Faith

The first rays weave through the misty air, spreading out into different colors. A deep purple briefly accentuates the pale, nude corpse overlooking the thoroughfare just as a car approaches. It slows to a stop on the side of the road and a suited man steps out, walks to the median and looks up. He gazes for quite some time at the corpse and then glances to the billboard by the roadside advertising Community Church off Goodacre Ct. with an accompanying quote: “Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours. Mark 11:24.” On the overpass wall, spray paint spells out “Have Faith” in shaky letters that are almost illegible. The man gets back in his Civic and continues his drive beyond Suicide Pass.

***

“Good morning, Susana, how are you today?” asks the suited man as he stands up from his wooden armchair with loose pinstripes billowing about as if there is only a skeleton beneath. Deep cheek depressions suck in even further as he continues, “Please, have a seat on the recliner,” raising his arm to point towards a button-tufted black lounge chair.

“Have you ever wanted to make graffiti on the sides of overpasses?” ponders the girl out loud as she lays out on the examining lounger facing the dusty fan overhead. The shaky right hand’s veins fade into the shadows of the draping sleeves as his outstretched hand is lowered.

The wooden chair squeaks as he reaches towards the neighboring coffee table and grabs a steno pad. He pulls an elegant ballpoint pen from his breast pocket and adds some perfected cursive strokes under the page title, “Susana.” After a minute, he proceeds: “I cannot say that I have. What makes you ask? Do you want to create graffiti?”

Susana chuckles mirthfully, still looking up at the fan. “We’ve known each other for a while Dr. G. I would’ve thought you’d know from my file…yeah, I’m the grand artiste S. J.”

She continues before Dr. G finishes his penmanship, “Big Bird is just so inspirational, you know? He’s like my idol. You see, doc, I was probably molested as a kid or something. Maybe it was Uncle Jerry with his scheming grin and blackened teeth. He always looked at me funny when he was close enough for the stench of prostitutes’ dumpster perfumes to overwhelm me. But Big Bird was always there for me, a whole barrel of fluff just waiting for me to pay it forward and rape the cookie monster. I’d eat all his cookies. I bet he’s nice and warm with chocolate goodness where the genitalia would be. Instead of bush he’s have sugar dust that I’d lick until it ripped off into my mouth. I can taste the delightful sweetness on my tongue right now. Mmmmm,” she moans with diminishing volume until all that is heard is the scratching sound of the scrawling pen filling the lull.

Dr. G replies with a lack of inflection, though with considerably less cheer than his initial greeting, “Well it appears you are fantasizing things in order to vent emotion from traumatic experiences. Would you care to share more of your past if it is not too painful?”

There is another pause, this time devoid of sound as the pen is waiting just above the paper, twitching occasionally between bony fingers that clench the smooth barrel. Then Susana jumps up off the lounger and exclaims, “I’ve got it! I’ll tie off the arch with my rope. Oh, you should see it: it’s so beautiful with kaleidoscope strands veering off in every direction. You ever had dream visions doc? Like a dream that you could just tell was predicting your future. An unescapable destiny. Well I had one once, and my rope snapped, sending me plummeting to death. But the last thing I saw before waking up was a web of rainbow threads flowing above me in the final moment of light.” She is clutching her hands together in glee just above her sternum, arms pressing into her breasts for a fullness of delight. After a moment of reveling, she spurts out a rushed “thanks doc” and dashes out of the door.

Dr. G picks up a corded phone from the coffee table and punches in three numbers. But then he hesistates, clicks the reset and punches in ten numbers.

“Hi honey, I need you to try to get a state permit to hold a patient, Susana Jassin…Yes, I cannot do anything until I get the permit…Goodbye dear, and do hurry.” As he hangs up, he glances up to see his new receptionist standing in the doorway. “Ah yes, Christina, how are you liking your first week? Is there anything I can do for you?”

Flustered, Christina says quickly, “Oh I like it here Mr., sorry, Dr. Gibbard. Actually, I was just wondering what we’re supposed to do with patients like your last one. Am I supposed to call security?” Her inflection on ‘security’ implied that she thought they should call security.

With some deliberation, Dr. Gibbard replied, “Well, not exactly. As it turns out, new legislation has downgraded our intensive mental care ward to essentially a walk-in clinic. So we cannot hold patients unless we obtain a permit from the state. This is the first time Susana has expressed suicidal thoughts, so I did not have a permit filed already, which means there is a two week grace period where we cannot do anything except hope she makes her appointments.”

Stupefied, Christina says, “Wow, I thought this ward was the crux of psychiatric care for the state. Huh, well is Jules, sorry, Mrs. Gibbard getting the permit already or should I file for one?”

“Jules is great, Christina,” replies Dr. Gibbard with a hint of lightheartedness. “She is already filing for a permit though. We have been doing this together for many years. So for now, just focus on the other patients.”

*****

As Dr. Gibbard’s car rattles to a stop in a pillow of exhaust fumes, two hooded teens step back from a sobbing girl next to a decrepit apartment complex. He rushes out of the car and yells, “Hey! Get away from her, Jackson and Albert!”

They flip him off and spit on the ground in front of the staircase before trotting off as Dr. Gibbard comes up to the girl. “Did they hurt you, Eliza?”

Quivering eyes glance up in between a pair of sobs. “No Dr. G, they didn’t hurt,” she stutters with a sniffled pause, “me today. They just took all my bus money momma gave me for the week.”

Dr. G glares down the street to the corner where Jackson and Albert had been looking on and yells, “Leave before I call your parole officers again! And I expect you both to come see me at least once this week at the school outreach session. Now scram!” Turning back to Eliza, he gives her some change and says, “That ought to cover it. Now let us go find your momma.”

Dr. G holds Eliza’s dainty hand in his as they go up the crumbling staircase and strain to open the corroded steel door. He escorts her to her mother in the apartment with no door and an open window that still has rolling clouds of smoke wafting about the ceiling. “Ms. DeCorte, I wish you would quit that smoking habit, at least when Eliza is around.”

A crackled voice calls back through the haze, “Oh lay off, Dr. G, Imma be quitin next week like I tole ya las week.” Dr. G shakes his head solemnly as Eliza runs in. He heads upstairs.

“Hello Benjie, I filed for the permit this afternoon. How were the rest of your appointments?” greets Mrs. Gibbard, setting down her watering pail, as Dr. Gibbard shimmies through the narrow doorway.

“Not good, dear,” Benjie responds curtly but with some weight to his words. “I do not think I can help mankind anymore. I used to think I had the power to make a difference but now, well, I am not given enough time with these patients. I had one today who left after a mere ten minutes,” he says with a sad tinge towards the end.

Mrs. Gibbard bends over delicately, her back contorting into an ellipse with pulses of navy pushing against the sagging flesh below her dress. She picks up her pail with a wince and tips a bit of water out onto a bonsai tree in a shower of drops through the circular holes. “You know, we have had this tree for forty-seven years. It was our wedding gift from the Hubberts. There were years I thought it was a goner, but it always came back strong with just a little care and attention.” She sets the pail down next to the tree before standing back up and starting to pluck off the dead leaves. “You have to remove the dead parts before new life can take hold.”

“I have always found that tree rather ugly myself,” Benjie responds with some indifference.

Mrs. Gibbard frowns at Benjie and shakes her head in disappointment before turning back to plucking leaves. “Benjie, dear, it isn’t about how pretty the tree is. Our baby has suffered countless broken pots and hostile living environments in this rough neighborhood. But yet, she remains beautiful, and has inspired so many others. Why, Ms. DeCorte got one just last month. I believe in our tree; she may not be as dazzling as a rose, but her story is more moving than all the roses in the world.”

Benjie wraps his arms around her from behind and kisses her cheek as his hands temporarily cease their trembling. “I have always adored you for that darling. You make me want to believe in things, in people, and,” he chuckles, “in trees. Thank you.”

***

Sometime before the rainbows waltz their reflections across the pale corpse, Dr. Gibbard wakes up in a fright and shakes Mrs. Gibbard lightly. “Are you awake dear?” He shakes her again lightly, adding, “Your skin is awfully cold, and clammy!” raising his voice in alarm. He rolls her from her side to being face up to find a gaping mouth wrapped in icy lips. Dr. Gibbard places two fingers on the side of her still neck and then grabs the phone and punches in three numbers. “647 E. Courtway. Please hurry,” he barely manages to get out before collapsing on the bed in uncontrollable sobs.

***

“Oh! Hello Dr. Gibbard, I was worried about you,” Christina exclaims as he walks past the reception desk towards his office. “You haven’t been here for three days. Why didn’t you return any of my calls? Is everything all right?” Before Dr. Gibbard could respond, she adds with haste, “I rescheduled most of the clients but Susana has been here every day during her slot. She is in there right now, but there is only a couple minutes left.”

The depressions in Dr. Gibbard’s cheeks are even more pronounced by the dark grooves rippling down from above, scars from sleepless nights. They liven up with a slight flush as he somberly says, “Thank you Christina.”

Walking into his office, Susana is sitting straight as though a board were strapped to her back. Her knee is bouncing up and down just past the edge of a polka-dot mini-skirt, which is shimmied back down her leg intermittently by a pair of restless hands that tap her lap in between.

“Cocaine and babies mix really well together,” she starts energetically, not even looking at Dr. Gibbard who is just taking his creaky seat. She is looking just to the right of his shoulder through the window out onto the network of roads like a snowflake with one line extending beyond sight past the rim of the city to the projects through the archway of Suicide Pass. “Ordinarily they are just snobby brats whining about everything, but with a little cocaine in ‘em, they shut right up. Hell, sometimes they don’t even whine again…or really make any sound come to think of it. At least that’s how it was when I was in the shitter the other day.”

Taking advantage of her drift into thought, Dr. Gibbard prompts, “So you imagine giving these babies cocaine then?” He then waits with his finger trembling more than usual in his bony clench. The fingers slip every now and then with the pen falling onto the steno pad. After picking it up a third time with no response, he asks, “Can we return to something you expressed at the end of our last session? Can you elaborate more on the kaleidoscope rope?”

Snapping her head to focus on Dr. Gibbard’s, she replies with enthusiasm, “I saw a delightful corpse yesterday! The police put their yellow tape all over it and left it sitting there on the overpass, legs still drifting about in the wind. Quite delightful, really! Oops, it’s eleven, my appointment is up. See you tomorrow doc!”

***

At the end of the day, Dr. Gibbard drives through the city from the clinic to the edge of the snowflake. He looks out at the lofty “Golden Hills” overlooking the glistening central lake, with towering mansions and large walls surrounding the castle-like community. He mumbles to himself, “hmmm, I wonder if Christina likes it there.” He turns his look back to the road.

As he approaches Suicide Pass, he pulls to the side of the thoroughfare and walks to the median. Looking up, he is surprised to see that the pale body has changed shape. Its chest is now more rounded and pronounced with no more feeble stick around the now-public privates. Long amber hair wisps about in the breeze, revealing a kaleidoscope cord beneath. This corpse looks more somber than its predecessor with the head bobbed downward. The “Have Faith” mantra of Suicide Pass is now accompanied by a couple detailed yellow feathers drawn into the shape of an ‘S’ and a ‘J’.

Sirens interrupt the monotonous whirrs from passing cars. A door slams and an officer walks up to Dr. Gibbard shaking his head back and forth and booming out, “Afternoon sir. Do you know this lady?”

Dr. Gibbard does not avert attention from the corpse while replying, “Susana Jassin. I was her psychiatrist. You can reach me through the state mental ward if you need more details. Ask for Dr. Gibbard. But I must be off now,” he asserts with a pause to glance at the badge, “Officer Smith. Good day to you, sir.” As he heads towards the Civic, he notices the quote on the Community Church billboard changed: “Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see. Hebrews 11:1.”

The officer looks on in shock as Dr. Gibbard walks away. He mumbles to himself, “Damn. Helluva job he did.”

***

He folds the microfiber cloth and sets it lightly in the case. He slides his left hand along the barrel of a Remington revolver, laid on top of his pressed, pinstriped legs. Fixated on his reflection, he fumbles about with his right hand in the case before latching onto a bullet. He places it in one of the chambers and flicks the cylinder into place. Cocking the hammer, the gun shakes its way toward the roof of his mouth.

The telephone buzzes. He slides a finger pad onto the trigger as it goes off again. Relenting, he pulls the gun out and grabs the phone from the nightstand. “Hello?” he asks without inflection.

“Hello Dr. Gibbard, I must have missed you this afternoon on your way out of the office.” He sets down the phone on the bed as it is on speaker from his last call. “I just wanted to let you know that Jason, your four o’clock, actually cancelled so you didn’t miss any appointments. Apparently the state ward has deemed him to have a clean bill of health! They told me to pass the good news along to you and to congratulate you on their behalf for a job well done,” she says with youthful energy.

“Thank you Christina,” Dr. Gibbard replies, keeping his gaze on the cocked hammer. Perking up, he adds, “Keep successes like that in mind: you can always make a difference. You just have to believe that you can and do everything in your power to see it through. I believe in you, Christina. Keep at your studies and soon you will be a better psychiatrist than I ever was.”

After a giddy laugh, Christina responds with a chuckle, “There’s no way I could ever be as great or impactful as you!” She cheerfully adds, “Well I won’t disturb your night any more. Say hi to Jules for me!”

Dr. Gibbard assures her, “I will,” just as the long beep sounds. Setting the phone on the bed with its persistent beep, Dr. Gibbard picks up the revolver and brings it to the roof of his mouth again. His finger stops shaking just long enough to pull the trigger.