Dr. Wilkes is at my window and
has something to say.
A. Keep the doors locked.
B. Crack open the window.
C. Unlock the doors.
* * *
But before I realized it, my assistant turned the corner of shelves, snatched the dead rabbit from my hands and plopped it heavily on the table beside the needle. I jumped back, startled.
She said, “I’d like to give you the number of a good psychiatrist, but I’m afraid I don’t know any. In the meantime, I’m sending you on an early lunch before you traumatize our impressionable, redheaded intern.”
I had no excuse for my behavior, so I laughed pitiably. Luckily, she put her hand on my shoulder, catching me before the tears came, and said sympathetically, “Go on, Derrick.”
I nodded obediently and left.
* * *
The day proceeded and finished without further embarrassment. I lingered in the Draize Lab, until Jan and Dr. Weaver had gone for the day. Outside the front door, I spotted Dr. Wilkes in the first place I’d seen him that morning, the front seat of his car. I approached the driver’s side and, after pausing to appreciate the sad irony that brought me there, I tapped my knuckles against his window. Facing forward, Dr. Wilkes couldn’t conceal a broad, victorious smile. It was enough to prompt another attack, but I feared a second one would come with severe consequences. He unlocked the door without looking at me and I circled to the passenger’s side.
As I eased into the fake-leather, I felt that the seat was too upright and my legs were pressed against the glove compartment. I looked from side-to-side for the appropriate lever, but I couldn’t immediately find it and gave up.
Wilkes asked smugly, “Comfortable?”
“Not really.”
He grinned and turned on the engine. A control panel on his door lit up, and he pressed a pair of buttons to give me legroom and put me in a better posture.
Dr. Wilkes asked, “Where are we headed, Dr. Bowman?”
“You invited me and didn’t think of a place?”
“Well, I’d hate for you to feel set up, or threatened.”
I thought of The Fix, but I wanted to hide the place from Dr. Wilkes, and Gerry would certainly want to talk to me, which was impossible at the moment. Annoyed, I said, “Anywhere. Coffee. The Coffee Company down the street is fine.”
As we backed up, he said, “That sounds good to me. How was the day at work then?”
I answered with a malicious and deafening silence.
He recovered quickly, saying, “I’m sorry for that. It’s not my intention to agitate you further. Do you have any questions for me upfront?”
Sincerely, I asked him, “What is a rape rack?”
Dr. Wilkes couldn’t help laughing. Looking over in awe, he said, “What’s a rape rack? And with Valentine’s Day just around the corner. This will be excellent material for a card.” He chuckled a little more and added, “Sorry, you caught me by surprise. I’ll tell you, really, but it isn’t a good starting point. Let’s just save it for the café, shall we? Rape rack. I suppose we’ll have to keep our voices low, too.”
I grumbled and turned away from him, not speaking again until we’d parked.
Once we’d parked, he grabbed the manila envelope concealed beneath his seat and opened the door. I followed him out of the car, and he punched the lock and alarm buttons on his keychain. We ordered and were soon sitting across from one other at a knee-height table, each with his coffee mug. I tried to relax into my recliner, but I failed to find a comfortable position.
Not waiting, he passed the envelope to me and said, “There’s something besides the photo inside. I meant to show this to you before work, but unfortunately we were distracted. Take as much time as you need with it. Pretend I’m not here.”
I pried open the envelope with my fingers and found it contained a tri-folded piece of yellow, notebook paper. The paper was stiff from age, crunching as I opened it. Within a few words, a scattering of memories returned, images and experiences that had been long repressed or suffocated. Through bleary eyes and trembling hands, I read and reread the suicide note I’d written almost thirty years prior.
Refolding the stiff paper, I cleared my throat and looked up at the doctor. I asked, “May I keep this?”
“Of course, you can. It’s yours.”
I gave the note an extra crease and put it in my coat pocket.
He continued, “You really don’t remember it do you? Tell me how you came to leave the Pit of Despair experiment.”
“I got fed up with the project, went to Dr. Harlow and resigned immediately.”
“And spent the next year traveling, right?” He shook his head, not waiting for my response. “I hoped I could jog your memory and prime you for this talk, but I guess we’ll just have to take our time. That isn’t prettiest thing ever written, but those notes are often hastily done and whiny, as if nobody else on this planet suffers. Yours wasn’t too whiny, I’ll grant you that. If it’s any consolation, I can understand why you did it?”
“Did what?”
“It still isn’t clicking? You have no memory of injecting your yourself with a full bottle of Euthatome?”
A flash of heat rose to my forehead, but I couldn’t answer.
“Well, on the fateful day, a young doctor named Reed found you lying on your back between the monkeys’ vertical chambers. You had an emptied syringe dangling from your forearm, a stream of blood oozing from the vein and an empty bottle rolling at your feet. He called an ambulance, before running for Dr. Harlow and bringing him to you. Harlow probably would have preferred it the other way around, ambulance after, but he still had a few minutes to look you over, gauge your expression and snatch the note from your pocket.
You died that day, you know? Your heart gave out, and it was a minute and a half before they brought you back. It must be painful to forget your own death, and I sympathize. It would be a horrible thing to sleep through.
Well, you still spent a further three days in critical and the others working on the Pit of Despair gave up on you. They accepted it and stopped checking. But as it turned out, you didn’t die at all. In fact, you completely turned around one day and checked out of the hospital a few days later. Straight away, you left Wisconsin, packed your things and went abroad, until everyone in the world had forgotten you.”
I insisted, “I would remember the hospital.”
“You see? That’s what I would have thought. However, I also consider what you were doing abroad, why you went and what kind of stories you’d be telling people about your former life. My guess is you told people you quit the project, but failed to mention the suicide attempt, until the lie became reality. In any case, I think the reason you left to begin with was to erase it from your memory.”
Sweat was cascading down my forehead and stinging my eye. It took three napkins to absorb the perspiration, and it kept flowing.
Wilkes said, “It’s all coming together, isn’t it? I don’t envy the night you’re going to have. Let’s get out of here. I really need your focus and I can tell I’m losing it.”
“One second.” I asked, “I’m sure you weren’t in the Pit of Despair. How do you know all of this?”
As he stood, Wilkes answered smiling, “I was your replacement.”
* * *
Dr. Wilkes drove me back to the institute and left me beside my car, saying that we’d go somewhere more interesting the next day to continue our talk. Despite the buzzing in my head and the hollowness within, I made it home.