LITMIR.BIZ

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people. At least his mother never did that.

      Alex folded his arms on the table. “So, what’s new?”

      His mother chewed a mouthful for a moment. Without looking up she swallowed and said under her breath, “I haven’t seen any of them for a while.”

      “Is that right?” he asked, playing along. “What did they want?”

      It was hard to make conversation when he didn’t know what she was talking about half the time.

      “What they always want. The gate.”

      “What gate?” He couldn’t imagine what she imagined.

      She suddenly looked up. “What are you doing here?”

      Alex shrugged. “It’s my birthday, Mom. I wanted to spend it with you.”

      “You shouldn’t spend your birthday in this place, Alex.”

      Alex’s breath halted for an instant. He could count on the fingers of one hand the times she had called him by his name except when prompted.

      “It’s my birthday. It’s what I want to do, Mom,” he said quietly.

      Her mind seemed to drift away from the subject. “They look at me through the walls,” she said in an emotionless tone. Her eyes turned wild. “They look at me!” she screamed. “Why won’t they stop watching me!”

      A few of the people on the other side of the room turned to look at the screaming woman. Most didn’t bother. Screaming in the institution wasn’t an uncommon occurrence and was usually treated with indifference. The orderly with the cart glanced over, appraising the situation. Alex put a hand on her arm.

      “It’s all right, Mom. No one is looking at you now.”

      She glanced around at the walls before finally appearing to calm down. In another moment, she went back to her sandwich as if nothing had happened.

      After she took a sip of orange juice, she asked, “What birthday is it?” She put the sandwich up to her mouth.

      “My twenty-seventh.”

      She froze.

      She took the sandwich out of her mouth and carefully set it down on the paper plate. She glanced around, then seized Alex’s shirtsleeve.

      “I want to go to my room.”

      Alex was a bit puzzled by her behavior, as he frequently was, but he went along. “All right, Mom. We can sit in there. It’ll be nice, just the two of us.”

      She held his arm in a tight grip as they walked back down the depressing hall. Alex walked. She shuffled. She wasn’t an old woman, but her spirit always seemed broken.

      It was the Thorazine and other powerful antipsychotic drugs that made her that way, and made her shuffle. Dr. Hoffmann said that Thorazine was all that kept her functioning as well as she did, and that without it she would become so violently psychopathic that she would have to be restrained twenty-four hours a day. Alex certainly didn’t want that for her.

      When they went into her simple room she shut the door. The doors didn’t lock. She opened it and checked the hall three times before she seemed satisfied. Her roommate, Agnes, was older. She never spoke. She did stare, though, so Alex was glad that she had stayed in the sunroom.

      The TV, bolted high on the wall, was on, but the sound was muted. He rarely saw the TV turned off. The sound was usually muted, though. He’d never seen his mother change the channel. He didn’t understand why she and Agnes wanted the TV on without the sound.

      “Go away,” Alex’s mother said.

      “After a while, Mom. I’d like to sit with you for a time.”

      She shook her head. “Go away and hide.”

      “From what, Mom?”

      “Hide,” she repeated.

      Alex took a deep breath. “Hide from what?”

      His mother stared at him for a time. “Twenty-seven,” she finally said.

      “Yes, that’s right. I’m twenty-seven today. You had me twenty-seven years ago, nine in the evening on the ninth of September. That’s the date today. You had me here, at this very place, back when it was a regular hospital.”

      She leaned close and licked her lips. “Hide.”

      Alex wiped a hand across his face. “From who, Mom?” He was tired of the pointless, circular conversation.

      His mother rose from where she sat on the edge of the bed and went to a small wardrobe. She pawed through the items folded on the shelf. After a brief search she came up with a shawl. At first, Alex thought that she was cold. But she didn’t put the shawl around her shoulders.

      She stood before the small dresser and draped the shawl over the polished metal square, bolted to the wall, that served as a mirror.

      “Mom, what are you doing?”

      His mother turned back with fire in her eyes. “They look at me. I told you. They look at me through the windows in the walls.”

      Alex was starting to feel creepy.

      “Mom, come sit down.”

      His mother sat on the edge of the bed, closer, and took one of his hands in both of hers. It was an act of affection that unexpectedly brought a tear to Alex’s eye. She had never done such a thing before. Alex thought that it was the best birthday present he could have gotten, better even than fifty thousand acres of land.

      “Alex,” she whispered. “You must run and hide before they get you.”

      It was startling to hear his name from her lips for the second time in the same day. It took a great effort to summon his voice.

      “And who is it that I should hide from, Mom?”

      She glanced around and then leaned closer so he could hear her whisper.

      “A different kind of human.”

      He stared at her a moment. It made no sense, but something about it sounded serious, sounded sincere.

      Just then something on the TV caught his eye. He looked up and saw that it was the local news. A police spokesman was standing before a cluster of microphones.

      A news crawler moving across the bottom of the screen said “Two Metro officers found dead.”

      Alex reached over for the remote and turned up the sound.

      “Do you know why they were there, in behind the warehouses?” a reporter asked through the clamor.

      “The Center and Ninetieth Street section was within their patrol area,” the official said. “Alleys throughout there provide access to loading docks. We check them often, so there was nothing unusual about them being there in that location.”

      Alex remembered when Ninetieth Street, about ten or twelve miles from his house, used to be the outskirts of town.

      Another reporter shouted the others down. “There are reports that both officers were found with their necks broken. Is that true?”

      “I can’t comment on such stories. As I’ve said, we will have to wait for the coroner’s report. When we have it we will release the findings.”

      “Have the families been notified?”

      The man at the microphone paused, obviously having trouble getting words out. Anguish shaped his features. He kept swallowing back his emotion.

      “Yes. Our prayers and sympathy go out to their families at this difficult time.”

      “Can you release their names, then?” a woman waving her pen for attention asked.

      The official stared out at the tight knot of reporters. His gaze finally dropped away. “Officer John

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