Noah tried to turn and run, but Beckett caught him, holding him still. Noah struggled all the same, despite the passersby who suddenly steered clear of the two of them, as though the situation were volatile.
“It’s just an appointment to speak to a doctor,” Beckett insisted, his voice too calm, his grip too firm. “I will not force you to go anywhere or do anything. This is merely a consultation. Father insists Dr. Carmichael is one of the finest doctors for the mind in all of New York. We should just speak to him to see what advice he might give.”
“He’ll want to put me away,” Noah said, close to tears. He was just coming out of his black stupor, and here Beckett was trying to shove him straight into another one.
Beckett moved his hands to clasp Noah’s face, even though they were in the park. “I will not let anyone put you away if that is not what you want.”
“But…but….” Noah scrambled to find words for his tumultuous thought. “You’ll grow tired of me. You’ll want to get rid of me. If not now, then later, when I become too much.” Like everyone else in his life.
“No.” Beckett shook his head, still holding Noah’s face. “I swear to you, I won’t. I just want you to speak to Dr. Carmichael to find out what can be done.”
Every instinct Noah had told him to run. He needed to preserve himself while he could, before they brought out a straightjacket.
But on the other hand, he didn’t think he could live without Beckett now. And if he didn’t do what Beckett said, he would leave him, the same as Marcus had. If he didn’t acquiesce, Beckett would abandon him.
He forced himself to take a deep breath, then another, then to nod.
“Alright,” he sighed. “I’ll keep this appointment. I’ll see this doctor.”
“Good.” Beckett smiled, and for a split-second, he leaned in as if he would kiss Noah. He seemed to remember at the last moment that they were in public, and he let go of Noah and continued walking instead. “I feel very hopeful about this appointment,” he said as they walked on. “Father says that Dr. Carmichael is well-versed in all the most recent treatments for illnesses like yours. I think he’ll come up with the perfect solution.”
Beckett continued to talk as they walked through the park, then as they caught a cab to take them to Bloomingdale Asylum. Noah felt like his voice had dried up, though. All he could do was nod and hum in answer to Beckett’s occasional questions. He tried to hide the fact that his hands were shaking, as were the rest of his insides, but Beckett obviously knew, since he took one of Noah’s hands in his once they were safe in the carriage.
Bloomingdale Asylum looked the same as any other unfeeling, uncaring institution. Noah could practically feel the misery dripping from its walls like melting slush. He barely heard Beckett’s words of encouragement and his insistence that the architecture was lovely and he had a good feeling about the place. Noah didn’t want to think or feel anything about it, and he did his best to block out the sense of doom he felt.
They waited for a while in a neatly appointed waiting room, but that only made Noah’s fear worse. By the time they were shown into a plain examination room and met by a grey-haired doctor with lines on his face and exhaustion in his eyes, Noah was ready to crawl out of his skin.
“Is this Mr. Cheevers?” Dr. Carmichael asked, looking Noah up and down as he sat on the examination table.
He spoke to Noah, but Beckett answered, “It is.” He rested a hand on Noah’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him.
Dr. Carmichael stared at Beckett over the top of his glasses, then at Noah, then back at Beckett. He frowned. “And who are you to Mr. Cheevers, sir?”
“I’m Beckett Smith,” Beckett said, extending a hand to the doctor. “Mr. Cheevers’ friend.”
Dr. Carmichael hesitated before taking Beckett’s offered hand. Noah knew which way the wind was blowing immediately. Dr. Carmichael had immediately pieced things together, and he didn’t approve.
“The notes I was given say you are manic-depressive, Mr. Cheevers,” Dr. Carmichael said, glancing down at the file he held. “They say you are just coming out of a depressive episode, and they suggest there was a manic one before that? That you left your life in London to relocate to New York on a whim?”
“It wasn’t a whim,” Beckett said, a defensive note in his voice. “Noah was searching for a friend.”
He said it so smoothly, but Noah worried at once that Dr. Carmichael drew his own conclusions.
“And you would like to explore methods of curing this mental illness,” Dr. Carmichael said, looking at his notes again.
“Yes, sir,” Beckett said, resting a hand on Noah’s leg. So much for keeping the cat in the bag. “We would like that very much.”
Dr. Carmichael stared at Beckett’s hand for a moment, then set the file on the counter beside him. He sighed and crossed his arms. “You know that yourdisordersare not helping him,” he told Beckett with a frown. “Throwing madness after madness will only make the manic-depressiveness worse. If you ask me, youbothneed to be cured of yourafflictions.”
Beckett’s hand tightened on Noah’s thigh, but he didn’t remove it.
“We are here about Noah’s episodes, sir,” Beckett said in a sharp voice. “That is the only thing we are here for.”
Dr. Carmichael narrowed his eyes. For a moment, he and Beckett stared each other down before Dr. Carmichael heaved a sigh and shook his head.
“We can try any or all of the various treatments that medical researchers have devised of late,” he said. “Some of them have proven quite promising.”
“What treatments are those?” Noah asked, hating the way his voice cracked with fear.