Page 33 of The Locked Ward

You watch Mandy leave, escorted by an aide.

Several patients, including Patty and the woman with blond and pink hair, look at her as she passes through the hall.

Mandy isn’t quite to the first security door when the giant man with the keloid scar comes around the corner and spots her.

He quickens his pace, trying to get to her.

But the aide who is escorting Mandy must hear the heavy footsteps. He moves behind Mandy, blocking the man from getting too close to her.

“Where are you going, Ramon?” the aide asks.

“I need to get some pineapple juice,” the man replies.

Mandy stays behind the aide, her eyes growing big, watching it play out. She looks intrigued, not scared, which is good. You’re depending on the fact that your sister is tough.

“I’ll see if the kitchen has any,” the aide says.

Ramon turns and walks away, but the second the aide moves to unlock the door, Ramon comes back, standing just a few feet behind your sister and the aide.

The aide isn’t calling for backup. He doesn’t seem intimidated, despite Ramon’s size. Ramon must not be considered dangerous anymore.

“Come on, Ramon, you know you have to stay in here,” the aide says.

“Oh, sure, I know,” Ramon replies, as if he’s surprised by the implication that he might be trying to escape.

“Take five steps back, please,” the aide says. Ramon complies.

Mandy and the aide walk through the door. It closes behind them with a thud; then your sister is gone.

Tears prick your eyes. You need to distract your mind, something you’ve become practiced at.

You walk toward the common space where art supplies are kept, thinking about what to draw to perpetuate the illusion that you belong here.

You think about sketching Annabelle, but instead, you decide on a self-portrait.

You’ll make the two halves of your face asymmetrical.

When you get to the long, low table where patients eat and do art, it’s empty.

You choose a blank sheet of paper and some stubby crayons and sit down.

Then you see Patty on the telephone just outside the nurse’s station.

She spots you and smiles, then quickly ends her call and comes over to the table.

You haven’t seen her since she saved you. You want to hug her, to cry out your thanks, but you can’t do any of that.

You begin to draw, your purple crayon creating an off-center oval.

“I like the color you chose,” Patty says very softly, slipping into the seat beside you. It’s as if she doesn’t want to be overheard any more than you do.

You want to acknowledge her, but how? The watchers can’t see you being fully present.

Finally you settle for briefly letting the back of your hand rest on Patty’s. It could be seen as an accidental touch by anyone who spots it.

“I know you aren’t talking right now, but I hope you don’t mind if I do,” Patty says.

“Is that okay?” She waits a moment, and you feel the tension rising in your body.

You are desperate for someone to talk to you, someone who makes sense.

Your brain is craving any kind of connection. Should you risk it?

You can’t resist. You nod, a slow up-and-down movement of your head.

“Good, sweetie. I saw the way Josh was looking at you and it worried me,” Patty tells you.

“I used to work with a lot of men, and when I was younger, the culture was much worse than it is now. I was grabbed and harassed, and once, my boss came to my hotel room late at night and pounded on the door. So I know what it looks like when a guy is trouble. When Josh followed you to the shower, I followed him.”

Her words bring back the terror you felt when you pulled back the curtain to peer out and spotted Josh. You begin to tremble. And then you feel it, the brush of Patty’s hand against your own again.

“Don’t be scared,” she whispers. “I won’t let him do anything to you.”

Relief pours through you, warm and liquid. Why do you care so much about me? you want to ask.

Then Patty answers your unspoken question.

“I had a younger sister who died,” she says.

“Darby. She was always troubled—she was the kind of kid who’d skip school or wind up with a boyfriend who was bad news—so I guess I got immune to her stirring things up.

And when things got really bad, I was too busy at work to see it.

Darby overdosed. I was the one who found her. I was too late to save her.”

Patty swallows hard. “She had long reddish hair, like you.”

Patty picks up a yellow crayon and begins to draw a crescent moon at the top of her page.

“I think about her all the time. Things I wish I’d said or done. We fought a lot when we were younger, but when we became adults, we grew close.”

You’re barely breathing, you’re so intent on catching every word.

“Then, a few nights ago, I had too much to drink, and I realized my life is passing me by. It’s like I’ve been on a train, and instead of looking up at the glorious scenery and talking to the interesting people around me, I’ve had my head down working.

I put everything into my job. I never married or had a family.

And now my parents are gone, and I failed my sister, and I’ll never see her again.

And I was in the kitchen and I saw a knife and I just…

made an impulsive decision. And now I’m here. ”

Your crayon has stopped moving. You’re desperate for Patty to keep talking. She is the only patient in here who seems cogent. And she cares about you. She saved you once. Maybe she can help you again.

Don’t trust anyone. The warning you gave Mandy comes back to you.

But another patient, a middle-aged woman who attempted suicide, hardly seems like a risk.

“Do you miss your sister, too?” Patty asks.

You suck in a breath, startled by her question. No one has ever asked if you miss Annabelle. Maybe only another woman who had a complicated relationship with her sister can understand all the intense emotions you’ve felt toward Annabelle.

“Maybe you can answer me in another way,” Patty suggests. “You could just draw a single line on your paper now to mean yes.”

She will know you’re fully present, despite the shell you’ve affected. But maybe that’s a good thing. Patty wouldn’t want to talk to or be around someone who isn’t truly here.

You lift your crayon and draw a long, straight line from the top of the oval to the bottom of the page. If anyone is watching on the cameras, it could simply be the first strand of hair in your portrait.

Patty nods slowly.

“I’m sorry, Georgia,” she whispers, and your chest constricts with sobs you can’t release.