The Reflection by Hugo Wilcken Read Free Book Online

about, apart from the receptionist, when normally there was a constant to-and-fro in places like these. As if to contradict my thoughts, a woman suddenly walked in from behind the receptionist’s desk, crossed the atrium, and went out the front door. For a bizarre moment I’d thought she was Abby, although on second glance the resemblance was quite superficial. In the couple of days since I’d learned of Abby’s death, I’d already had this experience once or twice. I’d had it with former patients as well—mistakenly thinking I’d seen them on the street. As though actors from my past were continually coming back in different form.
    “Dr. Manne? I’m afraid I can’t get hold of the resident doctor at the moment. He’s probably gone to dinner. I’m not really supposed to disturb him after six-thirty unless it’s an emergency. Is this an emergency?”
    “No. But I’d like to see my patient.”
    “Well … the normal practice is to make an appointment beforehand … perhaps I could fix a time for you to see Mr. Esterhazy tomorrow?”
    I was regretting saying it wasn’t an emergency. I’d committed Esterhazy for forty-eight hours, and by tomorrow morning he’d either be gone, or no longer under my care.
    “I appreciate that this is unusual, but I would like to exercise my right to see my patient. You can check Mr. Esterhazy’s records to verify that he was committed by me.”
    “I’ll have to wait until I can get hold of the resident …”
    I shook my head. “Under the committal procedures of this state, I have the right to see my patient when I wish. If you won’t allow me that—right now—then I’m afraid I’ll have to take your name and refer the matter to the authorities …”
    I’d badly flustered him. I’d been doubly lucky to find the resident absent, and an inexperienced receptionist. He picked up the phone receiver and murmured into it. Within a minute a nurse had appeared. I signed a form and was then led down a long corridor to an elevator. As we walked, I continued to look around, astonished at how perfect everything seemed, when usually these places were so shabby. Surfaces had a high sheen. A sumptuous vase of flowers sat on a corner table—more Madison Avenue advertising agency than psychiatric ward. The nurse too was immaculately groomed, as if she’d just stepped out of a makeup department.
    We rode the elevator, walked down another pristine corridor, and then the nurse said: “This is Mr. Esterhazy’s room.”
    There was only one bed. The man lying on it was tall and wiry, with thick black hair. The man I’d committed had been tall and wiry, with thick black hair. And yet I wasn’t sure, he looked different in some way. I was about to call in the nurse when he propped himself up and said: “Dr. Manne! Thank God you’ve come!”
    I continued looking at him wordlessly. A chart was hanging off the end of his bed. I unhooked it. Marked at the top was “ ESTERHAZY, PETER .”
    The man seemed perplexed by my silence. “Don’t you know who I am? Downtown apartment. The woman there. Pretended to be my wife. Then they took me here.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Smith. You remember me, don’t you?”
    A dizziness swept over me. I was staring into myself, full-length in a huge mirror hanging by the bed.
    “They’ve drugged me. You’ve got to get me out of here, Doctor.”
    I squinted at the chart again. For a few seconds, the letters refused to form words. I shook my head and everything became clear again. The nurse had noted what he’d been given—heavy doses of sedatives. He’d spent the best part of the past two days under sedation, brought around for meals, then put under again.
    “When was the last time they gave you pills?”
    “Just before you came. You’ll help me, won’t you, Doctor?”
    I could already see the sedatives taking effect—his voice slurring, the effort he was making to keep himself vaguely upright.
    “Yes,” I said finally.