Patrick was frustrated by Justine’s behavior. She seemed to be avoiding him since he’d returned from his pass. Her absence from the smoking room didn’t seem like a fluke after a while. Justine declined to join Patrick for the Sunday van ride and he was sullen for the whole trip.
To make matters worse, Justine kept using her privileges to the leave the floor, effectively stranding Patrick on the ward. Off the floor or in her room, Patrick couldn’t talk to Justine and ask what was bothering her. When he did see her in the pubic areas, there were always other people around. Patrick wanted a private conversation. Even a note passed between them would have been a relief.
Patrick was almost desperate enough to ask someone on the staff what was up with his girlfriend. But if Frank hadn’t been willing to confirm what Anthony had already told him about the lawsuit, Patrick knew that he could hardly expect cooperation from any nurse or counselor on this matter.
They’re probably glad to see it turn sour, he thought.
“She’s probably depressed,” Linda said when Patrick complained to her about it on Monday afternoon. “I know what that’s like, kiddo. I once spent a whole week in bed, didn’t want to talk to anybody.”
“But she hasn’t been staying in bed,” Patrick argued. “She’s been up and around. Only not around me…”
“Just be patient. Want me to talk to her?”
“I don’t know,” Patrick mumbled. “Let me think about it.”
He lit a cigarette while considering Linda’s offer.
Because it was in the staff office, Patrick couldn’t see it but his name was written on the calendar above the coffee maker. His discharge date was in the box for Friday, July 3rd. No one had told Patrick yet but Dr. Kearney had written the release order three days ahead of time.
Simon was pleased to see which names were up on the calendar. Albert would be leaving that very evening and Linda had finally been scheduled for July 2nd.
“We’ll have some real turnover coming this week,” he remarked, raising his coffee cup.
“No more Wyatts, I hope,” Kris said.
They were sitting at the table together, each writing progress notes. Stacey was transcribing medication orders from Dr. Adams into the red binder used at the nurse’s station.
“This whole ward’s been off kilter since Wyatt came through here,” Kris went on. “Anthony’s acting up every day; then those two getting laid right down the hall; Justine Edwards seducing your boy Patrick. Hell, even Patrick knocking Anthony around that one time…”
“That’s just the point, though,” Simon commented. “It’s Justine more than Wyatt. After all, she’s Cindy’s roommate. And Patrick told me they haven’t done it yet so – ”
“You believe that?” Stacey asked with a smirk.
Simon was embarrassed by her question. It hadn’t occurred to him that Patrick could have lied to him.
“As I was about to say,” Simon said, rather than reply to Stacey, “it’s probably because she’s got his hormones in an uproar that he pushed Anthony out of his wheelchair.”
“Doesn’t mean they didn’t get it on,” Stacey told him. “Maybe you’re right about Patrick being sexually frustrated but with a lot of guys, you give it to ’em once and they want it again even more.”
Anthony’s lawsuit was, as Patrick had supposed, no delusion at all. His parents had retained a lawyer within days of their son’s admission to the surgical unit at Boston City Hospital. The Gingarella family was not rich but they found an advocate whose ambulance-chasing instincts were engaged by their story. His fee would be a cut of the either a jury’s award or an out-of-court settlement and the lawyer was confident of a profitable outcome in either event.
Anthony’s parents met with him while their son was still in a coma. The lawyer was adequately briefed on Anthony’s mental condition and, assuming the suicide attempt hadn’t damaged him into a different affliction, the attorney would be prepared to approach his new client.
Sure enough, Donald Nevin, Esq., was able to effectively frame his approach as a defense of civil rights, human rights, and a step towards freedom for the victim himself. Money could buy freedom if there was enough of it.
“They documented everything all too well, Anthony,” his advocate had said. “Very detailed notes.”
Anthony had simply nodded. Details didn’t matter to him. Besides, he wasn’t sure whether Mr. Nevin was a friend or not. Professionals of any category had a habit of seeking to control his life. They usually promised liberation first, just like this lawyer, and then sought to enslave him.
Frank wasn’t like that, at least. No hidden agendas. Maybe Frank liked to exercise control over Anthony but he was certainly dependable, always checking in as soon as shift report was over.
Monday afternoon, the reliable Mr. Devenau came into the room and examined Anthony’s catheter. Later, he took his patient outside for a walk. That is, he pushed Anthony’s wheelchair up the sidewalk in the warm twilight air.
“If I win this lawsuit,” Anthony said, “I’ll buy an electric wheelchair.”
“That’s good, Anthony. But by the time your trial is over, your physical therapy should be all done. You’ll be able to walk on your own by then.”
“But Mr. Nevin said they might offer a settlement any day now and there’d be no trial.”
“Then it might be a good idea to buy an electric wheelchair when that money comes in. Just don’t get ahead of yourself, Anthony.”
“I want an electric one so nobody has to push it for me. Freedom! Autonomy!”
“It would be quite an expense for something so temporary. What would you do with it once you can walk all the time on your own?”
“Donate it to someone who needs it more than I do,” Anthony declared brightly. “I know how to do the right thing!”
“Of course you do.”
“Not everyone does.”
“That’s certainly true, Anthony.”
“I’m sure you’d do what’s right if policy let you.”
“Policy isn’t wrong,” Frank replied crisply. “Consistency is important. It helps you get better. Maybe you’ll see that someday.”
Anthony laughed because this was what he had expected the counselor to say. Consistency, indeed!
That night, Justine stood in her doorway, dressed in a robe. As Patrick watched, she opened the robe to flash him. Justine seemed more womanly, more voluptuous, than she had felt through her clothes. Then again, Patrick was only dreaming.
He woke up in a bad mood thanks to that. It was early, too early to be up and around on the ward. The hallway lights weren’t turned on until seven o’clock. Once, Patrick had tried to get a cup of orange juice around 6:45 only to find a little old lady from housekeeping mopping the floor.
“You go back to bed,” she’d told him in a thick Portuguese accent.
Patrick didn’t know what time it was but the sun hadn’t come up yet. He crossed his ankles and stared at the ceiling, lit dimly by a street lamp on the corner.
Patrick had a new roommate as of Monday morning. His name was Peter, a nervous young man a few years older than Patrick. He had bright eyes and a bad complexion. Like Charley, Peter was talkative. But although he didn’t chatter as much as his old roommate, Patrick found the new guy more irritating.
Maybe he was losing patience in general after nearly three weeks in the hospital. Besides, Charley had been childishly optimistic while Peter was a whiner who seemed reluctant to drop any topic. His main gripe the night before had been about how his sister was pressing charges after he’d punched her in the mouth.
“My own sister!” Peter had moaned. “My own sister!”
Serves you right, asshole, Patrick had thought, not caring to voice his feelings because he didn’t want to waste energy in a fight.
This one won’t shut up, Patrick complained to himself as he watched the first trace of sunlight. And Justine won’t even say anything to me. What the he
ll is her problem, anyway? They moved Cindy out of her room and that creep Gus is out of here altogether. So what’s wrong now? What did I do? Simply have to ask her, that’s all. Fuck witnesses! Even if that Brenda’s in the room, so what? Justine’s not getting off the ward without telling me what I did wrong and that’s all there is to it!
By now, Patrick had joined the cluster of patients who would each smoke one last cigarette before the ward assembly. Since Justine was still indifferent to breakfast, Patrick found her when he went for his smoke after eating.
By now, Justine was beginning to think they might never let her go home. The last time she had met with Dr. Adams, Justine had once again threatened to sign her three-day notice to withdraw her voluntary status. This time, her psychiatrist had told her bluntly that he would in fact petition to commit her. That meant a transfer upstairs or even a move to the nearest state hospital.
All Justine could think about when it came to Patrick was that he was certainly going to leave before she did. First the staff had limited what little physical pleasure Justine could scrape together in this hell-hole. Then they’d surely be sending Patrick on his way and he’d forget about her. That, and putting Cindy into the next bed as another means of intimidation.
The staff had probably put Gus up to screwing Cindy right in front of her for good measure, Justine reckoned. Why else hadn’t they been removed right away? There couldn’t be any other reason. Then they got around to sending Gus home since he’d served his purpose. Send that degenerate home but not Justine Edwards.
They must’ve realized that I’d strangle Cindy if they didn’t move her to another bed, Justine had thought the day that had finally happened.
Everyone better stay out of my way, she was thinking on Tuesday morning. Doesn’t matter who it is. I’ll even kick Adams in the nuts! He wants to commit me, I’ll give him a real reason…
“Justine!”
She had been staring out the window when she heard that. Justine turned around swiftly and angrily. There was Patrick, his face showing resentment. She didn’t quite recognize him at first, he was so unlike his normally passive self.
“What?” Justine asked, confused.
“Why have you been avoiding me?” Patrick sputtered.
They were standing in the middle of the smoking room, facing each other. Some of the other patients, still seated, looked on in discomfort.
“Leave me alone,” Justine said bitterly.
Patrick felt enraged when she turned her back on him. But he almost gave in and walked away, just like he used to.
In that brief time, Kris stopped in the doorway to warn the patients that it was high time they got on their way to the assembly. She reminded them that use of their privileges were at stake.
“You kids better sort this out later,” Linda advised as she stood up.
Patrick ignored her. He was only interested in Justine. Patrick struggled to control his anger because it looked like she needed help now. That’s all there was to it.
But first, there was something that needed to be asked.
“Is there anything I’ve done to upset you?”
“You and everyone else in the world,” Justine muttered, still looking away from him.
“Hey, you two,” Kris said, stepping into the smoking room. “This is you last call.”
Startled, Patrick turned to face the counselor.
“No, wait,” he said. “Can’t you see she’s upset?”
“That’s none of your concern,” Kris responded. “You’ve been told that more than once. And as for you, missy, you can go to the assembly or spend the time in your bedroom.”
“Fuck off,” Justine said.
“Okay, that’s it!” Kris snapped. “Go to your room, right now!”
Justine stalked out of the smoking room but in the hallway she turned right instead of left.
“Hey!” Kris called after her.
Patrick dashed out into the hall before Kris could. He was able to catch up with Justine before she reached the sign-in desk. Patrick grabbed her left forearm.
“Patrick, don’t!” Kris shouted from behind him.
“Let go!” Justine shrieked, pulling free.
“Can’t I talk to you?” Patrick whined. “Please? You said I could always get you to calm down!”
“Stay away from me!” Justine shouted, wheeling around to face him.
“I thought we had something here!” Patrick cried desperately, reaching out towards her again. “You and me!”
Justine shoved against Patrick’s chest with both hands, her slight weight still enough to make him stagger backwards. He stumbled into Kris, whose solid figure held him up.
“Don’t you understand?” Justine gasped. “I never loved you!”
She raked her right-hand fingernails down the left side of his face, leaving a bloody trail that went all the way down to his jaw line. He was too shocked to feel any pain. Then Justine kicked him in the stomach. This time, Patrick felt it. He crumpled to his knees and was only dimly aware of Justine running towards the main entry door.
Kris bent over and looked at him briefly with questioning eyes. Patrick couldn’t find the breath to say anything but since his injuries weren’t serious, Kris hurried on after Justine.
Patrick crawled over to lean against the wall. He could see what happened next from that position. His mind was numb and he watched it all with a curious sense of detachment.
Justine was pulling at the door in a futile attempt to open it. Kris yelled out for staff assistance. Her colleagues were down in the day room but Justine’s scuffle with Patrick had already raised enough of a din to attract their attention.
Simon was rushing down the hall like a locomotive, trailed by more staff. Frank, Gloria, Stacey, and Rachel were fanned out behind him. Kris already had her arms around Justine’s waist and had dragged her away from the door.
Justine lashed out with all of her limbs as the counselors and nurses tried to get ahold of her wrists and ankles. She slapped Frank across the bridge of his nose with the same fingers she’d used on Patrick. Blood smeared on his forehead.
Within seconds, Justine had been brought face down to the floor. Simon and Kris each held a leg while Frank and Stacey had Justine’s arms pinned behind her back. Gloria went to the staff office to put a call in to Dr. Adams’s beeper. Rachel took a quick look at Patrick after Kris mentioned that he’d been assaulted.
“She only scratched me,” Patrick murmured mechanically. “I’ll be all right.”
“Want to go to your room?”
“Not yet.”
Rachel was crouching next to him. She looked over her shoulder to find out what Patrick would be able to see from his position. It was certainly inappropriate to let him watch but Rachel decided to let that go for now. As long as Patrick stayed where he was, they’d be moving this horror show away from him.
Rachel went back to the scene of the restraint.
“Seclusion room?” Kris asked, looking up.
“Four-point restraints,” Rachel answered. “Take her down to her room. I’ll get the bag.”
The staff picked Justine up and began to carry her down the hall. Moving as a group, they stepped slowly while Justine’s pelvis twisted and writhed in their midst. After they passed Patrick, he dizzily stood up and looked the other way. Rachel dashed past him, carrying a pillow case with something lumpy inside of it.
Patrick felt cold as he strolled back towards his bedroom. He averted his eyes from the open day room door where patients were murmuring and milling about. The story of what Justine had done to him was one he wanted to repeat as seldom as possible.