Jonathan Friedman listened as Simon described his nine-month stint in a mental hospital. Surprise flickered across his face, his brows knitting together.
Hollywood, that fickle world of fame and fortune where stars rose and fell in an instant, was full of celebrities with mental health issues. Even more checked into rehab under the guise of treating psychological problems just to kick their addictions.
But few cases were severe enough to require nine months in a psychiatric facility like Simon's.
When Simon finished, Jonathan Friedman looked at the young man across from him and asked, "So, Simon, you're all right now, aren't you?"
Though the other twelve consciousnesses had all gone dormant, their memories still lingered in his mind. To be fair, Simon really didn't know if he'd have problems down the line.
Jonathan caught the hesitation on Simon's face and got the gist. He knew all too well that mental illnesses were rarely cured for good.
And he understood why Simon had brought this up today.
Hollywood didn't really hold mild mental health issues against people—as long as it didn't affect the work, folks might just chalk it up to quirky habits. But for serious cases, Hollywood—and society at large—tended to mix sympathy with a healthy dose of avoidance and prejudice.
As for Simon himself, based on the kid's performance these past few weeks, Jonathan had no doubt he'd make his mark in Hollywood someday.
So if this part of his past got dug up and splashed across the media by someone with an agenda, it could wreck his image. And if his issues flared up again, it'd be even worse.
With that worry in mind, Jonathan asked again, "Simon, since you're bringing this up today, do you have a plan in mind?"
Simon nodded. "Joe, first off, I want you to help me dodge any public events or media interviews Fox might set up to promote The Butterfly Effect in the coming weeks. The later I show up in the public eye, the better."
"No problem, I'll handle that as much as I can," Jonathan agreed with a nod. Thinking of the newspaper article, he added with a smile, "So, changing your name was probably for this reason too, huh? But picking 'Westeros'—an original word like that—as a surname was a bit of a misstep. It's too eye-catching."
Simon just smiled without a word.
Jonathan didn't press, though he couldn't help thinking the kid across from him was hiding plenty more secrets.
With that in mind, Jonathan asked, "Simon, you said first thing—so what's the second?"
Simon replied, "I want to head back to San Francisco and get my old medical records."
That was actually Simon's main reason for coming to see Jonathan today.
Simon had always been a bit grateful that the body had "developed" schizophrenia, not multiple personality disorder.
If it had been multiple personalities, with twelve souls from over thirty years in the future taking turns controlling the body, blurting out random things or acting out without understanding the situation...
Then, even if Simon hadn't ended up in some shady research lab, and even if he'd still gotten out of the hospital smoothly, whatever "he" had said or done back then would have planted countless unpredictable landmines for his future.
Things had turned out better than the worst-case scenario, but even so, with twelve extra consciousnesses crammed into his head during his schizophrenic state, Simon had inevitably let slip some behaviors or words that could make people connect the dots.
A lot of those slips were documented in his medical records.
Jonathan, of course, had no idea of Simon's real motive for wanting those records back, but he fully supported the idea.
Once he got them and destroyed them, even if someone tried to make an issue of his past, without that solid evidence, Simon would have plenty of room to maneuver.
Mulling it over, Jonathan quickly said, "All right, Simon, how about this: tomorrow, I'll have Owen go with you to San Francisco."
But Simon shook his head at that, declining. "Joe, I want to go alone. Just lend me a car—that's all I need. I'll head out right after this; if things go smoothly, I can be back by tomorrow afternoon."
Jonathan started to say something, but seeing Simon's firm expression, he let it go. Standing up, he said, "Then come with me."
They left the office. Jonathan exchanged a few words with Owen Wright, got a set of car keys back, and handed them to Simon before leading him out of the WMA headquarters.
They reached the parking lot, where Jonathan pointed to a plain gray Ford sedan. "This is Owen's car—perfect for you to take up there. I'm not lending you mine."
Simon nodded, understanding Jonathan's reasoning.
Jonathan's ride was the latest Mercedes 500SEC model. Simon had left Watsonville penniless just over a month ago; showing up in a luxury Mercedes could stir up unnecessary trouble.
With that, Jonathan motioned for Simon to get in, then opened the door to his own Mercedes and said again, "Follow me."
Simon drove behind Jonathan's Mercedes, leaving Camino Street and weaving through Beverly Hills for a few minutes before stopping in front of a bank.
Jonathan just told Simon to wait, went inside the bank, and returned shortly after. Sliding into the Ford's passenger seat, he handed over two stacks of bills. "Here's twenty grand—I figure you'll need it."
Simon had guessed his agent's plan when they pulled up to the bank and had thought about refusing, but after a moment's consideration, he accepted the money.
After saying goodbye to his agent, Simon drove the gray Ford west through Los Angeles, hitting California Highway 1 and heading north along the coast.
Driving a private car was a lot faster than the bus he'd taken before.
Still, it took Simon over five hours to get from L.A. to Watsonville, south of San Francisco.
He checked into a motel in the small town of Watsonville; it was already nine at night.
Before leaving L.A., Simon had called ahead to make arrangements.
After resting overnight in Watsonville, he arrived right on time at ten the next morning at the mental hospital on the outskirts of town.
As a public psychiatric hospital that mostly relied on federal subsidies, the Watsonville facility—with its aging buildings—still had that same desolate, chilling vibe.
Simon waited patiently outside his former doctor's office until a nurse told him he could go in.
Dr. Henry Chapman was surprised to see Simon back so soon and immediately asked with concern if something felt off.
Simon was fine, of course. After a brief exchange of pleasantries with Dr. Chapman, he heard a faint clanging in the background and asked, "Henry, are you renovating or something?"
Seeing that Simon's words showed no signs of abnormality, Dr. Chapman relaxed and shook his head, explaining softly, "Last Wednesday, a patient stood their bed up and hanged themselves from it. Another patient found them, and over the next few days, two more tried the same thing. Three deaths in a row—the hospital's nailing all the beds to the floor now."
Simon fell silent at that.
The patients in a mental hospital were deeply pitiable, but the doctors—especially in a public one like this—faced immense pressure too.
Patient suicides weren't something to casually mention to a visitor, but Dr. Chapman sharing it showed he saw Simon as a friend, mixed with a need to vent in such a stifling environment.
The room stayed quiet for a moment before Dr. Chapman spoke first. "Simon, if nothing's wrong, what brings you here today?"
Simon gathered his words carefully. "Henry, if it's possible, I'd like to take my old medical records with me."
"Oh," Dr. Chapman responded, not seeming particularly surprised. He just asked, "Simon, do you have five hundred dollars?"
Simon blinked, puzzled, but quickly pulled five hundred from his backpack and handed it over.
"Then wait here a minute."
Dr. Chapman took the money, pocketed it, gave Simon the instruction, and left the office.
Simon watched him go, still confused.
But he didn't question Dr. Chapman's motive for asking for the five hundred. He trusted the man's character. This kind-hearted middle-aged doctor had even taken half a day off to drive him to the local court for his name-change hearing.
Before heading to Watsonville, if his agent hadn't loaned him the twenty grand, Simon had only planned to bring the pocket change he'd saved up for travel expenses.
A few minutes later, Dr. Chapman returned and handed over a thick file envelope. "Here you go, Simon."
Simon took the envelope but couldn't help glancing at the middle-aged doctor, who'd gone back behind his desk and sat down.
Noticing Simon's confused look, Dr. Chapman smiled. "I'm not asking why you want these. You're not the first. That five hundred is for Wesley in records. That way, if anyone asks later, he'll say the file got lost."
Simon fingered the edge of the envelope's kraft paper. "Henry, there won't be any trouble, will there?"
Dr. Chapman shook his head, giving a reassuring look. "Simon, in a public place like this—some are even worse—losing a person or two wouldn't raise an eyebrow. But besides this file, during your stay, I sent monthly reports on your condition to Stanford as routine. If you want those back too, you'll have to go to Palo Alto. Oh, and those reports have your original name on them."
Simon nodded; he remembered that.
But those monthly updates were just broad summaries of his treatment progress and didn't touch on the details Simon wanted to avoid. So he had no plans to waste time chasing them down.
They chatted a bit more before Dr. Chapman stood again. "Well, Simon, I'll walk you out. No reason to stick around here."
Simon nodded, tucked the envelope into his backpack, and they left the office together.
On the way to the parking lot, Dr. Chapman asked about his recent life.
Simon didn't hold back, giving a quick rundown of the past few weeks and even showing him the Los Angeles Times article.
The middle-aged doctor was genuinely happy for him seeing the piece about Simon. As they parted, he left his home address and contact info, hoping Simon would visit his place in Watsonville next time he was in San Francisco.
Leaving Watsonville, Simon drove along California Highway 1 for over an hour, stopping at a deserted stretch of coast. He burned the medical records himself, making sure every page turned to ash, then scattered the mixed ashes and sand into the sea. Only then did he breathe a true sigh of relief.
The past is finally buried for good, I suppose.