Remember Christina

REMEMBER CHRISTINA

            You don’t swallow the pill. They call it Risperdal, and you know it is their best

mind-control medication. They want you to swallow it; expect —no, demand— that you swallow it. If you refuse,they’ll force it into you intravenously. They can do this, they tell you. After all, your mother signed the consent, so there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.

            But, actually, there is. It just took you a while to learn the secret. At first, you fought. You punched staff, tried to run away, spit the pills into the nurse’s face. You spent most of your time in restraints, isolation, or both. You were a problem. And you were heading toward a different psychiatric facility—one with stricter rules, meaner staff, and tighter restraints.

            But you don’t want that. It won’t help you get back to her. So you learn the secret. Your roommate in the psych ward—a guy who never said his name and had a quivering lip—taught it to you. He became your Teacher, and told you what to do in four easy words: Be a good dog. The secret is if you do what you’re told, after a while they’ll let you go.

            And that’s what you want so desperately: To be let go. To go back to that house—that big brilliant house. And—Oh God—you want to see her again. Be with her again. Just the two of you without that evil asshole around. A time when he’s in Texas—or wherever—on business, and that house can belong to just you and Christina. And you can become one with her again.

            That’s what you want. And that’s why you suck up to the staff and to the therapists. You make eye contact with the psychiatrists and talk about last night’s Yankee-Red Sox game like you would actually give a shit about such a thing. Most importantly, you don’t talk about Christina, and you don’t talk about that house. When they say her name, you act like you don’t know her. When they bring up the asshole, you look down at the floor and make a statement that your Teacher taught you: “I’m sorry for what I did. I know it was wrong.”

            He’s the only one they keep asking you about. They call him your victim, and use the terms the court charged you with: Breaking and Entering, and Assault. All you did was push the door open and hit him with a baseball bat. They say you broke his collarbone, but you don’t think that’s true.

            So here you are taking your medication. You swallow the water, but the Risperdal is tucked under your tongue. This nurse is cute, kind of flirty, and you feel a vibe that in the real world she might be interested in you. You flirt back, just because you don’t want her to check under your tongue. But you don’t think she’ll look anyway. They checked your mouth every time at first, but now they seem to trust you.

            And this is exactly what your Teacher told you to do. Take the medication in the beginning. Most of the mind-control medications need time to build up in your system before they start working. So it’s okay to take the first few, and earn their trust. But then, before you’re brainwashed, stop.

                So you stroll away from the nurse’s station and spit the pill into a garbage can when no one’s looking. You walk down the hallway and look into the recreation room. You see your buddy, Leon, and he’s waving you on to play a game of ping-pong. You accept the challenge, but as you move toward the table, a staff member stops you.

            “Greenberg wants to see you.”

            Dr. Greenberg is your psychiatrist, the man in charge of your case—actually your entire life. Greenberg decides if you stay or go, and that will determine if you live or die. Because you know if you never see her again, you will die. You did everything your Teacher told you to do. Now, it’s time to learn your fate.

            Greenberg flashes his fake smile and tries to make you feel welcome in his office. 

“You’ve made remarkable progress.”

            “Thank you, Doctor Greenberg. I feel wonderful.” Your Teacher taught you the line, and you deliver it masterfully.

            “I see no reason to keep you here any longer. I think you’re ready to move on. Of course, we have to clear this with your case worker from the court, but I’m ready to say you can move to a less restrictive setting. With any luck your old group home didn’t fill your opening, and you can move back in there. Your old bedroom and everything, how does that sound?”

            Thank God for your Teacher. If he didn’t tell you the secret, you’d die an old man in this place. But soon, you’ll be free. You’ll be back at the group home, and then you’ll sneak away to be with her again. The thought of her rushes over you like an ocean wave, and you can feel her warmth around you.

            Greenberg clears his throat to get your attention, and you realize you must have slipped into a temporary trance. His glare consumes you and you worry for a moment; you’ve come too far to blow it now. You deliver the most normal smile you can.

            “Of course, I hope you realize you must continue on the same drug regime.”

            This means he wants you to keep taking the Risperdal (which, of course, you don’t really take). Your Teacher had you rehearse a line for this moment. “The drugs have helped me, and I couldn’t imagine living without them.”

            There is an awkward pause after you say this, but then Greenberg smiles and gives you a firm handshake. You realize then you’ll be leaving soon.

            “Good luck, son. I know you’ll do well.”

            “Thank you, Doctor.” If it wasn’t for Christina, you’d spit in his face, knee him in the balls, and do a tap dance on his forehead. But you’re almost free. You can taste her, smell her, and feel the electricity when she touches your skin.

            Greenberg holds true to his word, and the next day your old group home van is waiting outside the front door. You pick up your discharge paperwork, wave goodbye to a few friends, and you’re out of the psych ward.

            You’re amazed at how little the group home staff have changed. There are two staff you’ve never met, but as far as you can tell, they’re clones of the old staff. They’re big women with shellacked hair and long colorful fingernails. They talk incessantly about celebrity gossip and must watch every single television show that the major networks air.

            They don’t give a shit about you; you’re just a nameless guy in the back of the van. They only tell you to sit down, and then drive away. You hear that they are excited about a show that is on at nine o’clock tonight—Grey’s Anatomy, you think they said, although you’ve never heard of it. You know this might be your opportunity to escape.

            You walk into your old bedroom and immediately notice the window alarm they’ve installed. You snuck out last time through the window, so you assume they had to install it to satisfy the court’s case worker. You take a close look at it and almost laugh out loud. All you need is a screw driver—no, even a butter knife— and you can uninstall it in less than five minutes.

            You have to wait for Grey’s Anatomy to start at nine o’clock, so you put your things away and kill time. You play pool with another resident until he starts yelling loudly when you’re beating him. So you slip into the kitchen and look for something to eat.

            A big male staff shows up and immediately crashes in the recliner by the TV. Another Grey’s Anatomy fan, you presume. The girls make him a big roast beef sub, and offer you nothing, even though you’re trying to look hungry. But you watch where they put the meat and cheese, and make your own sandwich. Who knows when you’ll eat next, so you pig out.      

            When the show starts, you slip away with a butter knife and unscrew the plastic base off the alarm, easily disabling it. The staff are mesmerized by the show, and you know they won’t miss you for at least an hour. So the sooner you can leave, the better. There’s just one thing you need to do.

            You crawl on your belly across the living room like a soldier avoiding enemy fire. One of the female staff has left her pocket book on the floor next to the couch, and you can see the car keys hanging out of it. You don’t breathe, and slither as quietly as a snake. Then, you snatch them and make a quick retreat.

            When you reach your room, you realize the staff haven’t budged. You’re free. You waste no time, and dart out the window. You quickly figure out what vehicle matches the set of keys you have. It’s a shiny black Escalade with leopard-skin interior. A big improvement over the group home van.

            The engine roars louder than you like, but no one seems to notice. You’re on your way to the house. Your Christina. Your destiny. They tried like hell to make you forget her. The therapists told you lies about her, but they didn’t work. You know Christina is still waiting for you. She breathes for you, and you for her. Nothing will keep you apart.

            You don’t park the vehicle at the end of the cul-de-sac, but go up the driveway and turn off behind a boulder. You can’t see the house from here, but you know it’s a short walk. When you get closer you see lights flickering like there’s a hidden city behind the trees.  

            Soon you see the house pulsating with life, and you can feel her in there. She’s waiting. Waiting to be one again. He’ll try to stop you. But this time you won’t play around. This time may be your last chance.

            When you get close, you see something move by the window. You hide behind a bush, and wonder if it’s Christina. Maybe he’s not home. Maybe you can just walk inside. The thought of her warm body excites you, and you run toward the house.        

            You remember how the yard slopes up in the back, and know you can get a better view from there. So you run toward the backyard but smash into a group of garbage cans on the side of the garage. One of the metal cans smacks against the garage door, and sounds louder than a stick of dynamite.

            You scamper away like a scalded dog, and vanish into the darkness of the thicket behind the house. It doesn’t take long to realize that someone heard you. The flood light goes on, and the back door opens.

            There he is. The evil asshole that tries to keep you from her. He stomps around the deck like he’s a bad-ass. Like he really wants to find you. Then you see why. The gun in his hand looks like a semi-automatic. You know he didn’t have one before. You must have inspired him to purchase it.

            You can tell this is the first time he’s ever held a gun when he might have to really use it. His hands quiver and his eyes dart around nervously. After a moment, you realize he doesn’t see you. He lowers the gun and his breathing slows. When he turns toward the door, you know you have him.

            You bound across the lawn as quietly as a cat. He’s opening the back door when he hears the deck squeak. He turns and there you are holding a ceramic flower pot. He tries to raise the gun, but he has no chance.

            With one fluid, almost acrobatic, motion you glide across the deck and smash the pot into his forehead. It breaks and you barely escape a deep cut in your hand. But he’s not as lucky as you are. He’s bleeding badly from a huge gash in his forehead.

            It pleases you to see him motionless on the deck. After all, this is the devil. The man who keeps you from Christina. The man who keeps Christina from the world. He deserves to bleed, and you’re not sorry.

            You pick up his gun and eject the clip. You see it’s loaded and pop the clip back. You’re not a big gunman yourself, preferring a simple hunting knife, or even plain old fisticuffs. But, since it’s here, you take it.

            You walk into a kitchen and immediately hear footsteps. Your knees almost buckle with the hope that she’ll walk into the room. Your eyes lock on the doorway. You can almost see her. The steps get louder, and then…someone’s there. You’re ready to drop the gun and fall into her. To laugh and cry and hold her.

            But then you see the truth. It’s not Christina, but a middle-aged lady, looking annoyed. But when she sees you, her face changes, like she’s happy but also afraid.

            “Christopher? Is that you?”

            Now it’s your turn to look surprised. How the hell does this woman know your name? You point the gun in her direction and say, “Stop right there. Put your hands behind your head.”

            “Christopher, what are you doing? Where did you get that gun?”

            “Listen, Lady, put your hands behind your head.”

            “Lady? Did you just call me lady?”

            “No more questions. Put your hands behind your head.”

            She finally listens to you as you wave the gun around. It’s like your arm is no longer under your control; it wildly waves the gun in the air, convincing this woman you will shoot her at any moment.

            You breathe a sigh of relief when her fingers lock and rest against the back of her head. Now, you can resume your search for Christina. But when you step away, she sees the asshole on the deck. She immediately explodes into tears and her arms are back by her side. She moves toward the door, but you cut her off and push her back.

            “What did you do to him?” Her face is redder than you’ve ever seen on a person, and tears are not just falling but shooting out of her eyes. “Let me see my husband.”

            This rattles you, and you almost allow her to run past. But you grab her and drag her away from the door. “Let me see my husband,” she yells again. You pin her against the kitchen wall. You wish you knew who she was.

            “You’ve killed him,” she yells through a dramatic sob. You realize you have to calm her down and get back to looking for Christina.

            “Listen, lady, you need to calm down. He’s not dead. He’s just got a little bump on his head. So just let me see her.”

            She stops sobbing and looks at you, “See who?”

            “Christina. I want to see Christina.”

            Her mouth falls open, and the color disappears from her face like she’s suddenly a corpse. There is a long pause and you stare into her confused, terrified eyes. Finally, she speaks, “What do you mean, you want to see her?”

            “Is she here?”

            “Christopher…”

            “Is she here?”

            “Why are you talking like this?”

            You feel like this woman is hiding your Christina from you. She’s in the house, but this woman won’t let you see her. The anger wells up inside of you like boiling water in your veins. You grab her by the hair, and jam the gun in her mouth.

            “If you’re hiding her from me, I swear to God I’ll blow your brains out. Now tell me, is she here?” You let go of her and pull the gun away. She falls to the ground and sobs so hard it sounds like she’ll choke on her own saliva. You have to get her to focus. You kneel next to her and scream, “Is she here?”

            “Yes,” she screams back, and then sobs even harder. “She’s always here. Where else would she be?”

            You hear something on the deck. You look and see that the asshole is still flat on his back, but his legs are moving. You pull the woman to her feet, and jab the gun against her cheek. “Take me to her right now.”

            “Okay,” she answers, her sobbing now under control. “We have to go downstairs.”

            You follow her down the stairs and your heart is beating like a jackhammer. You’ve waited so long to see her. You’ve dreamt of her every night. You can see her perfect face in your dreams, smell her sweet breath, touch her soft skin. They tried to take her away from you, but you fought them. And now, finally, you’ve won. Now, Christina will be with you again.

            You reach the bottom of the stairs and your eyes devour the space in an instant. No Christina. Just a family room with a fireplace. You step angrily toward the woman. “Where is she?”

            “On the mantle over the fireplace.”

            Your head snaps in the direction of the fireplace. There’s no one there. You look back at the woman. “She’s not there.”

            “Yes, she is.”

            “Stop playing games with me!” you yell, and start waving the gun again. But now, she seems less afraid.

            “You’re the one that wanted to come down here and do this, Christopher. I was trying to tell you that it was a bad idea. It’s not good for you…not until you get better.”

            “She’s not here.”

            “Please just go look.”

            You hear a noise upstairs. It sounds like a door closing and footsteps. You have no time to waste. So you walk to the fireplace, and look closely at the mantle. There are pictures and a few other things. Why is she telling you Christina is here?

            You start to turn away, but something catches your eye. It’s one of the pictures. You take a closer look. It’s a picture of a yacht with the asshole and the woman standing on the deck. But it’s the name of the yacht that gets you. It says: Remember Christina.

            “Why is the boat called this?” you ask the woman.

            She approaches you slowly, now with compassion in her eyes. You hear more footsteps upstairs, like someone is running. “You’ve stopped taking your medications again, haven’t you?”

            You raise the gun toward her and yell, “Who are you?”

            “It’s okay, Christopher. Just put the gun down and I’ll help you remember.”

            “I remember Christina. And that’s why I’m here. To find her.”

            “It’s okay, Christopher. Put the gun down.”

            The woman is trying to brainwash you, like the doctors, and the hospital staff. But she can’t do it. Now that you’ve stopped taking the pills, no one can do it. You grab her and push her against the fireplace, the gun barrel between her eyes.

            “This is the last time I’m saying this. If you don’t tell me where Christina is, then you die right here.”

            She points to a metal canister with engravings on the side of it. The picture of the yacht leans against it. “Open it.”

            You let the woman go, and grab the canister. You open the top and look inside. Gray ash. Nothing but Gray ash. “What is this?”

            “Those are her remains.”

            “What?”

            “They’re Christina’s remains.”

            You jerk your body toward the woman to point the gun at her again, and this time you plan to shoot. But you knock the canister over and the ashes fall on you. On your chest. Your face. Your hair.

            “It’s okay,” the woman says. “We’ll clean it up. We’ll get all of her back in there.”

            “This is not her,” you yell, some of the ash now in your mouth. “This is not Christina.”

            “I know you’re confused. But when you start taking your meds again, you’ll remember. She was stillborn, Christopher. She was your twin. You lived and she died.”

            You freeze. The words pour over you like blood, seeping into every crevice of your body. You try to speak, but you can’t. You just look at the woman.

            “It’s been so hard on all of us. You, me, your father.”

            You raise the gun again. “That man upstairs is not my father. And you’re not my mother.”

            “I know that’s what you think right now. But you’re sick. You need your meds.”

            The only thing you can remember is Christina. And you remember her so vividly it’s like she’s standing in front of you now. Her wispy hair, her white teeth sparkling through her smile, her mischievous eyes, daring you to come closer. She’s a part of you, and you a part of her. The woman is lying. She must work for the doctors. They are all plotting to keep you away from Christina. But it won’t work. You’ll find her.

            You walk toward the woman with the gun raised and decide to kill her. After all, she just tried to kill you by erasing Christina from your mind. You take aim and touch the trigger. But before you shoot, footsteps louder than thunder come down the stairs. You look and a cop is there, pointing a gun at you.

            “Drop the gun!” His hands are shaking and he looks ready to shoot. You turn toward him and he yells again, “Drop the gun and get on the floor.” You’re not sure what to do, but realize you should to listen to him. He seems serious about shooting you. So you start to lower the gun, but then…something happens.

            Suddenly, she’s with you again. Christina. She’s here. You touch her and every drop of anger, and resentment, and loneliness, and fear spill out of your body. You feel right again. It’s been so long you forgot this feeling, but you know this is what you’ve been searching for. This is where you belong. Not trying to muddle through the world with its doctors, and pills, and people who will never understand you. You are home.

            But she pulls away, and you’re back with the ugliness of these people who say they’re your parents and this cop, who’s ready to blow you away or take you back to the hell of a hospital.

            But then, Christina is back with you, whispering in your ear. What she says makes perfect sense.

            You step toward the cop suddenly, and he starts to yell wildly, squeezing the gun so hard you can see the veins ready to pop out of his hands. You point the gun toward him, but you won’t shoot. Your finger is not even on the trigger.

            You make an angry face, and with the gun still aimed at him, you lunge in his direction. You hear three pops before you hit the ground. And then the blackness swallows you and steals you away. Just like Christina said it would.        

Copyright (c) 2007 by Dan Smith