The Wave by Kristen Crusoe (ebook reader online txt) 📗

The judge reviewed all testimony and announced that given the evidence presented in the court, she ruled that Dr Clair Mercer was not guilty by reason of insanity and would remain in the behavioral health unit as an involuntary committed person for a period of time not more than 180 days. At that time, if the district attorney should decide to file charges for attempted murder, a follow-up hearing would be held. She struck her gavel, dismissing court.

Clair sat still, watching as the community room emptied out and patients, who had been exiled to their rooms, began filing back in. They cast curious glances her way, wondering what had happened, and what her reaction would be. She smiled at Gabe, who looked worried.

‘I’m OK. I’ll be here with you for a while longer, Gabe. We can play lots of Yahtzee. Maybe I’ll even be able to beat you once or twice.’

‘Yeah? That’s great. Do you want to play now?’ he asked in his soft, melodious voice. In another life, Gabe could have been a singer, opera or Broadway. Schizophrenia had put a stop to his and his doting parents’ dreams for him.

‘No, not now, I’m beat. I’m going to rest a bit, but maybe after dinner? she said.

‘OK, sure. I’ll be right here.’

‘I know, and so will I it seems,’ she called over her shoulder, walking out the door.

Chapter 8

Clair

Hours drifted into days, swelled into weeks. Each morning Annie would write the date on the large whiteboard hanging in the community room. Holiday decorations marked the changing seasons. Halloween was approaching, with pumpkin decorating contests using colored pens and paint, and baskets of apples and sugarless candy corn.

Clair navigated through time based on how long Devon had been gone, or attaching a memory to a particular date. It hurt, but she welcomed the pain, as her penance.

As she settled into the routine of the unit, Clair felt an echo of old patterns that brought her a sense of calm. Her life was at a stand-still. Surrender was her only option. Staff had allowed Adam to bring her cello to the unit. Clair was able to play in the community room, under the watchful eye of the psych techs. Patients could sleep in on Sundays, not roused by the cheerful nurse assistant Linda at six for morning hygiene. Clair couldn’t rest; she was fretful and anxious. She had the dream again. The one in which she was hurtling through the cold darkness of water towards the light, Devon’s energy pulsating and carrying her to him, space and time morphing into the vast space. As much as she wanted to stay there, her mind forced her back to here and now.

‘Linda, is it too early for me to play?’ she asked. ‘I’ll stay here in my room. I promise I won’t bow myself blind or strangle myself with a string.’ She smiled as she said this but Linda didn’t smile back.

‘I’d have to close the door, Clair, and you know that isn’t OK. How about if I let you play in the conference room? That way we can see you on the monitor.’

‘OK, that’s fine. Thanks, Linda.’

Clair began playing softly, remembering how Pachelbel would soothe Devon when he became agitated. As she played, images flooded across her mindscape, like a video reel playing backwards.

‘He is such a good baby,’ she had told their pediatrician, Dr Chong, at his three-month visit, as she listened to his heart and lungs, tested his reflexes, and talked to him in her musical voice.

‘Does he make eye contact with you or your husband?’ Dr Chong had asked, holding Devon several inches away and looking into his eyes.

‘I guess so. I’ve never really paid that much attention to that specifically. He eats, sleeps, lets me hold him. I think we make eye contact enough. Why, Dr Chong, is there something wrong?’ Clair had asked, her stomach beginning to flutter.

‘I don’t know, Clair. Infants at this age should be making frequent eye contact, I am not seeing Devon do this. Let’s see what he does when you hold him.’

The doctor had handed Devon back to Clair. Her boy felt so sturdy to her. They had worried about Down’s Syndrome, because of her advanced maternal age, but the chromosomal testing had been negative. She had told Adam that it wouldn’t have made any difference to her. She would have had Devon, loved him with or without any sort of developmental disorder. But he had been perfect. Clair had thrilled at her first sight of him. He can’t be sick, she had thought, considering Dr Chong’s words. She had held Devon close to her, then away from her. She had talked to him in her mommy voice. His eyes would drift off to the side, and she would smile, believing he was soothed.

Then, at his eighteen-month visit. The words that changed everything for ever.

‘Clair, toddlers at this age should be following commands, and starting to say words. It’s still early to make any sort of definitive diagnosis, but I would like to have Devon tested. These may be early signs of autism,’ Dr Chong had said.

Clair’s world had fallen out from under her, like an elevator hurtling towards the end.

‘What should I do?’ she had asked, the scientist in her wanting action, a plan, holding off the unknown.

‘Let’s set him up for some testing. We have therapy, applied behavioral analysis, that can help with symptoms. Clair, this isn’t a diagnosis. It is just a precaution at this time. We can’t really diagnose autism until around age two, but we don’t want to wait to begin treatment.’

And so, it had begun, the daily visits to specialists, hopes soaring and then dispelling under fresh hits. Normal infant, toddler, then child developmental milestones left behind. In their place, her sweet boy who had lived his life alone.

‘Clair, are you OK?’ Jet asked from the open doorway.

‘Oh, hi Jet. What are you doing here on Sunday?’ she replied, startled