A Tragic Kind of Wonderful(57)

I don’t have to do anything. I don’t have to take care of myself. They give me a clean gown and slippers every morning. They change the gauze on my battered feet. They feed me. They tell me where to go. They give me my meds.

I can stay in this dreamy haze … like I’ve just woken up … barely awake … nothing to worry about … or think about … no reason to move … it’s a dream come true.

I have nothing here. That’s what I want. Nothing to do. Or worry about. Or think about. No one outside has to worry about me. I don’t know why I fought this. This is the only place I get everything I want. Nothing.

I’m a different kind of mixed. Miserable and serene.

Heaven and hell are the same place.

*

It’s chilly in here. Maybe there’s a heater vent near some other chair … but I don’t want to get up.

A skinny blond girl cries in the corner, her face on her knees, rocking. It’s been hours. She’s exhausted but keeps going. I know what that’s like.

I want to tell her it’s okay. They’ll take care of everything. She doesn’t have to worry. Or be worried about. I want to tell her … but I don’t want to get up. Or talk. She’ll figure it out.

“Mel?”

It’s not time to eat. Not time for meds. Not time for bed. I’m not breaking any rules. Rules are things you can’t do. I’m doing nothing.

“Mel, you have a visitor.”

I shake my head. As little as possible. Without looking up. Maybe the less I move, the sooner she’ll leave.

“You’re not supposed to have visitors in your first twenty-four hours, but they’re making an exception.”

I don’t move. I already shook my head.

The nurse squats by me. “The doctors said it could be here, in the big room. This almost never happens. They’re letting him in since he’s a retired psychiatrist. It’s Dr. Jordan. He’s a friend of yours? You should feel lucky.”

She says this nicely. Not like I’m being ungrateful. Like she’s happy they’re doing me this favor. It’s wasted. I don’t want it.

“The doctors said he could come right in, but he doesn’t want to unless you say it’s okay. May he come in?”

I shake my head again.

“Are you sure? I think you should see him.”

Another shake. Stronger. To end this.

The nurse sighs. “What do you want me to tell him?”

There’s nothing to say.

She stands up. “Won’t you tell me why?”

I close my eyes. She’ll go away eventually.

“If I don’t tell him something, he might think you didn’t understand and come anyway.”

I glance up. It’s the older nurse with the short black hair. It’s not glossy like Zumi’s. It’s dyed and looks like tar.

“Tell him—” I cough. I can barely understand myself. I’m hoarse. My lips and tongue feel thick. I try to clear my throat but don’t have the energy. I just mumble through it.

“Tell him he’s not my doctor.”

*

The cafeteria is a counter and four tables. They don’t make food here. They bring in stacks of premade trays to choose from. I think this room is only for the small wing where I’m staying. Short-term involuntary holds. Teens only. Not more than a dozen when full.

There are only two other girls now. We don’t talk or look at each other.

The orderly is a Samoan guy with a buzz cut. He and the tar-headed nurse guide us into the cafeteria. We line up at the counter. If you can call three girls a line. There are no trays yet. They tell us to sit down.

I find a seat facing a wall. The windows are too bright. I don’t want to see outside anyway.

One of the other girls comes to my table. Just that much, her sitting in front of me, looking at me, not even talking … it tires me out.

“You don’t recognize me?”

I haven’t really looked at her. But trying not to will make this last longer.

She’s my age. Curvy. Latina. Her wavy dark hair is slicked back. Probably just greasy from being here. Despite that, she’s pretty. She seems familiar. Can’t remember. Wearing identical hospital gowns, under these fluorescent lights, nobody looks normal.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I didn’t recognize you either, till I saw … you know …” She waves vaguely. “The signs.”

I guess she means my brown hair, blue eyes, and freckles. The signs of Mel Hannigan.

“I’m Sofia Martinez.”

Her name’s familiar … but … no … too foggy …

“Still nothing? I used to run with Gloria and Tina Fernandez?” She smiles. “Now you remember! Don’t worry, I’m not with them anymore. Fucking psychos.” She laughs. “I should talk, huh?”

Someone comes in the room carrying a stack of trays.

“What are you in for?” Sofia says.

I don’t want to talk. Especially with any part of Team Fernandez. Even ex-members. But … I also want the easiest path.

I point at my temple and twirl my finger around.

“An actual lunatic, huh?” she says. “Good. Otherwise getting locked up would violate your human rights.”