Lisa Hoffman and Charles Atkins

Published 8/31/200

Lisa writes:

It’s two a.m. and I’m scared out of my wits. Let me explain, I don’t usually read mystery and horror stories, but as a favor to Charlie I’m proofing his latest manuscript, which is in its final stage before publication next month. So I’m snuggled under the covers, I’ve got my bonbons, my pillows and my teddy tiger and am ready for a nice read before bed.

As I turn the first pages, my fingers start to shake and I become increasingly frightened. What kind of person wrote this? Who is Charlie? I thought I knew him, but now I find myself in a story that scares the heck out of me. In the light of day, he seems so nice, so caring, but what if that’s an act? What if he’s really a monster like the psychiatrist villain in his book? After all, he always says, "Write what you know". As I read on, my thoughts spin. I hear a noise from my front hall, I shout out, "who’s there?" "Who is it?" I clutch my blankets while looking for a weapon to clobber the killer psychiatrist who most certainly lurks in my hallway. Then another thought hits, whenever Charlie comes for our weekly writing sessions he opens the door and shouts "Hola". He says he’s studying Spanish, but what if it stands for something else. But what? Let me think . . . "H…O…L…A". Oh, no! What if it’s code, perhaps for Heinous Old Lady Assassin?

I try to focus as his villain uses a paralyzed patient in the Intensive Care Unit as a guinea pig for a drug he’s developing. Such a thing couldn’t happen, could it? I think about my own time in the hospital, much of it I can’t remember; what were they doing to me? I push the book aside, wondering how high my blood pressure has gotten, and turn to a short story he’s asked me to read for an essay competition he’s entering. Things go from bad to worse, as I read about a little boy who accidentally kills his fifth grade teacher through a science experiment gone terribly wrong. She winds up being bitten to death by spiders. I know this story. Charlie told it to me before. Only he wasn’t telling it as fiction and he left out the part about the teacher getting killed.

I make it through a sleepless night, and the rest of the manuscript. I say a prayer—even though everyone knows I’m an atheist. As sunlight creeps through my window, I mutter "Thank Goodness, it’s morning" but then I realize today is Wednesday, and in just a matter of hours, he’ll come through my door. Not one to give into irrational fears, I’m determined to meet this head on.

I must be prepared. I saw on television how you can use a can of hair spray to blind a mugger. I grab my walker and hunt for an ancient can of Aqua Net; I know I have it somewhere. But that was before my stroke; he’s thrown it out. He must have known that one day I’d come looking for a weapon, and thinking ahead he removed it. I picture Ingrid Bergman and Charles Boyer in the movie Gaslight where poor Ingrid is driven insane by her husband, that’s what this is. Well, he may have thrown out my Aqua Net, but I’ve still got this, and I grab for an almost full can of Woolite rug cleaner. If he tries anything I’ll squirt him in the eye, scream my head off and punch my emergency button for help.

Feeling only slightly reassured, I sit in my riser chair, and wait. I fall asleep and have the most awful dream of a giant spider with a German accent asking me questions as I am lying on a couch.

At eleven I startle awake, my can of rug cleaner clatters to the floor.

"Hola!" he shouts.

Frantically, I scramble to retrieve my weapon; I’m so frightened, so very frightened. I try to speak but nothing comes.

"Hola . . . Are you here? Hola Hola." he continues to bellow from the hall.

"I’m in here," I retrieve the rug cleaner and shake it to make certain it’s ready. As he rounds the corner, I try to smile convincingly.

"How did you like the book?" he asks, plopping into the rocker and turning on his laptop.

"I couldn’t put it down," I said, which is the truth. "How on earth could you write this? Whatever gave you this idea?" What I don’t ask is what’s wrong with you?

"Do you want the serious answer?"

"I do." I brace for the worst.

"The serious answer is I started to write it many years ago after something bad happened, my house burned down and I lost almost everything. No one was hurt, but my cat that I’d had since medical school died. My emotional state afterward was quite bad and I suddenly understood a lot about the nature of traumatic experiences and what they do to people. So even though it’s a thriller, it’s also about trauma and how people are affected by it."

Suddenly, I feel horrible about his cat, but what if he’s just trying to play on my emotions? "As a psychiatrist you hear lots of negative and depressing things all day, does writing help you to get it out of your system?"

"I don’t find peoples’ stories especially depressing. Of course they get to me, but writing is another way to look at stories and themes and try to make sense of them."

"Do you get emotionally or personally involved with your cases or do you have to stay detached, and your outlet then is in writing about it?"

"Both and neither." He responds evasively. "When I’m with a client there’s immediacy to the relationship. It’s real people in a room trying to find solutions to problems, so I’m completely involved. That said, there are professional boundaries in terms of the writing, it needs to be fiction. What people say to me as a psychiatrist is confidential. What I write in my stories is more about my own experiences."

I shudder and clutch my rug cleaner, "If these are your own experiences heaven help us."

"What do you mean by that?" he asks.

"Well . . . look at your villain. He’s really nuts . . . are you?" I ask much too bluntly.

"Okay, time for a little political sensitivity. The word ‘nuts’ is a terrible label, and should never be used when talking about people with mental illnesses. My villain isn’t mentally ill, he’s a sociopath, who believes that the rules of society don’t apply to him. The world is filled with sociopaths, and the ones who are smart often do quite well for themselves; most readers can probably name high-ranking politicians—from both parties--who fit this category."

"And you?" I persist, "are you a sociopath?"

"I hope not, mostly I modeled my hero after myself, giving him much of my emotional chaos following the fire."

"Did you go for help? Did you see a psychiatrist?"

"I did, and I found it profoundly useful in getting back on track. But what it taught me was that mental illness isn’t just for other people. But that under the right, or in my case very wrong, circumstances your thoughts can turn on you. And what used to be a friendly brain, as my protagonist Peter, puts it, ‘becomes an unpredictable Jack-in-the-box.’"

Hmm, I wonder, but what about his villain? I need to know the truth, "you seem to specialize in the macabre aspect of life. Have you ever thought of writing about love?"

"This book does have a love story, actually two."

I choose not to argue, but recall that one of the love interests is dead. "While you write, are you getting yourself into the role?"

"Absolutely. I have to for things to be believable."

"Aha!" I say, feeling like Perry Mason about to denounce the culprit, "if that’s true, then not only do you become your hero, but the villain as well!"

"Yes," he says a bit too quietly while giving me an odd look. "What are you holding, Lisa?" he asks, having just now noticed the rug cleaner.

"Oh nothing," I push it down under the cushions.

"And why is there a baseball bat behind your chair?" he persists, while standing up.

"It makes me feel protected . . . "

"From whom?" he asks, getting uncomfortably close.

I grip the rug cleaner, but he’s too quick. He snatches it from my hand and makes a horrible tsking sound.

"Here, let me put that away for you," and as he disappears down the hallway I hear a bone-chilling laugh followed by mumbling, "hola hola hola."

[ Home ] [ Up ]