by Spencer Hyde
But he didn’t talk about it again.
Sunday rolled its way in much more slowly than I had expected. I guess because I’d spent most the week thinking about the upcoming planning session. We all spent the week thinking about it, I figured.
Group meetings that week with Tabor were stagnant because we kept looking at each other in furtive glances, fiddling with things, trying not to let on that anything was amiss. I knew Doc wasn’t aware of our plan, but he still wrote a bunch of notes in that stupid folder, probably about how I seemed closed off or something. I read way too much into everything we did and heard, into every visit with Doc. He’d ask how things were going, and I’d curl the cuffs of my sweater in my palms and wonder if he knew. Of course he knew! My anxieties sloshed around in my mind endlessly.
Ramirez just kept telling me the same things: I needed to expose myself to uncomfortable situations and learn how to deal with the aftermath. I’d been trying this thing where, after I felt a compulsion, I wouldn’t blink or go to the bathroom to wash my hands until I’d waited ten seconds, then thirty, then one minute, then two, then five, then ten. I got up to fifteen minutes, and eventually I’d forget that I was supposed to wash my hands. So, in that regard, that behavioral stuff was changing things.
I spent most of that week waiting in my own mind. I kept thinking about the characters in Waiting for Godot and why they were okay with waiting, playing out absurd rituals and mocking the engine of silliness around them, rotating hats and joking about everything instead of confronting the real reason Godot didn’t show up or asking why. The only thing they are sure of in their life is that they are waiting. That’s it. Waiting for Godot to show up. They say life will end if he doesn’t show. They talk about leaving. But they don’t move.
Dr. Morris’s question was on repeat in my mind: What are the characters waiting for, and why is it significant that it/he/she never shows up?
Anyway, on Sunday, Pastor Michaels showed up. I guess I’d never really noticed him because he only came around once a week—and usually only for a brief moment in the morning to check if anybody wanted to join him in the chapel for a short sermon.
I wonder if Michaels thought that he’d received some crazy amazing answer to his prayers when he walked into the ward that Sunday and saw six inpatients patiently waiting for his arrival. Hallelujah! They’re finally listening!
“I don’t know whether to see y’all as angels, or make my way back through that door,” he said, smiling.
He had this soft drawl to his voice that was kind of comforting.
“I told them you offered sermons for anybody interested. Every Sunday. Like clockwork,” said Fitz.
“Still true,” said Michaels. “But I seem to recall that the last time I saw you, you yelled country song lyrics at me and then walked away,” he said, looking at Fitz. Then the pastor laughed. “But I’m not one to question true conversion or its process. Come, ye children of the Lord, let us walk to the chapel.”
The pastor was really tall and lanky with an awkward gait and limbs that looked too long for his body. He looked like one of those twig bugs but with a suit that had shoulder pads too big for his frame, making him look even more ridiculous. He had soft eyes and round glasses and was balding, like Tabor. His ears were huge. He carried a Bible and would hold it across his stomach with both hands when he spoke. He had this massive underbite, and it always seemed like he was contemplating something.
I wondered if it was because his world required a different type of understanding, a different kind of language and communication between believers or something.
The walk to the chapel was pretty quiet. The halls were lined with garish oil-painting portraits of people with phony-sounding names on gold placards below their pictured, floating heads. Most of the placards also had a title before the name, depending on how much money the floating head in that painting had donated.
Some of the hospital wings were even named after those donors. Even the parking structure had someone’s name on it. What a wonderful tribute. Give me a break. I bet they allocated rewards based on the amount donated because—a parking structure? C’mon. That person must have offended somebody or donated the money in all pennies. They got the shaft, for sure.
I wonder if they handed out plaques for small donations, like you got a brick on the outside of the building or something. Or maybe there was an Alex Steiner gold plaque screwed into one of the toilet stall doors because he only donated a five-dollar gift card. Big deal. Not worth it.
Still, I was grateful for the money they gave to help people. Not a bad way to spend, in my opinion.
What would I get my name on?
“If you donated money, what would you want named after you?” I whispered to Fitz as we shuffled along.
“Probably the game room. Maybe the pharmacy—lots of good medication jokes to be had there. You?”
“Probably prosthetics.”
“That would cost you an arm,” said Fitz.
“Too easy,” I said. “But at least I’d know I had a hand in their recovery.”
“And a leg,” he said.
“I’d make them put my name on all the prosthetic eyeballs, too.”
“Why?” said Fitz.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
Fitz laughed, and Michaels turned around and eyed us.
“That’s awful. Beauty is in the eye socket of the beholder, more like. But I’d lose an eye for that,” said Fitz, grabbing my hand and giving it a quick pulse.
I had a hard time concentrating when he did that. I started blinking at my alternating steps set against the reflective tile floor. I was so happy, and cleared my throat in sets of three, trying to stay calm, as Michaels turned back to check on us again.
After a few detours and up a flight of stairs, we walked up a ramp and into a small chapel. The doors had small, latticed, stained-glass windows on either side. I wasn’t sure what religious moments were being depicted, but it looked like a lot of angels were doing a lot of talking to surprised people who were on their knees. A few people were holding books, and a few more had walking sticks or canes or something.
One that I really liked showed a boy on his knees with a pillar of light shooting straight down from the sky to the forest floor. It looked like it would be a pretty cool experience: like, unmediated truth straight from the head honcho. Pure truth. Beam me up! That’s what I wanted to yell.
We filed into the room. There was a close, stifling smell, like mildew. There were five rows of really old wooden pews with their corners chipped and smudged, all lined up facing the lectern. Higher up there were these really cool latticed, handblown glass windows with little bubbles in the panes. The windows let in these cut-up squares of light that scattered themselves all over the chapel—little blocks of warmth spotting the floor.
Pastor Michaels pointed to the pews and told us to relax. He asked for our names first and hurried through them. Well, except for Leah. He made some joke about her being Jacob’s wife and about how she stole seven years from her sister, Rachel, in a trick and then threw his head back like it was some hilarious joke. I didn’t get it, but Leah smiled and laughed a little. I figured she knew the stories because her mother dropped off prayer beads for her one week.
She rubbed her hand through her hair and quietly stared at the stained glass. I thought she looked more upbeat since the last time I’d seen her. It was odd, seeing growth in other patients simply through body language.
The chapel was taller than I expected, but still cramped. Candles lined one side of the room below pictures of prophets or saints or something. Each pew had a hymnal resting on it. I didn’t know any religious songs, but thankfully the pastor didn’t ask us to sing. I imagined myself in that moment as some preacher on a soapbox at some revival, hollering from my tent about the truth, getting good followers to come my way.
Pas
tor Michaels stood at the lectern and looked at us, probably wondering why we had decided as a group to seek religion that day. But I think he was more eager for an audience than he would ever let on, so he spoke after a beat.
“I honestly didn’t plan a sermon because I never get a response from your group, even though I set aside an hour every week for the adolescent psych ward. Sorry,” he said, realizing he was talking to us and not thinking about these things to himself.
“I’ve been reading about Job lately. Y’all heard much of Job? I think his faith and determination and love in the wake of such incredible trials is something we can discuss and learn from.”
“He’s the guy that got, like, buried in crap,” said Junior. “Right?”
I saw the pastor wince at the horrible word choice, but also kind of smile because it was such a colorful way of describing the situation. Junior didn’t seem to notice or care.
“I’ve never heard it put that way, but yes. Job was buried in misfortunes brought on by a loving God. I know it doesn’t seem loving, but look at the way Job responds. It’s beautiful. He lost everything, and still he praised his Lord.”
“Quite a shakedown,” said Fitz. “Am I right?”
I sniggered and covered my mouth and tried to look away or like I was praying by dipping my head behind the pew. Pastor Michaels coughed, but it seemed like a fake cough designed to fill the awkward moment after Fitz’s comment. He opened his Bible and was about to read when Didi yelled, “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air! Gilmore Girls!”
The pastor looked shocked, so I quickly explained to him what Didi was dealing with.
“Pretty good choice there on the first one, Didi,” said Fitz, under his breath. “I can’t comment on the latter because I’ve never seen it.”
I saw Didi smile at Fitz.
After that, the sermon was pretty uneventful, and felt more like Michaels was reading straight from the Bible rather than actually discussing the doctrine or teachings or whatever with us. He didn’t seem to mind that Leah was already praying near the candles in one corner, ignoring his sermon. Fitz was responding quietly to remarks from Lyle or Toby or Willy or whoever for a while before going quiet.
I looked up at the handblown glass windows and watched the light play off the small bubbles. I wondered how that air got trapped in there. Then I thought of how intricate even something as simple as a window is when it is all boiled down or whatever.
“You believe in God, Addie?” Fitz whispered to me.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Does He believe in me?”
“That’s a good question,” said Fitz. “I bet He does.”
We were silent for a while until the pastor spoke of how Job blessed the name of the Lord even after all the awful things that had happened to him.
“Do you believe in forgiveness?” said Fitz.
“Of course,” I said, surprised by the question.
“Yeah, but what if it’s something really awful. Do you think someone can be forgiven for that? I mean, like, really awful,” said Fitz, shuffling his slip-resistant booties anxiously.
“How awful?”
“Unforgivable,” said Fitz.
“Is there such a thing?”
“I want my horse!” said Wolf.
“I’ll find you that horse one day,” said Fitz. He winked at Wolf. “Never mind,” he said to me, returning to our conversation. “Just curious.”
“Ask the pastor,” I said.
“No. It’s okay. Just wondering is all. More of a private atonement, I guess.”
I contemplated Fitz’s question while the pastor droned on about Job and his awful situation. Fitz dipped back into speaking to the voices he was hearing. At one point, he lay face down on the pew and shouted, “Shut up, Willy!”
“It’s okay,” I said, both to Fitz and to the pastor, who looked surprised.
After the “Amen,” the pastor spoke to us in a more conversational tone. Weird how he was able to flip a switch like that. Whatever. The sermon had been better than milling around the ward, looking for something to do.
“I believe the good Lord would like to hear from each one of you. For that reason, I’d like to leave the last portion of our time to you and the Lord. Nothing more important than a one-on-one with the heavens. I promise you He is listening, and He will respond. Knock, and He’ll open. Ask, and ye shall receive.” He folded his hands over his Bible again. “I’ll be right outside if you need help praying. I’d love to kneel down with you. When you’re done, I’ll walk y’all back to the ward.”
The stained-glass doors creaked closed behind Pastor Michaels. His large, thin frame shadowed the doorway. Leah walked back from the row of candles. Didi and Junior joined me and Fitz, who was holding his finger to his mouth to make sure everyone stayed quiet. Wolf stared at the ceiling like he was in some sort of a trance.
“Alright, everybody,” Fitz said, rubbing his hands together, “let’s get things moving, and soon. I’m thinking that we can get out a week from tomorrow. The Monday movie will provide us the perfect opportunity. We only need a couple things. But first, I need a count of who is planning on exiting? Addie’s in,” he said, smiling at me. “And you all know I’m halfway out the door already.”
“I’m in,” said Didi. “I mean, I’ll help, but I don’t feel like leaving.”
“Yeah, I’ll help,” said Junior. “I want to see the looks on the faces of the doctors and orderlies when they figure it out. That’s all I need. But I don’t want the same assignment as before because I don’t want to mess it up again.”
“Wasn’t your fault,” said Fitz.
“I’ll help if I can,” said Leah. “Actions speak louder than crossing a bridge when you come to it.”
Wolf didn’t say anything, so we had our numbers.
Honestly, I was kind of hoping Junior would join us on the outside because he was a big guy and pretty stable—as far as psych ward inpatients go, anyway.
“Perfect,” said Fitz. “Okay, it will be similar to last time, but I’ve added a couple things that should help. First, we’ll need somebody to volunteer themselves for suicide watch.” Fitz stopped. “Wow, that sounded awful.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t sound like a good part to any plan,” I said.
“That’s not what I mean. Or, that’s not what we need. Well, we need it, but . . .”
“Spit it out,” said Junior.
“If we have someone on suicide watch, that person gets two orderlies to watch them. That way, when Addie and I break out later that night, we will only have to slip past one orderly.”
“Smart,” said Didi.
“Thanks,” said Fitz. “But we still need a volunteer.”
Junior smiled. I didn’t know much about the guy, but I could tell he was enjoying the idea of a breakout. I think it made everyone pretty giddy—there’s something about doing what we’re not supposed to do, like the essayist said, that packs an adrenaline punch, like a cocktail of happiness and eagerness and hope.
I realized I hadn’t really thought about what we were going to do once we were on the other side of the hospital walls. I knew Fitz wanted to go to San Juan Island, so I guessed we’d start there.
“I’ll do it,” said Junior. “Just let me pick the movie for next Monday. Unless someone has another movie they already got approved?”
Junior looked around, but no one spoke. The floor was his.
“I have one in mind. I know it will make me angry. I need to be angry if the suicide watch thing is to be believable. I don’t think they’re ever worried about me killing myself, but I know they get scared I’m gonna hurt someone else, is all.”
“Excellent,” said Fitz. “Well, not excellent that you would hurt someone, but excellent that we have our guy for the job.”
I laughed at this new version of Fitz—this man planning what seemed like
some incredible heist, when it really just amounted to surprising a few orderlies and outwitting some doctors who’d never prepared for a breakout because most psych ward inpatients have nowhere to go. Right?
And if they do have somewhere to go, they’re either not capable of getting out or don’t have the nerve. I guess a number of factors were at play.
Fitz started in again, still rubbing his hands together. He looked a little sweaty, and I saw the hairs on the back of his neck curl in that wet shine.
“Okay, we’ll also need somebody to swipe a keycard from an orderly,” he said. “This is the trickiest part. We’ll need to swipe it as we are led back to our rooms. The shorter the time the orderly is without their card the better. Otherwise, they’ll notice it’s missing. Since they only need it to get in and out of the pharmacy and the ward itself, we have to make sure we don’t take the key from the orderly who is on pill duty that night. Who is it? Anybody know?”
“It’s Jenkins,” said Leah. “He’s on pills every Monday.”
I hugged Leah close to me, and she had this big grin on her face. I think we all felt a little giddy, but didn’t know how to express it. It was like some odd feeling of community among the most random assortment of people ever. That’s how it felt, anyway. Hey, I figured the pastor would appreciate the fact that we were getting along so nicely during our prayer time.
“Okay, so somebody needs to swipe a card from either Potts or Martha,” said Fitz.
“I can help with Martha,” I said, surprised by my own eagerness to help. “I’ll need your help though, Didi. You’ll need to distract her.”
Didi grinned and started flapping the ears of his fur hat up and down rapidly. “This kind of distraction?”
Leah laughed at Didi’s ridiculous motions. Wolf even looked our way to see what was going on.
“Maybe something a little more engaging,” I said, smiling. “But that would work, I’m sure.”
“Perfect,” Fitz said. “You two plan the keycard swipe, Junior gets on watch, and the only thing left is the main doorway, where it sounds like Potts will be. Is that right?”