Chapter 9

Benito puts his hands around me and helps me to sit.

I hold my head in my hands.

He waits, patiently, while I compose myself.

Finally, I am ready.

I look up.

“Benito?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to the park?”

“Nothing happened to the park. Memorial Park is still where it has always been.”

“Where am I?”

“What do you see?”

“I see a room with wood-panelled walls. And books, lots of books. I see drawings on the walls – children’s drawings. I see you and me sitting on a leather couch. I see a desk in the corner with a computer and some photos in frames. I can’t see the photos from here.”

“That’s good. That’s what I see, too.”

“I thought you were blind.”

“That was your idea, not mine. The mind is an amazing thing. It fills in the blanks. It creates fictions to cover gaps in the reality that it sees. I couldn’t see what you could see so your subconscious decided that I must be blind. A perfectly logical deduction but based on a flawed premise.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You were lost. You’ve been stuck for a very long time. You were only seeing what your mind would allow you to see. You were living that one Thursday afternoon over and over again – stuck in one endless loop of time. It was time for you get unstuck.”

“You were helping me?”

“That’s what I do. I help people who are lost. It’s something I’m good at.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I’m a father. Sometimes I’m a son. Sometimes I’m an amateur sketch artist. My life is very varied. But today I’m a doctor. And today you are my patient. And together we are going to get you well enough to leave here.”

“Is this a hospital?”

“Yes.”

“I still don’t understand. How did I get from the park to here?”

“You’ve been here all the time.”

“But you were there – in the park.”

“I inserted myself into your world. It was the only way I could invite you back into ours. You wouldn’t have seen me unless you were ready to come back. You even made extra time in your repeating cycle so you could talk to me. Both of those things told me your delusion was breaking down and you were ready to come home.”

“But I met your daughter. Did I meet your daughter?”

“Gianna was visiting me here that afternoon – it was a Saturday so there was no school. She wasn’t going to be with us in the room but they brought you down from the ward early and you could see her. It was very unorthodox for me to include Gianna, but the way you reacted to her was very revealing. So I had her come back the next day and you spoke to her in a way you would never have spoken to me. You put your arm around her and she brought out the father in you. Unorthodox, very unorthodox, but gratifyingly successful.”

“Gianna is so full of life. She reminds me of...”

“I can believe that.”

“That was my Annabelle in the fountain, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.”

“She’s dead, isn’t she? My Annabelle is dead?”

“Yes, she is. I am so sorry.”

I cry out in despair.

There is silence for a moment as I sit with my head in my hands. Then he speaks quietly.

“It’s like taking off a band-aid. There is always some pain when it comes off. Your wound is not healed – not fully. You will always carry the scar. But the band-aid has done its job.”

“What?”

“It’s time to start living again, Edward Richardson.”