Perfect Strangers

Patting her hideous helmet of curls that resemble a poodle’s coat—if the poodle dyed itself a screaming shade of orange that doesn’t occur anywhere in nature—she beams at me. “Why, yes! How sweet of you to notice!”

“Your curls look especially tight. And the color is very…fresh.”

When she thanks me, turning away to get a paper cup of water to go with my medicine, Ernest chuckles quietly. He says under his breath, “You’re so bad.”

I play the innocent. “What? I’m giving her a compliment.”

“Mm-hmm. And I’m Taylor Swift.”

“Really? You’re bigger in person that I would’ve thought, Tay. And I didn’t realize you were a man. That doesn’t come through in your music videos.”

Ernest clucks his tongue, trying to be disapproving, but I know he gets a kick out of my smart mouth.

Imaginary or otherwise, men seem to enjoy a smartass.

When Ernest holds out my anti-psychotics, I open up obediently for the pills. He places them on my tongue, then helps me swallow water from the paper cup, watching carefully to make sure I don’t choke.

My throat muscles have been getting progressively weaker. Swallowing is one of those things we take for granted until we can’t do it anymore.

Like walking. Like wiping your own ass. Like everything else in life.

Then Ernest rolls me to my favorite spot in the room, a window that overlooks the lush green lawn outside. It’s my favorite because it’s as far away from everyone else as possible.

Especially the young blond woman who screams like she’s having an orgasm—except it’s pretty much all the time—and the tall thin man who only communicates through grunting.

Gigi suffers from paranoid schizophrenia. The voices in her head tell her everyone wants to kill her. Gaspard has severe bipolar disorder and clinical depression. He tried to commit suicide six times before he was committed.

Today he’s simply staring at the wall, interjecting a grunt here and there in between Gigi’s lusty screams.

Daily routines at the Rockland Psychiatric Center are managed through an inflexible schedule. After breakfast and an hour of “free” lounge time, I’m scheduled for community group. This is when all the patients get together to discuss such fascinating topics as the rigorously enforced no-touching policy, who stole (insert item) from someone else’s room, why Forrest Gump is an overrated movie, and the quality of the food, which everyone agrees stinks.

After that excitement, it’s lunch. Then one-on-one time with my psychiatrist for an assessment of how I’m feeling, sleeping, pooping, etcetera, and if I currently want to kill myself. If necessary, adjustments to meds are made. Then my vital signs are taken, and I’m off to process group with my social workers, where I usually nap in my chair while everyone else talks about how to combat negative thoughts. Someone always cries.

Then it’s recreational therapy, education group, visitation hour, dinner, quiet time, and lights out. The routine never varies.

So imagine my surprise when, after only ten minutes of window gazing, Ernest shows up again to take me to see Dr. Chevalier.

“Why does he want to see me?”

“You think anyone tells me anything? I just work here, sweetheart.”

We pass a group of men playing chess. One of them screams “Beetlejuice!” at me. I wave and smile, because I liked that movie.

When we arrive at Edmond’s office, he’s ensconced behind his big oak desk, examining papers from an open manila file. He looks up and says, “Ah.”

I don’t know why, but that feels ominous.

Ernest parks my chair in front of Edmond’s desk, then leaves, closing the office door behind him. Folding his hands together over the papers he’s been contemplating, Edmond gazes at me in silence. After a full minute, I can’t take it anymore.

“What’s up, Doc?”

He smiles. “I’ll miss your sense of humor, Olivia.”

I arch my brows. “Are you planning my funeral already?”

“You’re going home.”

It feels like an atom bomb just exploded atop my head. I can’t breathe. I can’t see. My organs are shriveling up and dying. “Home?”

“To live with your husband. Now, don’t look so shocked. You knew this day was coming.”

“No, I can honestly say I had no idea this day was coming!”

Edmond looks like he’s trying to resist rolling his eyes. “We’ve talked about your re-entry into society extensively in our sessions.”

“I meant I didn’t know this day was coming today!”

He gathers the papers and taps them on end on his desk to straighten them, then places them neatly back into the file. He closes the file and rests his folded hands on top of it, which is his passive-aggressive way of telling me the matter is settled.

Not everyone is as direct as my imaginary James. If I had use of my hands, I’d rip that file to shreds and toss it like confetti around the room.