Jeremy smiles, but I can’t find a shred of satisfaction in it. He walks away, and I rush into my office.
I know how he feels in one respect. Anxious for an e-mail from Melinda on her progress, I check my screen.
Nothing.
Now I’m downright irritated.
The instant I step onto Alpha Twelve, disorientation greets me. From one end to the next, patients enter and exit rooms. Others wander the hallways. Several more stand around and chat with one another.
What in God’s name is happening here?
This floor maintains the highest level of protection Loveland can offer, and patients are never allowed outside their rooms unless accompanied by a staff member. This isn’t just a concern—this is a safety hazard, a security breach gone haywire.
A clammy and firm hand cups my right elbow. I jerk around. Mere inches separate Gerald Markman and me.
“We are all sculptors and painters,” he says wearing a ravenous, craving expression, “and our material is our own flesh and blood and bones.”
He licks his lips. I pull my arm away and take off running toward the nurses’ station, outrage, nausea, and utter fright sparking through me like loose live wires.
And there I run head-on into yet another peculiarity because the nurse on duty is someone I’ve never before seen: twentysomething, with pink cheeks and an eager expression.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“Is Melinda around?”
Mystery Nurse tucks a thatch of hair behind one ear and tilts her head.
“Melinda Jeffries,” I reiterate.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know who that is.”
I look at her fixedly. “What do you mean, you don’t know? She’s the head nurse on this floor.”
“They just moved me here,” she says, as if this addresses my concerns. She throws in a shallow smile that seems vaguely apologetic.
“Did anyone explain why they just moved you here?”
“No. I’m sorry. They really didn’t.” Her smile dims. “Is there something else I can help you with?”
I motion around me. “You can tell me what’s happening on this floor.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“The patients. Why are they not secured inside their rooms? Why are they just wandering around?”
She looks confused. More than before.
“I can’t believe this!” I fumble for my phone.
“I need an officer down to Alpha Twelve. Immediately,” I tell security. “It’s complete pandemonium here. All of the patients have broken out of their rooms!”
I consider the nurse, then look at the time display on my phone screen. I’m late for my session with Donny Ray.
“Did you even bother to let anyone know what’s been going . . . Oh, never mind!” I snap at her. “You’ll be hearing from your supervisor!”
She blinks and draws back from me.
47
I grab an extra moment outside the consulting room to decompress and remind myself that I’m in my professional element. That this is where I’m most comfortable. That I know how to do my job, and that the evaluation is due tomorrow.
I can do this.
I walk inside. Donny Ray is already sitting at the table. Once again, something about him has changed, but this time it’s not just his physical appearance—it’s subtler, a slight shift in demeanor, as though he’s shed yet another layer of discomfort.
Wish I could feel the same way.
I have to keep my concerns about Alpha Twelve and the shrinking hospital population outside this door and tread very carefully. I’ve worked too damned hard to build trust, and fast as that trust can build, it can just as easily come tumbling down without warning or provocation. The plains of human suffering are slippery slopes. Every traveler is so frail and unsteady, vulnerable to even the slightest threat of doubt or uncertainty. The goal here is to change his emotional climate. To normalize the feelings he has about his past trauma so that he’s able to talk about them.
I lean back in my chair a few inches, gather my wits, and offer Donny Ray a neutralizing smile. “I’ve been thinking about what you mentioned yesterday.”
He shakes his head.
“About your mom. How you described her. It kind of reminded me of my own mother.”
“In what way?”
“That thing she would tell you? About your town being small?” I look down and rub my forehead. “Something about how there’s nothing to do every minute?”
“But every minute counts?”
“Yeah.” I point to him and nod. “That’s it.”
“Did your mom say that, too?”
“No. I was thinking more about what you said after, how she chose to look at life.”
“Yours did the same thing?”
“Man, did she ever. In fact, I used to make a joke about it—well, it was actually more like a complaint disguised as humor. How when bad things happened, she always pretended that they hadn’t.”
“So, what was the joke?”
“That I always imagined her entry into the world went something like this: the doctor gave her a slap on the ass, and instead of bursting into a scream, she turned her head away and let out a despondent sigh.”
Donny Ray suppresses a chuckle, then looks bashfully at the floor.
“It’s okay to laugh,” I tell him, “it was meant to be funny. I mean, that’s kind of how I survived all those miserable years.”
“You had a rough childhood, too?” He seems surprised.
“Rough would be putting it mildly—in fact, if I didn’t laugh, I would have cried all the time.”
He watches me in deliberative silence. “That bad?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah . . . that bad.”
He doesn’t speak, but his expression relaxes. I allow the calm to linger. Not just because that’s what a good psychologist does, but also because I actually need it. Because for a few seconds, some of my own pain managed to sweep to the surface.
When I look back at Donny Ray, he’s scrutinizing me.
“Anyway,” I tell him, “this really isn’t about me. What I’m trying to say is that I wasn’t aware we had that in common.”