THE ECHO

by Claire Hay

Randal Shippman is the most puzzling man I have ever encountered. I’m a therapist, and I have been seeing Randy as a client for about six months, at least twice a month. There’s a problem, though; I have hardly been able to get this man to open up to me. Randy is a real challenge, you see. Six months ago, on a Thursday afternoon, right as I was going to sign out for the day, I heard my phone ring. 

I pick up my phone to hear my best friend’s voice: “Hey Ronnie!” She’s always so cheerful. “Lanna, ugh, how great to hear your voice,” I responded. “I know you’re about to be done for the day, but I need to talk to you about a client I think would benefit from you.” Lanna is a social worker; she helps recovering addicts, people struggling with mental health, domestic abuse cases, child neglect, and abuse. You name it, Lanna has worked with them and seen it all. That’s why we are such great friends: we love to help the people in our society who need it. “Yeah, of course!” I chirped, “You know I can’t ever turn anyone down.” 

“The thing is, Ronnie, he’s a challenge.” She pauses. “He has already gone through three therapists, and all of their sessions are confidential. It’s weird. They sent me over to try and help, and he won’t budge for me.” 

“What are we talking about here?” I questioned, “That’s the thing; I don’t know. No one is talking about this man; I’ve tried to interview the last couple of therapists, but one refuses to talk about him even if you bring him up; the second went A-wall and is nowhere to be seen; and the last got into some type of medical accident that is having her on bed rest.” Lanna explained it to me. “What’s this man’s name?” I asked her. 

“Randal Shipman.” Shippman. It rang a bell. “Give me a second, Lanna.” I held my phone in between my head and my shoulder as I began to search the web for the last name of Shippman. Within seconds, Cassandra Shippman was slaughtered in her own home. I began digging and found the family history of Cassandra, and I read that she had two kids. “Yeah, I’ll take him.” 

I had no hesitation six months ago, but now I’m regretting my choice. Randy makes it extremely difficult for me to help him. I’ve tried everything in my power to try and figure out this man, but nothing is clicking. On that Friday afternoon, six months ago, I started collecting everything I could find on this Randal Shippman. I spent countless hours sitting in my office trying to sift through case file after case file. No one was talking about him. It’s like none of these therapists existed. I even tried calling the only standing therapist, but as soon as I mentioned the name Randal, she shut me down. She told me to get out while I still could. He messes with my head; it’s like you don’t feel real. She seemed like she was panicking and in a frozen state while she told me those things. I begged her to help me and told her I was his last hope. She reluctantly sent over the classified case files. That night, I listened to the recordings one after another to figure out what happened. 

Now in the present day, I’m sitting across from Randy Shippman and waiting ever so patiently for him to begin speaking. Looking at him, we look very similar; we honestly could be related. We both have dark brown hair and brown almond eyes. Our noses are both slightly crooked to the right. Our lips are smaller, with more of a puffy bottom lip and a small cupid bow sitting on it. Our difference is that he stands a good 6 inches taller than me. His face is always cold and shallow, while mine is always warm and welcoming. Iak in long, fluent sentences, while his are in short, almost mumbling. 

Randy has gotten a lot better at holding a conversation, though. At least I’d sure hope so, because these six months of meeting with each other would have been hell. Today he feels different, though; he feels distant, cold, and angry. He’s slumped in his chair and not speaking. Arms are crossed, brows are furred, and breathing is heavy. “So Randy,” I say, picking up my notebook and looking through the notes we last left off on. “How have you been sleeping recently? We last spoke about the vivid dreams you have. Could you tell me more about it?” 

“I keep seeing her,” he says. His voice is small and quiet. He doesn’t want to admit to himself that he needs my help. “Who’s her?” I ask, trying to understand his tone. His body is tensed up, arms crossed, and his chest is closing me off; he’s not even looking at me. He’s looking out my window into the outside world. “My mother,” he begins. He pauses before he continues speaking and takes in a deep breath. “Who’s name, I cannot find the anger in my body to say, is far worse than the antichrist himself.” 

“Randy,” I paused sincerely. “Your mother cannot be that bad of a human being where you think she’s like Satan.” I’m trying to understand where he’s coming from, but it’s hard when he’s never told me anything about her. From the news, she looked like a lovely lady and a loving mother. “I couldn’t,” he corrected me. “Excuse me?” He’s now looking dead at me with his cold, deep brown eyes, where you can’t see through them. “She’s dead.” He bluntly states: It looked like his mouth didn’t even move when he said that. I can’t tell if he’s mourning or not. 

“Yes, I know Randy. I’m so sorry; no one should have to go through that.” I apologize and begin to say another sentence, but before I could get my words out, he cut me off. “I’m not; I’m glad she died.” I scoff, taken back by what he said. He doesn’t even care; there’s no emotion coming out of him as he says that awful sentence. “Randy, you seriously cannot be saying that you don’t mean that.” I’m searching for any type of reaction from him, any type of empathy, any type of remorse, but no. It feels so cold in this room; it’s like he’s shooting rays of ice everywhere. “I mean that wholeheartedly, Dr. Griffith. I’m happy my mother is rotting in hell.” 

“Don’t you ever want to find out who killed her?” I try and ask, “Who the monster is that took your mother away from you?” 

“No, I don’t have to find out because I was the one that killed her.” I’m sitting there in horror. He had just confessed to the murder of his mother. The hairs on my forearms are sticking up as goosebumps trail all over my body. Everything makes sense now; all his puzzle pieces are seamlessly fitting together. “She was an awful mother and an awful human being! She deserves to rot.” His dark, evil eyes are staring into mine, seeping into my soul. He’s trying to figure out his next move and where to go from here, as I am also trying to find the words to say not to give him any reason to make me his next victim. I gulp down the built-up saliva that has been resting in the back of my throat before speaking. “Randy, you do realize I have to report this?” 

“No! No! No! No!” He kicks and screams like a little child. His face is fuming red from the anger he’s letting out. The room fills with grunts and curses as he gets up from his seat and begins to start sliding things off my desk, breaking them as they fall to the spruce floor. He’s kicking my chairs and running around like he’s in his terrible twos. I clutch my clipboard as I rise, trying to keep him calm. I need to find out what his motive was, his line of reasoning for committing this horrid act against his own mother, “You’re just like her, you know?” He says now that instead of screaming, his voice is low and demanding, and he walks right up to me, getting in my face. “I’m just like, who is Randy?” I managed to ask, which, quite frankly, I don’t know how. My voice is weak, which shows that his attempts at acting out scare me. Never in my eighteen years of being a therapist would I ever have thought I would be faced with a killer. My life is on the line here; for all I know, he’s planning his attack right now.  

“My mother, Casandra Shippman,” he blurts. He’s right in my face right now, and I can feel his anger radiate off his body. The room no longer feels so cold; now it’s scorching hot to the touch. With just him standing a couple of inches away from me, I can feel his soul being wrapped around me, forcing me into stillness. “Randy, please,” I beg. “Let’s take a second to regroup. Just take a seat and steady, you’re breathing.” 

“No Ronnie! Cassandra Shippman and you are not so different, you see. Constantly trying to fix me, making me feel like I must please you. Well, guess what? I don’t. The power is now in my hands, Ronnie, and I don’t like it when people are in my way of stopping me. I’m going to gut you just like I did to my mother.” 

“What?” He suddenly lunges at me and pushes me to the ground, but I can’t slip away. I’m fighting against Randy as he’s swinging at me and trying to pin me down. He has me in a chokehold, and I struggle to reach my arm to the nearest weapon. I grab the vase next to me and smash it over his head. I get up by my desk and press the emergency help button that sends the police a message for help. I continue to try and fight him, but he’s now hitting my head repeatedly but stops and freezes. The sirens. He hears the sirens of the police, shoves me to the ground, and runs out the door. I’m yelling and screaming for help, crawling my way towards the door Randy just escaped from. That’s when the officer is now in my view, looking distressed and looking for my screams. 

“Help me, please! My client tried to kill me!” I cry for help. My voice is scratchy from yelling, and my head is pounding from the head trauma. “Client?” The officer looks puzzled at me. 

“Yes!” I gasp for air. “Randal Shippman, he confessed to murder, then he tried to kill me! Please, please catch him,” I’m begging hysterically. “Ronnie? Did you take your meds today?” The officer asks me 

Everything stopped in its place. I could no longer feel the room spin when he asked me that question, “What?” I stuttered out. “You’re meds,” The officer points over to a table that has a tray with pills on it next to a dixie cup of water. 

I look at the medications and stare blankly while beginning to blink hard to control my headache. I look back at the officer but notice he’s not only now in a police uniform. I try to steady my breath and look around to see that the whole room has changed. I am no longer in a destroyed therapist’s room but instead in a cell with white cushioned panels around me. “Louis!” He calls out, “Ronnie didn’t take her meds; she’s freaking out again.” 

The other guard comes rushing into the room and looks around and sees the mess I’ve made as well as all the self-inflicted bruises and scratches on my body. “Jesus Ronnie. How many times have we told you you must take your medications?” Louis emphasized. 

 “My meds?” I ask again, trying to understand this whole scenario. “Yes, your meds, these meds,” he says, holding out the orange prescription bottle that has a big Rx on the label. “I don’t take any medication; what is this for? Where am I?” I try to explain. “Oh Ronnie,” Louis sighs in pity. “She’s having a breakthrough again.” He turns to the other guard and says, “Get the doctor.” He commands. “What! No, no, please, this is all wrong! I’m a therapist!” I start to panic. Everything feels wrong; nothing was the way it was five minutes ago. “No, you’re not Ronnie. You’re a schizophrenic patient in a psych ward.” He tells me: My heart stops. “Wh-what?” You could hear a pen drop in this enclosed room because everything went into complete silence. 

“You’ve been in here for six months after getting diagnosed with schizophrenia.” Six months. Six months. “No, that can’t be.” I’m in denial; I can’t wrap my head around this information that was just being thrown at me. “Ronnie, when you don’t take you, you’re on medication; you have these manic episodes.” I’m trying to wrap my head around all this information thrown at me; nothing is adding up, and nothing is making sense. “Ronnie Shippman?” Shippman? Like Randal Shippman, my client? No. This is all wrong. 

I hear someone call out for the guards, trying to confirm where I’m located. “Yes, she’s in here. She needs to be on 24-hour watch; this is the second time this month this has happened.” The doctor walks in; she looks so familiar but so unfamiliar at the same time. “I’m so lost,” I sob. “Help me understand, please. My last name is Griffith, not  Shippman.”The doctor is wearing a classic white lab coat with the name tag written “Dr. Lanna. She has a sincere face and looks almost sorry for me. “No Ronnie,” The doctor crouches down to me and says, “Your name is Ronnie Shippman; you were enrolled here by your father Griffin after your mother, Cassandra Shippman, died.” 

“My mom?” I ask. My mom isn’t dead. I don’t remember her dying. “Yes, dear, your mom was murdered by your twin, Randy Shippman, who has also been diagnosed with schizophrenia.” Dr. Lanna explained to me, talking very slowly at me, making sure I’m comprehending everything she was telling me. “Randy isn’t my brother; he’s my client. I’m a therapist!” I yell in frustration; why does no one believe me? 

“No, your mother, Cassandra, was a therapist. You never were.”