LUCID Nightmare

Psychological Testing Centre

  Harley Street, London

  The Next Day 11:30 a.m.

  “Good morning. I’m Clay Thompson, and I have an appointment with Dr. Kaspersky.”

  A young receptionist of African descent greeted Clay with a smile. “Mr. Thompson, I spoke with you on the phone the other day. You’re the American from Huntingdon.”

  “Yes, that’s me. Is everything alright?”

  The receptionist handed Clay a sign-in sheet.

  “Yes, everything is fine, it’s just that we thought you might miss your appointment. I guess you haven’t heard the news.”

  Clay scribbled his name and returned the clipboard.

  “What news?”

  She pointed to the flat-screen monitor in the waiting room.

  BBC News reporting to you live. We’ve just received word that the bomb threat at Kings Cross was not a hoax. A Metropolitan Police bomb disposal squad diffused a small pipe bomb near platform nine just moments ago. Normal operations are expected to resume later this afternoon. So far, no group has claimed responsibility. Back to you at the studio.

  “Mr. Thompson. Mr. Thompson, are you okay?”

  Clay was in midflashback, replaying Nefertiti’s warning.

  “I’m sorry, just got distracted a bit. I must have just missed all the excitement. It’s a good thing I decided to catch the early train.”

  Clay was numb inside from news of the bomb scare but also from his anxiety about having to fabricate PTSD symptoms to a trained professional. He had nothing to go on. He worried he would be found out and exposed as a fraud, but he was too committed to turn back.

  “Not to worry, I’ll let Dr. Kaspersky know you’ve made it. She won’t be long, she’s just finishing up paperwork from her last appointment. Please take a seat.”

  I’ve never been a good liar. I’m going to blow this, I just know it, Clay thought. He fixated on the news to switch mental channels. It failed. It only intensified his anxiousness.

  At exactly 11:30, a woman in her midseventies approached the reception desk and whispered a few words to the attendant. She looked stern, like a secondary school headmistress waiting to discipline one of her wayward students. She never smiled. She wore a white practitioner’s smock and looked over her bifocals in Clay’s direction.

  “Mr. Thompson? Mr. Thompson?” she called out with clipboard in hand.

  Too late now, time to face the music.

  Clay stood. “Ah, that’s me.”

  She was authoritative and cold. “Let’s go. Follow me, please.”

  Clay followed his judge, jury and executioner to her sterile office with one workstation and two chairs opposite each other. The temperature was slightly cold which Clay found uncomfortable.

  “Sit, please.”

  Dr. Kaspersky sat down and flipped through Clay’s medical records provided to her by the Veteran’s Affairs office. She also had a copy of his DD 214, which captured his military deployments.

  Clay’s throat was dry, so he asked for some water.

  “If you must. The water fountain is to your left next to the lift,” she moaned.

  Clay immediately detected the unpleasantness in her voice. He promptly excused himself and made a quick dash. The sight of the exit door was tempting. He could make a run for it and would never have to explain anything to anyone. But that would not solve his financial woes. He needed an Oscar-winning performance during his psych exam, but he wasn’t up to the job, and he knew it.

  He returned.

  “Mr. Thompson, are you aware of the magnitude of fraud among veterans claiming to be victims of PTSD?”

  “No.”

  “It seems the VA has set the bar low for granting service-connected disabilities, unlike here in the UK where the threshold is very high. In the rare instance when I find genuine PTSD, I find therapy, not compensation, is the remedy. If you are financially compensated for a stress-related condition where is the incentive to seek proper counselling and resolution? Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “You’re the expert, Doc. I really wouldn’t know.”

  Clay’s familiarity offended his assessor.

  She swung around slowly in her chair. “Mr. Thompson, I would very much prefer it if you did not call me ‘Doc.’ That’s slang and I never found much use for it. Do we have an understanding?”

  Clay seemed to unintentionally irritate her at almost every opportunity. Clay was profusely apologetic.

  Dr. Kaspersky took one last look at Clay’s records and placed the file on her keyboard.

  “I’ve reviewed the disorders you are claiming as they relate to PTSD. Are you ready to begin?”

  Clay nodded nervously.

  Dr. Kaspersky recited the symptoms Clay had checked on the worksheet. He saw her mouth moving, but her words just ran together. It was if she was talking in slow motion with the volume just above mute. Clay drifted into a fog, an altered state.

  Dr. Kaspersky was put off by Clay’s aloofness. She aggressively snapped her fingers in front of his face to get his attention.

  “Mr. Thompson. Mr. Thompson! I need you to be present with me during this interview. If you’d like we can terminate this right now. I have other clients waiting.”

  Suddenly, an enormous black crow appeared on the window ledge. A few smaller crows appeared and perched, flanking the superior crow. The massive crow’s charcoal black eyes fixated on Dr. Kaspersky through the glass. The large blackbird then extended its wings exposing a unique feature.

  “Interesting. The crow’s down feathers are pure white, they almost look pearlescent,” Clay remarked.

  Caw, caw, caw. The crows sounded in unison.

  Dr. Kapsersky flapped her folder towards the crows.

  “Shoo, shoo!” Dr. Kaspersky commanded.

  The giant crow was the last to fly away. It displayed its magnificent markings one final time before vanishing into the sky.

  “That’s rather odd, I’ve never seen a flock of crows on my window ledge before,” Dr. Kaspersky commented.

  Clay clasped his hands on his lap. “You mean a murder of crows, Dr. Kaspersky,” Clay corrected.

  “Pardon me?”

  Clay explained. “There are dozens of nouns for the gathering of different types of birds. Geese gather in a gaggle, hens in a brood. But a gathering of crows is called a murder.”

  Clay sat upright and was aware of a surging confidence within, a confidence from an uninvited spirit.

  Dr. Kaspersky immediately noticed a change in his demeanor and a piercing level of eye contact she was not accustomed to.

  “In your own words, Mr. Thompson, please describe your symptoms.”

  Clay paused, waiting for the words to come.

  “Dr. Kaspersky, I first noticed these symptoms upon my redeployment from Mogadishu, Somalia, where I supported Operation Restore Hope. Our mission was humanitarian relief, but it quickly escalated to combat conditions when a warlord withdrew from our cease-fire agreement.”

  “At any time did you fear for your life?”

  “Yes, many times. But two significant events remained etched in my psyche.”

  “Please explain.”

  “On January seventh, our Humvee was separated from our convoy, and we found ourselves surrounded by insurgents. We were ordered to exit our vehicles without our weapons with our hands held high. Our sub-team commander had a panic attack and begged for his life on his knees. I thought I would die as the AKs were pointed directly at us. For whatever reason, we were spared and allowed to carry on.”

  Dr. Kaspersky took copious notes.

  “And the other significant event?”

  Clay let out a big sigh and stared at the opaque window behind her.

  “I’d rather not talk about it, Dr. Kaspersky.”

  “Mr. Thompson, withholding information may affect your claim. I need all the data before me, so I can make an informed decision.”

  Clay leaned just a little closer to his assessor.

  “Dr. Kaspersky,
for me, resolution is far more desirable than compensation. If I am not emotionally prepared to discuss certain mental or psychological issues, I would hope you would respect that.”

  Clay continued his deposition. “Since my redeployment from Mogadishu, I started noticing a series of maladaptive behaviors and physical ailments, especially during times of stress or anxiety.”

  “Please elaborate.”

  “The first issue I observed was my preoccupation with sex. I would ruminate on sex for hours during the workday. I would visualize having sex with complete strangers regardless of their appeal, age or marital status. During times of stress, I find myself insatiable and unable to curb my sexual appetite.”

  The more Clay spoke, the more he convinced himself. He seemed to relive fabricated accounts of experiences and describe symptoms he knew nothing of. He delivered with emotion and persuasiveness.

  Dr. Kaspersky found herself unable to maintain prolonged eye contact with Clay. She swiveled slightly away from Clay and positioned her legs underneath the desk.

  Clay continued. “Secondly, during heightened periods of stress, I often suffer from shortness of breath. The best way to describe this condition is…it’s like breathing through a kinked straw underwater. You feel like your heart is going to explode in your chest. When this happens, I resort to breathing exercises, but it doesn’t work all the time. On at least two occasions, I had to call 911.”

  “I’ve read your military and civilian medical records cover to cover and there is no entry to support this,” she challenged. “And I think you meant you dialed 999. This is England, not the States,” she asserted.

  “The incidents I’m referring to happened in the US. In early April, 2014, while I was at a conference in Quantico, Virginia, and also in Chicago, Illinois, while I was on leave last year. On both occasions, my medical records were not in my possession. You’re right, Dr. Kaspersky, we do dial 911 in the States.”

  The intensity in Clay’s voice became more commanding as the office atmosphere grew to resemble a courtroom more closely than a doctor-patient interview.

  Despite the tense environment, Clay continued to remain in character. “Stress also sometimes triggers an outbreak on my right hip area. It’s a weeping cluster of blisters that can last up to seven days. As of late, the blisters have spread to other areas of my torso depending upon the stress level I’m experiencing.”

  “Alright, Mr. Thompson. Now let’s talk about your nightmares, shall we?”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Tell me everything, from the beginning.”

  Clay folded his arms and exhaled. He recounted. “At first, I thought it was a side effect from the malaria pills. The nightmares were so intense I ceased taking them midway through my deployment. I wasn’t the only one, a lot of us did. Since my deployment, I began having reoccurring nightmares and daytime hallucinations.”

  “Do you sometimes suffer from loss of sleep?”

  “Yes, I feel the effects mostly when I’m driving home from work. That’s when it hits me. Sometimes, I find myself doing all I can just to stay alert.”

  “These reoccurring nightmares and hallucinations, are they related in any way?”

  “I can’t say. My nightmares are of a classmate who tormented me in the second grade; his name was Aaron.”

  “You misspoke. You mean his name is Aaron,” she responded condescendingly.

  “No. His name was Aaron. He’s dead now. Killed in a car accident at the age of eight. My nightmares are very violent causing me to awaken just before impending doom. On the other hand, my hallucinations are not scary, just heartbreaking. I see lifelike visions of my older brother Darryl, who died when I was only nine. I see him on his deathbed in an empty hospital room. The light in the room is an amber color and it flickers on and off. That’s about it, really.”

  “Your nightmares of bullying could be linked to the fear of being harmed on the battlefield. Your hallucinations of your deceased brother might be related to the guilt of surviving and making it home when others did not. The other hypothesis is that these issues are latent, predating your military service.”

  After hearing Clay’s emotional depictions of living a life riddled with debilitating conditions, Dr. Kaspersky excused herself and reviewed her notes in private.

  Clay was impressed by his ability to mix fact and fiction so effortlessly. He waited patiently for Dr. Kaspersky’s return, prepared to high-five himself in his mind for his compelling performance. However, Dr. Kaspersky was on the fence and not immediately ready to provide the assessment Clay required.

  She returned. Clay waited in anticipation for the verdict.

  “Mr. Thompson, I’m still undecided as to how I should assess your claims. Making the service connection is so speculative. I tend to err on the side of other competing factors, such as inner child sensitizing events. From my experience, those are the deepest cuts and often may manifest themselves later in life. I don’t think I will be able to grant you a favorable assessment. My biggest issue is there is no documentation of these issues in your medical history. Why is that?”

  Clay became enraged, fueled by a malevolent inner spirit that consumed him. The spirit had a name….Nefertiti.

  “During my time in the Marines, I possessed a Top Secret security clearance. Any misperceptions of mental health fitness would have placed my career in jeopardy. It was a conscious decision,” he responded with an uncanny calm despite the fury within.

  “However, I understand and respect your professional opinion,” he continued. “Like I said, this was never about compensation. I guess we are done here?”

  Clay stood and smiled, seething with rage. His mission was unfulfilled.

  The hardness of her heart and lack of compassion seemed to be unyielding.

  Clay had one last parting remark. “Excuse me, Dr. Kaspersky.”

  She adjusted her glasses and responded. “Yes?”

  “I was just wondering if you were Polish by any chance.”

  Clay clearly captured her attention. She swiveled her chair toward him. “Yes, I was born in Warsaw and came here after the war when I was a little girl. Why do you ask?” she queried.

  “Just curious. I spent a semester in Gdansk as an exchange student my senior year in a high school. Ty mówisz połysk?”

  Dr. Kaspersky dropped her pen on the floor. It rolled and stopped at Clay’s feet. A tear fell and rolled down her white smock. Her voice quivered and she spoke in an almost childlike voice.

  “Yes, I speak Polish.” More tears continued to flow. She stood and steadied herself, leaning on the desk for support.

  Clay realized she was overcome by emotion. “Dr. Kaspersky, are you unwell?”

  She pointed at Clay. “That’s not possible. That’s not possible,” she pleaded. “The dialect you speak. It is the dialect of my grandfather who disappeared during the war,” she explained tearfully. “He protected me and my mother from the Germans. My father was executed for collaborating with the Russians. My mother and I lived in my grandfather’s basement for almost a year in hiding. Then he sold his house so that we could find safe passage to England. When I hear you speak, I can feel him in my heart. Forgive me for my tears. How is it that you speak without an accent? That is extraordinary.”

  “Mój adiunkt uczył ja dobrze,” Clay responded.

  Dr. Kaspersky sat on the floor and wept silently. “But that is impossible; you speak like a native. You speak perfect Kashubian.”

  Clay reached for a box of Kleenex and handed her a tissue. He knelt beside her and helped her stand.

  “I am sorry about your grandfather. It seems he was a very brave man,” Clay said with compassion.

  “I don’t know if he survived or not. I never saw him again after we fled. I hear his voice when you speak. Thank you, Mr. Thompson. Thank you for bringing back all the wonderful memories that I’ve suppressed over so many years.”

  Chapter 8: The Fine Print