Zach VandeZande

Lawrence was sitting on the park bench, staring straight ahead. He wondered if he was dead. He always wondered if he was dead when this happened.

A woman with a stroller went by. She smiled at Lawrence and he stared blankly ahead. He didn’t know her; he didn’t know anybody, but everyone was the same person. It was all a trick.

His doctor had been trying to trick him. He must have been the one who caused the car accident. Of course, it didn’t matter who did it because they were all one. So maybe the doctor did it and maybe the other driver did it, but to Lawrence it was just like the doctor had done it.

Lawrence wasn’t upset by any of this at the time. He was rarely upset about anything now. Even as he sat on this park bench and wondered if he was dead he wasn’t worried about being dead. He was just watching the people pass directly in front of him and thinking to himself that he should have finished chewing that bite of sandwich in his mouth.

His cell phone rang and suddenly he was free. He picked it up and answered it.

“Hi honey,” the voice said. It was his wife, but then again, it wasn’t because she was the doctor and the other driver and the woman with the stroller.

“Hi,” Lawrence said pleasantly. He had to pretend he trusted them, or him, or her.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “Did you finish your lunch?”

Lawrence started chewing again and swallowed. He looked down at his lap and saw a half-eaten sandwich with a fly buzzing around it. Somewhere this exact same thing was happening again.

“No,” he said, and he knew he should be frustrated. She called every five minutes. It must have been part of the plan. He wondered if she was putting something in his food. Oh well, it was a good sandwich, it better not go to waste.

He picked it up with his free hand and took another bite.

“Okay, honey,” the voice on the other end said, “I’ll call you back to make sure you finish.”

She hung up and Lawrence put his cell phone next to him. An old lady in sweats walked by, pumping her arms and breathing forcefully. Lawrence knew it was his doctor, and she was trying to trick him again.

He thought about getting to the bottom of it, about following his doctor around the walking track until he caught up with his doctor, who was also his wife and his neighbors and the old lady in sweats. He thought about doing this but he wasn’t that interested. The phone rang.

“Hello,” he said, knowing who it was.

“Are you finished with your lunch now?”

He wasn’t but he said, “Yes, honey.”

He got up and threw his sandwich in the trash.

“Now Lawrence,” his doctorwifeotherdriver said over the phone, “You’re supposed to go to the specialist after this, did you remember that?”

Lawrence grimaced and said bitterly into the phone, “I don’t have amnesia. Remember?”

The phone was silent. Lawrence thought it was mildly amusing that he could still say something witty after all the tricks the doctor had been pulling.

He started walking towards the specialist’s office as he heard weeping on the other end of the phone. He had to be nice, otherwise he couldn’t figure out their trick. He didn’t much care, but it was something to do.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he said apologetically. “I’m under a lot of pressure.”

He wanted to laugh again because that is what the specialist (his wife) had said last time. But he never laughed.

The specialist who was the other driver had said, “Your basal ganglia are under a lot of pressure. I’m sure it’s connected to your concussion, but we need to do more tests. I’m going to schedule another MRI, and we’ll meet up again next week, ok?”

Lawrence realized he had stopped walking and had let his arm drop. The phone was on the ground. His mouth hung open and he stood perfectly still, except for blinking and breathing and maybe his heartbeat. He wondered if he was dead. People walked past him on both sides and he watched them all go by, headed to wherever they were going, although they were probably all going to plan more tricks because they were the same person.

He couldn’t look down to see, but he thought his cell phone might be broken. He couldn’t move at all, but he didn’t much care. He thought to himself that he should pick up the cell phone. It wouldn’t happen.

Oh well, might as well enjoy the view. He watched the people coming toward him with a look of calm on his face, even though they were all plotting and they were all the doctor or his wife or whoever it really was. It wasn’t really a big deal. Finally, a big, fat version of his wife stopped in front of him and stared back. She waved in front of his face, and he liked the way her wedding ring caught the sun.

“Hey, anybody home?” she asked.

“Yes,” Lawrence said, bending over to pick up his cellphone. It didn’t look broken but the shock had turned it off.

“Are you okay?” the fat wife doctor other driver sweatpants jogger asked.

“You know I’m not,” Lawrence said flatly.

“What the hell do you mean?” she asked, slightly offended. Her upper lip curled up and she was very ugly, Lawrence decided. But he had to play along or he wouldn’t get to the bottom of it.

“Sorry, I forgot,” he said, faking a smile, “I have PAP. I don’t know what it stands for, it’s French, but it means sometimes I can’t be motivated internally. Sometimes I need outside stimulus. Thanks for snapping me out of it.”

He wasn’t thankful, but he smiled and patted her shoulder as he pushed past her. After all, she was the one who did it to him. She had done a good job faking amazement as he walked off. Lawrence would have wished he could feel something half as intensely as the fat wife doctor jogger faked feeling things, but all he could really do was think about it. It was more PAP, it made him not feel much.

Of course, that PAP was all bullshit. This was a trick; they were trying to stop him from doing… something. He wasn’t too worried about it. He didn’t want to end up stuck forever, and he had to be careful to play along or they might just end the game. Well, he wasn’t too worried about that either.

It would be frustrating if it weren’t for the tricks they were playing. He had to get to the specialist or they might freeze him forever. He had to do it just like they prodded. He was barely motivated.

He made it to the specialist’s office without another freeze, but he was becoming increasingly thoughtful about the doctor that kept passing him by and yet wanted to meet him at an office. Why not meet on the street? It’s not like anyone else will hear. He would have been anxious if he could feel anxious anymore. He thought he should be anxious. He walked up to the receptionist doctor specialist wife jogger fat lady and signed in.

“Doctor Zarkhooi will be with you in a moment,” she said pleasantly.

Whoever everyone was, they sure came up with some interesting cover names. The other doctor who was the same doctor was named Villareal.

Lawrence got stuck when he sat down in one of the chairs in the waiting room, but no one noticed because it was a waiting room. Maybe they would freeze him while he was walking across the street or getting mugged or something. That would be mildly interesting, Lawrence thought. He wasn’t allowed to drive or swim or smoke anymore.

Of course, he wasn’t sure what they were all up to, or even if they all knew they were the same person. Maybe they didn’t want him dead. The important thing was he knew, and he was going to get to the bottom of it, because there was little else he was allowed to do anymore. It was one of the only things he could do while he was stuck like this.

Lawrence thought back on the things that the doctor specialist receptionist fat wife jogger old lady had said since he woke up from that coma. There must be some connection, but he wasn’t too concerned.

The door to the office opened and Lawrence looked up. For a second he wondered why that snapped him out of his freeze, but then he realized that a door opening in a doctor’s office is a preconditioned stimulus that you need to listen.

A tall, handsome man with sharp features called Lawrence’s name. It must be Zarkhooi, Lawrence thought, but of course it was his wife and a hot dog vendor downstairs. He had to play along, though, so he got up and followed Zarkhooi-Villareal to a leather and mahogany office that doctors and lawyers tend to have.

“Have a seat,” Zarkhooi said, and Lawrence obliged. There were lots of degrees and certificates on the wall behind Zarkhooi’s desk, and Lawrence wondered how one person could earn all this and be his wife and be jogging and be overweight and be selling hot dogs. He would get to the bottom of it.

“Lawrence, I want to be completely honest with you,” Zarkhooi said as he sat down and put his elbows on his big dark desk. He was leaning forward and his fingers were tented. “I’ve really never seen a case quite like yours. Not only do you have PAP, which is pretty easily explained by the pressure put on your basal ganglia from the concussion you suffered, but you also seem to have a few other abnormalities I’d like to discuss.”

He opened up a file that contained the results of Lawrence’s latest MRI. He scanned the page for a moment and then looked up at Lawrence. There was knowledge behind his eyes, and Lawrence knew he should be especially cautious with this one, just like he was especially cautious with all of them.

“But before that,” Zarkhooi doctor wife hot dog vendor jogger fat lady said, “I’d like to ask you a question, and I want you to answer me honestly.”

Lawrence nodded, and Zarkhooi became very intense.

“Who am I,” he asked.

“You’re Dr. Zarkhooi, the guy with doctorates in psychology and neuroscience,” Lawrence lied.

“Is that who you think I am?” Zarkhooi asked. This was another trick.

“Yes.”

“Look, Lawrence, you can trust me. I don’t mean you any harm; no one means you any harm. We want to help you.” Dr. Zarkhooi’s smile was disarming and charming and a total and utter fake. Lawrence knew it. He decided to just nod and smile.

“Lawrence, I know you may be a bit anxious about PAP, and I know that it’s something that is going to take some serious getting used to. I also know that based on this MRI and your wife’s concerns, you may also be experiencing something called Fregoli syndrome. Now, please answer honestly. Who am I?”

Lawrence cringed inside, but was able to maintain his disaffected calm exterior. He was slipping. He never should have said anything to his wife; she was the doctor and Zarkhooi and the fat jogging hot dog vendor. He just thought he could trust her a little, because she looked so much like his real wife. What had happened to her? He thought he should feel sad. He decided he shouldn’t trust anyone with anything.

Dr. Zarkhooi was staring at him, waiting on a response, but he was stuck again. He didn’t trust any of him with anything, he would never trust any of him again. They were all alien, unfamiliar, and wrong.

Dr. Zarkhooi was talking, but Lawrence blocked it out. He found that everything that was not familiar could be shut out pretty easily. Nothing was familiar. None of the wife jogger doctor specialist hot dog vendor fat lady were familiar.

Maybe this is what they wanted, but he wasn’t that interested either way. Without familiar stimulus he couldn’t snap out of it. Since everything was a trick, nothing was familiar. Lawrence wondered if he was dead.