We waited in silence for the nurse to do a headcount before leading us into the cafeteria. At least the intake nurse last night walked me through a general idea of what to expect in the morning and gave me a list of meal times and where to wait for them. The only access we had to other rooms without a staff member was each other; none of the patient doors had locks on them, and the group lounge at the end of the hall. There were no real walls around the lounge so that the nurses could see in at all times.
A nurse appeared at the end of the hall with a clipboard gripped in her slender hands. As she passed, she introduced herself to me as Cindy, one of the full-time resident nurses for our wing. She was on the shorter side, with long strawberry-blond curls barely contained by her scrunchie. Cindy looked young, even though her badge showed her as a Registered Nurse. I would take a guess that she was fresh out of nursing school within the past year. Since there were only six of us, it didn’t take her long before she walked down the middle of the hallway to the door leading to the main part of the building.
“Alright, let's go get breakfast,” She announced, waiting patiently for us to form a single-file line behind her at the door. Whowould have guessed that skills you learned in preschool would come in handy as an adult?
Cindy badged us through the thick set of metal doors and told us to wait while she made sure they closed behind us. From what I was told, groups in the clinic went separately for meals to limit patient interaction. Adolescents went first, behavioral patients went second, and the last group was the criminal wing. Whatever wing you were assigned to when you arrived became your little adoptive family during your stay. Meal times, group therapy sessions, and recreation time were all to be spent together.
The cafeteria was located on the first floor, along with the adolescent wing. Cindy didn’t bother loading our group up in the elevator to make the trip; instead she swiped her badge and opened the door to the stairwell. I was bringing up the rear of the line, my room being the farthest away from the nurses’ station back in our hall, right behind a petite black woman with goddess braids down to her waist. Her hair swayed as she walked, thanks to a pep she seemed to have in her step. She was humming a tune I hadn’t heard before to herself as she descended the stairs, not letting the dreariness outside dampen her spirit.
Cindy lined us up again outside the cafeteria doors, waiting to ensure the previous group had left before we all entered to get breakfast. Filing through the doors was almost reminiscent of going through the lunch line back in elementary school. Following the line to the left as we entered, we went through the first doormarked “enter”. I followed suit as the others started to grab empty trays to slide along the counter. The cafeteria itself was large and open, bare with only about ten round tables and a few dozen chairs scattered around. Large floor-to-ceiling windows lined the far wall, looking out into a courtyard enclosed with a tall brick wall topped with barbed wire.
Two older women in hairnets worked behind the counter, scooping food onto trays as they passed. Neither of them smiled as I thanked them for my cheesy eggs and bacon, and I had to wonder if it was due to working in a place like this or if they just weren’t happy individuals. They were at least generous with the amount of deliciously smelling food they put on everyone's plate.
Located at the end of the counter, there were two large industrial coffee pots with a bowl of flavored creamer packets, sugar, and stirrers. I stopped to make myself a cup of coffee and grabbed enough hazelnut creamer packs to thoroughly mask the bitterness. At the exit door, Cindy waited with a handful of plastic utensils sitting on her own tray.
“Make sure you don’t throw these away, we have to count everything before we leave the room,” She instructed as she handed me a plastic knife, fork, and spoon with a napkin held together by a rubber band.
“The rubber band, too?” I queried, taking the items from her and holding back the desire to argue over something so utterly ridiculous as counting plastic utensils.
She nodded, “It’s best just not to throw anything away. We have to inspect your trays and count everything before anyone is allowed to leave the room.”
I told her I wouldn’t and made my way to follow the rest of my hallmates. The three men were sitting at a table near the corner of the room, one of them taking notice of me as I stood there trying to decide where to sit. He was noticeably tall, even sitting down, and slender, with lean muscle, and a bald head. Rather, by choice or genetics, it was hard to tell. The way he leered at me made my skin crawl with unease. He never once bothered to look me in the eye; instead kept eyeing my body like it should have been served to him back with the food. The other two men sitting with him didn’t seem to take any notice of me.
Just as I had decided it might be best if I sat alone and as far away from that man as possible, the girl I had been in line behind waved her hand to me, beckoning me to come join her, and another woman from our hall near the windows.
“I highly suggest you don’t stray too close to him,” the dark skinned girl warned me, her dark eyes flicking towards the bald man who was still watching me, “He’s only been here a few days, but there’s something off about him, even in a place like this.”
I took a seat with my back to the table he was sitting at, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched. “Thanks. Any idea why he’s here?”
An older, pleasantly plump woman with streaks of gray in her dark brown hair shook her head. “He’s been pretty closed off in our group therapies, the only thing we know is his name is Brandon, and he’s here while awaiting trial. Rumor mill says he killed a child, but he hasn’t confirmed that. I’m Thelma, by the way, and this is Kendi.” The other girl gave a sweet smile as she ate her toast.
“Raelynn, I just came in late last night.” Despite the unease from the lingering gaze of Brandon, I was starving from the lack of real food for the past several days. The medication they put in my IV at the hospital made me nauseous so all I had been able to tolerate had been plain toast and jello.
“I know, we heard you arguing with the nurses,” Kendi said, taking a sip of her own coffee. I felt a little embarrassed that I might have woken them up. It was well past midnight when the nurses finally showed me to my room.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I had been loud enough to wake anyone up.”
“It’s not you; any little noise in this place tends to wake me up,” Thelma uttered, nervously picking at invisible spots on her clothing instead of eating her food.
The food wasn’t bad; it was surprisingly good considering it was technically hospital food. So I focused on eating for a moment while Kendi asked Thelma how her withdrawal symptoms were faring with her new medication, having noticed she hadn’t eaten a thing on her tray. She tried coaxing her to at least eat her toastbefore the nurses started handing out the medication, but Thelma simply kept shaking her head.
“How long have you been here for?” I asked neither of them in particular around a mouthful of scrambled eggs.
“I’ve been here about two months,” Thelma revealed, “As soon as they can get my medication right, I’ll be good to enter their outpatient program.”
“About three weeks for me,” said Kendi, “they want me to gain enough weight and complete my therapy goals before release.”
“Gain enough weight?” I inquired.
“I was admitted for anorexia. I have to take supplements at every meal and gain enough weight along with my therapist's approval before they’ll release me.”
“I’m sorry,” I didn’t really know what else to say. I’d struggled with my body image my entire life, but I couldn’t imagine how someone felt going through that.
“Don’t be,” she smiled, “it’s been a learning process. You should have seen me when I first arrived. I never thought I’d get better.” Positivity radiated from her face to the point she almost glowed. “This place isn’t as bad as you might think. Some of the therapists and doctors actually want to help you get better.”
“I disagree with Miss Silver Lining over here,” said Thelma.
“You’re also going through withdrawal, Momma,” Kendi placed a hand on the older woman's arm, comforting her. “They’ll get yousorted out, and you’ll be back on the wagon in no time, and I’ll be there every step of the way.”
