"Is this where I live?" I asked.
"For now," she said.
She got out and came around the car to open my door and help me out. The driver remained behind, slouching down and lowering his chin to his chest. The nurse knocked on the window and he lowered it.
"I'm not going to be that long," she told him, but he didn't act as if he heard her or cared. She turned back to me. "Come along, dear."
She led me toward the stairs. There was an iron railing on the right. I held on to it as we climbed the steps because I felt a little dizzy. When we reached the front entrance, she pressed the buzzer and then looked at me and flashed another snapshot of a smile.
The doors looked heavy and thick. They were tall and wide and had no windows. I leaned back and looked up at the roof. I thought I saw a bat fly from one end to the other. It was so quiet and the air was very moist and enveloping. I could practically see the droplets of moisture dancing like small fairies around us. Off to the right, a streak of lightning sliced through the blackness, and then instantly disappeared. My stomach felt as if it were filled with broken glass. I felt so lost, so detached, floating in space, longing for the pull of gravity to bring me back to earth, back home, back to my name.
We waited and waited. Finally, the door opened and a tall, lean man with hair that looked like it couldn't decide whether to be red or blond stood before us. He, too, wore a white uniform. He looked very sleepy, his eyelids drooping. He seemed to be in his twenties and had freckles all over his cheeks and forehead, even on his lips.
"Weren't you expecting us, Billy?" the nurse asked him gruffly.
"What? Yeah. Sorry, Clara," he said. "I fell asleep waiting," he added dryly.
"Well now that we're here, we'd like to come in," she said sharply. He stepped back quickly and we entered.
Nothing looked familiar inside either. It was a large room with gray-and-blue cotton--covered sofas and chairs. There were about a half dozen light maple wood tables. Only three of the small lamps in the large room were turned on, but I could see that there wasn't much on the walls, just some paintings of ocean scenes with sailboats and fishing boats and a few paintings just of colors in rectangular shapes. The floor was a dark wood with oval area rugs here and there. At the far end, there was a large fireplace made of fieldstone.
The freckle-faced man she called Billy looked at me for the first time, his gaze sweeping up from my feet to my face as if he were measuring me for something to wear. His eyes widened with a little more interest and alertness when I gave him a friendly smile.
"This is her?" he asked, his voice filled with surprise. "Of course it is. Who did you think it was, the new Miss America?" Clara quipped. He smirked.
"She looks pretty good. I just thought . Mrs. Miller said we should just show her to her room and get her to bed," he concluded once he saw the expression of impatience on Clara's face.
"So let's do it," she said. "I don't have all night to dillydally with you."
He turned and started toward the stairway, pausing at the bottom step.
"She's going to be on the second floor. She can take care of her own basic needs, right? She looks like she can," he added, gazing back at me.
"Why don't you leave the diagnosis and treatment to the doctors and just take us to her quarters. It's late and I'm tired, too, Billy," Clara replied with more fatigue in her voice than anger this time.
"I'm just agoing," he whined and started up the stairs. The nurse guided me up. We turned at the landing and went down a long hallway. The lights above were very bright, creating a glare off the gray tile floor. Occasionally, the clean white walls were smudged. Here and there I saw what looked like squiggly lines made with dark crayons. Suddenly, I heard someone wailing. Moments later I saw a woman and a man in white hurry through the corridor.
"That's Sara Richards having another whopper of a nightmare, I bet," the young man said. "The last time that happened, she scratched her face so badly they had to cut her nails back to her knuckles. She's headed for upstairs, for sure," he predicted.
"Thanks for the cheerful news," Clara said.
What was upstairs? I wondered.
Billy paused at a doorway and reached for a set of keys hanging on his belt. He rifled through them, chose one, and opened the door. He switched on the light and we entered.
The first thing I noticed were the bars on the windows. How odd, I thought, for a hospital. Other than that, the room looked very pleasant. There were pretty blue and white curtains around the windows and a pretty blue flowered wallpaper on the walls. The bed was twin size and looked comfortable. It had a light blue comforter and two plush pillows with a thick, dark mahogany headboard. Beside it were two matching nightstands, on the right one of which was a lamp shaped like a ship lantern in brass. Across from the bed was a small dresser and to the right of that was a desk and a chair. There was a cushioned, blueand-white patterned chair between the two windows. On the wall across from the bed was a painting of a garden with lawn furniture. The word Impressionist came to mind, shooting out of some dark closet, followed by the face of someone I should be able to remember. Was it a teacher? A friend? Family? It was gone too quickly for me to come to any conclusion.
"Isn't this nice?" Clara said.
"Yeah, you know the facilities here are quite good when you consider," Billy said before I could respond. "Consider what?" Clara asked. He shrugged.
"That most of them don't know where the hell they are anyway," he said.
"You've got a great attitude, Billy. Mr. Sensitivity himself"
He laughed.
"I just call it like it is," he said.
"Spare me," Clara told him and he laughed again.
Clara crossed the room and opened the closet. There was what looked like a hospital worker's powder blue uniform dangling on a hanger and a pair of white terry cloth slippers beneath it. Other than that, the closet was empty.
"All right," she said to Billy, "I'll settle her in."
"What about the paperwork?" he asked.
"I'll be down in a little while to take care of it. Just have it ready for me."
"Aye, aye, Captain," he said with a mock salute. He gazed at me and then nodded at her. "Good," he said as if I had done something difficult by merely walking in and up the stairs. He turned to me again before leaving. "What's her name?"
She hesitated a moment as if she had forgotten and then said, "Lauren."
Lauren? I thought. That didn't sound right.
"No, that's not my name," I said.
Her eyes widened and her eyebrows curled up.
"Oh? You remember your name?"
I thought and then shook my head.
"So how do you know it's not Lauren?" she asked.
I stared at her and then at him. He was wearing a wide, silly grin.
"I . . just . . . know," I faltered.
"Until you remember your name, that's your name," she replied dryly. "Now, Lauren," she said, pronouncing it emphatically so I would not contradict her again, "come over here and get into this." She took the shirt and pants off their hangers and handed them to me. "You should get settled in and get some sleep. Tomorrow is a big day for you."
"Yeah, the first day is always the hardest," Billy commented.
Clara turned to Billy, shooting him an angry look. He flashed another smile at me and then left quickly.
I got into the shirt and pants while she turned down my bed. The sheets smelled freshly starched and the blanket felt brand new.
"Comfortable?" she asked me as she tucked me in and arranged my pillow under my head.
"Yes, but I still ache all over. Why can't I remember what happened to me? Was I in some sort of accident? A car accident? Did I fall?"
"Tomorrow, the doctor will see you and then we'll see what can be done to help make you more comfortable," she said instead of answering my question. "In the morning,
another nurse, the head nurse, Mrs. Kleckner, will show you around and take you to breakfast. You
're going to be fine," she added.
"How long will I be here?" I asked.
She stared at me a moment.
"I don't think you'll be here as long as your grandmother thinks," she said.
"My grandmother?" I thought about the small elderly lady back at the house. "That woman was my grandmother? Why was she so angry and mean to me?"
"Never mind now," she said quickly, as if she had already told me too much. "There's plenty of time to work on your return."
"Return? From where?"
She thought a moment.
"From . . oblivion, I guess," she said. She paused and looked at me, a small smile on her lips. "Can't you remember anything about yourself? How old you are? Any member of your family? Anything?"
I closed my eyes, tried to remember and then shook my head.
"Everything is so muddled. I hear voices and see quick flashing pictures, but it's like my mind is full of bubbles that keep bursting when I try to seize one," I replied.
She laughed.
"You'll be fine," she said and patted me on the hand. "Get some sleep."
"Will I see you again?" I asked quickly as she turned and started for the door.
"No. I don't work here. I work for a doctor who has patients here," she replied from the doorway.
"My doctor?" I asked.
"No, not exactly," she said. "Don't worry about all those details. Just do what they tell you to do and you'll get better sooner than you think," she said. "For now, what you need the most is some rest."
"I know I want to go home," I said, "but I just can't remember where that is."
She smiled warmly.
"You will. Someday," she said. Then she looked sad. "Good-bye, Lauren." She switched off the lights, and as she closed the door behind her, I heard the distinctive click of a lock.
Trying to forget that I had just been locked into my room, I lay there in the darkness, listening. Through the walls I could hear someone crying softly. Above me there were footsteps moving rapidly and then a deep, long silence that was soon filled with the sounds of creaking walls and floors, the slam of a door and more footsteps.
Why was I here? Why did Clara call that old lady my grandmother? She didn't act like a
grandmother, I thought. Why wouldn't Clara tell me more? Who told her to call me Lauren? Maybe that was my name.
I closed my eyes. All these questions and thoughts were giving me a headache. A myriad of faces flashed against the insides of my eyelids, some smiling, some laughing, a young man looking serious and then someone began to whisper. I struggled to hear what he was saying, but his voice drifted back until there was only silence and blackness.
I was so tired. Clara was right. I needed rest. Maybe in the morning, I would remember who I was. All my questions would be answered and this would all be over.
For now, that was my only prayer.
I woke when the door to my room was thrust open with such force and abruptness, it sent waves through the air. A much older nurse than Clara stepped in carrying a package under her arm. Her hair was the dirty gray color of old silver coins and the strands cut just below her earlobes looked thin and harsh as wire. Her forehead had rows of deep wrinkles that exploded at her temples to produce spidery webs extending to her cheeks. Her cheeks were a bit puffy, making her small, wide nose look like it was sinking into her face and would soon be swallowed up by those cheeks. She had a thin, uneven mouth, the right corner of her lower lip dipping just enough to reveal some teeth. The roundness in her face fit her chunky, short body, yet she had long arms with wide hands and thick fingers.
She paused, breathing in and lifting her hefty bosom as she contemplated me for a moment. I thought she looked like a pigeon with her chest out as she strutted to the bed. She placed the package at my feet.
Her appearance had startled me so that my heart thumped. As soon as I regained my senses, I sat up and gazed about in confusion, trying to remember how and when I had been brought here. The soreness in my body had gone deeply into my muscles. My arms felt heavier and just the thought of standing was exhausting.
"Good, you're awake," this new nurse said.
She went to the windows and when she turned her back to me, I saw she had a rather prominent birthmark at the base of her skull. Small hairs grew along its perimeter so that it looked like a large black bug had landed there. She opened the curtains wider to let in more sunlight. I could see clear blue sky.
She spun on me, her hands on her hips.
"I'm Mrs. Kleckner," she said. "I'm the head nurse here. Your bathroom has all that you need in it. You'll find a toothbrush, toothpaste, a new hairbrush, soap, and shampoo in the cabinet. Can you get up and give yourself a shower this morning or do I have to take you to the special bathroom for the disabled?"
"I think I can do it myself," I said.
She approached the bed.
"Hold out your hands," she ordered. "Go on."
I did what she asked and she watched them tremble and then turned them over and watched them again.
"Touch the tip of your nose," she commanded. "Do it," she said when I didn't move quickly enough.
After I had done that, she took my pulse, looked at my eyes and then stepped back.
"Do you remember why you were brought here? Do you remember how you were brought here?" she asked before I could answer the first question.
"I came in a car. There was another nurse named Clara. She said I had been with my
grandmother." I looked up. "The nurse kept calling me Lauren, but I don't think my name is Lauren," I said.
"Really? Then what's your name?"
I thought a moment, but I couldn't think of anything that sounded right.
"I know it's not Lauren," I said.
"That's nice. You know it's not Lauren. You know it's not Susan, too. And you know it's not Joyce and you know it's not Matilda, I bet," she rattled with a smirk. "You probably know you're not fifty or sixty or seventy names, but do you know how old you are?"
"How old? I can't remember," I said. "Why can't I remember my own age and my own name?"
My lips started to tremble.
She nodded as if confirming what she thought to be true.
"A shower is the way we begin the day. There are clothes for you in this package," she said, indicating what she had brought in with her. "Underthings, socks, a pair of shoes, a skirt, and a blouse. Other things are being brought for you today. First, I'll show you the cafeteria and you'll have breakfast. After that, you'll meet Doctor Southerby and have your first session. I understand you have some trauma on your arms and legs," she said and drew closer again.
She lifted the blanket away from me.
"Lower those pants," she ordered.
I started to do so and once again, I didn't move quickly enough to satisfy her. She finished lowering them herself and inspected the bruises on my thighs and my calves as well as my hips and ribs.
"You did take a beating," she remarked.
She lifted the shirt over my head so roughly, I cried out. "My arms, my shoulders!"
She held my arm up and inspected the black and blue marks. When she released it, I studied my hands and my forearms, too. My fingers looked scabby where the skin had been peeled away. What could I have done to myself?
"What happened to me?" I moaned, near tears.
"You'll live," she said dryly, lifting the right corner of her mouth so that it put a bulge into her cheek. "This will all go away in time."
"But I don't understand. How did this happen to me?" I asked her.
She didn't smirk exactly. She pressed her lips together, puffed her cheeks out a bit more, and made her eyes small.
"It's your responsibility to tell us," she said. "When you do, you'll be on your way to recovery."
"What's wrong with me?" I asked in a shrill voice. "Why can't I remember anything about myself? No one wants to tell me anything. Please!"
"The doctor will tell you all about that. My job is to get you ready and see
after your basic needs first," she said calmly, clearly unmoved by my emotional outburst. Then she fixed her eyes on me. "I'll warn you now," she continued, stepping back and folding her thick arms under her heavy bosom. Her elbows looked dry, the skin scaly like a fish. "This is not a five-star hotel. I don't want to hear complaints about the food or the service or the size of your room. I don't want to hear how we don't have enough to do to entertain you. I'm a nurse, not some camp counselor for wealthy, spoiled children."
"Am I a wealthy, spoiled child?" I fired back. I thought she almost smiled.
"That's something you'll have to learn for yourself. The plan is for you to make your own discoveries about yourself, with our help, of course. That's how you get better. My telling you everything I know about you doesn't help you."
"I don't understand. Where am I?" I asked.
"Where are you? You're in a mental clinic, my dear," she said.
"A mental clinic?"
"One of the best in the state, if not the best, and very exclusive, too. Now, take your shower. be back in twenty minutes and I expect to see you dressed and ready for breakfast. There's no reason why you can't do it all for yourself. I have a few patients on this floor who really do need my assistance and I must get to them now."
My lips started to tremble. I thought my whole body would soon start to shudder uncontrollably. She saw something was about to happen and stepped closer.
"Get hold of yourself," she ordered. She put her hands on my upper arms and shook me. "I don't permit any of my patients to sit in their rooms and feel sorry for themselves. The quicker you get better, the quicker you get out of here," she said, "and make room for someone else who really needs us. Shower," she concluded, pivoted on her soft shoes, and marched out of the room, closing the door behind her.
I took a deep breath.
Remember, I chanted. Try, try to remember. Please. If you remember, you can go home.
I squeezed my eyes closed and searched my brain, but it was as if my shouts for help were locked in a small part of my mind, shut up and smothered. I looked down at my hands and my feet, seeking some mark, something that would stir a memory. Nothing happened.