Whitewash (12 page)

Florida State Hospital
Chattahoochee, Florida

Sabrina hardly recognized the man fidgeting in the recliner, his hands constantly moving, his fingers drumming every surface, sometimes poking only at the air. His eyes darted everywhere except to hers. His body rocked gently back and forth though the recliner was not a rocking chair. Even his tongue flicked in and out, moistening his lips, rolling around and pushing out his cheeks as if it was no longer comfortable inside his mouth.

It had taken Sabrina over an hour in traffic, getting to Chattahoochee later than she had hoped. Thankfully they had taken off the wrist restraints before she arrived. But at what cost to him? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. The drugs they used only seemed to demolish what was left of his brilliant mind, either zoning him out or making him a jittery mass of nerve endings. It was bad enough that he tuned in and out of reality, blending memories, hallucinations and pipe dreams all together for a surreal world that no one else shared.

“I had peas for dinner,” he told Sabrina like a four-year-old who said anything that came to mind.

“How about next time I visit I sneak in a cheeseburger for you?” she asked and waited for some glimpse, a flicker of the man she knew. But he didn’t even look at her. His eyes darted back and forth, watching an imaginary ping-pong game behind her.

“Eric was here yesterday,” he said as casually as he had announced the peas.

At first she thought she had misunderstood him. Sabrina tried to catch his eyes, tried to determine what level of reality he was in this time.

“He looked good. He’s over on Pensacola Beach.”

“Dad, Eric’s somewhere in New York or Connecticut. He’s not here in Florida.” She wasn’t sure why he would get this mixed up.

“No, no, he has a new job.” Then he leaned forward, but still without meeting her eyes he whispered, “He’s on a secret mission. I’m not supposed to tell anyone he was here.”

She hesitated then said, “Eric wasn’t here, Dad.”

She could sit through hearing about his other hallucinations, but not this one. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Her brother hadn’t been in touch with anyone for over two years. His choice. He didn’t even know about Chattahoochee.

“I think you might have imagined seeing him, Dad.”

She reached for his hand, hoping to stop or at least slow the rocking motion. He let her hold it for only a few seconds and then he jerked it away, poking uncontrollably at the ceiling.

“He lives above a boathouse and watches the dolphins in the bay.” There was no anger, no impatience that she didn’t believe. He said it as a matter of fact.

She gave up. If there was some comfort he could draw from imagining his only son had come all the way from New York to visit, then why should she deprive him of that?

“He works for a guy named Howard Johnson.”

She smiled and nodded, biting her lower lip and thinking,
God, I miss you, Dad.

Then suddenly his eyes met hers and held them as if he had heard her thoughts. And without any other change in appearance he said, “You won’t forget pickles and onions on that cheeseburger.”

Sabrina sat forward, holding her breath and searching his eyes. “Dad?”

“Maybe some fries, too?”

There was a pause as she sat completely still, not sure whether to hope.

“You got it.” She finally smiled, but kept on the edge of her seat, wanting to take his hand again, wanting a bit more reassurance, but he was already drumming the arms of the recliner.

Before she could breathe a sigh of relief, his eyes were darting away. She needed to take comfort in having him there with her if only for a few seconds. She couldn’t be greedy. They had told her it might be only a little at a time, a spark here and there. All of her research told her it was possible for him to come back as suddenly as he had left. It also told her he might never come back.

He was tapping his feet when he said to her, “I’m having lunch with your mom tomorrow.”

And suddenly Sabrina’s heart sank to her stomach. He wasn’t coming back. At least not anytime soon.

Florida State Hospital
Chattahoochee, Florida

Sabrina hardly recognized the man fidgeting in the recliner, his hands constantly moving, his fingers drumming every surface, sometimes poking only at the air. His eyes darted everywhere except to hers. His body rocked gently back and forth though the recliner was not a rocking chair. Even his tongue flicked in and out, moistening his lips, rolling around and pushing out his cheeks as if it was no longer comfortable inside his mouth.

It had taken Sabrina over an hour in traffic, getting to Chattahoochee later than she had hoped. Thankfully they had taken off the wrist restraints before she arrived. But at what cost to him? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. The drugs they used only seemed to demolish what was left of his brilliant mind, either zoning him out or making him a jittery mass of nerve endings. It was bad enough that he tuned in and out of reality, blending memories, hallucinations and pipe dreams all together for a surreal world that no one else shared.

“I had peas for dinner,” he told Sabrina like a four-year-old who said anything that came to mind.

“How about next time I visit I sneak in a cheeseburger for you?” she asked and waited for some glimpse, a flicker of the man she knew. But he didn’t even look at her. His eyes darted back and forth, watching an imaginary ping-pong game behind her.

“Eric was here yesterday,” he said as casually as he had announced the peas.

At first she thought she had misunderstood him. Sabrina tried to catch his eyes, tried to determine what level of reality he was in this time.

“He looked good. He’s over on Pensacola Beach.”

“Dad, Eric’s somewhere in New York or Connecticut. He’s not here in Florida.” She wasn’t sure why he would get this mixed up.

“No, no, he has a new job.” Then he leaned forward, but still without meeting her eyes he whispered, “He’s on a secret mission. I’m not supposed to tell anyone he was here.”

She hesitated then said, “Eric wasn’t here, Dad.”

She could sit through hearing about his other hallucinations, but not this one. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Her brother hadn’t been in touch with anyone for over two years. His choice. He didn’t even know about Chattahoochee.

“I think you might have imagined seeing him, Dad.”

She reached for his hand, hoping to stop or at least slow the rocking motion. He let her hold it for only a few seconds and then he jerked it away, poking uncontrollably at the ceiling.

“He lives above a boathouse and watches the dolphins in the bay.” There was no anger, no impatience that she didn’t believe. He said it as a matter of fact.

She gave up. If there was some comfort he could draw from imagining his only son had come all the way from New York to visit, then why should she deprive him of that?

“He works for a guy named Howard Johnson.”

She smiled and nodded, biting her lower lip and thinking,
God, I miss you, Dad.

Then suddenly his eyes met hers and held them as if he had heard her thoughts. And without any other change in appearance he said, “You won’t forget pickles and onions on that cheeseburger.”

Sabrina sat forward, holding her breath and searching his eyes. “Dad?”

“Maybe some fries, too?”

There was a pause as she sat completely still, not sure whether to hope.

“You got it.” She finally smiled, but kept on the edge of her seat, wanting to take his hand again, wanting a bit more reassurance, but he was already drumming the arms of the recliner.

Before she could breathe a sigh of relief, his eyes were darting away. She needed to take comfort in having him there with her if only for a few seconds. She couldn’t be greedy. They had told her it might be only a little at a time, a spark here and there. All of her research told her it was possible for him to come back as suddenly as he had left. It also told her he might never come back.

He was tapping his feet when he said to her, “I’m having lunch with your mom tomorrow.”

And suddenly Sabrina’s heart sank to her stomach. He wasn’t coming back. At least not anytime soon.

Tallahassee, Florida

Jason Brill wanted to hit Delete as he scrolled the missed calls on his cell phone’s queue. He’d listened to only three messages, but could guess the others were similar. Someone had leaked it to the media about the senator’s mishap. Jason wouldn’t be surprised if it had been William Sidel. Though he couldn’t figure out what the hell Sidel had to gain. Embarrassing the senator in front of a small group was one thing, but even an overgrown prankster like Sidel would recognize it was a mistake to royally piss off his direct link to government subsidies, tax incentives and possibly a $140-million-dollar contract.

Senator Allen refused to do anything about the media inquiries. He said he wouldn’t dignify the reports with a response.

“The entire matter is ridiculous. I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather. Possibly the flu,” he said as if he really believed it might be true.

But then he insisted Jason cancel all their weekend plans in the area, even surveying the site for the energy summit reception. He wanted to head back to Washington first thing in the morning.

Jason had nodded, biting his tongue when he knew it was a terrible mistake. He could already see the headlines, Senator Upchucks and Runs. And all the wonderful sound bites about freedom from foreign oil and saving the environment, everything from before the tour would be shelved, forgotten. Thank God there wasn’t any video or photos of the senator hanging over the railing and spewing his lunch into the tank of chicken guts.

Jason wiped a hand over his jaw and watched Senator Allen sipping Chivas. A glance at the shelf above the minifridge and a quick count of the empty miniature bottles in a neat row told him perhaps it was a good thing he had canceled the weekend schedule. Jason would rather manage the media than the senator’s “day-after misspeaks” that included anything from mixed metaphors to borderline racial slurs.

Jason knew Senator Allen had a big heart. The man cared about things like welfare moms finding good jobs that would help get them back on their feet. He pushed for higher minimum wages and supported tax cuts for the middle class. It was because he championed the American worker and was so passionate about it that sometimes he got carried away and called illegal immigrants “parasites.”

“He was trying to make a goddamn point,” the senator said suddenly after a long silence of sipping and staring out the window at the night lights of Tallahassee.

“And what point would that be?” Jason asked, knowing they were both still thinking and talking about William Sidel.

“I told him last week that the contract might not pass through the Appropriations Committee.”

“I thought it was a sure thing,” Jason said, keeping himself from adding,
Why the hell didn’t you tell
me
last week?

The timing of the contract was supposed to be perfect for announcing at the energy summit. Jason had arranged this tour as a precursor, an early reminder that Senator Allen had been the driving force. The media had already begun to call the contract “a smart, brave assurance” that EchoEnergy’s thermal conversion was, indeed, “a liberation from foreign oil.” And Jason had orchestrated it so that all of the attention and credit would be directly connected to Senator John Quincy Allen.

The man tipped his glass at Jason as if it was no big deal and simply said, “My boy, rarely is there a sure thing.” But then he sat forward, raising his index finger and tapping it against his lips, a familiar gesture signaling Jason that he had an idea, that he was ready to fight back. “There is one thing I want you to do.”

Finally, Jason thought, anxious and ready to take on William Sidel. “Sure, anything,” Jason said.

“I want that fucking Polack deported.”

“Excuse me?”

“That limo driver. I want him gone.”

Jason stared at his boss. He was serious.

He watched Senator Allen sit back, satisfied and sipping his Chivas, a grin now replacing the scowl.

Tallahassee, Florida

Jason Brill wanted to hit Delete as he scrolled the missed calls on his cell phone’s queue. He’d listened to only three messages, but could guess the others were similar. Someone had leaked it to the media about the senator’s mishap. Jason wouldn’t be surprised if it had been William Sidel. Though he couldn’t figure out what the hell Sidel had to gain. Embarrassing the senator in front of a small group was one thing, but even an overgrown prankster like Sidel would recognize it was a mistake to royally piss off his direct link to government subsidies, tax incentives and possibly a $140-million-dollar contract.

Senator Allen refused to do anything about the media inquiries. He said he wouldn’t dignify the reports with a response.

“The entire matter is ridiculous. I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather. Possibly the flu,” he said as if he really believed it might be true.

But then he insisted Jason cancel all their weekend plans in the area, even surveying the site for the energy summit reception. He wanted to head back to Washington first thing in the morning.

Jason had nodded, biting his tongue when he knew it was a terrible mistake. He could already see the headlines, Senator Upchucks and Runs. And all the wonderful sound bites about freedom from foreign oil and saving the environment, everything from before the tour would be shelved, forgotten. Thank God there wasn’t any video or photos of the senator hanging over the railing and spewing his lunch into the tank of chicken guts.

Jason wiped a hand over his jaw and watched Senator Allen sipping Chivas. A glance at the shelf above the minifridge and a quick count of the empty miniature bottles in a neat row told him perhaps it was a good thing he had canceled the weekend schedule. Jason would rather manage the media than the senator’s “day-after misspeaks” that included anything from mixed metaphors to borderline racial slurs.

Jason knew Senator Allen had a big heart. The man cared about things like welfare moms finding good jobs that would help get them back on their feet. He pushed for higher minimum wages and supported tax cuts for the middle class. It was because he championed the American worker and was so passionate about it that sometimes he got carried away and called illegal immigrants “parasites.”

“He was trying to make a goddamn point,” the senator said suddenly after a long silence of sipping and staring out the window at the night lights of Tallahassee.

“And what point would that be?” Jason asked, knowing they were both still thinking and talking about William Sidel.

“I told him last week that the contract might not pass through the Appropriations Committee.”

“I thought it was a sure thing,” Jason said, keeping himself from adding,
Why the hell didn’t you tell
me
last week?

The timing of the contract was supposed to be perfect for announcing at the energy summit. Jason had arranged this tour as a precursor, an early reminder that Senator Allen had been the driving force. The media had already begun to call the contract “a smart, brave assurance” that EchoEnergy’s thermal conversion was, indeed, “a liberation from foreign oil.” And Jason had orchestrated it so that all of the attention and credit would be directly connected to Senator John Quincy Allen.

The man tipped his glass at Jason as if it was no big deal and simply said, “My boy, rarely is there a sure thing.” But then he sat forward, raising his index finger and tapping it against his lips, a familiar gesture signaling Jason that he had an idea, that he was ready to fight back. “There is one thing I want you to do.”

Finally, Jason thought, anxious and ready to take on William Sidel. “Sure, anything,” Jason said.

“I want that fucking Polack deported.”

“Excuse me?”

“That limo driver. I want him gone.”

Jason stared at his boss. He was serious.

He watched Senator Allen sit back, satisfied and sipping his Chivas, a grin now replacing the scowl.