Hitchers

good songs.” He retrieved his guitar, plucked a single string, watched it vibrate. “For most of us it goes, and it doesn’t come back. Maybe it’s the drugs and booze, I don’t know.”

He set the guitar back down. I wasn’t sure what to say; I couldn’t imagine what I would feel if my ability to draw abandoned me.

Mick glanced at his watch, signaled it was time to go. He had an appointment with Dr. Purvis, and I had one with Corinne, so we were driving downtown together.

“Truth be told, I wrote very little of my last successful album, Little Tripe,” Mick said as we climbed into his car. “It had all dried up by then.”

“Who wrote it, then?”

“My lyricist. Bloke named Gilly Hansen. I never wrote the words, was never very good with words. I was a music fellow. Gilly always did the words, then slowly took over doing the music.”

I’d heard of Gilly Hansen. He’d had a nervous breakdown or something, became a recluse and never wrote again.

“What’s it been, a day and a half since your last ghoulie voice?” Mick held up crossed fingers.

CHAPTER 16

I pulled to the curb along Piedmont Park. Parking near Piedmont on a weekday used to be impossible. Now the streets were filthy with spaces.

“I take it you fancy a walk? We can get a lot closer to the doc’s office than this,” Mick said.

I reached back and retrieved a plastic grocery bag from the back seat. “I’ve got some business I want to take care of, then, yeah, I thought it might be nice to walk. Do you mind?”

Mick smiled. “Sounds good to me.”

There were more police and National Guard than civilians in the park. The mood was muted, devoid of the usual festive cocktail of musicians, Hacky Sackers, and joggers. The smattering of civilians walked with their heads bowed, stepping carefully among the shoes.

The sidewalk running along the lake was covered with shoes, set in pairs. Mick and I walked in the grass alongside, silent save for Mick’s blurts. The shoes demanded silence.

The swimming pool, drained for the winter, was covered with shoes, even the sides. The tennis courts were carpeted as well.

There was a running track around the ball fields. I found a spot where the track was relatively bald of shoes, squatted, and withdrew Annie’s running shoes and a tube of crazy glue from the plastic bag. Mick stood by, head bowed, while I set them in place, two nondescript white shoes, the tread worn most deeply along the outside edges. Annie had an odd, ducklike jogging gait.

No one knew who started this memorial to the dead, but I thought it was a good one. In a few years the powers that be would come up with some concrete obelisk to honor the dead, but it would never have the power, the honesty, of this one. Standing, I turned in a complete circle. How many of the dead were represented here? Probably not even half.

“Let’s go,” I said.

As we turned, Mick clapped me on the back, left his arm across my shoulders as we walked. I started to tear up, swallowed, shook it off. How foolish that the lump in my throat was as much about having made a new friend as losing my old one. I hadn’t realized just how alone I’d felt.

We were just within earshot for me to hear a woman whisper, “That’s Mick Mercury” to her companion, reminding me of how unlikely my new friendship was.

“I haven’t heard anyone else with the voice,” Mick said.

“When it first started in me, I hid in my apartment. I was afraid of people hearing,” I said.

Mick dropped his arm, fished a pack of cigarettes from his jacket. “Hang on. I stayed in my apartment most of the time, but I did go out once.” He looked at me.

“To a doctor,” I said.

Mick nodded. “Should give us an idea of how widespread it really is.” He picked up the pace.

The electric doors whooshed as we entered the medical building that housed Dr. Purvis’s office. Mick paused just inside, held up a hand.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Listen.”

It reminded me of frogs in a pond on a rainy night. A muffled croak, followed by another, then two on top of each other. We moved down the hall, pausing in front of each door until we reached a pediatrician’s office. The voices were coming from different directions, but the bulk were coming from in there.

I felt sheepish wandering into a doctor’s office to check out the patients, but Mick evidently didn’t have the same qualms. He marched right in with me scurrying to keep up. Mick seemed to push through life ignoring all of the social proscriptions that kept the rest of us in line. I admired his balls, but it also made me cringe.

The waiting room was packed with stone-faced parents and wailing kids. A few heads turned as we stood hovering near the doorway, but if anyone recognized Mick they didn’t show it. All of the kids were crying—even the older ones.

“Take it off; I want to see you strip.” We turned in unison toward the voice. She couldn’t have been more than three; it seemed impossible that her little throat could produce such a low, gravelly tone. The little girl screamed, buried her face in her mother’s shoulder.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” the mother cooed, stroking the girl’s hair, the expression on her face contradicting her soothing tone.

“If I can just make it to Christmas,” a freckled, red-haired boy croaked, then resumed crying.

“I need to talk to him in person,” Mick chimed in.

“Come on, I can’t stand this,” I whispered, pulling open the door. “Several hundred to several thousand cases? Bullshit,” I said.

CHAPTER 17

Corinne didn’t buy that I was possessed.

“But I had no control over my body. I was trapped inside myself, moved around like a puppet.” I said. “How could that be psychological?”

Corinne looked at me for a moment, as if considering. It flustered me that she didn’t look at all like a psychiatrist. She was in her early sixties, bleached-blonde hair and too much eye makeup. Abruptly she pulled a fat book off the shelf and flipped through the pages before setting the open book in my lap.

The heading was Dissociative Identity Disorder.

“What’s Dissociative Identity Disorder?”

“Read it,” Corinne said, walking to the window and peering into the naked grey branches.

I read until I got to the part where it said Dissociative Identity Disorder used to be called Multiple Personality Disorder.

I looked up. “You’re kidding me.”

Corinne turned from the window. “Why? The symptoms are consistent.”

I rubbed my eyeballs. “You’re saying I created a personality that represents my grandfather and set it loose inside myself, and it took on a life of its own?” Actually, it did fit the symptoms. It didn’t feel like that’s what was happening, but if I stepped outside myself, it made sense. “But what about the thousands of other Atlantans? We’re all doing the same thing at pretty much the same time?”

The escalating number of cases was hard to ignore. Every news station had a different estimate, and different talking heads speculating about the cause of the new epidemic.