Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [121]
He had the odd sensation that something was sitting on his chest. A large animal—a bear, perhaps. Yes, that was it—a bear was sitting on his chest. He wanted to ask the bear to move, and moved his lips to form the words, but he couldn’t make any sound come out.
Bits of conversation drifted down the hall: “…excellent dental plan…she’s a nice girl…you want something from the cafeteria?”
Some pieces of conversation didn’t make much sense. “…number of Jews in Madison, Wisconsin.” He tried to figure out why someone would be talking about the number of Jews in Wisconsin.
He focused on the bear again. It was just sitting there, draped over him, its paws on his shoulders. He didn’t mind it being there, except that it was so heavy. He wanted to say something to the bear, but he couldn’t move his mouth or even open his eyes. He could smell its fur—a damp, musty aroma like rotting logs and summer mushrooms—and he could feel its warm breath on his cheek. He felt the bear wished him well, that it was there to protect him in some way.
His own experience with bears was minimal. He had seen them in the wild only twice, once through a canopy of leaves too thick to make out anything other than a bulky, dark brown shape. The other time, the bear stared at him across a stream with eyes so wary and watchful that it was hard to resist anthropomorphizing the animal. He remembered feeling as though the creature was studying him with an almost human intelligence—that it was seeing into him—but he dismissed the thought as fanciful.
He tried to raise his arms to push the bear away, but he wasn’t able to move them. He fought to open his eyes, but the effort was enormous—something kept pulling him back down into unconsciousness. He finally managed to open his eyes a little bit, but all he could see was a large white blur. The blur moved, and he realized it was the bear. He was surprised that the bear was white…a polar bear, maybe? But what would one be doing so far south? He was puzzling over the question when the bear spoke.
“How are you feeling?”
The voice was deep and resonant, just what you might expect from a bear. It sounded British. Were there bears in England? He tried to concentrate, to focus his thoughts. He tried to answer, but all that came out was a hoarse croaking sound, like the scraping of metal over concrete.
He tried again. This time his voice responded: “I’m okay…thanks.” He wrenched himself away from the pull of sleep and opened his eyes. The bear came into focus, and to his surprise, it was wearing a white lab coat. A crooked blue and white plastic label on the lapel of the coat read: DR. PATEL.
“I’m glad you’re back with us,” said Dr. Patel.
Still confused, Lee looked around the room for the bear. Where had it gone?
Dr. Patel spoke again. “Mr. Campbell?”
“Yes?”
“Do you know where you are?”
Lee didn’t answer at first. He was busy sorting out this new information. So Dr. Patel was the bear after all. Or, rather, there was no bear; he had just thought there was—but why? The effect of drugs, maybe?
“What did you give me?” he asked, his voice groggy.
“I’ll be glad to review your chart with you later,” Dr. Patel replied. “Do you know where you are?”
Lee looked around the room, and was struck by its familiarity. The pasty yellow walls had ancient stains showing through successive coats of paint like old scuffs on hastily polished shoes, and the crookedly hung landscape prints were bland reproductions of obscure paintings.
He realized he was back in St. Vincent’s. What he didn’t know was whether it was the psych ward or not.
He squinted up at the doctor’s face. “St. Vincent’s.”
Dr. Patel’s face brightened.
“Good,” he said, like a teacher bestowing praise upon a promising student.