LEN BIAS: CROSSOVER
A novel
By: Michael D. McClellan | September 19, 2010
Alice turns back to the report. "Some of the things you've said check out, which leads us to believe that you may have been researching Len Bias prior to your injury. The timeline, the family members, the people involved in the party the night of the overdose. You know quite a bit about the Bias case. There may be some sort of connection between this research and the fact that you don't remember anything else at this point. The result may be a sort of pseudo-schizophrenia, a false positive if you will."
"Pseudo-schizophrenia?" Emily asks.
"Behavior that may seem schizophrenic, but is actually not."
"And that's a good thing, right?"
"Jason's memory prior to the accident is gone, save for anything related to Len Bias. Somehow his mind has seized onto that, possibly to protect itself. And with no trace of schizophrenic behavior prior to the accident, it's safe to say that Jason is not clinically schizophrenic. He would have exhibited symptoms well before emerging from coma. So the hope is that this behavior will diminish as he regains his memory."
I listen to them go back and forth, but the only words I care about right now are written in the Sports Illustrated that I'm holding. I read the next few paragraphs in stunned silence, my heart racing, my head spinning. There's a quote by Duke forward Mark Alarie, who calls Len Bias "the best athlete I've ever seen, and that includes Michael Jordan." Jordan. Always Jordan. I jump down two paragraphs. McCallum's words chill me: Cocaine became a factor in the Bias case soon after the investigation began. Late last Friday afternoon, police found beneath the dashboard of Bias's leased steel-gray Datsun 300ZX a clear bag containing white granules caked together in a chunk about the size of a bar of soap. A Prince George's County police source told SI that preliminary tests showed the bag contained cocaine, without specifying whether it was crack, the powerful form of cooked cocaine that is smoked. It was still unclear on Monday how, or in what form, or under what circumstances, Bias took the cocaine that evidently contributed to his death.
"Jason, do you understand what Dr. Reynolds is trying to accomplish by showing you that article? The person in those photographs is Len Bias, not you. He's dead. You're alive."
"You're trying to make me think I'm crazy," I say at last, the color gone from my face. "All of you. This magazine isn't real. You've faked it somehow. You're experimenting on me, you've pumped some type of mind-altering drug into my body. What are you doing to me? Why are you doing this?"
"We're trying to help you," Alice says. "I know this is a lot for you to consume, but we feel the best way to deal with this situation is head on - but only when you are ready."
"You want really me to believe that one minute I'm partying in my dorm room and the next I'm someone else in a different century? That this is 2011?"
Emily steps toward me. "Jason, this is July 8, 2011. We're not making this up."
"Don't touch me. You're in on this, too."
"In on what? There's nothing to be in on."
"Let's start over," Dr. Smithson interjects. He speaks to me in soft, reassuring tones. "Your memory loss has been diagnosed as something called retrograde amnesia."
"What?"
"Retrograde amnesia," he repeats. "It is a form of amnesia where someone is unable to recall events that occurred before the development of the illness or injury. It's common in patients who have suffered trauma that results in a brain injury. Like yours."
"Look, I don't have amnesia."
"Right now you feel stressed and overwhelmed, and that's common in these types of cases. It's important that you move forward at your own pace, to minimize that stress."
My eyes dart to Alice. I hold up the magazine. "I feel stressed because you walk in here and bring this. You fake some story about me dying, you tell me that I've been gone from this world for twenty-five years. You're messing with my mind. You've brainwashed me, or you've operated on my head and now you're telling me there's been a car accident." And in that instant I rip the IV from the vein in my left arm. Blood spurts out and runs all over. "You've drugged me!"
The orderlies move into the room at Dr. Smithson's command. He says something about a mild sedative, something to reduce the stress and help me rest. More drugs. Of course, more drugs. All part of their plan. I try to fight off the orderlies but they attack with military precision. My leg erupts with pain. My lungs burn. I have no strength to resist. I can only scream and curse and cry until the nurse plunges the needle into my arm, and the world swims away once more, taking me with it.
~ ~ ~
Leonard...
Alyssa, help me...
It's time, Leonard. It's time for you to do your part...
~ ~ ~
"Jason?"
"Alyssa?"
"It's me. Em. Who's Alyssa?"
I open my eyes to other voices coming from above. It takes a moment to orient myself. The TV is on, tuned to CNN. An attractive female anchor and her guest are droning on about something called The War on Terror, and the upcoming 10-year anniversary of something called 9/11. The anchorwoman disappears from the screen, replaced by footage of two smoking towers shot from across a watery inlet. I immediately recognize them as the Twin Towers - the World Trade Center towers. I had toured them during my trip to NY for the NBA Draft, and had freaked out at how high up I'd been. The size and scale of the two buildings were immense, making them the most indestructible manmade structures I'd ever seen. But staring at them now, the tops blown off, smoke billowing out of the tops like two dirty chimneys going full blast...
