Chapter 18
“I, will, be-come a, rock, on the, m… moon… tay—” Tibby said haltingly, reading from The Runaway Bunny.
“Mountain,” Ben corrected. “Some words are harder to sound out, huh?” His phonics education only went so far. “You kinda just have to memorise it as a whole sometimes.” He placed a finger over the ‘m’ in the word and another over the ‘ain’. “When you see ‘O-U-N-T’ it tends to be pronounced ‘ow-nt.’
“Oh! Like ‘count?’” Tibby asked.
“Exactly! And when an ‘A-I-N’ comes right after, you get ‘-ountain’ like in ‘mountain’ and ‘fountain.’”
“I get it!” Tibby said, and continued reading, his finger tracing the line. “I will become a rock on the mountain… hig…?”
“High. The ‘G-H’ is silent.”
“High… a-bow-ve—high above?—you.” Tibby sighed. “Ben, how come some words gotta have letters they don’t even use?”
“I don’t know, Tibby,” Ben said. “But you’re doing great. Wanna take a break?”
“Yeah, alright.” He snapped the book closed. “Got a headache anyway. Don’t tell nobody.”
“Are you sure? They might be able to give you something for it—” Ben suggested, and was met with a shake of Tibby’s head.
“Oh nah, they don’t help me in here,” he said. “Best thing is when they leave me alone. Nah, I can handle the headaches.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ben said, frowning.
“So, a deal’s a deal,” Tibby said, brightening up. “what kinda things did ya want to know about?”
Ben lowered his voice. “Tell me about Sam Beiderman. What’s he like?”
“Well, he don’t talk much,” Tibby began. “I try to talk to him, but sometimes it’s like he can’t even hear me. Or maybe he just doesn’t like me. I dunno.”
“Why did they put him in here?”
“Um—depression? I think.”
Ben nodded. “I see. That makes some sense. Would you say he lacks energy? Does he smile much?”
“Oh, I ain’t never seen Mister Beiderman smile,” Tibby said, then paused to think. “Well, I guess there was one time. It was only last week. A lady came—Missus Beiderman. He smiled when he saw her, but he was crying when she left.”
“His wife…” Ben recalled being asked about his wife during the grilling earlier. “He cried? Why?”
“I don’t know.” Tibby shrugged.
“Do you know her first name?”
Tibby pursed his lips as he tried to recall. “Uh… Barbara? Maybe.”
Barbara Beiderman? Yeesh.
Ben mouthed the name. “Thanks. That could be a lead.”
He drew his knees up, resting an arm on them. “Now, when Sam Beckett was here—and Al… what happened, exactly? You said something about him changing channels?”
“Oh yeah, it was kinda strange,” Tibby said. “All different people, he said he was. They talked all different. Some of ’em said they were from the future, too!”
People he’d leapt into? Ben shivered. No wonder Sam was so cagey about this whole place. But especially the electroshock room.
“So all this happened from the shock treatment?”
“I guess so. They did too much—it was the Butcher that did it. Tried to kill him.”
“The Butcher?”
“Oh, he don’t work here now,” Tibby said. “Not after that. Good riddance! He never said a nice thing to me, not once.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear he’s gone—whoever he is.”
“Me too.” Tibby shifted positions. “Hey, do you like rap music?”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “You know about rap music?”
“Well, only what Al played for me. He said it’s music from the future.”
From what little Ben could remember about Al, he found it bizarre that the old man would think to introduce rap music to the 1950s, and the thought made him laugh.
“Well, I’ll be,” came Nurse Chatam’s voice. Ben looked up, seeing her crossing the room to him. “I never thought I’d get to hear you laugh, Mister Beiderman. This is quite a turnaround—you weren’t having the best of mornings.”
Ben bit his lip. “Well, it’s a strange kind of day,” he rationalised.
She smiled down at him, offering a hand. “I think Doctor Masters would like to see you in this state. Come on.”
Ben sighed. “Alright.” He slapped Tibby on the knee. “See you later, Tibby.”
“Bye, Ben—” Tibby winced, “—I mean, Mister Beiderman…”
Ben could see Nurse Chatam catch this, before putting on a poker face as she led Ben out of the room.
* * *
Sam and Doctor Masters sat there at the table for a while, studying one another, with only the upbeat singing voice of Little Eva filling the silence.
“Well, whoever you are, you seem to be quite aware of your surroundings and sharp-minded,” Doctor Masters finally said. “Perhaps we can make some progress with you around. If you’re willing to cooperate.”
“That depends,” said Sam, frowning. “What have you been doing to treat him—me—all this time?”
Doctor Masters leaned back in his seat. “I can’t say it hasn’t been difficult,” he said, “since the electroshock treatments were contraindicated. We tried behavioral conditioning, but that was unsuccessful. As was psychotherapy, Isoniazid and Imipramine.”
“Have you tried CBT?”
Doctor Masters stared at him blankly.
Mustn’t have been invented yet, he realised. SSRIs wouldn’t be around for some time, either, he reasoned. What a bleak time to be depressed.
“Cognitive processes. Self-talk.” he said. “Sometimes people come to believe things about themselves and the world that aren’t true, and it makes them feel worse. For example, if someone keeps telling themselves they’re useless—or hears it from others, they’ll start to consider it a simple fact without questioning it. So it’s no wonder their well-being deteriorates as a result. If they can catch it when they’re being unfair to themselves, and identify that it’s a false belief, they can banish the thought, and replace it with something kinder.”
Not being a psychologist, Sam hoped he was representing the theory behind Cognitive Behavioural Therapy well enough. Well, he’d leaped into a few in his day, so the ideas weren’t entirely foreign to him.
“Huh, that’s an interesting perspective,” Doctor Masters murmured, writing down some notes.
“Have you ever heard of Aaron Beck?” Sam asked, recalling the name of the man who developed CBT.
“You mean from the University of Pennsylvania?” Doctor Masters gave him a peculiar look. “I’ve been using the Beck Depression Inventory for some months now.”
“Huh,” Sam said, scratching his chin. “Well, I think you should get in touch with him. He’s on the right track.”
Doctor Masters nodded thoughtfully. “I believe he just went into private practice… perhaps I will. But how do you know—”
“Maybe I’m a time traveller too,” Sam said, and stood from his seat. “Mind if I go to the bathroom?”
“Oh. Yes, go ahead,” he said, adjusting his glasses. Sam felt the doctor’s eyes on him as he moved to the door.
After being escorted to the bathroom, he entered and splashed water on his face, studying Sam Beiderman’s appearance in the mirror.
The face looking back seemed to be scowling at him. Was he scowling? Why would he be scowling at himself?
Your fault.
Something felt off about his reflection, so he turned his face away. Upon moving his eyes to the floor, he spotted a safety razor lying there out in the open. That wasn’t safe in a mental ward, was it?
In the interest of keeping others safe, he picked it up.
He headed for the door, intending to give the razor to the nurse, but something stopped him. For no particular reason, he felt the strong urge to hide it. And so, he wedged it under his arm before leaving the bathroom.
I’ll dispose of it safely later, he told himself.