Sanity by Judy Colella (beginner reading books for adults .TXT) 📕

How far back does one go to determine the original occurrence that never should have happened, but which set in motion the string of inevitability culminating in a mountain of irony? Which was the greatest mistake? A foolish question, since life never follows only one path, but every action, motion, mistake, causes an outward-moving impact, making it impossible to discover what took a person from birth to death via the particular path that described the entirety of his life.

Looking in the mirror, Max pondered these things. He’d been about to comb his hair when he noticed the grey. A couple of strands, no more, but there they were. He’d stopped breathing for a few seconds, allowing certainty to catch up with him and bringing with it a declaration of all the ironic circumstances that were probably responsible for the timing of this change.

He had no answer. Plenty of conjectures, but would that help? He decided to settle on the only one he could accept despite it and all of the other possibilities being nothing less than cruel. He chose, then, to believe that the chemicals causing him to stay young had continued to do their job as long as he remained free of the strongest emotions. Over the years he’d experienced deep anger, yes, intense hatred, even a powerful despair that had almost stopped his heart. But never before had he experienced love. Not this kind of love. His brain had never had a reason to release whatever natural chemical, hormone, that precipitated the event labeled “falling in love.” And he now believed that this biological element, being suddenly introduced, had somehow broken down the artificial anti-aging compound. The irony was truly sickening.

He straightened, aware of a sudden ache in one shoulder. That was new, too. Anna had been gone since before sunrise. At least he didn’t have to deal with telling her what was happening. Not face-to-face. He went to his desk and took out the notepad someone had put in the drawer, realized he had nothing with which to write, and went across the hall.

A woman answered his knock, his across-the-corridor neighbor, Mrs. Fallon. He asked her nicely for a pencil or pen, and after treating him to her strong opinion about how young people these days have forgotten the elegant art of letter-writing, brought him a blue ball-point pen. She made sure he knew she wanted it back when he was done before wishing him a nice day and closing the door.

While he still could, he wrote a letter to Anna. He told her that the aging had started, and leaving out the specifics, what he was going to do about it. He said he didn’t want her to see what was about to happen to his body because he wanted her to remember him as she’d known him. He said nothing about loving her, nothing about how that love had been his undoing. And he asked her to thank everyone for him for making his last days such good ones. Time to write to them separately was simply not going to be granted, he knew, especially not if he was going to do what was necessary to carry out his final plan.

He finished the letter, folded it, and placed it on his pillow where she’d find it that night. Then changed into the most comfortable outfit he had and went downstairs. At the front desk, the receptionist greeted him with cheer in her smile.

“Is there any way to find out when they’re going to tear down the old asylum?”

“You mean Weatheridge? Sure. Hang on.” She turned to her computer and began tapping the keys with the rapidity of long practice. He was impressed. “Here – oh! This afternoon, in fact!”

“Ah. Thank you. Listen, I need to see Anna – the girl who visits me all the time?”

She gave him a knowing grin. “I sure do. How can I help?”

“Call me a – a cab so I can get to the University. I’d walk, but I’m not sure how to get there.” He hated lying. So many lies had been tossed maliciously at him throughout the years. But this wasn’t malicious. Only necessary.

“No problem. I’ll take care of it – you go wait out by the front doors. Have fun!”

“Thank you.” I hope your life turns out well. His silent good wish made, he cast a final glance around the part of The Pavilion within vision range, and left. By the time he was through the doors, his knees had begun to feel like they were solidifying.

“Money…damn.” He remembered now that if he were to take a taxi, he’d need to pay for it. A quick search of his pockets yielded eight dollars, two more in change. It had to be enough. Thank goodness Dr. Garner had given him a kind of allowance with which to purchase personal items for himself in the hospital store – soap, razors, shaving cream, things like that. He rarely spent it. Now he would spend what remained.

Ten minutes passed before the cab pulled up. In that time, Max’s hair had gone almost completely grey; he saw it in the vehicle’s window and realized he probably had less time than he’d originally thought. Once in the back seat, he closed his eyes, feeling himself shutting down by degrees. The skin of his face felt different, his hands were developing brown spots. He wondered if he’d be able to get out of the cab once they got to the asylum grounds.

“Nine-fifty,” said the driver, pulling up by the north gate. He’d had to go around a gigantic vehicle with a large, heavy crane on its front from which dangled a massive iron ball. Trucks and other vehicles associated with demolition had been parked along the street, one of which had chains coming from it that were being attached to the wrought-iron fencing.

Max paid him, ignoring the man’s look of surprise. He’d picked up a much younger passenger but was being paid by a man so old he could barely get the money out of his back pocket. “Thank you.” Max managed a smile, hoping none of his teeth would fall out.

He spared only a brief glance upward at the crumbling building as he made his way as quickly as he could to the entrance leading into the kitchens. None of the workers were on that side yet. No one stopped him. Once inside, it took almost more effort than he had left to make it upstairs to his father’s suite. On the way, he had to traverse the second floor corridor where the generator sat silent now. He started to pass the door with its one-way mirror, but paused.

Ah, there are those changes I’ve been waiting for! He gave his reflection a wink. About time, he wanted to say, but couldn’t.

He reached the next set of stairs that were navigable and pulled himself upward, using the bannister, sometimes his knees to propel him toward his goal. When at last he reached the third floor landing, the pain in his joints almost kept him from continuing. But he was used to pain, wasn’t he. And this would be the last time he’d ever have to deal with it, so he fought back and finally made it to the door that had once meant peace.

He was ready to die. Had been ready for quite a while, in fact. But Anna had happened, giving him miles he would never have traded for destination. And then Anna had inflamed his heart, giving him what he needed to find rest at last. Had she known what falling in love with her had done to him, she might have hated herself, seen herself as his murderer. But he saw it as her final and greatest gift. There was no way to explain that, really, so he hadn’t tried.

He went to the dusty bed and fell more than sat on the bare mattress. What a life he’d had! What a crazy, mad life. Unable to remain upright, he lay down, rolling onto his back, and stared at the cracked, stained ceiling. As the last thing he’d ever see it wasn’t much, but in a perverse way it reminded him of everything he was.

The light seemed to be fading now. Outside, he could hear shouts, the grinding roar of a diesel engine awakening, the squeal of something huge moving, then coming closer. He said “goodbye” in a whisper like tissue going up in a brief flame, and closed his eyes for the last time, missing the only act of violence that wasn’t meant to cause torment.

The wrecking ball slammed into the third-floor wall, collapsing the upper floors and effectively providing Max’s body, already little more than a pattern of dust, with the only resting place for him that made sense.

Nature cares nothing for the pathos of mankind. It simply carries on, doing what it has always done. Growing, changing, running through its cycles so life of every kind can continue.

People build structures and they tear them down, but the grass grows wherever it will, heedless. The old asylum has been gone for almost three years, leveled, all traces covered by flower beds, broad pools of grass and brick walkways. Benches are tastefully placed along the latter, only a large bronze sign indicating that anything else had ever been here.

Not the most popular park in the city, it does get it share of joggers, walkers. Curiosity-seekers are always disappointed by how little information is offered on the etched metal plaque: “Former Location of The Weatheridge Asylum.” Under this are a few words about when it opened, when it was evacuated and condemned, and when it was demolished to make room for Colson Park.

No one knows where that name came from. Most assume it’s the name of the designer of the park’s layout, or perhaps the landscaping company hired to beautify the space. No one understands its significance, except one. One whose heart still aches for its namesake but understands and accepts what happened.

She stares at the glow of daylight that drips from surrounding trees and illuminates flower petals and grass blades. The minor turmoil this place stirs within her is stilled by the tug on her hand of a smaller one. She looks down to her right to find huge blue-green eyes staring up at her, the expression on his sweet two-year-old features one of mild impatience.

“Mommy, can we go?”

She pulls him into a swift hug that elicits something from him that sounds like “ugh!” and releases him. Her sigh is not happy, not sad. It’s a passing breeze that ruffles the top of the boy’s hair.

“Yes, Max. We can go now.”