its only symptom.
Drapetomania, an irrestrainable propensity to run away was another form of insanity suffered by the negro and was most effectively cured by cutting off the toes. Famous European psychiatrist Carl Jung, explained that, Living together with barbaric [lower] races [especially with Negroes] exerts a suggestive effect on the laboriously tamed instinct of the white race and tends to pull it down.

“The public believes what they read in the newspaper, Paul, and belief is in the mind. We, the psychiatrists, will one day control what everyone believes. We are the authorities,” Ludwig said smugly.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“Hello moto, hello moto, hello moto,” rang Charlie’s cell phone as he started to slip into consciousness. He opened one eye just as the annoying greeting from Motorola stopped. The company that manufactured his cell phone had his ring set to the mini advertisement. It could easily be changed, but Charlie had been too depressed of late to even care. Sleeping ten to twelve hours a night, he preferred his dreams to reality. His failure to solve the dilemma of Anne had left him empty. All purpose seemed to have dissolved from his life.

Stanley had left for Oxford to some advanced physics courses, so Charlie was left alone to stumble through each day waiting for night and his dreams. He hoped for Anne each night, but she didn’t come. He swung his feet to the floor and sat a moment with his head in his hands. He began to rub his eyes and finally sat upright. He picked up his cell and looked at the new message reminder. He hit his mailbox and soon was listening to John Delmonico IV, who was his other best friend from school.

Stanley was such a book worm and study kind of guy that Charlie hung out at John’s house quite a lot. They had a lot in common, the love of girls.

It was awkward, however, as John’s sister, Casey, was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. He had a mad crush on her, but that age old code of staying away from your best friend’s sister haunted him and any desires he harbored.

Casey was a fair-haired blonde beauty and had the most perfect skin he had ever seen. She had soft blue eyes and perfect teeth which flashed smiles that took his breath away. The Delmonico’s ancestry sprang from Switzerland, and Casey got the best of all traits. Every guy through school and college wanted her in every way want can be defined. She was way above Charlie’s league, he thought, thanks to another of society’s caste systems. She was destined to become a rich man’s wife.

He did, however, get to spend more time with her than any other guy due of course to John being his best friend. He remembered the many nights he sat on the sofa at the Delmonico’s, watching TV, when Casey would come into the room in her pajamas and plop down next to him. He seemed to develop Casey asthma as he was often short of breath when she was so near. Sometimes during scary movies she would snuggle so close he feared for his heart. He was sure a heart attack was no more painful than realizing her love for him was like a sister loves a brother. A heart attack would be a sharp sudden pain versus this dull lingering ache. He loved her desperately. It was like that with Anne. The two loves of his life he couldn’t have.

Suddenly, he was torn from his thought as the message played. “Coma”…”Help!” Charlie blinked rapidly as parts of the message sunk in. He was torn from apathy to fear to intense interest and back to fear. He hit the replay button as every molecule of his attention riveted to the present moment.

“Charlie, it’s an emergency! Call me. My family has been in an automobile accident. Casey is in a coma. I need your help. Casey needs your help. Call please.” Charlie couldn’t dial fast enough.

“Charlie! Thank God you called.”

“I’m here for you, John. What happened?”

“Oh my god, man, it’s unbelievable.”

John began to sob. Charlie didn’t interrupt, but let his friend unload the pent up grief. Through sobs and tears John struggled to clearly relay what happened.

“My mom and dad and Casey were exiting the freeway at Herndon when some lunatic ran a red light at ninety miles per hour. He broadsided them.”

John continued to speak through his tears. “Dad was killed instantly, and mom was air lifted to Stanford. She is in critical condition and is asking for me. I need you to stay by Casey’s side while I fly to the Bay Area to be with my mom.”

“I’ll do anything, John; I mean anything, to help. Where is Casey?”

“She’s at Community Hospital. I’ll call and clear you as family. Thanks, Charlie.”

“No thanks needed. I’m so sorry John.”

In less than an hour Charlie was at the hospital talking to Casey’s doctor. Her doctor was in his late fifties, with well-groomed white hair that was thinning on the top. He was calm, reassuring, and exuded confidence.

“I’m glad you’re here, Charlie. God knows John needs you as do I.”

“I’ll do anything and everything I can to help, just tell me what I can do.”

“Well, Charlie, Casey has received a nasty blow to the top of her head in the region of the frontal lobe.”

“The frontal lobe?” Charlie asked.

“Basically the front part of the brain. The brain consists of three parts, the cerebrum, the cerebellum, and the medulla oblongata. Of course four lobes, the frontal lobe, parietal lobe, temporal lobe, and the occipital lobe. It’s important to realize that this categorization doesn’t actually arise from the structure of the cortex itself. The lobes are named after the bones of the skull that overlie them. Depending on the level and location of the trauma determines the disabilities that may appear.”

The doctor caught himself. He realized Charlie didn’t need to know this to help, so he continued on a more practical basis.

“Casey was in the back seat and was thrown into the metal structure that separates the front door from the back. Her seat belt stopped her, but caused her forehead to hit this structure. The frontal lobe is just behind the forehead, and it’s the part of the brain that’s associated with memory, especially long-term. Her injury is caused by not only the blunt trauma which fractured her frontal bone, but by the brain being caused to bounce back and forth in the skull from the force of impact. The ensuing swelling is another factor we’re currently treating with drugs and icing.”

“How can I possibly be of help?” asked Charlie.

“I spent several years at The Rancho Los Amigos, which is a national rehabilitation center for those with brain injuries. There’s one thing I have come to appreciate the truth of, and that is that the heart, love, connection, are integral to survival in these cases.”

“How do I fit in to that?”

“You talk to her; you grasp her hands and ask her to feel them, then her arms, her shoulders, her knees, her feet. You put your hands on her head, you gently touch her face, all the while talking to her as though she was awake. Just assume that she hears you. After a few minutes of body contact, which will reorientate her to her body, sit beside her and hold her hand. Tell her to squeeze your hand, once for yes, twice for no. Talk to her and occasionally ask her a question. Be alert for even the slightest squeeze.”

Charlie’s breath caught in his throat.

“Be prepared for potential memory problems at first, when she awakens, God willing, as the frontal lobes are the seat of such memories. Bring her back from that other world of dreams, Charlie. She only sleeps.”

“I will give it all that I have for as long as it takes!” A single tear rolled down Charlie’s cheek.

Charlie stood by the hospital bed that his first love, Casey, now lay in. Even with the various tubes attached to her, she was so beautiful. The repose that held her seemed only to enhance her. She seemed to be ‘Sleeping Beauty’ in an almost dreamlike reality that Charlie now found himself in. He wished he were a prince.

He sometimes doubted his own sanity when recalling his encounter with Anne. It all seemed too impossible. Now he stood here gazing at his first true love, and he felt he had to be dreaming.

He gently took her hand in his. It seemed so small, almost childlike. A sob escaped him. He quickly recovered. He had to maintain control in a positive manner. Her hand was warm, and Charlie brought over his other hand to cover it. He held her hand between his and struggled to keep his breathing and heartbeat normal.

“Hello, Casey.” His voice quivered. He took a deep breath and continued. “It’s me, Charlie. I hope you don’t mind me holding your hand. I just want to help you wake up. Uh, if you don’t mind I will talk to you and ask you questions now and again. If you want to say yes, just squeeze my hand once. If you want to say no, squeeze it twice. Do you understand?” All of Charlie’s attention riveted on her hand to discern any slight squeeze. Nothing.

“Well, good,” Charlie acknowledged as though she had answered yes.

“I guess I’ll start with Stanley. He is back at Oxford, getting a boring refill. Quantum updates or some such. You know Stanley.

“Do you remember when we first met? Stanley and I came over to your house when you and your family were moving in. Stanley and I saw Johnny and knew he was about our age. We were glad Johnny didn’t seem like the jock type, thank God. He was one of us, I hate to say geeks, because we don’t fit with geeks either. I’d say
multidimensional, polymath, or even my favorite, Renaissance
man.