by Ava Conway
Shit, the cameras. Johnson’s chuckle rose behind me as I fumbled with my office door and slipped inside. Once the door was firmly shut behind me, I let out a long breath.
Well, so much for starting over. Within minutes of arriving at work, I not only broke my personal rule of creating emotional distance between myself and the patients, but I also had an intimate exchange with Flynn while both the cameras and Johnson were watching.
I had to be careful. Letting my guard down around Flynn was starting to become dangerous.
I dumped my things on the floor and fell into my chair, eager to focus on work and put the whole uncomfortable episode behind me.
As my computer booted up, I absently reached for Freckles, needing the comfort that only she could provide. When I felt nothing but air, I glanced to where I kept my stuffed bunny by my computer monitor. There was nothing but empty space.
Panicking, I rummaged through the items on my desk. No Freckles. My breathing quickened as I checked under the desk, inside the wastebasket, in my tote, and behind the door. No Freckles.
“Oh, my God.” I opened the door and looked in both directions in the hall. The usual patients and staff were there, but no stuffed bunny. Once again, I met Johnson’s gaze. He was still standing there, watching my office like some creepy stalker. Part of me wanted to ask if he’d seen Freckles, but another part of me didn’t want to engage him in conversation. The man already knew too much.
Closing my office door, I went back to my desk and sat in the uncomfortable chair. That stuffed bunny and I had been through hell and back. It was the only thing that connected me to my past, and the only thing that helped me focus on the future.
I tried to focus on work, but it was difficult. I wanted to run through the halls screaming until someone brought me back my bunny. It was just a damn stuffed toy. It didn’t mean anything to anyone else. It meant the world to me, though. I couldn’t understand why someone would take it.
I started to send an email to Dr. Polanski to inform her about the rabbit, but realized after about two sentences how juvenile I sounded.
Get a grip. This was ridiculous. I was a grown woman falling apart over a stuffed animal. I didn’t send the email, but promised myself that I’d go down to the lost and found at lunchtime to see if it ended up there. For now, I needed to focus on these emails and get myself ready for group. It wouldn’t do for Dr. Polanski to see me slacking off on my second day.
The first email I received was from Pam, asking me to put more numbers into the computer. The second was from Elias, telling me that Dr. Polanski had told him that I was now inputting everyone’s notes into the database, and he’d stop by this afternoon with his share. The third was from Johnson, telling me that Dr. Polanski wanted him to show me how to use the fax machine. He’d stop by this morning and show me how to work it.
Must have been why he was hanging outside my office.
The last email was from Dr. Polanski herself, telling me that because of yesterday’s drama, it would probably be better if I skipped group this morning and observed the patients during rec therapy that afternoon. She went on to say that she had some documents that needed to be faxed to a colleague at Baylor University. Johnson could show me how to work the fax machine if I ran into trouble. She ended the email with a request to call down to facilities and make sure they stocked more creamer in the break room.
Creamer in the break room? Evidently the long-term-patient staff members liked their coffee extralight and were going through the creamer faster than facilities could replenish it.
Over the next hour, I managed to push my panic aside and focus on all the little mundane tasks the staff wanted me to accomplish. Stuffed bunnies were for little girls, not a twenty-three-year-old woman working toward her doctorate degree.
The new Mia was back, and she was in control.
As I taught myself how to use the fax machine—there was no way I was going to have a private faxing lesson from Johnson—my thoughts turned from Freckles to Flynn, and how he had seemed intrigued with the bunny yesterday. I thought about the spreadsheet I had worked on yesterday, and how I accidentally gained access to some personal information. I suspected that, with a little effort, I could probably dig up more background on Flynn McKenna.
I could find out how someone with such a bright future in boxing ended up in Newton Heights, or learn how parents too poor to hire a babysitter for a few hours acquired enough money to send Flynn to a private hospital.
I itched to read more of Flynn’s file, but forced myself to finish up all of my more mundane tasks first.
After I had finished faxing the documents, I had a new email from my professor, requesting an update on the internship and outlining the specifics he wanted in my report. By the time I had taken notes and sent out the required information, the morning had passed. Voices filled the hall outside my door, but I didn’t dare open it. Opening the door to my office would be inviting conversation, and I wanted to be left alone with my spreadsheets. More specifically, I wanted to be left alone so that I could read Flynn’s spreadsheet.
Before I started my data entry, I wanted to organize my own notes for my report at the end of the semester. I laid my notebook out on my desk, and then made computer folders on my desktop for both Flynn and Nesto. I went through my notes on Nesto fairly quickly. The Latino was an easy read and wore his emotions on his sleeve.
I opened a blank document file and wrote Flynn’s name on top. There I paused, wondering what I could possibly say about the man I had found so intriguing.
I wrote “large family,” hesitated, then added “took care of younger siblings.” It was then that I heard a knock at my door.
“Hey,” Elias said as he popped his head inside. “I was wondering if you were here. You’ve been hiding all morning.” He stepped inside, leaving the door slightly ajar. “Here are my notes.” He handed me a stack of folders about half the size of Dr. Polanski’s.
“Thanks.” I placed the folders on my desk and returned my attention to my computer screen. Elias was nice and everything, but as long as he stood over my shoulder, I couldn’t open up the patient database and look at Flynn’s information.
“You coming down to lunch?” Elias asked after an awkward silence. “I’m heading down with Johnson and Everett.” He wrinkled his nose. “Those two are close, and sometimes I feel like a third wheel. It would be nice to have someone else to talk to.”
Johnson. That was the creepy orderly’s name. Even if I had the time for lunch, I didn’t want to eat with Johnson leering at me.
I looked up from my computer screen and smiled. “Sorry, I’m busy, but maybe some other time.”
“Okay, some other time.” He grinned and left, shutting the door behind him. After pulling out one of those diet shakes from my lunch bag, I popped open the bottle and closed out my notes in favor of opening the long-term-patient spreadsheet. With everyone else at lunch, I was almost guaranteed not to be disturbed while reading Flynn’s information.
I hovered over his patient identification number as guilt flashed through me. What I was about to do was an invasion of privacy. Dr. Polanski would be furious if she found out. The best thing to do would be to forget I had even connected Flynn’s name to his identification number.
But if I did that, I’d never learn more about him. I remembered our interaction this morning, and how safe and protected he made me feel. If I stood any chance of resisting his charms, I needed to know everything about him.
I clicked on his patient identification number and skimmed over his basic information. My heartbeat quickened as my gaze fell on the different sections. Group therapy, recreation therapy, medication, socialization and eating habits. Eating habits?
I remembered how, in class, the professor had talked about how eating habits could be a window into a person’s mental health. For example, a depressed person would eat less than a normal person, or perhaps avoid food altogether.
I skipped over eating habits and clicked on th
e section labeled “treatment.”
I glanced at the door to make sure I was alone and focused on the screen. Quickly skimming the pages of notes, I learned that not only did Flynn have a bipolar disorder but he also had anger management issues and a history of kleptomania. The doctors speculated that these conditions resulted from head trauma obtained from a major title fight against Alexi Flakov.
I raised my hand to my lips as I realized that my initial characterization of him was correct. Flynn was nothing more than a kid who had gotten knocked around one too many times and had suffered brain damage. It was a textbook case really, but nothing about the man I had talked to this morning seemed by the book. His words were not slurred, his movements not shaky. In fact, if I didn’t know he was a mental patient, I wouldn’t have pegged him as sick at all.
“I’ve seen him go from completely calm to manic within seconds, like an explosion of emotion,” Dr. Polanski had said. “Once it starts, he just has to keep going and going until everything is out.”
My computer beeped, signaling the arrival of a new email. I minimized the database and checked it, noting that Dr. Polanski wanted me to meet her in her office. Sighing, I stacked the folders neatly on my table-turned-desk and leaned back in my chair to think.
Flynn not only had a large family, but also a promising career as a boxer. He should have taken his parents’ feelings into consideration and not pushed himself so hard in the ring. There was nothing better in life than being surrounded by people who cared about you and supported you. Now, with his mistakes in the ring, he had pushed all of that away.
How I wished I had a big, supportive family like his, but big families weren’t common in my life. The women in the Horton family weren’t made to bear children. Our problems conceiving were the main reasons behind my sister’s divorce and why my aunt and uncle had decided to remain childless. My mother had, obviously, been able to have children, but it was only after years of treatments and surgeries, and even then my sister and I were five years apart.
My hereditary challenges were also the biggest reasons why I decided that relationships and family weren’t for me.
I don’t care about your fucking miscarriage, you crazy bitch. The baby isn’t mine. Justin’s voice echoed in my head.
Sighing, I gathered my notebook and pen and headed to Dr. Polanski’s office. No, I could never have the family I had dreamed about, but that was okay. I had made new dreams, ones that didn’t involve filled holiday dinner tables or sticky fingerprints on the walls. My dreams were now nobler. Instead of working for myself, I worked for the greater good.
As I walked down to Dr. Polanski’s office, I realized that my new goals suited me better as well. Relationships and children only seemed to bring people heartache. It was much better alone. That way, no one could hurt you, and you wouldn’t disappoint those you loved. Being alone was safe, and obviously the best choice for me.
SEVEN
”COME IN,” Dr. Polanski’s clipped voice echoed from behind the office door.
I turned the knob and stepped inside. “You asked to see me?”
“Mia, yes.” Dr. Polanski pushed away from her desk and stood. “I’d like for you to see something. Follow me.”
As she brushed past me and into the hall, I noticed that her suit of choice today was a no-nonsense brown that matched her sensible shoes and hair tie for her bun. I looked down at my brightly-colored suit and wondered if I shouldn’t tone down my wardrobe—at least until my white uniform arrived.
Yesterday Dr. Polanski had ordered me a starch-white uniform to match the orderlies’, but it was on back order. All of the staff wore the white outfits so they’d be easy to pick out in a crowd. That is, all of us but Dr. Polanski. I wondered why she dressed differently and whether it had to do with her preference or her station at the hospital. Regardless, I knew I wouldn’t feel totally comfortable in my position until I looked like the rest of the other people in charge.
As I pondered linens and status, I walked in Dr. Polanski’s wake down the hall, clutching my notebook tightly to my chest. We moved from the staff section to the patient area, and once again I was struck by how different the two areas of the ward appeared. Nurses and orderlies blended in so well with the whitewashed walls and gray tiled floors. I wasn’t sure if this was on purpose or by accident. On one hand, it was smart to have the staff blend in as much as possible, so that the patients would feel more at ease. Unfortunately, it had the unintended consequence of no individuality. They might as well have been sheep wandering around in a field.
Even the paintings that lined the walls didn’t seem to have any character. The pastel colors added to the walls but didn’t enhance them, and the repeated print patterns all seemed to blend together after a while. I imagined living in such a place day in and day out and guessed that it would become quite depressing. When I had visited Lucy, everything here seemed so clean and important. Now it all seemed so sterile and bland.
“Sorry about group meeting this morning, but it couldn’t be helped,” she said.
“I understand.” I dragged my gaze away from a small gathering of patients and focused on Dr. Polanski. “It’s a little early for rec therapy,” I observed. “The schedule says that we aren’t to meet for another hour.”
“Yes, I want you to see something else before therapy this afternoon.”
“What?”
“The common area. I’d like you to observe your patients in a nonstructured setting.”
I nodded in understanding. Patients often did well when there were rules and schedules to follow. Take away the structure, and many patients had difficulty adapting. If I were going to decide whether to send people into work therapy, I had to be certain they could be flexible enough to handle changes in schedules and downtime.
Work therapy. It was the next big step for patients in a place like this. If they could prove that they could function and be productive when given certain freedoms, they could go to a group home. Unlike the hospital, group homes allowed more independence and were the final transition before reentering society.
“As you know, we have techs who take notes on patient behavior on a day-to-day basis.”
“Yes, I read your paper in Psychological Methods.”
She raised her brows. “You have?”
“Yes.” I straightened and tried to remember a few of the facts I had read. “In it, you advocated the use of cameras for collecting data, as your studies had shown that it was less disruptive than having the techs in the rooms.”
“That’s right.” Dr. Polanski waved her hand at one of the security cameras in the ceiling. “If something unusual happens, it gets flagged and the appropriate staff members get notified so that they can investigate. Otherwise, they take notes and give them to us for review before they go into the permanent database.”
Everything here seemed so efficient. It also felt rather impersonal. I thought about Flynn’s almost-kiss. I wondered if the techs were watching, and if the incident was somewhere in the stack of folders that the staff had given me to enter into the database.
“Normally I’d let you sit up with the techs and take notes, but since part of your assignment is getting to know the patients in person, I thought it better to have you interact with them in a relaxed setting instead.”
“Okay, sounds good.”
“Good.” My mentor glanced over my shoulder at my notes. “How is the data entry going?”
“Okay.” I hugged my notebook to my chest. While I wasn’t writing down anything Dr. Polanski didn’t already know, her looking over my shoulder felt like an invasion of privacy. I cleared my throat and tightened my grip on my notebook. “Although I haven’t had time to talk to Flynn and Nesto much yet.”
“It’s okay. There’s still a lot of time. You can’t be expected to do everything in one day.” She stopped just outside the common room door. “I should warn you that a lot of patients say a lot of things in this place. Most of it means nothing.”
“H
ow do you know the difference between something and nothing?”
“It’s a feeling.” She hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I guess after so many years of experience, you just know.”
I frowned and wrote “experience” in my notebook. Her explanation felt more like a brush-off than an answer, but before I could question her further, she opened the door to the common area and ushered me inside.
The room wasn’t small, like I expected, but a bit large, like a rec room. One third of the place was taken up by a Ping-Pong table. Nesto and Carter hit the small white ball back and forth, whooping it up when one of them scored. A third of the room had a big-screen TV mounted on the wall. Rows of chairs lined up like soldiers in front of the set, and they were partially filled with patients. Iris was there, watching some sci-fi flick with aliens and guts. A male patient who looked vaguely familiar sat with her, and Nesto seemed to be more interested in how close together they sat than in his Ping-Pong game.
Grimacing, I scanned the room until I came on the last section, a small area carved out by bookcases and easy chairs. A throw rug was draped over the linoleum to make it homier, but it just looked out of place when compared to the rest of the room. Flynn laid sprawled out in one of the couches, reading. A short distance away from Flynn, Johnson and Everett were deep in conversation.
“This is the common area,” Dr. Polanski said. “Here, patients can relax between sessions. I just want you to observe what goes on here and use the information gathered for your report.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Dr. Polanski smiled. “No need to call me ‘ma’am.’ It makes me feel old.”
“Oh, sorry.” I attempted to smile, but it felt forced because I was so nervous. After the disaster in group therapy yesterday, I really wanted to make a good impression.
Dr. Polanski looked as if she wanted to say something else, but her phone made an odd mechanical noise that distracted her. She picked up her cell and looked at the text.