A Question of Crazy
by C.D. Campbell
In the gray blue dimness of an unfamiliar room, Evelyn Santos suddenly became aware. She had woken from a cavernous sleep, to find herself tied down to a crisp white hospital bed by a plastic I.V. cord and various other electrodes monitoring her pulse and breathing and brain activity. Clumsily she ripped the sensors from her drying skin. Immediately the alarms sounded her death, the green, mountainous lines falling abruptly straight and rigid on the discerning monitor. Though groggy she was possessed by a singular thought which consuming her body, filled her with an inexplicable energy. She managed to get out of the bed, but swayed as she fought for her feet to find firm ground. Her son would be so frightened. He must never know. She must get home. At the perimeter of the room a vast rupture of golden light forced itself into the darkness. All at once nurses and the on-call doctor crowded around her, filling the space, suffocating her as they sucked up the oxygen from the room. They swirled around her in a sort of frenzied tribal dance, grabbing and pulling. They were all talking to her simultaneously, and to one another. It seemed they were asking her something, but she could not discern the question through the clatter. Too many people. Too fast. She heard the bullet fire from the gun, the dangerous clap of the trigger, the scrape and shriek of metal against metal. She saw it leave the chamber and crackle through the air as it sailed with sick efficiency across the room toward her- and then there was nothing. �It�s all a dream,� she thought. �Just wake up and get out of bed,� she told herself. The task of waking was more difficult than the thinking of it and she struggled against the descending fog that seemed to be encapsulating her body. �Move,� she commanded her hand and eventually she felt her fingertips scratching at the sheets. Soon she found she could raise her arm and shortly thereafter, her eyelids fluttered, miniscule gasps of tints and daylight sifting through, until at last she could see the ceiling above her. �Good morning, Officer Santos,� came a voice from her left. Her head turned to see a man sitting beside her bed. Instinctively she assessed him, reading his position in life through his clothing. Black dress pants, an indistinctly colored sweater, a dark wool overcoat; obviously a teacher, possibly a professor. She took in his physical attributes as well, memorizing his unyielding Celtic features, dark hair, and stormy, troubled eyes, at once green and blue, as though he were a perp. Stern but approachable, she decided. �Trustworthy?� she asked herself. �I don�t mean to bother you, but I�d like to ask you some questions,� he said leaning forward. �When you feel up to it,� he added, it seemed to her, as an afterthought. �Take my card and call when you�re ready.� Her hand reached out almost against her will. The card was thick between her fingers and grainy. The letters on the dimpled white paper were black and apparently misspelled, or at least not in English. Her eyes tried to focus but were unable to read the words. She turned instead to her visitor. He had risen from his seat, prepared to take his leave. Behind him Evelyn noticed an indistinct yellow glow and within it, a deep shadow of indeterminate shape. Sensing that Evelyn was looking beyond him, the visitor turned his head in the direction of her gaze, his brows creasing. She knew from his curious, concerned scowl that he had not perceived the spectral vision. Involuntarily, her body shuddered. �When you�re ready,� he repeated from the doorway. ����������������� The park had felt like a safe place when she�d made the call to set up the meeting, but now she was unsure. The grassy expanse with laughing children and fitness minded outdoors types seemed suddenly too accessible. Anything could come upon her here. She should have remembered her training, but her past was slipping away from her. As it was, living in the present had become a daily battle. Since returning home nightmares and flashes of memories she could not piece together had plagued her. The precinct�s resident counselor while sympathetic had been skeptical and unable to help Evelyn ease her burgeoning fears, had in fact, recommended a leave of absence; and so Officer Santos� thoughts had returned to the man from the hospital. Something about his gruff British dialogue stuck in her mind, much like the bullet now eternally lodged in her brain. Unconsciously she raised her hand to her head and rubbed the scar hidden beneath her mass of black curls. �Evelyn.� �Mr. Keel,� she responded, rising and shaking his hand. �Please, sit down; or would you rather walk?� he asked, poorly stifled enthusiasm accelerating the rate of his speech. �Not to be rude, but what can you do for me exactly, Mr. Keel? At the hospital you said you had questions. What kind of questions?� �Questions to help us both. I�d like to help you, Evelyn. Help you to remember what it is your subconscious is trying to shield you from; and perhaps I can even help you accept and understand the reason you�re still here. You�re glad you�re alive, but you�re confused as to the reason why you, over all the victims you�ve seen throughout your life, were spared. I can help you come to terms with that and in return, you tell me what happened after you were shot.� She didn�t like that he seemed so sure of himself, so sure of her thoughts. The fact that he was right unnerved her. �After I was shot I woke up in a hospital bed. You were there,� she answered crisply. Keel gnawed on his bottom lip for a moment. �You don�t think there was something in between?� he asked at last. �I�I don�t know. Maybe.� �You remember something?� Evelyn felt uncomfortable under Keel�s penetrating gaze. She wasn�t exactly sure why she was still talking to him. He was smart, sure, but what could he possibly know about what had been happening to her? Who was he really? �What are you afraid of? Would it help if you considered our talk as confession?� She laughed at the thought. She hadn�t been to confession since high school at least. There were too many bad things in the world and she�d seen more than her share. For her the church had lost it�s comforting ability. �Yeah right, because you�re a priest.� �Once upon a time.� �You�re kidding.� �Nope,� wryly he shook his head, a rakish smile flitting across his face. �Look Evelyn I know it�s difficult, but�� �Difficult? Difficult is a going after the bad guys everyday. Difficult is raising a kid alone. What�s been happening to me is�I don�t even know.� �Frightening.� Evelyn nodded. Keel began to pace back and forth in front of the park bench. Evelyn could see he was agitated, but not alarmingly so. He was thinking. �Always thinking,� she said to herself. At last he simply sat down on the bench. �You�re going to need a new job you know. They think you�re crazy, that the bullet rattled your brains.� �And you just happen to have a position available, I suppose?� He shrugged. �As it happens, I do. The pay is horrible, the hours negotiable. There�ll be loads of questions, fewer answers, some peculiar situations, but I won�t treat you as if you�re a walking incongruity. �And eventually you�ll get me to talk about what happened.� �Maybe.� Sighing, Evelyn sat down beside Keel on the bench. Everything he said was tinged with a truth she had been unwilling to accept. There were questions and discomfort and problems she had not foreseen when she�d been released from the hospital. It was no wonder her co-workers had seemed to be walking on eggshells whenever she came near. Sometimes she wondered herself is she�d lost it. �You�re not crazy,� Keel said softly. �Let�s find out,� she replied.
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