Junior was in the exercise room sitting on a stationary bike, but not pedaling. He was stationary on a stationary. I’d been in that position before, and I knew how he felt. I should’ve talked to him, but I guess I wasn’t ready to do what Ramirez was asking. Not just then, anyway.
Mostly because I was on my way to defend my Boggle prowess.
I thought about Fitz waiting for me and wondered if I was just interested in him because there were no other options. I mean, I figured outside of the hospital I would still be interested in him, but we didn’t go to the same school, so we probably never would have met so maybe it wasn’t fair to say at that point. And maybe that’s why he liked me. I didn’t know.
I figured we were both just having fun and not really looking at what we might have to face outside of these hospital walls. Maybe we’d just walk away from one another after it was all over. Maybe we’d never talk.
No. I don’t believe the universe is that lazy. I don’t believe meeting Fitz was a coincidence. He was someone I was supposed to meet. Or the other way around. Or both.
Soft light was playing on the coffee table at Fitz’s feet. He was leaning back in a beanbag chair and staring at the ceiling. A small overhead fan spun quietly, sweeping short shadows in a soft circle. He didn’t notice me walk in, but he looked up when I jumped into the beanbag on the opposite side of the table, throwing up dust all around us.
“What’s with the bandana? I need to know,” I said. “I keep meaning to ask, but I always forget.”
“Apparently not always,” he said.
“I mean, I can get by with the yoga shirts because they’re funny—sort of—but I don’t understand the tie-dyed bandana. It makes you look like you’re trying to be a rebel from, like, the eighties. And that doesn’t work. Then again, you don’t own a fanny pack. If you did, I don’t think we could be friends.”
Fitz smiled and sat up. “Addie Foster. So superficial.” He toyed with the fabric of the beanbag, avoiding eye contact with me for some reason. “It’s something I had on the day I was admitted. I guess I wear it because it’s kind of like a security blanket. I feel weird not wearing it. Stupid, but it’s true.”
I sat for a minute, thinking about security guards walking around with giant blankets. Stupid. Whatever. I didn’t know what to say, and the silence was awkward.
“You know, we have tons to talk about, Addie,” he said, shifting in his seat and looking more spirited. “I already asked Dr. Riddle for a day in the chapel this Sunday. He was surprised, but the docs—plural—are never here on Sundays, and it will give us time away from the orderlies and everybody else.”
“Chapel?”
“Yeah,” said Fitz. “Pastor Michaels offers a sermon in the hospital chapel every single week, even though we always turn it down. I told Doc I wanted to go this week to figure out the cosmos or whatever.”
“Why can’t we just talk at lunch?” I said.
“Orderlies. Word of this gets out, and it won’t work,” he said.
“I don’t think Martha would care.”
“She might. And it’s not Martha I’m worried about,” he said. “Jenkins almost caught us the first time because we blabbed in public instead of somewhere quiet. He has his eye on us at all times.”
“True,” I said.
Fitz grabbed the Boggle square and shook the blocks around in the small, encased plastic box like he was playing the maracas.
“Dance won’t help you beat me,” I said. “That rhythm will only increase my prowess.”
“Addie Foster. I can tell I’m in your head. Your palms are sweaty. You’re shaking in your slip-resistant booties. I’m going to redeem myself.”
The letters fell into place, and he tore the sheet from the top and we started writing. I hesitated before writing my first words. Spring. Tailor. Sailed. I didn’t want to upset Fitz, and I still wasn’t sure if it was his competitive nature that made him split the first time, or if I had done something wrong. He said warbler was just a word, but I believe in the power of one word. I let it slide and kept writing.
“Time!” I yelled, shaking the blocks so he couldn’t keep writing.
“Methinks the lady doth end the game too soon,” said Fitz, writing down protest as his final word. He set his pencil aside and sat back in the beanbag chair. I figured we would compare words later, though I could tell by the amount of words alone I’d whooped him, which made me not want to say anything. Fitz was too caught up in the plan to care about the score, and I was too caught up in Fitz to care about much else.
“So Pastor Michaels leaves a half hour at the end of the sermon for people to pray. I also heard that he leaves the room, though he’s not supposed to, to allow for the best spiritual experience or something. I don’t know. Sounds like the perfect place to talk, right? If we all say we want to go to the sermon, we can discuss the plan without fear of word getting out. Leah can make sure we sound legitimate—she knows the scriptures.”
I leaned back and watched the fan spin for a moment before responding. I had always been impulsive, but I’d never gone that far off the path in life. I mean, I watched baking shows with my mom for fun. Maybe that was sad. Maybe it was safe. Or maybe it was just perfect. I couldn’t say.
“I don’t want to guilt you into this, Addie,” he said. Then he started laughing. “That’s disgusting.”
“What?”
“Shut up!” he yelled to his right, leaning away from me. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Not you. You know how Willy gets. Such a jerk sometimes. Trying to distract me from the real thing, right here, right now.”
“It’s okay,” I said.
I started blinking in an alternating pattern because my anxiety was through the roof at the thought of going to a chapel and lying to a pastor about why we needed prayer time or whatever. Lying—to a pastor. C’mon.
My mind felt like an unsettled Boggle board. I kept looking for words.
Church. Prayer. Cheat. Legality. Sin.
I tapped my fingers on my knees and counted, but quickly pushed those thoughts aside and tried to focus on the moment with Fitz.
“A great pleasure in life is doing what people say you cannot do,” I said.
Fitz looked over his shoulder, like I was reading directly from one of those annoying quotes posted below the big windows in the hallway.
“It’s not from a sign,” I said.
“I was gonna say,” he said. “I mean, it sounded way better than something on the walls in here.”
“That’s because it’s from an essayist. And it’s a thing I’ve never experienced. I guess it’s time to start living the words instead of just reading them.”
I was surprised by my own desire to rebel, to run, to seek beyond the walls of the hospital. I was surprised by how much I wanted it. I thought of Mom and the purple streak in her hair and figured I was just allowing my genes to work their way in to my soul, that double helix of DNA spiraling through my chest and curling its way around and through my heart.
“One thing you don’t know about me is that my OCD makes me incredibly compulsive,” I said. Fitz stared at me, waiting. “So I know this is all going to happen, whether it works out or not.”
“Um. It’s part of the name, Addie,” he said. “Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.”
“Well, it’s not like it’s about the obsessions. Not just that. I’m compulsive about everything. If I say I’m going to do it, I always follow through.”
“Tell me where to sign.”
“What?”
“Sounded cooler in my head,” said Fitz. “Like one of those things they say in the movies when things seem to be working out and you want to say something that supports what is being talked about, but in a cool way.”
“Very far from cool,” I said.
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Worth a shot.”
“Nope.”
“Addie Foster,” he said. “Why such a Conversation Czar? Cut me some slack.”
“I’m the epitome of cool,” I said.
“That sounds more like a Didi comment,” said Fitz.
“True. Where is Didi?”
I picked up the Boggle board and turned it in my hand. After shaking it a few times, I set it down and looked at Fitz. I held my hand over the pieces, thinking about Junior sitting on the stationary bike in the exercise room. All alone.
“Why don’t we get together with the others and start working this thing out?”
“Because we all have therapy on different schedules,” he said, mimicking a British accent.
“Not really a linguist, are you?”
“Give me a break! I’m trying. Besides, that’s why the Sunday sermon is the perfect time to meet. Group Talk, movies, food—they all bring us together, but none of them bring us together in the safe way that we need. Also, no orderlies.”
“Speaking of all of us,” I said. “I didn’t see you during Parent Visit.”
I didn’t want to let on that I’d been given information on the sly, so I tried to pretend like I had no idea why Fitz hadn’t been there. I wanted to see what he’d say. Like, maybe he’d let on more about San Juan Island or something.
“Yeah,” said Fitz. “My mom couldn’t make it this week. And by next week we should be out of this place.”
He looked defeated. I felt awful. I wondered why Fitz would lie like that. We were all dealing with some pretty heavy stuff, even if it was just waiting for a horse or whatever, but it seemed odd he’d lie about his mom when we’d been so open about everything so far.
But he didn’t talk about it again.
Sunday rolled its way in much more slowly than I had expected. I guess because I’d spent most the week thinking about the upcoming planning session. We all spent the week thinking about it, I figured.
Group meetings that week with Tabor were stagnant because we kept looking at each other in furtive glances, fiddling with things, trying not to let on that anything was amiss. I knew Doc wasn’t aware of our plan, but he still wrote a bunch of notes in that stupid folder, probably about how I seemed closed off or something. I read way too much into everything we did and heard, into every visit with Doc. He’d ask how things were going, and I’d curl the cuffs of my sweater in my palms and wonder if he knew. Of course he knew! My anxieties sloshed around in my mind endlessly.
Ramirez just kept telling me the same things: I needed to expose myself to uncomfortable situations and learn how to deal with the aftermath. I’d been trying this thing where, after I felt a compulsion, I wouldn’t blink or go to the bathroom to wash my hands until I’d waited ten seconds, then thirty, then one minute, then two, then five, then ten. I got up to fifteen minutes, and eventually I’d forget that I was supposed to wash my hands. So, in that regard, that behavioral stuff was changing things.
I spent most of that week waiting in my own mind. I kept thinking about the characters in Waiting for Godot and why they were okay with waiting, playing out absurd rituals and mocking the engine of silliness around them, rotating hats and joking about everything instead of confronting the real reason Godot didn’t show up or asking why. The only thing they are sure of in their life is that they are waiting. That’s it. Waiting for Godot to show up. They say life will end if he doesn’t show. They talk about leaving. But they don’t move.
Dr. Morris’s question was on repeat in my mind: What are the characters waiting for, and why is it significant that it/he/she never shows up?
Anyway, on Sunday, Pastor Michaels showed up. I guess I’d never really noticed him because he only came around once a week—and usually only for a brief moment in the morning to check if anybody wanted to join him in the chapel for a short sermon.
I wonder if Michaels thought that he’d received some crazy amazing answer to his prayers when he walked into the ward that Sunday and saw six inpatients patiently waiting for his arrival. Hallelujah! They’re finally listening!
“I don’t know whether to see y’all as angels, or make my way back through that door,” he said, smiling.
He had this soft drawl to his voice that was kind of comforting.
“I told them you offered sermons for anybody interested. Every Sunday. Like clockwork,” said Fitz.
“Still true,” said Michaels. “But I seem to recall that the last time I saw you, you yelled country song lyrics at me and then walked away,” he said, looking at Fitz. Then the pastor laughed. “But I’m not one to question true conversion or its process. Come, ye children of the Lord, let us walk to the chapel.”
The pastor was really tall and lanky with an awkward gait and limbs that looked too long for his body. He looked like one of those twig bugs but with a suit that had shoulder pads too big for his frame, making him look even more ridiculous. He had soft eyes and round glasses and was balding, like Tabor. His ears were huge. He carried a Bible and would hold it across his stomach with both hands when he spoke. He had this massive underbite, and it always seemed like he was contemplating something.
I wondered if it was because his world required a different type of understanding, a different kind of language and communication between believers or something.
The walk to the chapel was pretty quiet. The halls were lined with garish oil-painting portraits of people with phony-sounding names on gold placards below their pictured, floating heads. Most of the placards also had a title before the name, depending on how much money the floating head in that painting had donated.
Some of the hospital wings were even named after those donors. Even the parking structure had someone’s name on it. What a wonderful tribute. Give me a break. I bet they allocated rewards based on the amount donated because—a parking structure? C’mon. That person must have offended somebody or donated the money in all pennies. They got the shaft, for sure.
I wonder if they handed out plaques for small donations, like you got a brick on the outside of the building or something. Or maybe there was an Alex Steiner gold plaque screwed into one of the toilet stall doors because he only donated a five-dollar gift card. Big deal. Not worth it.
Still, I was grateful for the money they gave to help people. Not a bad way to spend, in my opinion.
What would I get my name on?
“If you donated money, what would you want named after you?” I whispered to Fitz as we shuffled along.
“Probably the game room. Maybe the pharmacy—lots of good medication jokes to be had there. You?”
“Probably prosthetics.”
“That would cost you an arm,” said Fitz.
“Too easy,” I said. “But at least I’d know I had a hand in their recovery.”
“And a leg,” he said.
“I’d make them put my name on all the prosthetic eyeballs, too.”
“Why?” said Fitz.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
Fitz laughed, and Michaels turned around and eyed us.
“That’s awful. Beauty is in the eye socket of the beholder, more like. But I’d lose an eye for that,” said Fitz, grabbing my hand and giving it a quick pulse.
I had a hard time concentrating when he did that. I started blinking at my alternating steps set against the reflective tile floor. I was so happy, and cleared my throat in sets of three, trying to stay calm, as Michaels turned back to check on us again.
After a few detours and up a flight of stairs, we walked up a ramp and into a small chapel. The doors had small, latticed, stained-glass windows on either side. I wasn’t sure what religious moments were being depicted, but it looked like a lot of angels were doing a lot of talking to surprised people who were on their knees. A few people were holding books, and a few more had walking sticks or canes or something.
One that I really liked showed a boy on his knees with a pillar of light shooting straight down from the sky to the forest floor. It looked like it would be a pretty cool experience: like, unmediated truth straight from the head honcho. Pure truth. Beam me up! That’s what I wanted to yell.
We filed into the room. There was a close, stifling smell, like mildew. There were five rows of really old wooden pews with their corners chipped and smudged, all lined up facing the lectern. Higher up there were these really cool latticed, handblown glass windows with little bubbles in the panes. The windows let in these cut-up squares of light that scattered themselves all over the chapel—little blocks of warmth spotting the floor.
Pastor Michaels pointed to the pews and told us to relax. He asked for our names first and hurried through them. Well, except for Leah. He made some joke about her being Jacob’s wife and about how she stole seven years from her sister, Rachel, in a trick and then threw his head back like it was some hilarious joke. I didn’t get it, but Leah smiled and laughed a little. I figured she knew the stories because her mother dropped off prayer beads for her one week.
She rubbed her hand through her hair and quietly stared at the stained glass. I thought she looked more upbeat since the last time I’d seen her. It was odd, seeing growth in other patients simply through body language.
The chapel was taller than I expected, but still cramped. Candles lined one side of the room below pictures of prophets or saints or something. Each pew had a hymnal resting on it. I didn’t know any religious songs, but thankfully the pastor didn’t ask us to sing. I imagined myself in that moment as some preacher on a soapbox at some revival, hollering from my tent about the truth, getting good followers to come my way.
Pastor Michaels stood at the lectern and looked at us, probably wondering why we had decided as a group to seek religion that day. But I think he was more eager for an audience than he would ever let on, so he spoke after a beat.
“I honestly didn’t plan a sermon because I never get a response from your group, even though I set aside an hour every week for the adolescent psych ward. Sorry,” he said, realizing he was talking to us and not thinking about these things to himself.
“I’ve been reading about Job lately. Y’all heard much of Job? I think his faith and determination and love in the wake of such incredible trials is something we can discuss and learn from.”
“He’s the guy that got, like, buried in crap,” said Junior. “Right?”
I saw the pastor wince at the horrible word choice, but also kind of smile because it was such a colorful way of describing the situation. Junior didn’t seem to notice or care.
“I’ve never heard it put that way, but yes. Job was buried in misfortunes brought on by a loving God. I know it doesn’t seem loving, but look at the way Job responds. It’s beautiful. He lost everything, and still he praised his Lord.”
“Quite a shakedown,” said Fitz. “Am I right?”
I sniggered and covered my mouth and tried to look away or like I was praying by dipping my head behind the pew. Pastor Michaels coughed, but it seemed like a fake cough designed to fill the awkward moment after Fitz’s comment. He opened his Bible and was about to read when Didi yelled, “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air! Gilmore Girls!”
The pastor looked shocked, so I quickly explained to him what Didi was dealing with.
“Pretty good choice there on the first one, Didi,” said Fitz, under his breath. “I can’t comment on the latter because I’ve never seen it.”
I saw Didi smile at Fitz.
After that, the sermon was pretty uneventful, and felt more like Michaels was reading straight from the Bible rather than actually discussing the doctrine or teachings or whatever with us. He didn’t seem to mind that Leah was already praying near the candles in one corner, ignoring his sermon. Fitz was responding quietly to remarks from Lyle or Toby or Willy or whoever for a while before going quiet.
I looked up at the handblown glass windows and watched the light play off the small bubbles. I wondered how that air got trapped in there. Then I thought of how intricate even something as simple as a window is when it is all boiled down or whatever.
“You believe in God, Addie?” Fitz whispered to me.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Does He believe in me?”
“That’s a good question,” said Fitz. “I bet He does.”
We were silent for a while until the pastor spoke of how Job blessed the name of the Lord even after all the awful things that had happened to him.
“Do you believe in forgiveness?” said Fitz.
“Of course,” I said, surprised by the question.
“Yeah, but what if it’s something really awful. Do you think someone can be forgiven for that? I mean, like, really awful,” said Fitz, shuffling his slip-resistant booties anxiously.
“How awful?”
“Unforgivable,” said Fitz.
“Is there such a thing?”
“I want my horse!” said Wolf.
“I’ll find you that horse one day,” said Fitz. He winked at Wolf. “Never mind,” he said to me, returning to our conversation. “Just curious.”
“Ask the pastor,” I said.
“No. It’s okay. Just wondering is all. More of a private atonement, I guess.”
I contemplated Fitz’s question while the pastor droned on about Job and his awful situation. Fitz dipped back into speaking to the voices he was hearing. At one point, he lay face down on the pew and shouted, “Shut up, Willy!”
“It’s okay,” I said, both to Fitz and to the pastor, who looked surprised.
After the “Amen,” the pastor spoke to us in a more conversational tone. Weird how he was able to flip a switch like that. Whatever. The sermon had been better than milling around the ward, looking for something to do.
“I believe the good Lord would like to hear from each one of you. For that reason, I’d like to leave the last portion of our time to you and the Lord. Nothing more important than a one-on-one with the heavens. I promise you He is listening, and He will respond. Knock, and He’ll open. Ask, and ye shall receive.” He folded his hands over his Bible again. “I’ll be right outside if you need help praying. I’d love to kneel down with you. When you’re done, I’ll walk y’all back to the ward.”
The stained-glass doors creaked closed behind Pastor Michaels. His large, thin frame shadowed the doorway. Leah walked back from the row of candles. Didi and Junior joined me and Fitz, who was holding his finger to his mouth to make sure everyone stayed quiet. Wolf stared at the ceiling like he was in some sort of a trance.
“Alright, everybody,” Fitz said, rubbing his hands together, “let’s get things moving, and soon. I’m thinking that we can get out a week from tomorrow. The Monday movie will provide us the perfect opportunity. We only need a couple things. But first, I need a count of who is planning on exiting? Addie’s in,” he said, smiling at me. “And you all know I’m halfway out the door already.”
“I’m in,” said Didi. “I mean, I’ll help, but I don’t feel like leaving.”
“Yeah, I’ll help,” said Junior. “I want to see the looks on the faces of the doctors and orderlies when they figure it out. That’s all I need. But I don’t want the same assignment as before because I don’t want to mess it up again.”
“Wasn’t your fault,” said Fitz.
“I’ll help if I can,” said Leah. “Actions speak louder than crossing a bridge when you come to it.”
Wolf didn’t say anything, so we had our numbers.
Honestly, I was kind of hoping Junior would join us on the outside because he was a big guy and pretty stable—as far as psych ward inpatients go, anyway.
“Perfect,” said Fitz. “Okay, it will be similar to last time, but I’ve added a couple things that should help. First, we’ll need somebody to volunteer themselves for suicide watch.” Fitz stopped. “Wow, that sounded awful.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t sound like a good part to any plan,” I said.
“That’s not what I mean. Or, that’s not what we need. Well, we need it, but . . .”
“Spit it out,” said Junior.
“If we have someone on suicide watch, that person gets two orderlies to watch them. That way, when Addie and I break out later that night, we will only have to slip past one orderly.”
“Smart,” said Didi.
“Thanks,” said Fitz. “But we still need a volunteer.”
Junior smiled. I didn’t know much about the guy, but I could tell he was enjoying the idea of a breakout. I think it made everyone pretty giddy—there’s something about doing what we’re not supposed to do, like the essayist said, that packs an adrenaline punch, like a cocktail of happiness and eagerness and hope.
I realized I hadn’t really thought about what we were going to do once we were on the other side of the hospital walls. I knew Fitz wanted to go to San Juan Island, so I guessed we’d start there.
“I’ll do it,” said Junior. “Just let me pick the movie for next Monday. Unless someone has another movie they already got approved?”
Junior looked around, but no one spoke. The floor was his.
“I have one in mind. I know it will make me angry. I need to be angry if the suicide watch thing is to be believable. I don’t think they’re ever worried about me killing myself, but I know they get scared I’m gonna hurt someone else, is all.”
“Excellent,” said Fitz. “Well, not excellent that you would hurt someone, but excellent that we have our guy for the job.”
I laughed at this new version of Fitz—this man planning what seemed like some incredible heist, when it really just amounted to surprising a few orderlies and outwitting some doctors who’d never prepared for a breakout because most psych ward inpatients have nowhere to go. Right?
And if they do have somewhere to go, they’re either not capable of getting out or don’t have the nerve. I guess a number of factors were at play.
Fitz started in again, still rubbing his hands together. He looked a little sweaty, and I saw the hairs on the back of his neck curl in that wet shine.
“Okay, we’ll also need somebody to swipe a keycard from an orderly,” he said. “This is the trickiest part. We’ll need to swipe it as we are led back to our rooms. The shorter the time the orderly is without their card the better. Otherwise, they’ll notice it’s missing. Since they only need it to get in and out of the pharmacy and the ward itself, we have to make sure we don’t take the key from the orderly who is on pill duty that night. Who is it? Anybody know?”
“It’s Jenkins,” said Leah. “He’s on pills every Monday.”
I hugged Leah close to me, and she had this big grin on her face. I think we all felt a little giddy, but didn’t know how to express it. It was like some odd feeling of community among the most random assortment of people ever. That’s how it felt, anyway. Hey, I figured the pastor would appreciate the fact that we were getting along so nicely during our prayer time.
“Okay, so somebody needs to swipe a card from either Potts or Martha,” said Fitz.
“I can help with Martha,” I said, surprised by my own eagerness to help. “I’ll need your help though, Didi. You’ll need to distract her.”
Didi grinned and started flapping the ears of his fur hat up and down rapidly. “This kind of distraction?”
Leah laughed at Didi’s ridiculous motions. Wolf even looked our way to see what was going on.
“Maybe something a little more engaging,” I said, smiling. “But that would work, I’m sure.”
“Perfect,” Fitz said. “You two plan the keycard swipe, Junior gets on watch, and the only thing left is the main doorway, where it sounds like Potts will be. Is that right?”
“Sounds right,” said Junior.
“So we need Potts to leave his post for a short spell. Just a minute or two.”
Nobody said anything for a moment. I could hear the echo of our heavy breathing in the tight space of the chapel. The air smelled of sweat and anticipation.
“I can do it,” said Leah. “I already lit a candle for us. No te preocupes. Estamos listos. Trust me. We’re good. Los Santos are with us.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” I said to Leah, but she made a stern face and looked at Fitz.
“Let me do it,” she said. “What do you have planned for Potts?”
“Well, it’s mostly watching the clock. Addie and I will leave our rooms at exactly eleven forty-five. We’ll both say we need to use the restroom. Martha is super flexible about that stuff. Anyway, Addie will use the restroom and grab her stuff—we’ll have to hide our clothes for the outside behind the toilet during the movie at some point—and then she will tell Martha she forgot to take her pill and needs to check with Jenkins.
“I’ll use the bathroom and then tell Martha I need to check with Jenkins about Riddle’s request for my morning pill or something more specific. I’ll think of something better.
“And that’s all false, of course, but Martha won’t care enough to stop me. Then, Leah, you need to make your move. You’ll need to get Martha to open your door—say something that surprises her or makes her worry—and then just take off. If you head to the bathrooms, you’ll pass right by Potts. He won’t know Martha is behind you, because she’s slow, so he’ll take off after you. That will give me and Addie the minute or two we need.
“You’ll just dead-end in the game room, and Martha and Potts will walk you back to your room. Now, I still haven’t figured out what you should say to Martha. I don’t want a second person on suicide watch, or they’ll have to bring in the on-call nurse.”
Fitz sighed, his chest lifting and lowering like a giant bellows. I could tell he was nervous about things working out correctly.
“What if Potts doesn’t chase me?” said Leah.
“Then I’ll have to distract him, and we’ll run away from him anyway. Not ideal, because then they’d know and we’d lose ourselves a couple hours’ head start, but it would have to do,” said Fitz.
I started worrying about the night after the escape. I mean, it didn’t sound like he’d thought of where to sleep when we got out. I made a mental note to talk to him after our chapel visit. I thought I had enough money for a hotel or motel or something—assuming Mom brought the books I’d requested on her next visit—and it’s not like Fitz and I had sat down and done a break-out-budget by the hour or whatever.
It made me think again of one of those corny late-night ads: “Need to break out of your friendly neighborhood psychiatric ward? Try Phil’s Bills, the most user-friendly break-out budget available, created by our own former SEC accountant, Phil Sumpter. It will help you dole out your money each day for street meds and low-cost beds. But wait! Order now, and get Phil’s Dills, a whole jar of his homemade pickles canned and seasoned in Aubrey, Texas—all garlic, no brine! And if you order by midnight, you can even get Phil’s Skills, a guide on how to budget once you’re on the outside and free of that pesky hospital gown!”
Leah brought me back to the present.
“Martha won’t put me on watch,” she said. “I know how to tease her. But I’ll make it seem serious at first.”
It seemed like we were putting a lot of faith in Leah. But there really wasn’t another option, and I knew she had the gumption to make it happen. Didi and Junior were already doing something, and Wolf wasn’t really involved.
Having three people ask to leave their rooms might surprise Martha. I didn’t think she’d do anything different, but it might make her the slightest bit suspicious.
Thankfully, Martha was the sweetest person ever. She liked lights out at night so she could read in peace. She was all about these romance novels that took place in space. She called them space operas or something. It made me imagine alien-robot hybrids singing opera songs to one another on some distant planet. So weird. Anyway, if you had to use the restroom she usually just waved her hand and kept her nose in whatever book she was reading at the time.
If you asked to use the bathroom more than a few times it bugged her, and she’d say no, but that was only because it would cut into her reading time. She was selfish in that way, but we’re all selfish in our own ways, I guess.
Martha hated being on suicide watch because she wasn’t allowed a book—there was a strict policy about all eyes on the patient or something. But because Martha was the most senior orderly, she was always able to claim her standard position on night watch near the rooms. That way, she didn’t have to deal with the main door and any visitors, or be stationed at the pharmacy, logging doses and taking notes each night for the morning staff.
“Looks like we’re all set,” said Fitz. He got another goofy smile on his face and looked at me from beneath his curly hair that poked out from beneath his bandana.
“I want my horse,” said Wolf, bowing his head.
“And somebody work on getting Wolf that horse, okay?” said Fitz.
“Why don’t you find him one on the outside?” said Junior.
Pastor Michaels walked back in and surprised us. We were still sitting in a circle when he entered, light pooling around our bootie-clad feet.
“A group prayer. Y’all are taking nicely to this. Why don’t you make sure and stand by that door again next week, and I’ll have something special planned for your group about prayer. Ain’t nothing better than an earnest and honest plea to the Lord,” he said, holding his Bible over his stomach. “Let me walk you back, now.” He gestured with his right arm, motioning us to rise and leave.
I watched as Leah whispered something to the candle she’d lit earlier, then she joined our group. Behind her, a few candles burned low in their cups of wax, and I wondered what my life would be like: would I get blown out, or flicker and come back stronger? We all flicker; it just depends on how willing we are to emerge again, and with how much light.
As we neared the door, I stalled and dropped back in the shifting group of people to find myself next to Fitz, near the back. He stood close to me as we walked the hallway. The hallway was crowded with other doctors and people visiting their friends or family or whatever, which, it turns out, is exactly what we needed. That way the pastor didn’t keep a close eye on us.
I felt Fitz’s warm hand touch mine. My heart raced. I think he saw me glance at my watch because he squeezed my hand again.
“Don’t count the beats,” he said, smiling.
“Wasn’t going to,” I said, squeezing his hand back.