“Please let me out,” I say.
“Everyone is looking forward to you coming out of that room, Rosie,” the nurse replies. “But that depends on you, not me. If you’re going to fight me or try to hurt me or anyone else, you’re going to need to stay in this room.”
Hurt her?
“I just want out.”
“Are you ready to go upstairs and settle in?”
“I’m... I’m not supposed to be at this place.”
“But you are at this place,” the nurse says. “And you’ll be staying here until you are well again, so unless you are ready to let us help you, you’ll need to stay in that room. It’s really up to you whether or not I open the door.”
“All right,” I say in a less-than-convincing tone.
“I want your word, now,” the nurse says sternly. “I want to hear you say you are ready to let us help you get well, and I want you to mean it.”
I think this through quickly. The needle in the doctor’s office put me to sleep and into this room. These people have my things. My bag. My clothes. And they have keys. They have power over me. I will have to do whatever they say until I can find a way to leave. Somehow I must find a way out of this place. But until then I will have to pretend, and lucky for me, I already know how to do that. I pretend every day that I don’t see the colors.
I can’t fight back like I did in the doctor’s office.
“I’m ready to let you help me get well,” I say.
“And I have your word?” The nurse sounds like a parent correcting an unruly child.
“Yes.”
I hear the sound of a key in the lock, see the handle turn, watch the door open.
This nurse is different from the one who took my travel bag. She is older than that first nurse and larger, almost as tall as a man. She looks strong.
“Now then,” the woman says. “I’m Nurse Tipton.” She steps aside so that I can exit the room. We stand in a long hallway with doors on either side. The linoleum is cracked in places and there isn’t so much as a framed photograph on the walls. From far down the hall I hear a woman scream. A scattering of reddishconfetti accompanies it. Nurse Tipton doesn’t even look in the direction of the outburst.
“Are you sure you’re able to walk?” the nurse says. “You look a little woozy still.”
“I’m... I can walk.”
“Shall we?” The nurse starts down the hall toward a workstation enclosed in reinforced glass. Beyond it is a closed door.
I hold on to the wall with one hand as we walk, feeling balance and control of my movements return with every step.
“Nurse Tipton,” I say after we pass a couple of doors with the same cutout windows mine had—all closed. My voice sounds less mushy in my ears. “Where are my clothes? Where’s my bag?”
“You don’t need to worry about either. We’ve taken care of everything.”
“I’m not worried. I just want to know where they are.” I attempt to walk without the aid of the wall and find that I can.
“Your things have been taken to a safe place to be kept until you’re well and ready to leave us.”
“But I need my clothes.”
“The residents all wear clothing we provide. And you won’t be wearing your own clothes much longer anyway, will you?” There is a slightly judgmental tone to her words.
I feel my face warm, but I push the shame aside. “Where’s my necklace? It means a lot to me.” My mother’s cloisonné pendant— and the little key that shares its chain—are my only hope of survival now.
“Your necklace is actually safer where it is, right inside your bag,” the nurse says matter-of-factly. “Sometimes things get taken from rooms. We don’t condone it. But it happens. Other residents have been known to take things that don’t belong to them.”
If I am to escape this place, I must have my bag. I need that key. I must know where it is.
