restricted activity and minimalist room decor.
As she brooded about her present circumstances, Elizabeth sat on the bed facing the window so that she did not see the door open slowly behind her. “Nobody important,” said a voice from the hall.
Elizabeth spun around, forgetting her grief in the clutch of panic. A heavyset young woman with bangs and black-frame glasses stood in the doorway, inspecting her as if she were a new exhibit of sculpture. The woman was obviously a patient. No member of the nursing staff would come to work in a stained green shift and pistachio-colored flip-flop sandals.
“I beg your pardon?” said Elizabeth, wondering if she were being summoned for mealtime or some other group activity.
“I was talking to Lisa Lynn. She’s lurking out there in the hall. She’s shy.” The woman turned back toward the door and called out, “The new patient is nobody important, L. L. Go back to your room now.”
“What do you mean I’m nobody important?” Elizabeth demanded. “Is that any way to talk to a patient?”
The woman shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. But let me tellyou, kiddo, from one patient to another: it’s the best part of being sick. You get to tell the truth.” She shambled into the room and sat down on the other twin bed. “You’re a new fish, so you haven’t figured out the social order yet. It’s a brave new world in here.”
“Who are you?”
“Name’s Kudan. Emma Owens Kudan, which is a mouthful. In here they call me Emma O. That’s what I answer to, anyhow. We were hoping you’d turn out to be a movie star or a country singer having a nervous breakdown, but I see you’re not. Too bad. We could use a little novelty.” She examined Elizabeth with the air of one doing a patient evaluation. “I see you’re not anorectic.”
“No. But if it’s contagious, I’d like to catch it.”
Emma O. shook her head. “Anorexia isn’t a disease. It’s a career move. At least, that’s what I tell Sarah. So … what are you in for?”
Elizabeth decided that sharing her emotional problems with this creature in green slippers was the most unappealing offer she’d had in ages. She smiled sweetly. “My voices tell me to go and save France.”
Her visitor shrugged. “I doubt that. The presence of delusional impersonators in mental institutions is highly overrated. I don’t think we have anybody famous at all—certainly not Napoléon, despite all the loony-bin jokes to the contrary. Oh, wait, we did have Jesus in here a while back. He had a few people convinced, autographed a few Bibles, but beyond that He didn’t cause much of a stir. If He can’t turn that sludge in the dayroom into decent coffee, what good is He? Still, if youwant to be Joan of Arc, kiddo, there are a couple of arson compulsives in the other wing who would dearly love to light your fire.”
“I’m not delusional,” snapped Elizabeth. “I just don’t feel like discussing my case with another patient.”
Emma O. gave her a condescending smile. “So group therapy will be news to you, huh?”
“I don’t intend to go to group therapy. I am here for depression.”
“Getting it or giving it?”
“My husband died!”
The young woman looked mildly interested. “Did he? I had a hamster once that died. It crawled under the cushion of the sofa and my brother sat on it.”
“That’s hardly the same thing.”
“What, death? I imagine it is, if you’re the one experiencing it. Still, I see what you mean. I don’t suppose your husband was smothered by a sofa cushion. Pretty careless of him if he was.”
Elizabeth was so stunned at this lack of sympathy for her widowed state that she was momentarily speechless. My husband died. Those three magic words had served her well for many weeks, gaining her privacy when she wanted it, special attention when she didn’t. People had been tiptoeing around her life, making no demands at all on her patience or her fortitude. It was unsettling to meet
Jessica Conant-Park, Susan Conant