One of the patients in the right corner of the rec cackles and I shoot a dirty look in her direction. She’s distracting me. I need to focus. I need a clear head. I need to retrace my steps.
Where was I yesterday?
I don’t know why I even bother asking myself this question. Because it’s the same. It’s always the same.
My cell.
The rec.
The mess hall.
The bathroom.
My cell.
The rec.
The mess hall.
The bathroom.
My eyes center on the clock hanging above the double doors to the rec. It’s 3:00 pm. Good lord, where has the time gone? I don’t why I’m thinking about time either. Anymore it all blurs together and I keep wondering and hoping and praying that one day I’ll be able to tell the difference between my days and my nights.
I haven’t had luck with that lately.
I guess that’s what it’s like to be a little bird at Oak Hill.
I cannot fly with broken wings.
I lower my gaze when I see a nurse dressed in periwinkle scrubs come through the doors. She creeps toward me, almost on her tip-toes. Her chestnut hair dips just below her shoulders and she has a plain yet warm kind of face. She’s almost tip-toeing as she advances toward me. It’s like I’m a wild animal and she’s terrified of trying to capture
me.
I start pacing again and lift my hand in a friendly gesture. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m not crazy.”
She continues moving toward me. “Of course not, Miss Carmichael.”
I glare at her. “It’s Watson,” I snap.
“Right.” She’s inches away from me. “Of course not Mrs. Watson.”
Then it dawns on me that she might be able to help me. I laugh and think to myself that I’m a fool. I’ve never asked the staff for help before. Maybe she can assist me. I stop, mid-pace and face her. “What’s your name?” I inquire. I blow the ebony wisps of bangs out of my eyes and make a mental note that I should ask about having them trimmed sometime.
Her response is short. Her voice lacks the warmth that her face gives off. “Susan,” she says. She points to her name tag and I shake my head, once again disappointed with myself for missing something as obvious as a name tag. Especially when that name tag is silver and shining beneath the bright fluorescent lights.
“Susan.” I fold my arms across my chest and open my mouth. Then I close it. Then I open it again. I’m unsure of how to word my question. After a moment of silence I blurt out, “Do you think maybe you could help me?”
“Of course,” she says. “What do you need help with, Miss Carmic—I mean Mrs. Watson?”
“First off,” I comment. “I would prefer that you called me Adelaide.” Technically, I am Mrs. Watson, but due to the situation she and I can forget the formalities. I think about telling her to call me Addy, but that would bring up too many painful memories that I don’t want to resurrect. So I don’t. “I’m looking for something,” I go on, “I know I had it some time ago, but I can’t remember where I put it.”
She’s staring at me like I’m crazy. I’m not. I’d like to give her my thoughts and opinions on this matter, but decide against it. She’s my only hope. “Okay, Adelaide,” she says calmly, placing both of her hands on my shoulder blades. “What are you looking for and how can I help you find it?”
“I need my screwdriver,” I tell her. “I need it. I’ve searched everywhere and it’s nowhere to be found.” I lean in closer and whisper, “I’m thinking that someone might have stolen it.”
She drops her hands from my shoulders and gives me an odd look. It screams nut job, nut job, sedative and syringe, pronto. “A screwdriver?” There’s a hint of confusion in her tone, an uncertain glint in her eyes. “Adelaide, you know the hospital’s policies on the patients having access to tools or anything else that could be used as I weapon.”
“But it’s not a weapon!” I shout.