Page 59 of Notorious

I really am in the locked ward of a mental hospital.

Is this where I belong? Are my problems the same as that person’s?

I deserve to die.

As we continue on to the main area, other than there being nothing loose that we can use to harm ourselves or each other, it ain’t much different from a regular hospital or dorm. It feels institutional, with terrazzo flooring and windows in all the doors.

The nurse shows me to my room, which has two twin beds and—continuing what seems to be a trend—nothing else, not even a dresser or chair. “Your roommate uses a sleep apnea machine, so you’ll be under supervision all night,” he says. I must look puzzled, because he adds, “The sleep apnea machine has wires,” and then I figure it out. Whoever I’m sharing with needs the machine, but they don’t want anyone using a cord or whatever to kill themselves.

“Okay,” I say quietly, staring out the window. It’s early evening, but the sun hasn’t set yet.

“Someone will come get you when it’s time for dinner,” he says.

“What do I do until then?”

He gives me a small smile. “Just try to relax.”

Relax? Without a phone or a book or anything to do? He’s gotta be kidding.

But I try. I sit on the bed and stare out the window. It looks out on a mountainside, so there’s not much to see but dry brush. For the next however long, I think about why I’m here and whether I can get better. I can, because I decided to. Trying not to panic that I can’t leave this building or even this room, that’s an interesting mind game.

How long will it be until l see Kurt again?

It’s idyllic here, away from the city. Quiet. In some ways, it calms me, and in others, it creeps me out. It’s like the people running this place know that everyone here is on edge, so they need to put a damper on all the inputs to avoid triggering an explosion. We’re not safe enough for a regular, noisy environment.

As day turns to dusk, I keep watching the outdoors, since I have nothing else to do. I’m finally zoning out from the lack of any stimulation when, out of nowhere, a mountain lion appears right outside my window, sending my heart racing. The big cat’s right there. There’s a pane of glass between us, but he’s not more than five feet away from me. I want to call out to someone to come watch with me, but who? I don’t know a soul in this place, and my roommate hasn’t showed up yet.

So I sit there and watch alone. The mountain lion swishes his tail and prowls just like any other cat, except he’s huge. His paws are probably the size of my hands. After a little while, he freezes, then stares down a small hole, still as a silent night. I hold my breath as I watch him watch the hole. Then the cat pounces, and he’s got dinner—a rodent of some kind. Unlike the way a person eats, he just chomps that little critter in half without pausing to ask permission.

Well, hell. That’s not something you see every day.

There’s meaning here, but I’m not sure if I’m the mountain lion or the gopher.

I want to call Kurt, the folded piece of paper with his number burning a hole in my pocket. But I don’t want to seem needy, and I don’t know what the rules are for the phones, anyway. I want to know how my mama is, but I don’t want her to worry. I want to get better, but I don’t think that’s going to happen instantly.

Heck, my brain spins out fast.

The only way out is through.

A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts. “John Haskell? You have a delivery,” a new nurse says as she enters the room.

I frown. “I do?”

“It’s been cleared.” She hands me two full paper bags, and inside I find a bunch of new clothes in my sizes with the tags cut off, plus toothpaste, a toothbrush, deodorant, body wash, and shampoo. Everything’s obviously been processed by the hospital, since the hoodies’ strings have been removed. There’s also a book of cowboy poetry.

“Who brought this?”

“Your husband had it delivered,” she says. Damn, Kurt really is a fairy godfather. The toiletries are my favorite brands, so even if he just asked his assistant to take care of this, he must’ve had some kind of personal involvement.

That man. He’s walloping my heart, I tell you.

I look at the book until yet another nurse comes in and says it’s time for dinner. He escorts me into a common room that has four picnic tables off to the side, as well as several couches and a television playing some show I don’t recognize. A few people are lounging around, and some are eating, but none of us are talking to each other. I sit at one of the tables and pick at the lasagna and salad and garlic bread a staff member brought me. It’s surprisingly tasty.

Before Kurt, how long had it been since I’d eaten well?

All the patients around me—maybe eight or ten—are wearing sweats or pajamas and have a beaten-down look about them. I probably look the same way.

We can’t all be in here for the same thing, though. And it dawns on me that I have no idea of these other people’s circumstances and experiences. One young woman shuffles by in fuzzy slippers, an enormous sweatshirt, and Minion-patterned pajama pants, laughing. She goes down the hall and I guess into her room. She comes back a few minutes later, and now she’s crying. Then she repeats the circuit, laughing.

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