John’s confusion was swiftly replaced with guileless calm.
“Good. When you feel ready, open your eyes. How do you feel?”
“I feel hungry. I’m going to leave now.”
“All right, John. You did very well today. I will see you later this week.”
“Okay.”
They turned from each other, then he called out, “Don’t forget, Dr. Hart. I want to go home tomorrow.”
To her shame, Marion left the ward and pretended she hadn’t heard him. A man with John’s problems should never be allowed to leave these walls; however, Dr. Bernstein and the board had gone against Marion’s advice and cleared him, based on his model behaviour—behaviour that was, of course, controlled by the barbiturates and the other medications he was on. These walls would soon come down. After John left this place, who would make sure that he took his medications? That he ate? That he slept in a warm place? Without those things, he could become a risk to the public.
When Marion thought about John’s future outside of the institute, she prickled with panic.
Done for the day, she walked down the wide corridor, dotted with patients talking among themselves, and let their conversations wash over her. Some were making sense, some made sense only to themselves. Already unnerved, Marion’s heart began to race, set off by a familiar fear that everyone here needed a part of her she couldn’t afford to share. She felt an almost overwhelming urge to flee.
She ducked around a corner, out of sight of the patients, and stopped walking. As she exhaled, tears filled her eyes. The nurse was right about the full moon, she told herself. She visualized it as she calmed, taking in the lunar lines and shadows, its perfect silver curve. Someday soon, the newspapers said, America would put a man up there. What would that be like? Cold, she imagined, consciously slowing her pulse. And quiet. So quiet.
BANG! The door to her left shook with impact, and a roar came from within. Startled, Marion peered through the window and saw Daniel Neumann, the man recently returned from Vietnam. He paced the small room like a lion in a cage, digging his fingers into his hair with frustration. When he turned, she stepped out of his view then lifted his chart and looked over Paul McKenny’s notes.
Acute situational maladjustment. Combat fatigue.
Caution advised. Unpredictable outbursts. History of violence.
When lucid, patient is intelligent. Recommend slow lifting of sedatives based on physical actions to further explore mental state.
“Acute situational maladjustment.” No wonder, she thought, studying the man through his window and recalling photographs of the war, both on the cover ofLifemagazine and in the news. She doubted anyone could return from that hell unscathed. His face was broken and bruised. His fury was a living thing barely contained. One day, tens of thousands of men would come home from Vietnam. How many with similar symptoms to Daniel’s? How could society possibly take care of them all?
At the back of his room, Daniel faced the wall, his hands braced against it like he was trying to shove it away.
“Let me out of here!” he yelled, lifting his face to the ceiling.
Marion sensed his anguish in the set of his shoulders, the flex of his back. So much pain. So much rage confined. She knew Paul was doing what he believed was the right thing for his patient, but suddenly she wanted to go in and speak with Daniel herself, somehow ease the agony that so obviously squeezed his soul with every breath. She wanted to work with him, not just stand by and observe.
Daniel spun, and his wild gaze locked with hers. She drew back with a gasp, but couldn’t look away from the dark bruises colouring his face. He strode toward the door and stopped only when his breath touched the glass, inches from her. She saw the intelligence Paul had noted in his chart, trapped behind a deep sense of urgency.
“Let me out,” he said firmly. His voice was muffled by the door, but she heard him clearly. “They need me.”
He didn’t shout, but his tone was definite. She could tell he believed to his soul what he was saying. She yearned to ask him about that, to find out what he needed and who needed him, but she could not carry out a conversation here in the corridor, through a door. And he wasn’t her patient, anyway.
“Please,” he implored, lowering his voice. “Please let me out. They need me.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her heart aching. “I can’t help you.”
The rage was back, burning in his eyes. “But they’ll die! Call for air support!”
She heard the efficient tread of Nurse Thelma’s white shoes approaching from behind. She was accompanied by two burly orderlies, and Marion stepped out of their way. She said nothing, and they did not acknowledge her presence. Nurse Thelma’s key slid into the lock, and a wave of sympathy for the man within washed through Marion.
“Get me out of here!” Daniel shouted, desperate now. “They’ll die, damnit! They need help! I need to—” His voice dropped. “No! Please. Get off me. No more. I’ll be quiet. But if I can’t help them, they—”
Marion couldn’t make out what Nurse Thelma’s muffled voice was saying. The big orderlies crowded around Daniel, blocking her view, and shesaw them struggle to gain control over him. Once Daniel was contained, they moved quickly, tying him down so the nurse could jab the needle into his arm. The sedative, Marion knew, would work fast.
In that moment, he looked directly at Marion, still standing uselessly in the doorway.
“Please,” he said, his voice dwindling to a whimper as the drug took hold. “They’ll die. Please send help.”
The pain in his voice was too sharp to ignore. It dug its hooks deep into her, anchoring itself to her heart. She couldn’t stop thinking about him as she left the building for the day.
