Sullivan and the Lies He Heard

Do it.

"Yeah, there's a lot," Sullivan replied, making sure not to meet the guy's eye again. He wouldn't lay a hand on him, even if it meant zero eye contact for the next few hours. "We'll start at the kitchen. I'll answer any questions as we go along." Brushing past, he walked inside and away from the pile of bricks.

He got through the assessment, never looking the guy straight in the eyes. As he finally drove away, he took many relieved breaths.

He figured he'd done well, but this wasn't the end of the matter. The next day, he got called into the boss's office as soon as he arrived at James's Fire Assessment Group.

"Sullivan," Oliver James greeted. "Sorry to call you in when you're due for an early appointment, but we need to talk for a minute."

"Anything the matter?"

"Not much, but I've got feedback for you from a client you saw yesterday. The coffeehouse guy in Beckers Corners."

Client feedback? From that guy? Sullivan waited.

"He called to request that we don't send you back for the follow-up assessment next March. He wants a different assessor. I asked him why, because we'd never had serious complaints about you. He said your 'body language was hostile and unfriendly'." Oliver made air quotes.

Sullivan kept a poker face. "No idea where he came up with that. I treated him the same as any other client."

"I'd have thought so, but that's what he said." Oliver shrugged. "Forget about it. I just hope you don't mind that we're canceling your March appointment with him and sending Frank instead?"

"Fine by me. He's the customer."

Oliver grinned. "And the bastards are always right." He touched Sullivan's shoulder. "You are okay, though? In general?"

He forced a smile back. "I'm good."

"Good."

That was the end of the incident, but it spurred his search for a clinic. He couldn't afford another client complaint, and possibly jeopardize his employment.

December came. Its first Saturday was both unsettling and encouraging for Sullivan.

He and Doe were clearing the table after breakfast when he saw the kitchen suddenly begin flooding. Holding used bowls, he watched water fill the space, rising past his ankles. Yet he didn't feel the tactile sensation of water. His pants weren't getting soaked. His skin wasn't wet. There was no sound of water.

He looked over at his wife. Doe was placing the salt and pepper shakers back in the tray, with no signs of noticing anything out of the ordinary. It meant this flood couldn't be real. If it was, she'd definitely notice it too.

He must be hallucinating.

He laid the bowls back on the table. "Think I'm going to go close my eyes somewhere else."

Doe frowned at him over her shoulder. "You're okay?"

"Yeah," he replied even as he watched the water rise to knee level. "I'll just go relax in the living room."

She didn't question further. "Okay. I'll join you once I'm done here."

Sullivan left the kitchen. He saw the water around his legs, but there was no drag or rippling as he walked through it.

He went to the living room, lay on the sofa, and shut his eyes. It was as unsettling as the 'fire' in October, but it was encouraging that he had independently recognized it wasn't reality and handled it without losing his cool. He wasn't hopeless.

This sliver of self-confidence got him through hosting their friends at Christmas. It wasn't easy, being under pressure not to tip anyone off. He had to leave the room on one occasion, with Doe making excuses for him, but he got through the three days without freaking their friends out.

The new year came, and at last, he found a clinic that ticked all his boxes. It was a solely outpatient facility, it was 150 miles away in White Plains, all the shrinks had legitimate credentials, and nothing set off warning bells in him. He made a call and was booked for a preliminary screening to identify which mental health professional would be best suited to treat him.

This preliminary screening was January 17th.

On that day, with snow shaking from above and Doe holding his hand, Sullivan took his first step to getting help.

***

The preliminary screening didn't bring a diagnosis. It did, however, get him assigned to a psychiatrist called Arthur Tate; a medical doctor with calm eyes, a slow speaking pace, and gray at his temples.

For the first few sessions, Dr Tate listened more than he spoke. He asked open-ended questions and requested detailed descriptions. Doe helped Sullivan fill in blanks, added to his explanations, and gave her observations as the person who knew him best.

Dr Tate also gave several diagnostic tests and scored them. He even asked for a sketch once. Sullivan was no artist, but he did his best. The doctor considered the sketch at length. Hell, he considered everything, going as far as referring Sullivan to a hospital for a blood test and an MRI scan.

"Just to rule out anything else that might be responsible for your experiences, like a tumor or certain structural abnormalities," he explained.

The brain scan showed no tumor. At the 4th session, the diagnosis came. The word that had so far never been spoken, was then spoken.

Schizophrenia.

"It would seem," said Dr Tate in his measured way. "That you were at the prodromal stage for about a year before FEP--first episode of psychosis. There hasn't been too much time between then and you seeking help. That's good for your outlook." He smiled. "It's fantastic for your outlook that you're not resistant to being helped in the first place. Many with the same diagnosis can't, for myriad reasons, even accept that their experiences aren't normal." He sat back in his chair. "You may have questions. We'll address them first, then I'll give you an assessment to quantify how severe the symptoms are. It'll help me decide what treatment plan might be best. But the questions first. Go ahead. There's no hurry."

Sullivan didn't ask anything yet. He was still trying to keep his shoulders from slumping under the weight of that single word. Doe was beside him, as she always was. Her hand was on his thigh. Finally, he asked: "It's curable?"

"It's manageable," Dr Tate replied. "Treatment is lifelong."

Lifelong. That was a hell of a time. Sullivan's shoulders lowered farther. Doe stroked his thigh.

"That doesn't mean you'll be battling psychotic episodes constantly," Dr Tate continued. "You'll go into remission where the hallucinations and disordered thoughts go away; mostly or entirely. Some patients stay in remission for all their lives and never have another psychotic episode. Others do relapse, but they're often able to cope better than the first time. For others with severe forms, treatment gets a little trickier. But there's no reason to place you in that category until we see how you respond to the usual combination of medication and supportive discussion."

Only meds and chatting? And he'd continue living his life around other people? It sounded so...tame. Sullivan gave Dr Tate a long look. "You wouldn't try to lock me up?"

At this, Doe squeezed his thigh. It was a warning for him not to be rude, but he ignored her. So did Dr Tate. The doctor didn't even glance at her. His gaze remained on Sullivan as he made an unruffled reply.

"That's a fair question coming from someone who isn't working in my field or adjacent to it. I don't have the right to lock you up. Nobody does. You're not a criminal, and schizophrenia was deinstitutionalized decades ago. Most people are managed on an outpatient basis. When forced institutionalization does happen, it's to prevent danger to someone's safety, and is almost always temporary. Your home remains your home, Mr. Rafferty."

After eyeing the doctor awhile, he replied, "Sullivan."

"Pardon?"

"Call me Sullivan. If you like."

Dr Tate smiled. "Sullivan, then." He glanced at Doe. "And you're Doe? Interesting name."

"Blame this guy for it." She jerked her head at Sullivan. "Technically my name is Diana."

Sullivan smiled, Dr Tate chuckled, then there was a short silence. Sullivan looked down at his hands, his brief smile fading. He needed time before asking his next question.

"Why do I have this?"

"It's unclear. Sorry." Dr Tate spread his palms. "Sometimes there's a connection with smoking and recreational drug use, but sometimes there isn't. We also know there's an observed familial link. If a close family member has it, the probability increases. The risk becomes even higher with childhood trauma or serious stress during adolescence. I'd say it's the same with a lot of mental--and physical--health issues. Genes and environment both have a role."

Sullivan wondered.

Childhood trauma and adolescent stress? He'd had those in spades. But then so had Doe, and she wasn't a fucking nutjob. He hadn't used recreational drugs. None of the hard shit, anyway. Just weed in his early teens. As for the familial angle, he didn't know much about that. Not with his biological parents somewhere out there and his never having had extended family.

But then...

His father had been a strange one. Distant. Volatile. Unlike other people. And there was that one incident; a snapshot of early memory Sullivan had. He'd been 5 years old. Sitting on the rug playing with his only toy car, he'd looked up to find his dad staring at him. Just fucking staring at him with the eeriest look on his face.

"Daddy?" Sullivan had asked.

Patrick Rafferty's gaze had focused momentarily on Sullivan, then he'd rushed to his feet and out of the house. It was less than a year later that he walked out for good.

Sullivan now looked at Dr Tate. "Could be my father."

"Yes. That occurred to me at our first session when I got your childhood story."

Sullivan glanced at Doe. "Do you also think...?"

His wife nodded. "I've thought it since the night you hallucinated the fire."

Well, if all three of them thought so, it was probably the case. Sullivan looked at his hands again, his thoughts traveling through early memories of the peculiar man called Patrick Rafferty. Then his mind moved from the past to the future.

If it was true that his father had been schizophrenic and had passed on the genetic risk to him, would he himself pass it to his child if he had one?

His eyes went to Doe. She was looking at him too. There was resignation on her face. Could she see the grief in his? It would be irresponsible for him to father a child. He couldn't inflict this on someone he would love.

Dr Tate broke the long silence. "There's perhaps some comfort to be had, if you're willing to hear it."

Sullivan nodded to grant permission.

"It's only speculation, mind you. But your father's leaving may well have been because he loved you, not because he didn't."

He gave the doctor a look. "How'd you get there?"

"Sullivan, you have financial means, moments of self-awareness, and the support of a spouse who obviously loves you a great deal. Your father didn't, nor do many others with schizophrenia. When such people realize they're having breaks from sanity but can't get help, they're deeply afraid. It's often a fear of rejection or of harming loved ones. So, what do they do? They run. In some instances, they commit suicide. Going back centuries, there are cases of psychotic individuals killing themselves or abandoning loved ones for what they consider noble reasons."

He's lying, just like everyone else. You can't trust him either. Your father didn't love you. This man is a fake. He doesn't really want to help you. He wants to kill you. He poisoned the tea he gave you.

Sullivan didn't speak. Sure, his dad could have left out of love. But equally possible was that he just hadn't given a shit. Then he glanced at his half-drunk cup of tea. It tasted like plain tea. Wouldn't he have tasted poison if it was there? But some poisons were tasteless. He'd leave the rest of it undrunk, just in case.

"Give me that test," he said to Dr Tate then. "The one to know how severe I am."

"Alright. It should take about 45 minutes. That'll bring us close to the end of this session, then we'll touch on your treatment plan before we wrap up."

They went through the assessment, and he got his score. He was on the moderate side. Not the best score, but at least he wasn't severe.

Dr Tate explained every symptom descriptor on the assessment. "The only thing that puzzles me," he said in conclusion, "Is your insomnia. Sleep disruption isn't uncommon, but you say your insomnia started many years before the prodromal period."

"Yeah. Pretty much for as long as I can remember."

Dr Tate looked thoughtful, tapping his lower lip with a finger. "And you spoke to your primary care physician about it?"

Sullivan nodded. "Once life smoothed out and we got insurance, she had me see a doctor about it." He absently touched Doe's knee. "They ran tests. Even sent me to a sleep clinic for more tests. No luck. They couldn't figure out why I can't sleep. I just deal with it."

"Hmm..." Dr Tate kept tapping his lip. "It may be that the insomnia might have nothing to do with the schizophrenia. And sometimes, when there's no medical reason for insomnia, trauma-focused therapy has been able to help. Tell you what. Why don't I book you a few sessions with a trauma specialist and see what they think?"

Sullivan tensed at this. A different shrink? This broke all the promises about not tossing him somewhere else. He hadn't done all those months of research and selected this facility, only to be shoved elsewhere.

He gave Dr Tate a hard look. "You just said you could treat me with meds and talking. Why would I suddenly need to go someplace else?"

Surprisingly, the doctor smiled. "You haven't got to go somewhere else. That is, unless you mind walking down two corridors? The trauma specialist I'd like you to talk to, is a psychologist colleague of mine right here in this facility."

"Oh." As quickly as his anger had risen, it dissipated. "Oh. Okay."

"You'll have a few sessions with Dr Rouanet. It can't hurt, and it might get to the root of your insomnia. Of course, whatever you tell her would be confidential, just like with me. As for your treatment, I'll start you on ziprasidone next week after going through all the necessary information with you about the side effects. We'll have weekly sessions to assess how you're doing."

"And I'll just stay on this ziprasidone permanently?"

"You'll need to be on medication permanently, but that medication may not be ziprasidone. If it doesn't work for you, I'll change the dosage or try you on another drug. Once you're stably in remission, we can space our sessions to fortnightly. Over time, you may only need to touch base with me once a month. Until you start the medication, keep doing what you've been doing. Don't watch the news, keep stress to a minimum, and never let other people interact with your hallucinations while they're ongoing. Reality and non-reality must stay separate, as a strict rule."

***

They left Dr Tate's office soon after.

It was a silent drive back to Green Island. Although so much churned through Sullivan's head, one thing was uppermost.

He should never father a child.

Today marked the destruction of a 17-year dream.

Knowing he wouldn't be in the mood to cook, he broke the silence suggesting they get takeout. Doe agreed, without turning her gaze from the passenger window.

It turned out he wasn't in the mood to eat either. At home in the kitchen, he mechanically put the forkfuls of food in his mouth. He didn't taste it. A couple of times, he even forgot what he was eating. Sitting opposite him at the table, Doe also wasn't seeming to enjoy her meal. When she stood, half her food was still on her plate.

There wasn't much to clean up. She rinsed the few dishes they'd used while he stored the leftovers in the fridge and made his sleep-tea.

"Going to bed," he said, mug in hand.

"Okay."

"Okay," he echoed, and left her in the kitchen.

He expected her to go out to her woodshop, because the craft sometimes helped her relax. But he found as he walked in to his bedroom after showering, that she was waiting for him in his bed.

Sullivan watched her face. "It's a sleepover tonight?"

"Looks like it," she replied mildly.

He finished his routine by setting the temperature, pulling down the blinds and switching on the white noise. He got in bed with her and pulled her closer. She didn't drift off as quickly as usual. She lay quiet in his arms, breathing evenly.

He held her, staring at the ceiling. "When's it going to be?"

Doe shifted. "What?"

"The day you figure out I'm more trouble than I'm worth. When's it going to be?"

She sighed. "We've been over this several times, Sullivan. I'm not going anywhere. Not unless you ever decide you don't want me."

"Things are different now."

"Because of the children thing? Look, I won't say that it doesn't matter or that it doesn't hurt, but it doesn't make me want to walk away."

"We've wanted this for 17 years, Doe. We promised to give it to each other once the time was right. Now I flat out can't give it to you, and it's like I've broken the contract. You'd be right to walk away."

"What, we should get a divorce then I'll get knocked up by some random guy? That's meaningless. It's your child I wanted."

"And now I can't give you that. We can't risk me passing this on, so you should go off and find a--"

"No." Her voice had a sharp edge. She rose on her elbow. "It pisses me off that you're even suggesting it."

"It pisses me off that I'm the reason you won't get what you want out of life."

"What I want out of life is to be with you. I'll never forget how misunderstood I felt until I met you. Nobody wanted anything to do with a girl who stabbed someone. You were the only one who thought I was any good. I'm not walking away from that just to experience nine months of puking and getting fat."

Sullivan moved his hands up her body. "You want to be a mother, Doe. I know you do."

"Yeah. I do. But I don't have to get pregnant to be a mother. What kind of kids were we Sullivan?"

He closed his eyes. "System kids," he muttered.

"Exactly. We needed to be safe and understood, but we never got that. Kids like we were, they're still out there. We could be the parents they need."

He spread a hand across her flat stomach. "You've always wanted--"

"So what? I can't have it with you, so screw it. I'll have something more important instead. There's nothing noble about insemination and gestation. We're living proof of that. Any dumb animal can reproduce. The real work is what comes after, and we can do that work for kids going through what we did." She touched his face. "We'd make incredible foster parents. Or adoptive parents. Both. As many as this house can hold."

He didn't answer; trying his best to believe that she truly would be satisfied giving up this much for him.

"Accept this." Her lips found his. "Quit making me prove myself. Accept me."

He was trying. He really was trying. It would take time to accept it in his head, but for now, he could accept it in practice. "We'll foster on one condition."

"Which is?"

"Marry me."

Her lips moved against his, curving into a smile. For the first time since yesterday, there was amusement in her voice. "I've already married you."

He smiled back. "Do it again."

"Hmm, well..." She ran a finger down his bicep. "Are you going to be the hunk in the suit?"

"If you're the bombshell in the dress."

"Then I'll marry you. And cut it out about us splitting up."

"I'll try."

"Try hard." She planted a last kiss on him, then settled back in bed. "Let's get a little sleep."

***

His session with the trauma specialist was a few days later; February 24th, and a weekday afternoon. For this reason, he called in sick to meet the appointment. He hadn't disclosed his diagnosis to Oliver James, and didn't intend to. There was no need--it hadn't impacted his work performance in a major way, and he'd keep it that way.