Page 85 of From Air

Dwight offers me the slowest nod. At first, I think he’s dozing off, but he just as slowly lifts his head after his chin taps his chest. This has been his home for twenty-two years. Most people stay until they complete a competency evaluation to determine if they’re mentally capable of standing trial. Others stay until they recover. And a few, like Dwight, become gravely disabled after being found not guilty by reason of insanity. It’s heartbreaking.

A few hiccups have squashed his minimal progress. Tying up one of the nurses with her knee-highs and attempting to escape wearing her pink plaid trousers and blouse wasn’t one of his finer moments. Neither was pissing on another patient, whom Dwight swore was on fire and spewing vitriol. That’s when the marking started.

Stories have been passed down through the years, despite staff turnover since he was first admitted. Dwight’s on his way to becoming a legend around here.

“I’m leaving now. It was nice spending time with you.” I squeeze his fingers and stand.

“I’ll eat,” he mutters, pawing at my hand when it leaves his. “D-don’t get all ...” His pinched expression intensifies. “Don’t get all rankled.”

“I’m not rankled. Just busy.” I chuckle, easing back into the chair and updating his chart while he slurps yogurt, eyeing me without reprieve.

He’s quickly become my favorite patient. I’d say it’s especially true on the days he thinks I’m his wife because he’s incredibly sweet to me. However, it’s more than that. Something deep in his eyes reminds me of a child crying for help. On the outside, he’s a guilty man (even if he was found not guilty by reason of insanity), but on the inside, he’s fragile and innocent.

“Annie, I dried between my toes and clipped my nails. And I didn’t leave my towel on the floor,” he says, surprising me with his sudden interest in chatting after showing little excitement to see me.

“Thank you. Annie would love that.” I finish a few notes on my tablet and straighten the blanket on his bed. What wife wouldn’t love her husband picking up after himself?

A dead one.

“Has the baby kicked?”

“You have a child?” I ask.

“Barbara.”

“That’s right. I think I heard that. On a scale of one to ten, what is your current level of depression?”

“Zero. We escaped the bear.”

I nod. Some days, it’s a ten because Annie didn’t escape the bear.

“Do you have any suicidal thoughts?”

He chuckles, gaze still pointed out the window. “No. Annie would kill me if I tried to kill myself.”

He’s been here so long. I can’t imagine a day he’s in the presentandemotionally well. Right now, it’s one or the other but not both.

He glances over his shoulder. “You look as beautiful as you did the day I married you.”

Aww . . .

I want Dwight to get better. I’ve never met his family or friends, but I like to imagine they are waiting for him. Maybe this is the year Barbara will visit him for the holidays. I’ve heard he’s never had a visitor. Perhaps she’ll come with her kids—little grandkids for Dwight. And it will trigger something that will allow him to heal faster and be whole again.

Is it likely? No. But the human mind has barely been touched by science. Even with all the advancements, so much remains a mystery.

“Let’s go to the beach next time,” he suggests.

I glance up from my tablet. “The beach? You like the beach?”

His tongue lazily swipes the yogurt from his top lip while he shakes his head.

“No? Well, I love the beach.”

He winces as he always does when I say the wrong thing—when I say something his wife wouldn’t have said.

After he finishes the yogurt and swallows his medications, I rest my hand on his shoulder. “I’ll check in later.”

“Watch out for bears,” he mumbles, like it’s a passive afterthought. His suddenly lifeless tone matches the rest of his gray, aging body—Dwight’s fifty-five, going on eighty.

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