Stop Here by Beverly Gologorsky

hospital. A small gray brick building with three floors that could be anyone’s house, except for the barred windows. He drove here straight off his shift. A few hours’ sleep might’ve helped. His head feels spacey; he’s not too thrilled with his balance either. Damn pills. Ava offered to drive him to Manhattan—he was touched. But he can think of better places to take her. The front door is the first of several leading to reception, the architect offering a change of mind at any turn. A baby-faced receptionist who has to be in her fifties gives him a paranoid stare before releasing information. Then she tells him outer doors remain unlocked only during visiting hours. In short, he’d better watch the time.
    Shelly’s in one of the dayroom’s orange plastic chairs, a handsome woman with enough energy to run a country. Now she’s thinner than ever; dark pouches beneath her usually curious eyes. It seems as if she’s crying without tears. She offers up a ragged face and he pecks a quick kiss.
    â€œI got your message. What happened?” he asks. A man sidles along the wall. Three women stretch their necks to watch a mounted TV. He can’t figure if they’re in or out. Again, he spots the barred window. The tic on his eyelid is back.
    â€œAfter you dropped him off, wetter than a seal, right, I got him to bed. Wouldn’t get out next morning. Kept saying, I don’t care . . . isn’t worth it . . . what’s the difference . . . things like that. Had to get my oldest to help bring him here. The psychiatrist will evaluate him for seventy-two hours. They mentioned shock treatments. I said, wait. Bruce said it wouldn’t make a difference. It’s as if he made a conscious decision to stop caring—about anyone. Michael, our baby, is in Iraq, you know, but the way Bruce talks, it’s not our son but himself he’s seeing, young soldier that he was. The memories of then filling him now, god knows what it is he fears.”
    â€œThey’ll feed Bruce antidepressants. They work.” He wonders if he should just lie down like Bruce.
    â€œYeah, hope so. Do you think Murray will keep Bruce’s shift open till he’s back on his feet?”
    He doubts it, but nods because the desperation in her voice alarms him.
    â€œI’ve brought up three children. A kitchen holds no surprises. I could work two days of his shift till he returns. Would you put in a word?”
    â€œSure.” Murray won’t allow her in his overmanaged kitchen, though he’d welcome Shelly’s help.
    â€œHe’s down the hall, last room on the right. I came out here for a break. Wanted my first cigarette in years, but you can’t smoke anywhere. Damn.”
    â€¢ • •
    The hallway is too long, too narrow. He passes a man in a robe talking to something invisible in his hand. The guy reminds him of the time Glory asked him to serve Thanksgiving dinner at a shelter. She found the experience uplifting. The scene depressed him for days. Now, too, the wish to turn around and depart is strong.
    No bigger than a walk-in closet with one small barred window and a twin-size bed, which is way too small for Bruce, who’s curled up facing the wall.
    â€œBruce, hey. It’s Nick.” The pajama-clad backside and bare feet scare him.
    â€œHey,” the voice barely audible.
    â€œSo . . . how do you feel?”
    Nothing.
    â€œWe all go through these dark patches . . . a couple days, you’re up, better than new.”
    Bruce shifts around slowly to give him a who-are-you-kidding look. His face is pale, waxy, lips in permanent frown. “I’m not in the mood for chat.”
    â€œI thought you’d have a couple of words for me.” He glances out the window at a small square of gray sky. Could they make these places any more discouraging?
    â€œNick, go home.”
    â€œYeah, in a minute.”
    Bruce closes his eyes, which is a