Chapter

 60

Overhead fans weren’t necessary in any other part of Milton. Modern upgrading had after all lifted the dreary turn of the century institution into a “state of the art” functioning hospital. In the bowels of the remodeled rock and steel edifice, however, were the boiler rooms, where amid the concrete walls that supported the structure above, the old original cast iron furnace and water storage tanks remained untouched—homage to a building whose work had provided much of the foundation and underpinnings for mental health reform over the years. To Dr. Pressman, Milton had been an evolution of body, mind and soul. It was soul, this particular afternoon, that had lured him to the dripping mantra of condensation that seemed to always accompany the humid air of the boiler rooms.

Whatever it was that made up Charles’ trauma, Dr. Pressman had now joined ranks with Dr. Mathews as being unable to identify and correct it. After continued observation of Charles and Mathews, and studying several more sessions between Farnsworth and Mathews, Pressman decided that here beneath the overhead fans and within the cave-like atmosphere might be the means to some advancement, if not an answer.

As he looked over the artwork that covered the gray concrete, he reflected over the years he’d spent at Milton. Here amongst the pulse beat of the dripping pipes and creaking fans, he pondered. Only a few people knew of his unconventional use of the basement walls to treat several of his patients. Even a smaller few, his most trusted nurses, knew that darkness had provided the very impetus for those patients to overcome their malady...that without the experience the dark underground provided, those patients might still be confined to the hospital.

He wondered where the former patients were now and how they were coping. Had the revelations of the time spent here remained with them? Had they been able to sustain the new perspective that came as a result of the catharsis they experienced here in the most private of private environments?

The occasional pools of overhead lights guided him through the disturbed images of paint, crayons, and chalk that were made all the more poignant by the running of colors that years of moisture had created. Like a museum from some surreal dream, the walls reflected his patient’s darkest thoughts...thoughts that the well-lit world outside had only managed to push deeper into the fragile remains of their sanity.

Painting in the dark was but one of his unconventional approaches to patients that had not responded to traditional therapy. He was paid to be conventional, but sixteen years earlier, he had dared to step away from conventional approaches and realized liberated imagination and risk were as often as not, the therapy that worked.

He stopped before a simple crayon drawing of a sunflower crushed beneath a lump of coal and remembered January 14, 1984. That was the first time he had wandered down here with Louise, a patient whose problem had all but seemed hopeless after occupying an inordinate amount of his time. Her lack of response to everything he tried prompted his attempt to try and use the boiler room to emulate the surroundings of her blockage.

For Louise, a childhood experience in her parent’s dark cellar had locked her off from reality for many years. Bringing her here afforded a similar environment that helped bring back the experience she had repressed for so long.

Subsequently, over the years, a number of other patients were brought to the boiler room to talk about and paint out their feelings amid the comfort and protection the underground and darkness offered. Sometimes in complete darkness, sometimes using only the dim light of a candle or two, patients had felt hidden and safe, like ancient man retiring to a cave for solace and calm. And like those pre-civilizations, those who came here used the walls to record the hieroglyphics of their changing and sometimes primitive minds. Here, they had allowed the fine line separating light from darkness in their psyche to express itself with pictures and symbols. With each patient, more light was gradually added, and through the emergence of the images—most of which were crude, infantile and anything but artistic—they created a unique kind of cleansing for themselves. As a result, they began speaking and expressing themselves more clearly up in the traditional therapy sessions and eventually were talking openly about the buried secrets and pain the concrete canvases had allowed them to revisit.

As he continued to walk the hallway separating the furnace room from the water storage rooms, he wondered if it would work once again. Would the magic serve Charlie/Charles? Could they recall the past and emerge with either Charlie or Charles left behind?

He continued to contemplate his decision. It was now two weeks since the group had unanimously declared both Mathews and Charles fit to stand trial. For Dr. Pressman, the continued traditional therapy had not brought Charles any closer to his lost memory. Dr. Mathews was still insistent on the “walk and talk” with Charles while Dr. Farnsworth continued in his effort to draw out of the aging man any insight or experience that might be helpful in bringing back Charles’ memory. Most of what Mathews related, Farnsworth had heard on the tapes. And of course, Mathews knew that. And of course, Farnsworth assumed he knew. It seemed like a “lose-lose game.” But there was always the hope that Mathews would innocently offer some new piece of information, maybe even a revelation.

Unfortunately, such hope was proving futile. If Farnsworth ever got close to something new regarding information about Charles, Mathews would always stop the session and remind the young doctor that Charles was his patient and anything new was going to come only as a result of his “walk and talk” with Charles.

Dr. Pressman heard the old iron door at the opposite end of the basement open and close. He glanced at his watch. Right on time. He didn’t expect Dr. Farnsworth to be anything but punctual.

He waited for the arrival and thought about the day before when he had revealed the “boiler room” history to his former adversary. It wasn’t like Pressman to confide with a colleague so thoroughly, but by giving the young doctor the challenge and potential glory of playing and winning the mind game with Mathews, Farnsworth had become a partner of sorts in the quest for identifying Charles.

It had been an appropriate decision for Pressman to make, as the challenge of Charles far exceeded the reward of winning an intellectual battle with Mathews. He knew also that for the young Farnsworth, it was just the opposite. For him, it was like having a real-life experience with a “Lecter-type” mind. Farnsworth was convinced that because of Mathews’ inordinate connection to Charles, the older man could get him to reveal something that would betray his recent “mad” behavior. Farnsworth was convinced Mathews was play-acting and hiding something. Pressman knew that being right was all that mattered to Farnsworth, and that was fine as long as there were answers. It was the continued lack of answers on both their parts that had brought Pressman to the moment of risk about to round the corner.

The illumination of the hanging light bulb quickly revealed the disposition of Charles as he and Dr. Farnsworth arrived at the gallery end of the basement. Charles was not smiling.

As he stepped forward, his serious expression suggested he was surprised at what he was seeing. “And I thought I was the one in need of help.”

“If it disturbs you, we can leave,” Dr. Pressman responded.

Charles took the initiative and sat down on one of the milk crates randomly scattered about. “This is maybe too much like you described it. I’m still not sure how I feel about being here.”

Dr. Farnsworth quietly sat on a box and observed.

Dr. Pressman pulled up another crate and sat down, joining him as he gazed at the mural-like rendering before them. Pressman pointed at one particular creation. “That was Theodore. He came back and continued working on this even after he was released.”

A fifteen-foot span of the wall was painted with a maze of corridors and rooms. “Those images represent a thirty-year history of Theodore,” said Dr. Pressman. “Each hallway, each room has a year, and in some cases the month and day. His clarity down here was quite remarkable compared to the slow results upstairs.”

He turned to Charles. “Still feeling uncomfortable?”

Charles got up and approached the mural. “I’m sorry, yes. What is this?” He touched the gaping two-foot-wide indentation in the center of the mural that looked as if it had been cut into the cinder block with chisel and hammer.

“That’s where Theodore started. The strange paradox about total darkness is it allows a lot of seeing.”

“You know I know about that,” said Charles.

“Yes. In Theodore’s case, the total darkness during our conversations motivated him to scrape away with a spoon at that block. About six weeks into our talks, he agreed to some candlelight.” He stepped over to Charles’ side. “After I lit a candle, I gave him a crayon. Rather quickly, he was using an assortment of brushes and some paints and... here...” Dr. Pressman showed Charles the inside of the hole. Crude drawings of human skeletons covered the inside of the hole, the images growing larger as they came toward the surface. “He finally brought them outside the hole and gave them the definition and function that made sense to him.”

Spanning out from the hole, the figures gradually took on colors accenting the hair, clothes and eventually, the surroundings.

Charles reached out and touched one of the painted cubicles where a skeleton, fully clothed, was standing before a fire, throwing a Bible into the flames. “He never drew skin on the people?”

Dr. Pressman shook his head. “He tried toward the third or fourth month, but then decided he didn’t like that idea. He painted over those he had started and went back to skeletons.”

“Why this one?” asked Charles as he sat down again.

“Why what one?” said Dr. Pressman.

“This painting? There are dozens down here. Why this one?”

“You mean us sitting here? No particular reason. I just happened to be looking at this one as you both arrived. Why do you ask?”

“Because I don’t think you’re telling me everything.” Charles turned to Dr. Farnsworth. “You think he’s telling me everything, Dr. Farnsworth? You haven’t said a word since we arrived.”

Dr. Farnsworth gave Dr. Pressman a glance and then looked again at the mural. “Sometimes words aren’t easy for patients, Charles. If bringing them here gets them talking, then it has merit, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. But you both know I don’t have that problem. If this is designed to get patients to talk, what am I doing here? You’ve heard hours and hours of me talking. What has this got to do with me?”

“We’re only trying to help you with your memory, Charles,” said Farnsworth. “This is not here to upset you Charles,” said Pressman. “I thought this environment might serve to open up your memory, but if you’re not comfortable... “

“You want to know more about my drawing of the cove...that’s it isn’t it...the drawing?”

Surprised at his response, Dr. Pressman nodded. “We do sometimes draw what’s important to us and... Yes. We think there’s more to the cove than you’ve thus far revealed.”

“And you think I might reveal more down here? Doctors...you have tried to get inside me, get to my memory for what, seven or so weeks now? Dr. Mathews almost lived with me for six months. He knows me better than I think I know myself. He’s the only man that’s been with me when what little memory I have has surfaced. I think you might be right about the cove, but I don’t know for sure. If anyone can get me to that place, it’s Mathews. Why haven’t I been permitted to even see him, let alone continue working with him?”

“We’ve been through this before,” said Dr. Pressman. “He’s got some problems, Charles. Why do you keep bringing up the same questions?”

“Because you keep bringing up the same excuse. ‘He’s got problems.’ My God. Look at yourselves. Who doesn’t have problems? If you want to help me, let me talk to Mathews. Just because you’ve chosen to study him like some bug in a box, doesn’t mean he’s unqualified to continue treating me.”

Pressman was visibly uncomfortable now. “Dr. Farnsworth...I guess this wasn’t a good idea.” He turned to Charles. “I’m sorry, Charles. We don’t have to continue this. Let’s go back upstairs.”

Charles wanted an answer. “Does that mean I can talk with Mathews, or does that mean I’m back under Nurse Bowman’s microscope?”