pounds since her husband had died.
“We’ve been able to identify you,” said Doctor Hitchcock. “Your name is Langdon Webster.”
I don’t know why, but I exploded, saying strange things, my body writhing as I spoke, “Xiphi elphege alcid vaccarressi flora.”
“He’s having a seizure,” said Doctor Hitchcock.
“He’s trying not to feel, not to remember,” said Doctor Thatcher.
“He’s speaking in tongues,” said Nurse Wilder. “Langdon? Langdon?”
“Don’t you call me Langdon.” I was suddenly clear in my speech, if not my thinking. “That’s the dead boy. He’s not me. Understand? I’m him. We’re me. He’s us.”
“He’s going to need more therapy,” said Doctor Thatcher.
“For now, let’s make do with information,” said Doctor Hitchcock sarcastically. “Your father, a gentleman named Joseph Webster, reported you missing as a possible runaway five years ago when you were seven years old.”
“Is my father going to come and get me?” I asked.
“Mister Webster is not in, how shall I say, a financial position to support a young boy,” said Doctor Hitchcock.
“The plain fact is your father is an old hippie from the 1960s, a drifter, an alcoholic, and possibly a drug addict,” said Nurse Wilder. “It’s a shame that he’s going to be allowed to claim you.”
I tried to picture this father in my mind, but couldn’t.
“Nurse Wilder is right,” said Doctor Thatcher. “But, to give the devil his due, your father has vowed to start a new life now that you’ve been found. He’s coming to get you.”
At that point, something dawned on me. “And my mother?” I blurted out.
Nurse Wilder dabbed at a tear, and I felt a shudder pass through me. Doctor Thatcher said, “I’m afraid that the whereabouts of your mother are unknown.”
That night I couldn’t sleep, and Nurse Wilder prayed over me. I tried to join her, but I couldn’t get the words out. I just babbled, “Xiphi, exlibo, sanskrew, lyxpyks.” After she left, I switched on my television. Just when I was dozing off, a white light filled the room, and the boy in the iridescent space suit who I had seen the first day out of the swamp appeared on the TV screen.
“Now I know who you are. You’re my guardian angel,” I said.
“That is correct. I’m an angel.”
“Help me.”
“I’m afraid that my abilities in this world are severely limited.”
“Is it true that there are three persons in one God?”
“At least three.”
Maybe there were four-headed and five-headed gods. Too many to deal with. I changed the subject. “What is your name?”
“My name is Langdon.”
“They say my name is Langdon.”
“No, Langdon is the dead boy, and I am his spirit.”
“I want. . . .”
“I know what you want. I can read your mind. You want to feel your mother’s arms around you.”
“I can’t. . . . I don’t know. I have a need, an empty.” I couldn’t translate my deep feelings into English; I was choking on my own words. Langdon helped.
“I will tell you this: there is such a thing as the search for truth. Truth is what you seek.”
The search for truth: I thought that was about the most noble idea I’d heard since coming out of the muck.
“Where is my mother?”
“Not today. That is not on today’s list of things to say. Today I will inoculate you with your, with your, with your. . . . Oh, oh, stuck-record syndrome. Your name. My name. Our name. His name. The dead boy . . . the dead boy . . . the dead . . . Scratch . . . Scratch . . . Web . . . Web . . . Web.”
I opened my eyes, the program was back on the screen, my guardian angel was gone, I was alone, awake, ignorant as ever.
The next morning I was released into the custody of my father. Nurse Wilder made me sit in a wheelchair, even though I didn’t need one. I was a little embarrassed, but I have to say I enjoyed the ride down the hall, to the elevator, into the lobby, and out into the open air. In the
“We’ve been able to identify you,” said Doctor Hitchcock. “Your name is Langdon Webster.”
I don’t know why, but I exploded, saying strange things, my body writhing as I spoke, “Xiphi elphege alcid vaccarressi flora.”
“He’s having a seizure,” said Doctor Hitchcock.
“He’s trying not to feel, not to remember,” said Doctor Thatcher.
“He’s speaking in tongues,” said Nurse Wilder. “Langdon? Langdon?”
“Don’t you call me Langdon.” I was suddenly clear in my speech, if not my thinking. “That’s the dead boy. He’s not me. Understand? I’m him. We’re me. He’s us.”
“He’s going to need more therapy,” said Doctor Thatcher.
“For now, let’s make do with information,” said Doctor Hitchcock sarcastically. “Your father, a gentleman named Joseph Webster, reported you missing as a possible runaway five years ago when you were seven years old.”
“Is my father going to come and get me?” I asked.
“Mister Webster is not in, how shall I say, a financial position to support a young boy,” said Doctor Hitchcock.
“The plain fact is your father is an old hippie from the 1960s, a drifter, an alcoholic, and possibly a drug addict,” said Nurse Wilder. “It’s a shame that he’s going to be allowed to claim you.”
I tried to picture this father in my mind, but couldn’t.
“Nurse Wilder is right,” said Doctor Thatcher. “But, to give the devil his due, your father has vowed to start a new life now that you’ve been found. He’s coming to get you.”
At that point, something dawned on me. “And my mother?” I blurted out.
Nurse Wilder dabbed at a tear, and I felt a shudder pass through me. Doctor Thatcher said, “I’m afraid that the whereabouts of your mother are unknown.”
That night I couldn’t sleep, and Nurse Wilder prayed over me. I tried to join her, but I couldn’t get the words out. I just babbled, “Xiphi, exlibo, sanskrew, lyxpyks.” After she left, I switched on my television. Just when I was dozing off, a white light filled the room, and the boy in the iridescent space suit who I had seen the first day out of the swamp appeared on the TV screen.
“Now I know who you are. You’re my guardian angel,” I said.
“That is correct. I’m an angel.”
“Help me.”
“I’m afraid that my abilities in this world are severely limited.”
“Is it true that there are three persons in one God?”
“At least three.”
Maybe there were four-headed and five-headed gods. Too many to deal with. I changed the subject. “What is your name?”
“My name is Langdon.”
“They say my name is Langdon.”
“No, Langdon is the dead boy, and I am his spirit.”
“I want. . . .”
“I know what you want. I can read your mind. You want to feel your mother’s arms around you.”
“I can’t. . . . I don’t know. I have a need, an empty.” I couldn’t translate my deep feelings into English; I was choking on my own words. Langdon helped.
“I will tell you this: there is such a thing as the search for truth. Truth is what you seek.”
The search for truth: I thought that was about the most noble idea I’d heard since coming out of the muck.
“Where is my mother?”
“Not today. That is not on today’s list of things to say. Today I will inoculate you with your, with your, with your. . . . Oh, oh, stuck-record syndrome. Your name. My name. Our name. His name. The dead boy . . . the dead boy . . . the dead . . . Scratch . . . Scratch . . . Web . . . Web . . . Web.”
I opened my eyes, the program was back on the screen, my guardian angel was gone, I was alone, awake, ignorant as ever.
The next morning I was released into the custody of my father. Nurse Wilder made me sit in a wheelchair, even though I didn’t need one. I was a little embarrassed, but I have to say I enjoyed the ride down the hall, to the elevator, into the lobby, and out into the open air. In the
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