Page 17 of The Locked Ward

You are no longer the newest member of this strange place that feels like it’s floating through the ether, immune to the laws of the fourth dimension of time.

Another woman just arrived.

“She’s a late breaker,” you overhear a nurse say.

You’re seated on the couch in the common area, in full view of the nurses behind the wall of plexiglass. You stay here whenever possible in case Josh comes around again. So you’re among the first to see when the new arrival is brought in by the tallest male aide.

Your eyes flit toward her; then you drag them away.

You are always being watched. Cameras are everywhere in this place. Any sign of interest, any change in your affect, could be noted by the nurses and used in the case prosecutors are building against you.

Patients begin to gather, drawn toward this new source of energy, but she doesn’t react to them.

“Hello, darling!” cries the woman who accused you of taking her glasses. “How are you today?”

You slowly move your head so you can study the new patient out of the corner of your eye.

She could be anywhere from forty-five to sixty. Her hair is a mix of brown and gray and cut short, she’s full-figured, and her features are unremarkable, other than her mouth, which is pulled down, giving her a sorrowful expression.

Then you spot the thick white bandages on both of her wrists.

Most people are in here because they’re a danger to others. The bandages tell you this woman likely falls into a smaller group of the patients, those who are a danger to themselves.

Plus, she’s being escorted by one aide, not the four who brought you in. And he’s not taking any special precautions, like wearing a spit guard or staying an arm’s length away from her.

It seems horrible that someone who attempted suicide would be brought to this dark place. But you’ve learned it’s the only part of the hospital designed to protect her from herself. And to protect the hospital against lawsuits, should she attempt suicide on the premises.

She shuffles down the hallway as several patients trail in her wake.

When she’s out of your view, you slowly move your head to face the television. It’s tuned to a children’s movie about a dog who can talk, with the volume so low it’s difficult to hear.

You can’t see any clocks, but you’re learning to gauge the time by the daily schedule. It’s probably around 11 A.M.

Then the strangest thing happens. You feel a physical click inside of you, like an electric charge has triggered a deeply buried reflex, setting all your synapses firing.

And you know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, it’s because Mandy is on her way to you.

You’ve read about twins who are so inexorably linked that when one of them is injured, the other feels pain.

When you were in college, you experienced the phenomenon of getting your period at the same time as all three of your roommates, your physiological cycles effortlessly syncing.

And you’ve heard about long-married couples who die within hours of each other, as if they’ve somehow willed themselves to stay joined in this world and the next.

People connect in all kinds of mysterious ways.

Now it’s happening to you.

You can feel Mandy’s presence drawing closer. It’s a tangible thing, as real as the fabric of the cheap sofa beneath your legs and the syrupy odor of the breakfast pancakes lingering in the air.

Maybe you’re able to tune in to Mandy so deeply because in this place, your link to her isn’t diffused by the noises and distractions of everyday life.

The sensation grows stronger with each passing minute and mile.

You close your eyes, imagining her hands on the wheel, those wide gray eyes fixed on the road ahead. And you know another thing for sure, deep in your gut.

Your sister is thinking about you right now, too.