He was trying to chide Thomas on his taste in toppings, but Thomas wanted only one thing: to view the video file labelled GOD HELMET: DAY ONE. TEST SUBJECT: LAMIELL, A.
“Umami!” said Bernie. “That’s the other flavour, the one I forgot. It’s like a savoury taste, a kind of ‘mouth feel.’ ”
Thomas nodded toward the screen. “About Amy . . .”
“Wanna know which food exhibits all seven flavours? Which one has a balance of sweet and salty, bitter and sour, with umami as well?” He waited for Thomas to guess. When he didn’t, he said, “Heinz ketchup! Really. It has all five tastes. It’s considered ‘the perfect food.’ Weird, right?”
“Um, I don’t know. I don’t use ketchup.”
“You don’t use ketchup? Who doesn’t use ketchup? Even on fries?”
“No. Listen, about—”
“Wow. You really did have a deprived childhood. Here.” Bernie brought up the file on his laptop. “I think this is the one.” He clicked PLAY.
And there it was, like a sledgehammer to the heart: Amy, looking offscreen. Amy, answering questions.
Thomas felt his mouth go dry. She was speaking to a Thomas who was off-camera. “My name? Amy Lamiell. . . . I’m in the visual arts program, postgraduate. . . . Painting, mainly, but some kiln work, too. Pottery. Glazes. . . . Whose work do I like? Freud, I guess. . . . No, not him . . . Lucian Freud, the painter. . . .”
Bernie slowed the recording down, and Amy’s voice became lower and lower until the words became indecipherable. But even as her words blurred together, her shifting facial expressions became sharper, clearer. It was as though the one had been hiding behind the other. Thomas could see flashes of impatience, confusion, and fatigue as the interview dragged on, until—
“There!” said Bernie. “Did you see it?”
He hadn’t. Thomas had been mesmerized by the sheer number of expressions she was capable of. We think of the human face as static, but it’s not; it’s constantly shifting, constantly in flux.
“There, right there,” said Bernie. He scrolled back, slowed it down further, and now Thomas saw it, too: a look of abject pain, there and gone in less than a heartbeat. But he had seen it. It was real.
“You want her back,” said Bernie. “That’s where you want to start.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE CATHOLIC SEMINARY AT Saint Mathurin’s sits aloof from the city. Concealed in a forest of elm and oak, amid laquered shade and sudden shards of light, the main building forms a protective wall of rust-red brick. It wraps itself around a courtyard where acolytes and older priests walk in slow circles, mulling enigmatic theological riddles. The seminary reminded Thomas of a university campus on a long weekend: muffled in silence, underpopulated, staid and sad at the same time. University with all the fun sucked out.
He’d parked his Prius out front (and let’s not judge him too harshly for driving a Prius; it wasn’t his choice, but a gift from his father), and had waited in the main hall to be ushered into the rector’s office. A pair of priests—one older, with thin hair forming a faint outline around his head, the other younger and more richly maned—were waiting for him, dressed in requisite black. They wore white collars around their necks and concerned looks on their faces. What followed was a strangely elliptical conversation.
“Sebastian,” Thomas said after a long, awkward pause. “I believe his first name is Sebastian.”
“And how is it you know Mr. Lamiell?” asked the older priest. (He didn’t say “Father Lamiell.” He said “Mister.” Thomas should have noted that.)
“I don’t, not really. I mean, I know of him. I know his sister. I was hoping I might speak with Father Lamiell—just for a moment.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Lamiell is no longer at Saint Mathurin’s. He hasn’t been for quite some time.” Then, because Thomas had identified himself as a medical student, the older priest, Father Patrice, confessed, “I studied medicine myself, before I found my calling. At one point, I thought I might become a doctor, too. But there are many ways to heal.”
The younger priest leaned in. “Among some members of the clergy,” he said, “a nervous breakdown is considered a sign of sincerity.”
• • •
“Family? Just me and my dad . . . and my brother. . . . He’s studying to be a priest.”
There, caught in single-frame video capture: a look of joy when she said “dad,” a flash of anguish when she said “brother.” It was that moment on the tape that led Thomas to the seminary, and from the seminary here: to the San Hendrin mental asylum (more correctly, “mental health facility”).
It looked like a hospital, but didn’t smell like one. Where the halls of a hospital might reek of ammonia, the San Hendrin asylum was cloaked in softer scents: vanilla and rosewood spritzed into ventilation systems to help calm and declaw the residents. Blandly institutional.
The walls of San Hendrin were painted in what were presumably “soothing hues”: soft salmon and warm peach, pastel pinks and rainforest greens. (The problem, of course, is that any colour disappears the longer you look at it, and what might have been soothing at first soon becomes the visual equivalent of background noise.) And anyway, the soft shades were undercut by the relentless rows of fluorescent lights. There were no shadows to hide in at San Hendrin.
Nurses in the corridors. Candy stripers and interns pushing carts down the passageways like ice cream vendors. Residents in grey sweatpants and limp T-shirts.
Thomas arrived at San Hendrin amid a flurry of bravado. Dressed in a starched white lab coat, he strode down the halls in what he hoped was a confident manner. Accompanying him was an orderly: a heavyset man named Phil or maybe Bill. Thomas couldn’t recall. He was too busy remaining calm. (That was the secret of any bluff: to remain calm no matter what, haughty even.)
Here was the power of names. Thomas shared his father’s name completely—they were both “Thomas Aaron Rosanoff”; the “Jr.” was not on any official documents. Thomas had access to his father’s Massachusetts Medical Association profile; his father had asked him to update it (honours won, grants awarded) and had long since forgotten that Thomas still had the password, had in fact set the password in the first place. So it was easy enough for Thomas to log on and revise his father’s contact information, replacing it with his own phone number and email account. True, he couldn’t access his father’s patient files—those were encrypted—but he could pass himself off as Dr. Rosanoff long enough to sign out a patient. That was the plan, anyway. He would reset his dad’s contact information as soon as he was done.
The only danger of being discovered was if someone at the San Hendrin asylum who knew his father or recognized the name cross-referenced his date of birth and other information. But why would they bother? He’d shown up as “Thomas Rosanoff” (true), had presented his photo ID (true, true), and had signed a scrawling signature that looked not unlike his father’s (okay, so that was forgery, but still). He wasn’t pretending to be Thomas Rosanoff; he was Thomas Rosanoff . . . just a different version: Thomas Rosanoff 2.0.
All of this had seemed easy enough when he’d rehearsed it in his head, but once inside San Hendrin, he battled his nerves to keep himself from bolting. He’d sent in the request earlier, but showing up in person to interview a patient was a different matter entirely. It’s always easier to be brave online. As he walked down the stultifying calm of the north wing, with the orderly at his side, Thomas flipped through the patient’s case study. “ ‘Full name: Sebastian Henri Lamiell. Affective schizophrenia disorder. Akinesia tendencies. Auditory hallucinations. An undue preoccupation with spiritual matters.’ ” Thomas stopped: “ ‘Patient experienced negative therapeutic reaction.’ What does that mean, exactly? Negative therapeutic reaction.”
“It means,” said the orderly, “the therapy only made things worse.”
“Oh.”
As they walked, Thomas read on: “ ‘Sensitivity to light and loud noises. Moments of lucidity, followed by withdrawal
.’ . . . Wow. They’ve got him on L-dopa. A lot of it.” This was a Faustian bargain: drugs that reduce schizophrenic delusions can also trigger psychotic episodes and even Parkinson’s-like symptoms. The treatment was often worse than the cure. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
“They ought to give him more of it, if you ask me,” said the orderly. “He’s a pain in the ass. Obsessed with cleanliness. We caught him scrubbing himself with SOS pads till he bled, stupid fucker. If you can do something with him, more power to you.”
Soft music, breathy flutes, minor melodies. Thomas flipped back to the first page. “How long has he been . . . ?”
“At San Hendrin? About a year.”
“Any, ah, visitors? Family?”
“Priests from Saint Mathurin’s, mostly. They used to come to pray. Don’t see them much anymore. He has a sister as well. She comes in once or twice a month. Good-lookin’ girl.” He gave Thomas a sidelong leer. Thomas knew what that leer meant: eminently fuckable.
He winced, tried to sound nonchalant. “A sister, you say?”
“Yep. She usually leaves in tears. Which is understandable, I suppose. It must be upsetting. I mean”—they stopped outside a cell-like door—“he thinks he’s Jesus.”
The room was small and tidy, and when the door opened it fanned light across a narrow bed, a small lamp, an open Bible. Sebastian was in one corner, head down. A faint wisp of a man, barely there, thinner than in the family photographs Thomas had seen, but still recognizably Amy’s brother. Same profile. Same pale skin. He was mumbling something, rocking back and forth ever so slightly, lips moving. The orderly stayed by the door as Thomas stepped closer, spoke softly. “Sebastian? My name is Thomas Rosanoff. I was at the seminary. Father Patrice and the others are worried about you.”
There is a state of apathy unique to asylums. It’s called abulia. This was what Thomas faced with Sebastian. He needed to get through to him, and the chisel was Amy.
“Your sister is worried about you. She needs you.”
When Sebastian finally spoke, it was with a hollow intonation. “I am the way, the truth, and the light. So it is written, so it is written. You shall love those who imprison you, you shall love those who would hurt you, who would do you harm.” He looked up suddenly, eyes wide. “God’s love shall redeem us. It shall redeem us in the wine, the blood, and the sea. It is written, the lamb shall lie down with the lion.” And then, retreating inward, he whispered, “This love, this terrible love. I carry it with me.”
Thomas could see her in him. He could see Amy in there, trapped and trying to escape, an Amy that did indeed need rescuing. He could see the scars that Sebastian had cut into his wrists and up his forearms, criss-cross patterns reminiscent of thorns.
Thomas knelt beside him, tried his best to make eye contact. “Your name is Sebastian Henri Lamiell. You are at a medical facility in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Do you understand what I am saying?”
Sebastian shook his head. “No. Not Sebastian. He has departed. He has left this body as a shell for me to inhabit.”
“If you’re not Sebastian, then who are you?”
He turned, eyes shining even more than before. “I am the Son of Man, born anew. Child of Nazareth, beloved of Mary, born of a virgin. Sent down to this hall of mirrors to suffer, to suffer this love . . . this terrible love . . .” He looked up to the small window, meshed with wire, in the wall above his desk. He went quiet, listening.
“Is someone speaking to you?” Thomas asked. “Someone right now?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“God.”
The orderly had been watching, clearly amused by what was going on. “What did I tell you, Doctor? Crazy as a loon.”
Thomas shot the orderly a withering look.
“Oh. Right,” said the orderly. “Not crazy. Reality deficient. Tomato, tomahto. Can we go now?”
Sebastian was speaking so quietly Thomas had to lean in to hear.
“Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani,” he said, voice cracking.
Thomas put his hand lightly on Sebastian’s shoulder, bones as frail as a bird’s wing denuded of feathers. She never told me. Never told me any of this. “Your sister misses you,” he said. “Please come back.”
But there was no answer. Only silence.
When Thomas and the orderly stepped into the hallway and closed the door to Sebastian’s room, Thomas exhaled with relief. “That was . . .”
“Intense?” said the orderly.
“That’s one way to put it. It’s the sheer conviction of it. The certainty of his delusions. This isn’t the occasional voice he’s hearing. It’s— It’s the core of who he is. It’s his identity. And it’s wrong. What do you think he meant by that: ‘the wine, the blood, and the sea’?”
The orderly shrugged. “Something biblical, probably. Water into wine. Wine into the blood of Christ. Three substances, same essence. That sort of thing.”
They walked back along the halls of San Hendrin under the influence of rosewood and soft music. Muffled voices behind closed doors.
“He’s not the only one, either,” said the orderly. “Place is full of ’em. We’ve got Napoleon on the fourth floor. Alexander the Great on the fifth. Roosevelt on the third. We even have another Jesus. We keep him in a separate wing, of course. Away from your friend.”
They reached a service elevator. The orderly pressed the button.
Thomas looked at him. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you separate them?”
“Our two resident Messiahs?” He laughed. “Would you want them running into each other?”
The elevator doors opened on a single ping and they stepped inside.
“Think about it,” said the orderly as they started their descent. “You figure you’re the One and Only Jesus, Lord God Almighty. Then you bump into someone else. ‘Oh, and what’s your name? Jesus, you say? What a coincidence. That’s my name, too. Where you from? The Holy Land, you say? No kidding. Born in a manger? Me, too! Wait a sec—you’re claiming you’re the Messiah? I’m the Messiah!’ Think what would happen. Everything you believed about yourself turned upside down in an instant. All your assumptions, your sense of identity. Imagine how upsetting that would be. Think what would happen.”
And it hit Thomas full force. “You’d be cured,” he said.
The orderly stepped out at the ground floor, but Thomas didn’t follow. Instead, he held the elevator back with his hand. “Take me to the other Jesus.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THEY HEARD ELI BEFORE they saw him.
“Philistines! Pharisees! You sons of whores! You vipers from Hell! Damnation is at hand! Howl! Howl!”
A wild face, full of rage. Thick black beard, streaked with a yellowing grey. Eli, blind in one eye, peering at the world through a clouded cornea.
He stared at Thomas as though he were down a long corridor. “Do I know you?!” he roared.
Eli was perched on the edge of his narrow bed, wrists in restraints, ankles secured. Late fifties, but still robust. He was yelling at Thomas at the top of his voice, even though the two of them were scarcely ten feet apart. The corners of the bedframe were padded.
“No,” Thomas said. “We haven’t met before.” He turned to the orderly, asked, “Those restraints, are they . . . ?”
“He’s secure, don’t worry. Can’t reach you.”
“Fornicators! Pharisees! The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand! Wild beasts shall cry out in their desolate homes.”
Under his breath, Thomas asked, “What’s with his eye?”
“Self-inflicted,” said the orderly, and then to Eli: “Mr. Wasser! You have company. This is”—he checked his clipboard—“Dr. Rosanoff. He would like to speak to you.”
Thomas had to stop himself from correcting the orderly, from saying, “Mr. Rosanoff. Not Dr. Not yet.”
“Howl! Howl! I have seen violence and strife in the cities! These chains cannot hold me, for I have seen the truth.
And the truth shall set me free!”
“Truth—and a higher dosage,” said the orderly with a chuckle.
Thomas took a hesitant half step nearer. “Mr. Wasser . . . May I call you Eli? I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
“The days of calamity are at hand! City against city! Brother against brother! Kingdom against king! Put on the armour of God Our Father, that you may stand against the wiles of the devil. Lucifer reigns! The souls of men are filled with a mighty darkness. There is madness in their hearts.”
“You are Eli, correct? Eli Wasser?”
“I am Christ the Lord. Son of God. And I come to you not as a lamb BUT A LION! You scribes! You worms! Howl! Howl at the judgment of Heaven Everlasting!” Then, stopping suddenly in mid-rant: “Got any smokes?”
“Pardon?”
“Smokes. Tobacco. Coffin nails. Got any? They won’t let me have cigarettes in this godforsaken place. You got some?”
“Um, no. I don’t smoke. Sorry.”
And he went instantly back to full Old Testament ire: “Then I shall smite you down! I shall rain fire upon you. Sadducees! Pharisees! You sons of whores!”
The orderly leaned in. “You still want to introduce him to our other Jesus?”
Thomas shook his head.
In the hallway outside Eli’s room, the orderly noted the time of their visit in his clipboard file. All patient activities were recorded, including visitors and incidents of “antisocial behaviour.” Thomas looked over the orderly’s shoulder: no one ever visited Eli, but the list of social transgressions was long.
“Well,” the orderly said, capping his pen. “That’s that.”
“Do you think it starts slowly?” Thomas asked. “With voices and visions. Do they gradually begin to suspect they’re someone else, or do you think it happens suddenly?”
“That, I wouldn’t know. Maybe one day the Heavens opened up. Hell of a thing, the human mind.”
“His background?”
The orderly flipped through the pages. “Homeless. Picked up by the police three months ago. Was dancing naked in Boston Common at night. Detained for evaluation. Admitted to a state hospital.”