Page 6 of The Locked Ward
“You’re going to want to take that off.” A nurse named Becca points to my necklace as we step onto the elevator. “Earrings, too.”
Before I can ask why, she says, “Last week a PhD student studying deviant behavior came in and wore a lanyard. A patient wrapped it around her neck and tried to strangle her. We got him off her in time, though.”
Her tone is matter-of-fact. Like this sort of incident is as unremarkable as mentioning that we’re taking the elevator to the top floor.
I slide my hoops out of my ears and tuck them into the pocket of my slacks, then unfasten the gold chain from around my neck and do the same with it.
I wonder which patient tried to kill the student.
I spent a little time researching some of the people who live in this facility.
They include a young man who stabbed his father more than a dozen times and buried his body behind the garage, a middle-aged woman who tried to burn down a shopping mall because she heard voices telling her to, and a vicious gang member presumed to be sane but canny enough to have worked the system.
And those are just the ones I know about.
Currently twenty-two patients reside on a single floor of this hospital, accessible only through a series of locked doors.
What is it like for her here, the ex-debutante who graduated from Vassar and planned six-figure weddings and loved to run half marathons?
I’ve read so much about the case I feel as if I’m getting to know Georgia in a superficial way, like she’s a character on a TV show.
But I have no understanding of what makes her tick.
My heartbeat accelerates as the elevator climbs to the fifth floor. We step out. The first thing I notice is the hallway is completely empty. The second is the heavy silence. The only noise that reaches my ears is my own shallow breathing.
“You can store your purse here,” Becca says, punching a code into a small locker. I comply and she secures the door.
Becca reaches for a phone on the wall and speaks into it: “I have Georgia Cartwright’s visitor. We’re about to come in.”
She hangs up, then takes a few steps to a solid-looking brown wood door that’s significantly shorter and narrower than a standard door. Above it is a sign: No videotaping or photography permitted.
My sister would have been escorted through it only two days ago. With every footstep of hers I trace, I’m drawing nearer to her.
My skin tingles as Becca fits her key into the door and opens it. I follow her into a claustrophobia-inducing space. The ceiling is low, and there are no windows. The air feels thick and stale.
Becca pulls the door shut behind us and I hear a loud click. We’re sealed in this tiny area now.
“This is called a trap,” she tells me. “You can’t open one door unless the other one is locked.”
Becca reaches for a key again—I can’t tell if it’s the same one—and fits it into the second small wooden door.
She looks back at me. “Stay behind me as we enter, please.”
My mouth dries up. I nod, and she opens the door. I step into the locked ward.
The first person I see is a woman who has pink-mixed-with-blond hair. She’s drifting through the hallway, her face slack. She catches sight of me and changes course, heading directly for me.
To my right is the nursing station, which resembles nursing stations everywhere: There are desks and computers and charts and busy-looking employees.
There’s one huge difference.
The entire station is surrounded by thick protective walls of plexiglass. And the only way in is through another locked door. One of the nurses on the inside opens it and quickly ushers us in.
We’re in the station before the woman with pink hair reaches me. I wonder what she would have said or done if we’d come face-to-face.
“You’re going to meet Georgia in a private room, but there will be a watcher in the doorway,” Becca tells me. “If at any time you want to end the visit, signal to him. Excuse me a moment.”
She turns to confer with a colleague while I take in my surroundings.
A disheveled-looking man with a scraggly beard is standing on the other side of the plexiglass, gaping at me. I meet his eyes, and he lifts his palm and bangs on the glass.
“Turn away from him,” Becca instructs, not even raising her eyes from the chart.
I shift my body and take in the nurses and aides instead.
Most of the employees on this floor look uncommonly fit and strong.
And three-quarters are male. A nurse who has to be six foot four is slipping on latex gloves and filling a syringe with a gold-colored medicine.
Another—with giant, tattooed biceps—is working next to a CB radio with a big sticker on it that says Security—Press 11 .
There’s a cupful of miniature pens, half the length of traditional ones. It takes me a moment to realize why: If an employee takes a pen out of the nursing station and leaves it near a patient, it can’t be gripped and used as a weapon.
In the distance, I hear a woman arguing with someone, her voice shrill and jagged. I watch as a couple of burly nurses clear the hallway, leading patients around the corner and out of view.
They don’t want anyone to see me leaving the protection of the nursing station, I realize.
“Ready?” Becca looks at me. I swallow hard and nod.
She unlocks the door, and a male nurse—the one with the tattooed biceps—comes with us, staying slightly behind me and to one side.
Becca ushers me a few feet down the hallway and into a room with two chairs. They’re set far apart. “Take the one closest to the door,” she tells me.
There’s nothing else in the room. I try to shift the chair to the side and can’t; it’s as if it were made from concrete.
“Georgia will be here in a moment. Damien is going to stay during your visit.” She gestures to the male nurse standing in the doorway.
Becca leaves and my stomach tightens.
This air in this place feels thick and strange, as if it has absorbed the trauma of its inhabitants.
Footsteps approach. I jerk my head toward the door. My body tightens.
A figure appears in the doorway. I look into Georgia’s eyes for the first time.