Charlie sat back in his chair, uncrossed his legs, and tried his best to assume a more carefree, less concerned manner. He needed her perspective. The last thing he wanted was to scare her off with his own alarm.
“Understood. Well, lately I’ve been interested in learning more about my family genetics. I won’t trouble you with all the specifics, but suffice it to say, it’s extremely important to me.”
“All right,” Rachel said. “I’ll see what I can do. What do you want to know?”
“I’m wondering how you come to the diagnosis that you do. I mean, what are the symptoms that might make you think somebody needs treatment?”
“What treatment are you referring to, Charlie?”
Charlie looked at his shoes. They were polished to a mirror finish, the way he was accustomed to maintaining things—perfectly. “I’m referring to the diagnosis and treatment for schizophrenia,” he said. There was nothing liberating about asking the question. It embarrassed him to ask, and the flushness of his cheeks suggested Rachel knew that as well. He had contemplated avoiding the term altogether by asking if work pressures could cause someone to lose their memory or concoct elaborate fantasies, but he wasn’t ready to be specific with her.
Rachel stayed seated and made no gesture to end the conversation. From her pursed lips and narrowed eyes Charlie could sense she was being cautious with her word choice, a sign he interpreted as a willingness to walk a very thin line.
“I find it interesting that you’ve taken such a sudden interest,” Rachel said.
Charlie thought about that for a moment. “Are you implying something?”
“I know about you through your family, Charlie,” Rachel said. “You realize we encourage family to participate in a patient’s treatment. Studies have shown that strong support from immediate family has tremendous benefit for the patient.”
Charlie avoided her gaze. “No, I hadn’t realized that,” he said.
“You’ve never come around, even though Joe has invited you to several of his milestone events. So I’m just curious. Why the sudden interest?”
“I’ve had some experiences over the past few days,” Charlie said. “Let’s just say that they’ve heightened my curiosity.”
“Why don’t we do this?” Rachel said. “Tell me about those experiences. What it is that made you feel you needed to speak with me so urgently. We’ll put that story into context. I could run through a series of questions that a psychiatrist or someone in a position to form a diagnosis might ask. Take notes if you want. It’s more of an exercise, you see, not really a formal assessment. Think of it as a case study. Just an information session. Got it?”
Charlie nodded. He didn’t ask why but accepted that Rachel was willing to extend herself beyond the boundaries of what she knew was ethically and perhaps even legally correct. He decided, fighting back his initial hesitation, to open up to her. Charlie went through the events of the last several days, careful to mention details he hoped would convince Rachel, and even himself, that Anne Pedersen was real, that their meeting had taken place, and that he wasn’t the author of the PowerPoint discrediting his InVision product.
Rachel listened intently and gave no indication of her verdict. “Charlie, now I understand your reluctance to be honest about the situation.”
“You do?”
“Yes. But if I had known beforehand, I wouldn’t have agreed to meet with you.”
Charlie looked down. “I understand,” he said.
“But I do want to help.”
“Could it be related to work? The pressure I’m under, I mean.”
“I don’t know the answer to that. You would need to be properly evaluated.”
“Listen, I don’t think I’m crazy. I really don’t. I mean, what if I’m being framed? Set up by someone jealous of my success?”
Rachel pursed her lips. “Charlie, suspecting that people may be planning to hurt you is actually a symptom of schizophrenia.”
Charlie laughed. “Now that’s a catch-twenty-two. Somebody may be messing with me to make me think I’m going insane, but to suspect that means I’m insane?”
“It’s not that simple, but I agree, it complicates matters,” Rachel said. She stood up, moving away from behind her desk so that she was now closest to the door.
Charlie shrank at the implication. Perhaps, he thought, she feels threatened. Since they were together alone in her small office, she must have sensed danger.
Maybe she’s smart to be afraid.
Chapter 9
Monte pressed his cold nose against the stubble of Charlie’s cheek and licked at his face. The affection was enough to wake Charlie from a night of disjoined dreams and fitful sleep. Sun splashed through the large bay windows in Charlie’s bedroom. The warm light, normally welcomed, was a painful reminder that on any other Thursday he’d be at work at this hour. Charlie ran his fingers through his short hair and then gave Monte some requested attention. The dog walkers would be here around noon. Charlie wasn’t certain if it was close to that hour or not.
The calluses on his fingertips were raw and peeling from his marathon practice session, which had lasted well past midnight. He rarely played his prized Gibson ES-175, preferring to treat it more like a showpiece than an instrument. It had been outdoors only for transport from the music store to his apartment in California and briefly again for the move to Boston. It would be the guitar he’d use if he could ever get loose enough to feel inspired to play a live gig. Last night he’d uncorked the Gibson, expecting from it some magic, but ultimately he’d been disappointed at his perpetual inability to improvise. At least for now, the Gibson would stay indoors.
Dressed in a white T-shirt and a pair of green hospital scrubs, Charlie made his way to the kitchen, and Monte followed. There he made coffee from his French press and, once brewed, took his cup into the living room, again followed by Monte, and gazed out the window at the traffic bustling below. It was earlier than he thought, 8:30 a.m., but still much later than he and Monte were accustomed to starting their day.
Charlie’s apartment in Boston’s Beacon Hill was the entire third floor of a brownstone on the south side of a steeply sloping hill. The apartment was barely furnished, but the cost of what little he owned could buy enough furniture to fill homes three times the size. Monte rubbed against his legs and gave a soft bark, fair warning that he needed to be walked soon, or else. Charlie didn’t react; his mind, already racing, even with what little caffeine he’d had, was replaying his meeting with Rachel. She hadn’t administered any mock tests or tried to delve deeper into his unexplained experiences. Instead she had suggested a medical MRI. Perhaps a brain lesion or even a tumor—uncommon, but known to cause hallucinations similar to schizophrenia—was to blame. Rachel hadn’t ruled out work pressures as being a cause, but she hadn’t jumped on the theory, either. There were other possibilities she’d suggested, infection being one, though she’d thought that unlikely given his lack of other symptoms. A comprehensive psychological evaluation and further medical testing, she’d insisted, were the only legitimate path to a diagnosis.
She had also provided the names of several doctors at Walderman who were accepting new patients. That had stung. He had crumpled the paper with the phone numbers on it and thrown it in the trash as he left. He was desperate to find any reason to discredit her professional assessment that he should seek psychiatric help. The MRI was at least medical—hopeful, so long as the cause was curable.
The stress of the last several days had left Charlie with dark circles under his eyes and an ashen complexion. The idea that his mind was a ticking bomb, perhaps ready to detonate, perhaps destined to send him to the same fate as his father