It has been 5 years ever since I first met Wendy.

She was my patient, who was diagnosed with schizophrenia. She was only 17 at that time. 

She nearly got drowned when she was 10. Since then, she started telling people that she could hear dead people talking.

People and even her family could not believe such things. Therefore, she had been treated as mental disordered with delusion, and spent her adolescence in her own home. Her condition worsened and she was transferred to this asylum 5 years ago. And I know she was not crazy. Her brain was not messed up. She was incredibly intelligent. It’s just she could hear something we don’t.

I know it because she told me about my late wife when we first met.

She was sitting quietly on her bed, reading a book. It was Dale Carnegie’s “How to Win Friends and Influence People”, a book published in 1936. I was inspired by that book very much. I still am.

She probably heard my footsteps and looked up to greet me, “Good morning Doctor.” She had such a bright smile on her face, which I had ever seen on others patients.

“Good morning, Wendy. How’s your first day here?” 

“Nice. There’re less voices here.”

“You mean less dead people talking to you?”

“Yeah, you believed in me?” She seemed excited and put down her book.

As a doctor, I could not exclude any possibilities and make assumptions so soon. So I said yes, “Try me.” 

“Your wife….. She said she was sorry for leaving you alone, she shouldn’t have insisted on going to that hot air balloon trip. And she wanted to know if you have sold the Chevy yet.” 

She looked timid when she spoke. Maybe nobody really listen or care about what she said.

And I was shocked. My wife died about a year before I met Wendy. In a hot balloon accident in Egypt. She was on vacation with her colleagues.

She hated my Chevy since it was old and its engine was . She once asked me to sell it so that we could get the down payment for our new house.

“H-how did you know? Did you see her? Or…… Or just heard her talking?” I did not even realize I was already on the verge of crying. 

Wendy could not know these even if she had done a research on me. Let alone she was only a 17-year-old patient locked up in a hospital.

“I can’t see them….. I can only hear. She started talking to me when I moved in last night. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought this up.”

“It’s okay. And actually, thank you for that. So, hm, does it mean you can talk to them too?” 

“Yes. But they have to show themselves and start off the conversation first.” Wendy weakly smiled.

“Tell her that I am still driving that car.” 

“Okay.” 

“I believe in you. Tell me more when we meet later.” I went up and patted her bony shoulder.

“Thank you.” She looked startled when I touched her.

That’s how I know she’s been telling the truth.

I bet most of her knowledge come from the dead. She had a nice personality despite what she had been through. She made friends with other patients very quickly. We all liked her.

But sometimes, very often, she would scream and cry in her dreams. It is when some died through injustice came to her. The only solution was to give her sedative and sleeping pills.

Most of the time, she would listen to music with her earphones on.

Wendy and I gradually became friends. She was way more mature than she should be.

I wanted to help her and find a way to “cure” her. She just shrugged and pointed at her right ear.

“There’s no way. When I was 15, I got frustrated and I stabbed my right ear with a needle. It bled and bled. It’s deaf now. But I can still hear them talking very clearly. I tried every method, every medication, every treatment. It’s no use. I’m doomed.”

One year later, I successfully convinced the others that she was indeed mentally stable. And I began to take her out, doing voluntary works. For example, workshops with autistic kids. How ironic it was.

Indeed, she enjoyed going out and talking to people, those who are alive.

It was heartwarming to see that smile plastered on her face. She had the ability to cheer people up too.

She was like a daughter to me.

Agin, ironically, she was deeply interested in psychiatry. Whenever I had time, I would give her lessons. The asylum is my second home anyway. Somehow I think my wife had sent her to me.

It was her 18th birthday and her family came to see her. They rarely came. And they thanked me for taking good care of her. She did look more spirited than before. I left the room to give them some private time. I heard them arguing from the corridor.

Wendy soon stormed out and dragged me to my office.

“I am an adult now. And they are leaving me.” She wept.  It was the first time I saw her cried because of sadness.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I gently hugged her.

“So can I stay here?” She asked. It was a sensible question. She was not definitely mentally-ill, if you asked me. 

“You are 18. It’s up to you.” No one woul acknowledge her real condition anyway.

“Thank you.” She sobbed on my shirt.

“So........ Anyway, here is your birthday present.” I pulled away and handed her a box.

I bought her a collection of Roland Barthes and an iPod. She cherished them so much. 

And then, there was one day after a visit, Wendy told me she had made a new friend. Not ordinary hi-bye friends, a real friend.  At least that was what she told me.

Her name was Irene. She was from the autistic group. I got curious, “But she is autistic. How do you two communicate?”

“I made her talked.” Wendy was thrilled.

“You forced her to talk?” As I know, autism could be severe and patients normally do not open up to new people in a short period of time.

“I kept talking and she replied me once in a while.” She looked proud.

“She wasn’t annoyed?” I laughed.

“She wasn’t. She told me her name and what she likes.”

“What does she like then?” Intrigued, I put down my pen.

“Dancing and cooking.”

“Is she good?”

“I don’t know.” Wendy cutely scratched her head.

“Good luck to you, girl. It’s nice to have a friend.” 

Wendy delightfully walked out of my office that day.

I swear it was one of her happiest moments in her life.