The Well - Book One of the Arizona Thriller Trilogy

by Sharon Sterling

  She found herself in what appeared to be a deserted building, staring down a long, dark, empty hallway. Her few steps down the hall revealed two much shorter hallways branching to the right and left with what she guessed were three offices opening onto each.

  Several yards ahead, a windowed reception booth was dark and unmanned. Trying to decide whether to knock on a door at random or explore further down the hall, Allie saw someone emerge from a door about fifteen yards away.

  The woman came close enough for Allie to identify her as a nurse, a blond haired woman wearing medical scrubs printed in bright yellow and orange.

  “You’ve never been here before have, you?” the woman asked briskly. She didn’t wait for an answer but continued in a honeyed, southern accent that contrasted oddly with her businesslike manner. “I’m the charge nurse, Linda. Crystal and the other patients are in the cafeteria finishing lunch. I’ll show you around until they’re ready to visit.” Allie followed, grateful for a guide.

  “This is the twenty-three hour unit,” the nurse said, indicating an open door on the right. “It’s for patients in crisis who don’t need to be admitted; they just need a time out.”

  Allie glimpsed a well lit day room with sofas, chairs and the ubiquitous TV set but no patients.

  “We’re pretty empty right now, but it will sure pick up around Christmas and New Years,” Linda said. Further down the hallway on the right, she indicated the closed cafeteria door then the open door to a very large room at the end of the hallway. “This is the conference room where we do staffings and where the Title Thirty-Six hearings are held,” she said. “Room enough for the judge, the lawyer, and our staff.”

  A long oval table lined with chairs filled the room. On a large table against the wall, a very large, flat screen TV claimed most of the surface except for an electronic device about the size of a loaf of bread.

  “For tele-med,” Linda said, leaving Allie to think about the value of high tech applications for mental health work.

  The nurse stopped in front of another door. From her pocket, she hefted a large key ring that contained seven or eight heavy metal keys. Allie had vague intimations of medieval jails and their keepers until she noticed the keys had colored plastic borders around square heads.

  The nurse selected the key marked with red. It opened the door to a tiny room that contained nothing but a copy machine, a bulletin board and a door opposite the one they had just entered. She chose a blue key to open the facing door then turned to smile at Allie.

  “It’s like an air lock, isn’t it? To slow down the runners. Some can dash through the first door when we open it, but the second is apt to stop them.” They entered the unit.

  The nurse’s station with its locked, swinging half door was on the right. As they walked past it, Allie noticed another nurse and several staff members there. “The techs,” Linda said, not bothering to introduce them. Allie knew their full title: behavioral health technician.

  Looking around, she noticed the concrete floor was covered with a mustard-yellow epoxy paint. The walls were white plaster rather than dry-wall. A few feet beyond the nurse’s station, Linda indicated an open room empty of patients. It was barren to the four walls except for a stretcher-like table bolted to the floor in the center of the room with wide leather straps hanging down both sides.

  “Seclusion and restraint,” she said. “We don’t have to use it often.” She flashed a now familiar grin at Allie, who was impressed by the woman’s charming drawl and chipper personality. She wondered if the woman was genuinely good humored or was she practicing a defense against the drab, prison-like environment?

  “There’s a row of offices for the psychiatrist and the social worker through there,” Linda said, motioning to a door with a small, steel mesh reinforced window. Through it, Allie saw another long corridor with office doors along one side. They approached the end of the building, where wide doors with reinforced windows gave a glimpse of a small lawn outside.

  “The patio and yard are through there,” Linda said. “The patients used to smoke out there, but now we have them on nicotine patches. They hate not being able to smoke, but they still like to go out for fresh air.”

  They turned back to the large central common area, lined by the open doors of patient’s rooms. Each room was only eight by ten feet, holding nothing but a narrow bed and a single dresser. Most of the beds were neatly made but a few personal belongings scattered here and there added a human touch that contrasted with the otherwise military barracks atmosphere.

  Allie suddenly felt like an intruder. People were living their lives in here, if only for a short time. A squeamishness overtook her, reminding her of how she felt visiting the zoo, a mixture of fascination and pity, and these were people, not animals. She was relieved they had come to the end of the tour.

  Set across the far end of the unit, opposite the patio doors, were the closed doors of a craft room, two bathrooms and a shower room.

  “There you have it,” Linda said. “You can wait anywhere.” She waved her arm at a group of several small tables with chairs around them, then at the sofas and easy chairs in the common area. With a last smile, she went back to the nurses’ station.

  Allie seated herself at one of the small tables. Soon a patient at another table caught her attention. The woman was a picture of industry, busily tearing paper. Piles of shredded paper in front of her dwarfed the small stack of intact paper to her left. When the woman tore off a tissue-thin piece, leaving one like it in her hand, Allie realized she was not just shredding paper, she was separating the several layers that comprised each sheet. Allie watched her, aware the patient's face was serene. She appeared happily engrossed in her meticulous work.

  When the unit door and the outer hallway door opened at the same time, she saw the patients, escorted by two male techs, ambling from the cafeteria as if in no hurry to return to the unit. All fourteen patients, male and female, wore identical blue cotton scrubs. Crystal entered last.

  “Hello, Mrs. Davis,” she said cheerfully. She sat down at the table with Allie, who thought Crystal looked wonderful. Relief flooded her.

  “Hello Crystal. How are you? Your hair is so cute.”

  Crystal reached up and touched her hair with both hands, as if she had forgotten it was pulled back off her face, arranged in an intricate French braid. “One of the nurses did it,” she said.

  “So, they’re treating you well in here?”

  “Yeah, it’s not bad. Except for these pajamas they make us wear.” She tweaked her baggy shirt. “It’s not as bad as I thought it would be. They put me on Prozac, said it was 'tried and true'. I’ve been on it just four days but I do feel a little better.”

  “Who’s taking care of your children?”

  “My husband. He must have thought I was turning into a real whack job, because he said he could use some time off, and he took vacation days.”

  “Have you told him everything? About your uncle?”

  “Some of it. I think he understands. I made him promise me he wouldn’t let the creep anywhere near our kids.” The smile left her face and her hand went to the nape of her neck in a familiar gesture, but found no hanging strand of wispy hair to twist. Allie thought the gesture might indicate doubt or anxiety, but before she could question it Crystal stood quickly, her chair screeching against the concrete floor. She called out, “Kim!”

  Allie looked up. She saw Kim Altaha enter the unit with another visitor, escorted by a nurse. Allie wondered if Kim was as surprised to see her as she was to see Kim.

  “Hi, Allie!” Kim said, then took Crystal in her arms for a long hug.

  “So you two do know each other. I thought you might.”

  “For years,” said Kim.

  “BFFs” added Crystal, laughing.

  Kim said, “Before I forget, Crystal, your husband asked me to say he’s not bringing the kids to visit today since they’ll be here later to take you home.”

  “Thanks. He already told me.
” She motioned to a chair. Kim sat down with them.

  Activity swirled in the common area now, the noise of the TV mixed with the voices of patients and visitors socializing.

  Sound echoed off the bare floors and walls, amplifying what could have been a pleasant murmur into a strident, institutional clamor. Allie knew the walls and floors were uncovered, unadorned to prevent patients from using the most harmless seeming objects to harm themselves or others, but she thought the noise and stark surfaces must stress the patients and the staff. It felt stressful to her.

  She noticed several patients, even one of the techs, staring at Kim. It occurred to her that Kim’s striking appearance was even more noticeable here, like a bright splash of color swept across a muddy canvas. One of the young men sat down at a table near them, staring at Kim, listening to their conversation without guile. Kim ignored him.

  “Time for service, time for service,” announced a deep male voice. A tall, heavily muscled male tech escorted two other men toward the craft room. The tech’s face was pock-marked by acne scars. His features were rough, except for his eyes, which were large, brown and bracketed by smile lines.

  He passed them, looking pointedly at Kim. He raised both eyebrows and pursed his lips in a silent whistle of appreciation, an unspoken 'Wow!'

  Walking on the tech’s right was a bearded man wearing wrinkled, stained scrubs, his shock of wildly tousled hair hanging in his eyes. On the tech’s left was a medium sized man with blond hair and a ruddy face above a white clerical collar and a dark suit.

  “I don’t know who that guy is,” whispered Crystal, indicating the cleric, “but the other one is Jacob. He’s got schizophrenia. He’s on twenty-four hour obs. The nurses told me I shouldn’t be scared in here because the violent patients, the ones who committed crimes, are in the State Hospital in Phoenix. In the forensics unit, whatever that means. Jacob punched one of the other patients and then spit in the nurse’s face. That’s why the techs are with him. Close obs means observation. They have to keep him within eyesight or arms length twenty-four/seven. He scares me. I wish he wasn’t here.”

  “Tonight you won’t be here,” said Kim, “that’s even better. Let’s find out what the pastor has to say.” She rose, nodding toward the craft room, which evidently doubled as a chapel.

  Allie and Crystal looked at each other, then Crystal shrugged and followed her friend while Allie followed her, wondering at this very strange visit and this particular unexpected turn of events. They walked toward the craft room/ersatz chapel.

  Kim said to Allie, “The nurse told me there’s a law in Arizona that says people in psych hospitals are entitled to practice their spiritual beliefs, so the hospital has to provide that as well as food, clothing and shelter.”

  There were four rows of folding chairs across the width of the craft room facing a table which the pastor now prepared as his lectern. Allie sat in the middle of the second row, Kim and Crystal to her left. The tech sat to her right with his patient Jacob on his other side at the end of the row.

  The tech turned toward Allie and leaned down to say, “All our Sunday speakers are volunteers, different ministers or priests or a rabbi from the community. We’ve had some good speakers. One woman, she’s a Baha’i I think, brings her violin to play for us. Her name is Kate. She reads some nice prayers that sound like poetry. We sing a few songs and everyone feels better afterward.”

  “That’s nice...”.

  The pastor’s voice interrupted. “Welcome every-one. I’m Reverend Dean. I’m happy to be invited here to share this sacred day with you.” He looked down to consult his notes one more time. His pale hair fell across his forehead. He put his fists on the table. Leaning forward on straightened arms, he began.

  “Today I want to talk to you about attitude. Attitude, my friends, is everything. Attitude is the difference between a cup that is half full and one that is half empty. Attitude makes the difference between hope and despair. And attitude, for some of you here, can make the difference in having to be in here, or being free in the Lord.”

  He stood with his arms folded now, and Allie noticed his face had turned pink and mottled. “For some of us here today, as the Bible puts it in the Book of Wisdom, Chapter Five, Verse Six, 'We, then, have strayed from the way of truth, and the sun did not rise for us'. A sad condition indeed. For that sad condition, some of the patients here may blame their dysfunctional families, their selfish or abusive mothers or their alcoholic fathers. They may even blame God Himself! But these excuses from the past do not help any of us in the present.”

  While his voice escalated in volume, Allie noticed beads of sweat on his forehead, although the room felt cool. Several of the patients stirred in their folding chairs, perhaps sensing the start of a real sermon. The close obs patient stared straight ahead. He began to rock back and forth.

  The Pastor continued. “To make such excuses proclaims that we are helpless and powerless before God and our fellow man. Are we helpless? No. Because God has given us the power of free will, and the free will that changes our attitude is the power that changes our lives.

  “An attitude adjustment. That’s all we’re talking about. So, what is the right attitude and how do we adjust ours to get it? Let me ask you this. Have you ever, any of you here, ever seen a newborn baby with a bad attitude?”

  Allie smiled, but when she glanced around, she didn't see another amused face. The pastor continued, either unmoved by, or unaware of his, audience’s reaction.

  “Second Timothy, Chapter One, Verse Seven reassures us that we have all been gifted from birth with the right attitude.” His voice took on a different tone as he quoted, 'For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.' A sound mind! That is our birthright, friends!”

  A rift of sharp screeches startled Allie, the sound of metal chair legs against the concrete floor. Jacob was rocking faster and harder.

  The pastor continued. “The right attitude. Philippians, Chapter Four, Verse Eight tells us how to get it. 'Finally, brethren, whatever is true, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything is worthy of praise, let your mind dwell on these things'.”

  Jacob now rocked in his chair so violently he was in danger of pitching forward onto the floor. The tech stood and with a quiet, deep-voiced command and a firm grip on the patient’s arms, got Jacob up and out of the room. In less than a minute, the tech reappeared without the patient, and reclaimed his own empty seat.

  The pastor appeared unaware of the disturbance. He fixed his eyes on the wall at the back of the room and swiped his hand across his face.

  “Let’s sum up, then. The right attitude is an attitude of love and of forgiveness. It is truth, honor, beauty and excellence in any form. Now, I know you’re asking how we can rediscover this life-affirming attitude in ourselves. I can tell you, it’s not by lying on a psychiatrist’s couch or sitting in some therapist’s office, although God can work through just about anyone. And not by reading self help books, unless it’s the Good Book.” He waved his Bible at them. “No, we can’t find this perfect attitude in books or therapy sessions. We get it from letting our minds dwell on the right things.

  “I know, my friends. I hear your thoughts. You’re saying, 'Death, disease, falsehood and despair are everywhere. If life were different, I could have a better attitude' but I say to you, that’s backward thinking.

  “What I’m telling you is that what you believe about a matter is so much more important than the facts of the matter, and what you believe guides how you feel.

  “What is fact, after all? Five hundred years ago, it was 'fact' that the earth was flat. A hundred years ago, it was 'fact' that humankind would never set foot on the moon. So you see, facts are mutable. Facts are relative, facts are irrelevant to the right attitude. So called facts and judgments about facts are inventions of mankind. But the, right attitude friends, is a true gift from God.”

  He closed his Bible
and folded his hands. “Let us all pray that this gift we were invested with by Divinity at birth will be restored to us and to our loved ones, through the grace of God. Amen.”

  Silence. Then quiet sobs. Allie looked to her left, to see Crystal crying, face in her hands.

  The pastor still appeared oblivious to the members of his tiny congregation. He concluded the sermon, “Go in peace, my friends.” Then he grabbed his notes and his Bible and left the room before anyone could stir.

  A pause. As if released from a spell, the patients and visitors began to rise and leave. The tech turned to Allie. “First time I ever felt like a hit and run victim of a man of the cloth.”

  “Yes, he certainly didn’t want to linger afterward. It was a little strange. Maybe he felt uncomfortable here.”

  The tech smiled. “It can have that effect on people.”

  A patient near by inserted himself into the exchange. “I thought it was very powerful and the absolute truth.”

  The tech replied, “True, possibly. Powerful, yes. Maybe a little too powerful for people that are stressed or have a sensitive nervous system.”

  Allie said, “I guess he put us mental health professionals in our place. Or at least he tried to.”

  “He wouldn’t be the first, would he?” the tech said.

  Allie noticed Crystal was still crying. She vacillated between thinking about the provocative content of the sermon and wanting to attend to Crystal’s distress. Crystal held a sodden tissue to her nose and mouth but couldn’t stifle her heart breaking sobs.

  Allie’s indecision became resignation. She turned back to the tech, who was ushering out the last patient. “I think Crystal and I need to talk. Can we stay in here for some privacy?”

  “Sure.”

  Kim said, “I’m staying too,” and put her hand on Crystal’s shoulder. She turned to Allie. “All the preacher did was confirm what Wilma Mankiller said.”

  “Who?” said Crystal, looking up with tears streaming down her face.

  “Wilma Mankiller. I love what she said. She said, 'I believe in the old Cherokee injunction to be of a good mind. Today it’s called positive thinking'.”