Day three in the peach-pink house shaded by a magnolia tree. White wicker furniture on the front porch, hydrangeas growing at the back. Emm stands in the sun, at the beginning of the tiny well-trodden path that takes the girls at 17 Swann Street on the same morning walk every day.
Except today I am joining her, and Julia, and Direct Care. And Chloe, who has kids, I learned this morning, and Katerina, Matthias’s fan. Valerie does not join us, nor does the seventh girl, whose name I still do not know. She does not speak much and does not seem to like walks. I wonder how long she has been here.
At this point I have mastered the routine that begins with vitals and weights and develops into shower, coffee, and the daily word jumbles with breakfast. I find my footing and comfort, somewhat, in this constant repetition. All other aspects of life here are volatile; at least the routine is safe.
We begin walking. Emm informs me that the itinerary does not change. Right after the second red door. Left, left, right. Turn back at the roundabout with white and blue hydrangeas. Left, right, right, left.
We go on the walk in two straight lines. What an odd group we must seem. Vapory girls in loose T-shirts floating behind Direct Care and Emm in turquoise. We cross a number of people on their own safe morning routines: the retired, full-time front-porch newspaper reader, the stroller-pushing yoga mom, the dog walker listening to music, the old couple holding hands, walking slow. All greet us, none stare; they must know about the girls at 17 Swann Street.
There are children at the house on the second corner playing outside on the lawn. They say good morning, so well-behaved, as we pass them by. The birds and squirrels are out and about too, and a humming gardener. Toward the end we pass a Saint Bernard. Emm tells me his name is Gerald.
All too soon we are back from fresh air and blue sky to a whole day we will spend indoors, but another dependable constant emerges: at ten to ten, the mailman.
As he did yesterday, he takes our outgoing mail and hands us letters, postcards, and parcels, bits of the world that the world has sent to us.
Every day but Sunday,
he says.
At ten o’clock, we have midmorning snack, but the mail makes it palatable. Every day but Sunday, we share whatever good news and goodies we receive.
Then two hours in session, not always group therapy. Sometimes nutrition, psychology, coping skills. At different times, each of us will be called away to meet with the members of our team.
At twelve thirty we will receive the signal to stand up and form two straight lines. In those we will walk to the yellow house next door for a game of Russian roulette: Lunch.
Someone, at some point, will get hurt and cry, but at least Rita will be there: the Italian-American cook who serves all her love and gossip with the food. And no matter what or how difficult lunch is, we will tell Rita it was good. She will beam, and for better or worse, it will end at one fifteen.
On Monday and Friday afternoons, we have yoga to look forward to. On Tuesdays, as Valerie’s letter said, we all have the cottage cheese. On Wednesdays, we have art class with Lucy. Dance again with her on Saturdays. Dance! On Sundays, music lessons after lunch. And apple cinnamon tea after meals. And I, the luckiest girl in this house, have a date with Matthias every evening.
Each patient gets a room, a journal, a cubby, and a water bottle to her name. And in community space, her own seat. I choose an old battered armchair.
Back from my first walk, I sink into it, calm. Valerie is writing in her spot. Emm, in hers, is knitting. Is she really knitting? The quiet girl is asleep.
Julia, next to me, is deeply engrossed in the last word jumble of the day. I am stuck on that one too. I stare at it with her.
Just then Direct Care walks in with a patient we have not seen before. She seems cold and exhausted, leaning almost entirely on Direct Care for support.
We make room for her on the couch. She lies down, wrapped in a thick woolen blanket I immediately associate with the inside of an ambulance. Curled into a ball, she closes her eyes. Without a word, Direct Care walks out.
The other girls, unfazed, return to their knitting, writing, napping, jumbles. I make to leave my armchair to welcome the new patient, but Julia touches my arm:
Not this one.
Not this one. Why not?
We call patients like that weekenders.
What patients like that?
What are weekenders?
Wry, sad smile. Jumbles aside. Julia leans in toward me. I do the same. She whispers:
Weekenders are patients who usually leave before you even realize they’re here. Involuntary admissions, most of them, and they tend to make that very clear. They’re either sad, angry, or sleeping on the couch. Behold Exhibit A.
Her dispassionate description suits the unnamed, shivering girl.
I try to stay away from them. Not a very lively bunch. Very, very sick girls.
Why do they leave so quickly then?
Because they are too sick to be here. They need to be hospitalized. Too thin, too sad, too many medical complications. Too far away in their heads.
How horrible.
You’ll see what I mean when this one wakes up. She’ll stare out the window for hours.
I do not like the term “this one.” I wish I knew the girl’s name.
Why are such patients brought here at all then?
Julia shrugs.
Wishful thinking mostly. I guess their families don’t realize how serious the situation is. Or want to.
She reflects further:
Sometimes they come here because insurance has not approved higher care. Sometimes it has, but there are no beds available in hospital psych wards. But if that’s the case, one should free up by tomorrow and the new girl will be transferred.
How do you know a bed will free up?
Someone is bound to die or be discharged,
comes the simple, callous reply.
How smoothly she had said it! I withdraw, appalled. Julia notices but does not take offense. She smiles sadly at my indignation and speaks again, this time softer:
Look, Anna, and look around you. Every patient is a tragedy here. It sucks, I know, but there are too many of us for me to cry over every one.
I understand. Julia is not jaded, just trying to protect herself. Choosing wisely where to invest her heart. She forces a smile and jokes:
Heck, if I should cry over someone, I would probably start with myself!
I do not laugh, but I lean back toward her. We are both quiet for a moment. When she speaks again she is not joking:
Actually, I would start with Emm.
Emm?
How come?
Because Emm is at the other end of the spectrum.
Across from us, we watch her knit.
Emm and 17 Swann Street go way back,
Julia says in a lower voice.
Yes, I remember: four years back. Julia continues:
She’s a regular. Knows this place by heart: the schedule, the rules, the rooms with the best view, the weekly menus, all the staff—they’re her friends.
Is that bad?
You tell me, hon. Is it bad that she knows that the smoothies are actually made from a powdered mix? Or which nurse will slip you antacids or, if you ask really nicely, sleeping pills?
I see where Julia is going with this.
Emm has been at 17 Swann so long it’s become part of her. Patients like her, the regulars, they … They get comfortable here.
That makes terrifying sense.
Four years at 17 Swann Street, in any place, and that place becomes home. Staff becomes family. Treatment becomes familiar. The schedule, even the menus become safe.
Most regulars never get discharged, and those who do know they will be back.
I nod. The real world is fraught with unrewarding jobs and hurtful relationships. Bills to be paid every month, food to be consumed every day. At least here in treatment the cook makes the meals and staff takes care of the dishes. Insurance pays rent and somebody else changes the lightbulbs and mows the lawn. The real world is lonely but here doctors have pills and therapists always have time to listen. I cannot believe I do, but in a way, I understand Emm.
Emm is still knitting. The movement is predictable, the pattern repeats itself. This is not real life, but perhaps she has no interest in pursuing one. Perhaps all-inclusive survival on this side of the walls is enough.
As for you,
Julia interrupts my thoughts,
you’re a different kind of patient. I think you’re one of the lucky ones.
Which ones?
The ones here for someone else.
Someone else, outside here, waiting for me at 45 Furstenberg Street.
You have a reason to survive,
Julia says casually as she reaches for her pouch and begins rummaging through it for gum.
See, Emm’s life is here, not outside these walls. And the girl on the couch doesn’t want one. You, with a little help and a little food in your belly … Dammit, I’m out of gum.
A reason to survive.
Never mind! False alarm!
She pops two pieces in her mouth at the same time and offers me one.
I shake my head slowly.
No, but thank you, Julia.
Silence for a moment, then I dare:
What about you?
What about me?
Pop.
What kind of patient are you?
She does not answer. I do not ask again.