flickering on the wall, or paced aimlessly, supported by canes or walkers. One man sat alone, staring out the window, into his past.
‘She’s right over there,’ Mrs Stanzione told Don. ‘Will you be able to find your way out all right?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Then I’ll get back to my duties.’
‘Wait. Did you show her the psychiatric ward?’
The nurse hesitated. ‘Why, no. Dr Manzel didn’t ask me to … it’s not really wholesome always.’
‘I understand,’ Don said, and the nurse erased her briefly nervous apprehension, smiled and walked away down the corridor.
Don leaned his back against the wall and stood watching Sarah for a long while. She was crouched behind a woman in a wheelchair. The old lady’s face was pallid, hollowed and scoured by time. Sarah was gently stroking the woman’s straight, square-cropped, lifeless hair – dirty gray – a yellow-steel color. The old woman stared straight ahead with sunken eyes, apparently unaware of Sarah’s attention, her incredibly wrinkled hands, with prominent knucklesand a network of deep blue veins, resting on the arm of the wheelchair.
Don walked slowly toward them. The room smelled of age and urine and only vaguely of some ineffective disinfectant.
‘It’s time to go, Sarah. Are you ready?’
She nodded and rose. Then, Sarah bent and kissed the stranger on the forehead and patted her arm. The old lady’s fingers lifted and then her hand raised and fastened itself briefly to Sarah’s and her cloudy eyes lifted to hers. The hand fell away again and her gaze dropped.
Sarah kissed her again and smiled as if they had communicated in some secret way only they knew. And perhaps they had.
Perhaps there was no secret to it at all. Sarah had touched the woman in the wheelchair and with those touches let the woman know that she was not just a last flickering glow of dying intelligence, but still a human being worthy of respect and love.
‘All right, Sarah. Let’s go now.’
In the corridor Don had another thought. He took Sarah to the central waiting room and left her sitting on one of a row of chrome-legged chairs.
‘I’ll be just a minute,’ he told her, ‘then we’ll go.’
He walked down the corridor, passing the nurses’ station where three white-clad women hovered around filing cabinets and a computer, and walked on, following the pointing sign reading: ‘Psychiatric Wing’.
Reaching the end of the carpeted hallway, he came to a set of green double doors. A sign read: ‘No unescortedpersons beyond this point’ and so he backtracked to a side corridor toward another nurses’ station. He could hear yelling beyond the walls somewhere, someone crying fitfully; a man’s voice screaming curses in cadence. Meaningless curses against a meaningless world.
No one paid any attention to Don as he entered a small waiting area much like the one in which he had left Sarah.
A black orderly was leading a man in a plaid bathrobe somewhere. The orderly called to a male nurse, ‘He’s at it again, Kelly.’
‘Painting on the walls?’
‘Yeah. A big old handful of shit smeared everywhere. I got to throw him in the shower. Have one of the janitors get up to the rec room to clean it up before someone eats it.’
The nurse laughed, ‘OK, Billy.’
Don March continued up the corridor, following the orderly and his charge, the muralist.
The moaning and shrieking continued behind the walls, emanating from unseen chambers. He watched as the orderly guided the hunched man in the plaid bathrobe into a room marked ‘showers’.
The ceilings seemed too low, thick and oppressive. The air circulating through the air-conditioning system did not smell fresher, only altered. Finding a small balcony where a female nurse sat smoking a cigarette, legs crossed, her puffy eyes lifeless and tired, he opened the sliding glass door and went out.
It was cool; the air smelled of the sea even this far inland. The remnant clouds left behind by the storm
‘She’s right over there,’ Mrs Stanzione told Don. ‘Will you be able to find your way out all right?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Then I’ll get back to my duties.’
‘Wait. Did you show her the psychiatric ward?’
The nurse hesitated. ‘Why, no. Dr Manzel didn’t ask me to … it’s not really wholesome always.’
‘I understand,’ Don said, and the nurse erased her briefly nervous apprehension, smiled and walked away down the corridor.
Don leaned his back against the wall and stood watching Sarah for a long while. She was crouched behind a woman in a wheelchair. The old lady’s face was pallid, hollowed and scoured by time. Sarah was gently stroking the woman’s straight, square-cropped, lifeless hair – dirty gray – a yellow-steel color. The old woman stared straight ahead with sunken eyes, apparently unaware of Sarah’s attention, her incredibly wrinkled hands, with prominent knucklesand a network of deep blue veins, resting on the arm of the wheelchair.
Don walked slowly toward them. The room smelled of age and urine and only vaguely of some ineffective disinfectant.
‘It’s time to go, Sarah. Are you ready?’
She nodded and rose. Then, Sarah bent and kissed the stranger on the forehead and patted her arm. The old lady’s fingers lifted and then her hand raised and fastened itself briefly to Sarah’s and her cloudy eyes lifted to hers. The hand fell away again and her gaze dropped.
Sarah kissed her again and smiled as if they had communicated in some secret way only they knew. And perhaps they had.
Perhaps there was no secret to it at all. Sarah had touched the woman in the wheelchair and with those touches let the woman know that she was not just a last flickering glow of dying intelligence, but still a human being worthy of respect and love.
‘All right, Sarah. Let’s go now.’
In the corridor Don had another thought. He took Sarah to the central waiting room and left her sitting on one of a row of chrome-legged chairs.
‘I’ll be just a minute,’ he told her, ‘then we’ll go.’
He walked down the corridor, passing the nurses’ station where three white-clad women hovered around filing cabinets and a computer, and walked on, following the pointing sign reading: ‘Psychiatric Wing’.
Reaching the end of the carpeted hallway, he came to a set of green double doors. A sign read: ‘No unescortedpersons beyond this point’ and so he backtracked to a side corridor toward another nurses’ station. He could hear yelling beyond the walls somewhere, someone crying fitfully; a man’s voice screaming curses in cadence. Meaningless curses against a meaningless world.
No one paid any attention to Don as he entered a small waiting area much like the one in which he had left Sarah.
A black orderly was leading a man in a plaid bathrobe somewhere. The orderly called to a male nurse, ‘He’s at it again, Kelly.’
‘Painting on the walls?’
‘Yeah. A big old handful of shit smeared everywhere. I got to throw him in the shower. Have one of the janitors get up to the rec room to clean it up before someone eats it.’
The nurse laughed, ‘OK, Billy.’
Don March continued up the corridor, following the orderly and his charge, the muralist.
The moaning and shrieking continued behind the walls, emanating from unseen chambers. He watched as the orderly guided the hunched man in the plaid bathrobe into a room marked ‘showers’.
The ceilings seemed too low, thick and oppressive. The air circulating through the air-conditioning system did not smell fresher, only altered. Finding a small balcony where a female nurse sat smoking a cigarette, legs crossed, her puffy eyes lifeless and tired, he opened the sliding glass door and went out.
It was cool; the air smelled of the sea even this far inland. The remnant clouds left behind by the storm
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