Henry Franks by Peter Adam Salomon Read Free Book Online Page A

PhD
St. Simons Island, Glynn County, GA
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Patient: Henry Franks
(DOB: November 19, 1992)
    Henry crossed his legs, pressing his palms into his thighs to keep from scratching. Despite the air-conditioning, sweat coated his skin. He pushed down and sighed.
    â€œThe heat index is over one hundred, Henry,” Dr. Saville said. “You don’t actually have to wear pants.”
    He looked at her and moved his hands out to the side. “You’ve seen my legs, Doctor.”
    She nodded. “Still, maybe something lighter than denim, at least?”
    Henry shrugged.
    â€œJust a thought.”
    â€œIt’ll be cooler soon.”
    â€œNovember isn’t actually soon,” she said. “How’s school?”
    He shrugged again. “It’s school.”
    â€œTwo word answers aren’t really much better than one, Henry.”
    Is my father’s name Frank Franks or are the pictures of me? But he didn’t ask that particular question out loud. If Franks isn’t my father’s real name, what’s my name? But he didn’t ask that question either.
    â€œA lot more police outside the hospital,” he said.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œThis morning. On the bus, when we drove past, it was surrounded.”
    â€œDo you always notice the hospital?”
    Henry shook his head, hiding behind his hair. “It’s big.”
    â€œDoes it bother you?”
    â€œPeople who can’t remember who they are get sent there,” he said, the words bitten off and harsh.
    â€œIs that what you’re afraid of?”
    â€œWould it help?” he asked.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œGoing there; would it help?”
    Dr. Saville tapped her pen against the pad, her head cocked to the side. “The Georgia Regional Psychiatric Hospital is for criminals who have been admitted for detention and treatment, Henry. Not for teenage boys who survived accidents.”
    â€œIt’s still big,” he said with a half-smile.
    â€œYes, it is,” she said. “Any dreams lately?”
    â€œMy dad switched the dosages around on me,” he said. “I don’t dream as much now.”
    â€œIs that a good thing?”
    â€œI miss Elizabeth,” he said and closed his eyes.
    â€œHenry?”
    â€œIn my dreams now, I don’t recognize anyone. Or any place. Like they’re not my dreams.”
    â€œMaybe they’re people and places you’ve forgotten?”
    He pressed his hands into his legs. “I don’t think so.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œThey call me Victor.”
    â€œThat’s not really your name, Henry.”
    â€œThat’s what they tell me.” He smiled and then shrugged. “How would I know?”
    â€œHave you talked to your father about any of this?”
    â€œWe don’t … well, no,” he said. “That’s not what we do.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œTalk.”
    â€œAbout this?” she asked.
    â€œAbout anything. I don’t think he likes me very much.”
    Dr. Saville’s pen stopped and she looked up at him over her notebook. “Why do you say that?”
    â€œMom died.”
    â€œThat’s it?”
    Henry wiped his eyes. “I should have died too. It’s been hard on him, I guess.”
    â€œYou lived, Henry.”
    â€œI forget what my mother looked like as soon as I stop looking at her picture, like she’s a stranger and the photo came in the frame from the store.”
    â€œPost-traumatic stress and retrograde amnesia, that’s what we’ve been working on,” Dr. Saville said. “It’s a process.”
    â€œIt’s not working.”
    â€œIt takes time.”
    â€œI can’t remember her name.”
    â€œHenry.” She stretched her hand out, resting long fingers against the arm of his chair for just a moment.
    He slammed his head back, striking the fabric with a dull thud, and then looked at her