She ran. Until she could recall no further, she was racing something. In the olden days, she skittered about, chasing butterflies, she sprinted around her puppies and loped playing hide and seek. As years folded and roles shifted, running had become the sole art she mastered. Running away, running after things, running to people, running from her demons. It made no difference, for she rolled from one pit of darkness into another.
The dog days are over
The dog days are done
The horses are coming
So you better run
The tunes blasted in her ears unheard. Elaine focused her sheer might, while she lapped Highland Park for the eighth time, on one thing: not stopping. Her face flushed as her body radiated heat, and she could taste the saltiness while sweat trickled down her lips. Her knees almost buckled as she paused for a sip of water. Two more laps, she puffed. She couldn't rest before hitting her daily target, ten kilometres. Two minutes behind her average pace, and for the first time in months, she considered succumbing. Something felt wrong since she woke up. Wait, you couldn't wake up if you didn't sleep to begin with.
Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father
Run for your children, for your sisters and brothers
Leave all your love and your longing behind
You can't carry it with you if you want to survive
Elaine had lain in her bed wide-awake all night. She hadn't realized it was dawn until her windows gleamed in a golden hue; her cue to rise. Why hadn't the alarm rung? Perhaps it did. Maybe when she was too busy taming her wayward thoughts, or when she tucked herself underneath the blanket while having her first panic attack in a year. She had tossed and turned, attempting to trace the mystifying apprehension that had gripped her heart. Is it Gary? No, I've always worried about him anyway. Hall, with his mysterious John Doe? Meh. She could swear the man meant another Elaine Wright. She had looked her name up and found tens on Facebook. So what is it?
What is wrong with me?
"Are you blind!" someone yelled, sending her back to reality. A tire screeched, and then a horn blared in a craze. She found herself past the park fence, right in the middle of the street. Not only had her mind gone astray.
"Moron!" she mumbled, more at herself than to the man who almost ran her over. She retreated to her track around the park fence, too dumbfounded to go on, heck she felt so messed up on so many physical and mental levels. Nine kilometres, her running app announced, average pace eight minutes and thirty-two seconds. She was falling far behind her average. Let's call it a run.
She arrived early. The National Institute of Mental Health was a ten-minute walk, standing tall against the buildings of Highland University. In med-school days, she looked up to the place, dazzled and longing. Now there she was, cursing every morning, and picturing herself flinging her resignation in Hall's Face. Gary would be so proud.
The lounge was deserted except for a very tall stranger who stood near the microwave fiddling with wires. Finally, an electrician. She cleared her throat, and walked to the kitchenette where the kettle lay forgotten. "Is it working now?" she asked, already filling it with water.
"Everything's working just fine, I'm already leaving."
"Thanks. You're a life saver," she almost sang, but the man had already vanished. Good thing maintenance people carried copies of the lounge key; Snott was plopped on the lower bunk snoring, unaware his shift had ended, and Paul was nowhere to be seen, probably at Grease fetching breakfast. Let's make some tea. Her phone beeped and a reminder popped up.
Call Gary.
To her amusement, she had found a saucepan in her fridge, its lid cocked to one side. Honey Mustard Chicken Thighs, Gary had mentioned it casually over the phone before he took his flight. For five years, he had never ceased to impress her. Heat and eat! He had plastered a note on the lid where he penned the letters in funny handwriting with a smiley face at the end.
Elaine had smiled, her anxiety eased a bit. Gary's sacred mission had been feeding her; before he joined the army, he made sandwiches and baked her pastries. Things her mother would have never done. She dialled his number, but it was out of service, as usual. Of all the places in Florida, he served underground. "Dude!" she texted, "I didn't expect you to actually cook anything!"
It was refreshing having someone care.
"There you are!" exclaimed Snott, rubbing an eye and blowing his nose.
"Hey," she greeted, teasingly sipping her tea. "They've fixed what you ruined."
"I just need to know why on earth Nancy and I would have twelve patients while your majesty only gets eight! Paul is a senior and he got nine!" he blurted.
"Er, yes. Hall did that."
"Oh my God, are you cheating on your husband with Hall?" he cried. Elaine laughed so hard, almost chocking on her tea.
"Nope. He's using me to do some dirty work." She sighed; wondering what would've happened if she had a Japanese name.
"And by dirty work you don't happen to mean anything in the context of cheating on your husband?" he raised his eyebrows. Miller Scott, also known as Snott, was your typical nerd. Big glasses, braces, freckles, curly reddish hair, skinny built, zero social intelligence despite the high IQ, and chronic nasal allergy. Nancy was the one who came up with Snott for a nickname. "It's perfect!" she had declared.
"Shut up," Elaine replied. She would rather die than cheat on Gary.
"And what holy mission did our glorious lord bestow upon you?" Snott insisted.
"Some secret quest, if you must know," she teased. Hall had actually asked —alas, Hall never asked— he had forbade her to disclose any details about her interviews with the John Doe, she wasn't even allowed to write follow up notes in his file. "Medico-legal considerations," he had explained, though she reckoned he didn't want more people knowing he had asked for her help.
Okay, Mister John, let's see what you're all about.
The man looked just like the photo, except he was more miserable. It took no longer than a glance to see it, and she wondered how much antipsychotics they put into his system, Hall hadn't attached the medication sheet in his file. She sat across her desk in the interviewing room, which looked no different from any ordinary interviewing room, except for the padded walls and the desk made of some material close to plastic. Most forensic patients were homicidal, hence the precautions.
"Beware, he goes into bouts of excitement," said the nurse, just as he walked the man into the room and seated him before her. "He's chemically-jacketed, but make sure you have your panic button just in case."
Elaine's hand automatically shifted to her neck where she had chained her button. Throughout the six months of her residency, she had used it only once. The nurse closed the door, and Elaine found herself searching for a proper way to begin.
"Hello," she said. "My name is Doctor Wright, Elaine Wright." She waited. Nothing. He stared at her, his face void of any expression. "Mr. John, if you allow me to call you so, I have heard that you mentioned my name." The man froze like a statue, unblinking.
A minute passed.
Two minutes passed.
"Is there anything I can help you with?" If he was testing her patience, she had already ran out of it. "Mr. John," she pressed on, "did you actually burn the mayor's house?" Again, the man hadn't flinched, which prompted Elaine to get up and examine him.
"If you don't mind," she started. She held his arm, and after a brief pause, flexed it. He resisted, and when she let go, his arm stopped mid-air, maintaining the same posture. Bloody hell, you're so catatonic. How could Hall claim he wasn't?
"Listen, sir, I'm here to help you," she said in the deepest earnestness she could muster and, in a final attempt, held his gaze. Nothing.
"What's your name?" she asked, returning to her seat. Her hands reached to the bell fastened to the desk to summon the nurse. Bloody waste of time! First, she wasn't sure if she heard anything, but it was clear when the nurse came. The man had whispered something.
"What did you say?" she urged.
"He said what's your name," said the nurse. Elaine sprung to her feet.
"Mr. John, say that again?" she came closer. "Say it ag—"
In his rounds, Hall had repeated over and over that psychiatric patients exhibiting inexplicable behaviours had a rationale we didn't know. Elaine would have to disagree, because nothing on earth could explain what made a homicidal stranger snap out of his freeze just to hug her.
In her night shift, hunching over her laptop and googling "mayor house fire", Elaine couldn't stop rewinding the incident. It wasn't the hug, but rather the unease welling inside her, why was she so concerned? She closed her eyes, and then a bolt of recognition flashed in her head, just at the same moment her phone beeped. It was Gary, texting her back.
Cook what? I cooked nothing!