Here's a bit of The Sound of Silence, the 5th story from my new book, "Coming Into Focus: Another Collection of Stories." It's about Andrea Bacchi, a woman committed to a mental hospital after multiple suicide attempts, stemming from her guilt over killing her own daughter in a drunk driving accident. She's visited by a strange psychiatrist who offers her a chance to leave the hospital and start a new life.
“The patient is suffering from severe PTSD. She hasn’t spoken a word since the incident.”
Dr. Wallace Porter frowned when he heard his colleague’s diagnosis. He took the manila folder from Dr. Fairchild, understanding the other psychiatrist was suitably annoyed by his presence in the facility. No one liked to be second guessed, especially by someone they’d never seen before, so he needed to tread lightly. The less feathers that got ruffled, the better chance he had of completing his mission.
The visiting physician studied the chart, long enough for anyone watching to assume he understood what it meant. Porter had no clue what to say, hoping his impressive, albeit fictional, credentials would spare him any serious scrutiny with most of the hospital staff. The words suicide watch written at the top in bright red letters were easy enough to decipher so he closed the folder before turning to his “fellow” psychiatrist.
“Selective mutism?” Porter said, tilting his head slightly. “Would you say that’s fairly common in a case like this, Dr. Fairchild?”
“What do you mean by that? Are you insinuating I somehow misdiagnosed my patient, Dr. Porter?” the staff psychiatrist said defensively.
“No, no. Not at all,” Dr. Porter replied, removing his eyeglasses and placing them in his coat pocket. “With the unusual trauma she’s suffered, I concur with your determination wholeheartedly. I was genuinely curious if you’d ever seen something like this before. It’s the first I’ve heard of it being this severe.”
“Forgive me, Doctor,” Fairchild said. “Usually when the higher-ups send someone down here, it’s a hunting expedition to find out who screwed up, where they screwed up and how badly they screwed up. I apologize. I shouldn’t have been so reactionary.”
“Quite all right. I understand perfectly,” the faux doctor stated, patting the other man on the shoulder. “Who hasn’t felt the restriction of corporate over watch and bureaucratic red tape?” He chuckled a bit for effect.
“To answer your question,” Dr. Fairchild said. “No, I’ve never seen a PTSD case where the patient is completely non-communicative for this long. Frankly, a certain level of shock after what she went through is expected but, as you know, the psyche eventually insulates and protects itself from the pain. Miss Bacchi has been here for almost 3 months and not only doesn’t she speak but she also doesn’t respond to any form of social interaction, verbal or non-verbal.”
“Is she heavily medicated?” Dr. Porter queried.
“No, nothing more than anti-depressants and a sedative to help her sleep at night,” the staff psychiatrist answered. “She displays no anxiety of any kind, no mental deterioration. She’s a model patient: does what she’s told, attends all therapy sessions, obeys every rule. She simply doesn’t engage, never utters a sound.”
“And yet she performs all other high motor skills?” Porter queried. “Walking, eating, bathroom…those sorts of things?”
“Yes. Looking at her, she seems like she doesn’t belong here. No tics, tremors, outbursts or attacks of any kind. She doesn’t act out, has no outward apparent distress at all,” the attending psychiatrist answered, gazing through the glass at his patient sitting in her room quietly eating supper. “It’s as if she’s simply not present, like she’s operating on auto-pilot. Out of all the trauma patients I’ve worked with in my career, she is the most withdrawn, most absent. Honestly, I’m at a loss as to how to reach her.”
“Listen, Dr. Fairchild. I’m not looking to step on anyone’s toes, really I’m not, but would you mind if I spoke with her?” Dr. Porter asked. “Even if I can’t help Miss Bacchi, I’m sure the interaction would be invaluable in terms of clinical experience.”
The staff psychiatrist thought for a moment, sizing up the visiting physician before sighing. “Sure, why not?” he finally said. “Couldn’t hurt, right? Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“I appreciate the professional courtesy,” Porter said, extending his hand to shake Fairchild’s.
“My pleasure, Doctor,” Fairchild replied, shaking his colleagues hand. “Say, I’m sure you get this all the time but you bear a striking resemblance to Mel Gi-”
“Yes, yes,” Dr. Porter interrupted. “Frankly, I don’t see it but I’ve heard it many times. In fact, over the years I’ve been called Dr. Braveheart, Dr. Patriot and Mad Max among other things but I drew the line at Lethal Weapon.” He chuckled for a second before adding, “Not good for a physician to have the word ‘Lethal’ in his nickname.”
Dr. Fairchild let out a hearty guffaw at the joke. “I should say not,” he added.
The two men walked from Andrea Bacchi’s room to the nurse’s station at the end of the long, beige hallway. Dr. Fairchild placed his patient’s chart back in the holder on the left side of the counter.
He turned to a short, stout, dark haired woman who looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else but in that mental health facility. “Nurse Sokalov, could you prepare one of the quiet rooms for Dr. Porter and bring Miss Bacchi in when she’s done with dinner?”
“Yes, Doctor,” the nurse replied, giving the psychiatrist a forced smile before throwing Dr. Porter a sideways glance through narrowed eyes.
“Again, I thank you for your cooperation on this, Dr. Fairchild,” the fake physician said congenially, cursing himself for being too appreciative. He wasn’t sure how accommodating the seasoned professional psychiatrist he was pretending to be would act. Would he be a bigger jerk or know enough to be diplomatic?
“Think nothing of it, Porter,” the staff doctor replied. “Say, did you know Porter was another character in a movie by your lookalike? I think it was called Payback.”
“Really?” Dr. Porter responded, feigning ignorance even though it was one of his favorites. “I’ve never seen that one.”
“You should check it out,” Fairchild said, waving while walking away. “It’s not a bad little flick.”
“Will do!” Porter yelled back to him before letting out a long, slow exhale and rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “Thank God he bought it,” he thought to himself.
Twenty minutes later, the man presenting himself as Doctor Wallace Porter sat across from Andrea Bacchi in Quiet Room 3. The unresponsive woman sat sideways on her chair, staring out the barred window which looked over the front of the facility. She seemed to be watching the billowy, white clouds as they slowly marched across the sky. The medicated woman’s breathing was steady and calm, her face sullen and dejected. Dr. Porter stood and walked into her direct line of vision, smiling down at the traumatized patient.
“Hello, Andrea,” he said with lilt in his voice. “I’m Dr. Porter. Would it be all right with you if we had a little talk?”
The catatonic woman made no visible response, continuing to look at the same point in space, her eyes glassy and unfocused.
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