Page 41 of The Locked Ward
Group therapy feels less threatening today.
The young, green therapist is still in charge, but Josh has been moved to another section of the ward, one typically used for prisoners who are transferred here from jail and need to be sequestered until they are stabilized.
Occupants of that section are locked in one of four glass-fronted rooms, next to a sink with delousing shampoo, and a uniformed guard sits at a desk watching over it all.
Josh will remain there until the doctors finish adjusting his medications.
You know all of this because you are now Patty’s confidante.
She sits next to you at mealtimes, sharing her precious oranges and pears because she prefers bland food, and she joins you on the couch to watch HGTV, making an occasional funny or incisive comment.
She chats while you stand outside in the courtyard, talking about her regrets of the past and her hopes for the future.
She gives you so much, but asks nothing in return.
“Let’s talk about some good memories,” the therapist begins.
Patty is in the chair next to you. The bulky white gauze bandages on her wrists have been replaced by thinner ones. She looks livelier. Happier.
Which means she’ll be leaving soon.
Patty is wearing her street clothes now, a pair of jeans with a high elastic waistband and a dark blue tunic. She looks as if she is ready to walk through that small wooden door again, back into the real world.
“Georgia?”
You start at the sound of your name. The therapist is looking at you.
“Can you share a pleasant memory? It could be as simple as looking up at a cloud drifting through the blue sky, or the taste of a chocolate chip cookie you ate.”
He’s leaning forward, an earnest expression on his face, asking you to reminisce about cookies when you could either be executed or spend the next few decades here without Patty. You feel like slapping him.
“She took my shirt!”
The pink-haired woman—you’ve learned her name is Lucy—who accused you of taking her glasses is now pointing at Patty.
“That’s my shirt, you took it from my closet. Give it back!”
Lucy is getting all worked up, which happens a couple of times a day. Typically the nurses either let her ramble on or distract her, depending on how busy they are.
The therapist starts to talk, but Patty cuts him off.
“Lucy, I know you have a shirt exactly like this. We both have the same one. Yours is still in your closet. You have wonderful taste. I love this shirt, too!”
Lucy’s mouth is hanging open, as if she’s preparing to argue. But Patty’s words seem to take the wind out of her. She closes her mouth and blinks.
“I know,” she says. “I’m going to get a drink of water now.” She stands and walks away.
The man with the keloid scar on his neck asks, “Does she really have the same shirt?”
Patty shrugs. “She thinks she does. It must be hard for Lucy to be in other people’s reality when hers is so different. I guess I wanted to give her a break and join her where she is.”
“That’s exactly right.” The therapist nods confidently, as if he’s the one who engineered this dynamic. He changes the subject, and after another moment, Lucy returns.
But she doesn’t reclaim her seat. Instead, she sits on the floor by Patty’s feet.
“Lucy, wouldn’t you be more comfortable in a chair?” the therapist asks.
Lucy shakes her head. “No. I like her.”
“Is that okay with you, Patty?” the therapist asks.
You didn’t realize how young Lucy really is. But she’s probably only in her late twenties. Young enough to be Patty’s daughter.
“Of course it is. I like Lucy, too.” There’s warmth in Patty’s voice as she smiles down at Lucy.
It’s the weirdest thing. You feel a tinge of jealousy; it’s a physical sensation, akin to a darkness snaking through your body.
Just like how you always felt around Annabelle.