The Fifty-Seven Lives of Alex Wayfare Read Online Free PDF Page B

I’ve told Dr Farrow everything, after I’ve drained myself until I’m nothing but a collapsed vessel on her couch, she removes her glasses. She sets her notepad and pencil aside.
    â€œSo. Alex. Here’s what I see.” She leans forward with folded hands. Her nails are glossy and cream-colored. They match her pumps. “I don’t believe your visions are a product of an attention seeking disorder, like I originally thought when I looked at your file. Your ongoing attempts to isolate yourself from social situations rule that out. A social phobia of some sort crossed my mind, because those can trigger psychotic episodes in extreme cases. But you’re perfectly capable of going out in public, going to school, talking to strangers like me without a drop of sweat or anxiety. The only time you demonstrated anxiety during this session was right before you told me about your visions. Your palms became sweaty. You were fidgety. You held your breath. But that’s a typical reaction when one is about to divulge a secret they’ve been holding onto for so long.”
    She sits up and straightens her back. I wait for answers. She remains silent, watching me.
    â€œSo?” I say. “What’s wrong with me?” I push my glasses up my nose with my knuckle. AIDA’s founder continues to stare down at me from his portrait, a condescending look in his two-dimensional eyes. Something about his expression makes me feel uneasy, crazy even, and I look away from him, pulling my sleeves down over my wrists tighter than before.
    Dr Farrow’s coral lips form a straight line. Her brow creases. She opens her mouth to reply, but closes it again.
    Heat spreads across my skin. “You think I have schizophrenia, don’t you?”
    She lifts her hands. “I didn’t say that.”
    â€œGood, because I don’t. I read all about it. Not all the symptoms match. I’m not emotionally distant. I joke. I laugh. I can express ideas in a coherent, organized manner. I don’t think the government is out to kill me.”
    â€œThat’s true. And yet you’re experiencing extremely vivid hallucinations. You are unable to differentiate whether they are real or unreal.”
    I start to shake. I fist my hands at my sides. There is a film of sickly, sweaty heat coating me beneath my sweater and cords. It clings to me like plastic wrap. Epilepsy was bad enough. I can’t have the kids at school thinking I have schizophrenia. Not to mention Mom.
    I cock the pistol and fire all my burning questions at Dr Farrow. “If they aren’t real, then why do I have a scar on my chin? Why did I get seasick just by sitting in a Sunday School classroom? Why did I feel like I was starving after Jamestown? How can my visions show me things that really happened in history, before I even learn about them?”
    She shrugs one bony shoulder. “You probably retained the knowledge subconsciously. You saw an advertisement, heard a song, saw a heading in a newspaper. Things like that can stick in our subconscious minds without us being aware of it. Seems like I remember something about the Starving Time in Jamestown, though I can’t place where I heard about it. So even though I never officially learned about it, it’s there, in my subconscious.” She leans forward again, her elbows on her knees. “Alex, I’m not saying you have schizophrenia. I’m not saying you have anything. All I’m saying is that I’d like to continue meeting with you. I want to know more about your visions. I’d like to dig deeper. And then, later, if I think it necessary, I might run a few tests.”
    â€œWhat kinds of tests?”
    â€œMental acuity. Possibly a few brain scans.”
    I shake my head. How long will all that take? “Isn’t there some kind of pill you can give me? Something that will stop the visions? Just so I can get through a normal day at school?”
    The