It’s not till I pass the TV that I realize it’s playing DVDs. What I wouldn’t give for some news.
Not that it would matter. Everything is news to me right now.
Two people sit on the sofa, not really watching the movie, and I only know that because I sneak a peek at them. Some other people are sitting in chairs. One is talking to himself and the other two appear to be engaged in conversation.
I make my way through the door leading to the rec room. It’s as big as the cafeteria but with fewer people. There’s a corner with books and comfy chairs; directly opposite that are board games and card tables, and one woman is working on a huge puzzle. On the other end of the room, though, are what appear to be a foosball table and some yoga mats. There are also an acoustic guitar, electric keyboard, and some tambourines. That might not be a good thing come Christmas if anyone here fancies themselves a musician. But, as I look out over the group who appear to be as drugged out as I imagine I was before today, I think I might be giving them too much credit.
Suddenly, I feel overwhelmed with cascades of sadness. Maybe that’s the beginnings of depression, and I wonder if that’s what I was hospitalized for, but I have no way of knowing at the moment. What hurts me so much is seeing all these souls disconnected. Being human is all about connecting—I know in my core I believed that as much as I do now with my seemingly limited experience—and all these bodies are together yet completely separated by unseen barriers. That breaks my heart.
And already I’m feeling a closeness to Joe for that same reason. He seems to be my island in a sea of darkness and uncertainty. For that, I am grateful.
I don’t see myself spending much time in either the living area or the rec room. Nothing against my roommates, but I don’t feel comfortable around a lot of them. Some of them are constantly muttering and whispering while others feel on the verge of violence. Granted, I haven’t tried to get to know them, but I don’t know that I want to.
I need to get to know myself first.
Spending time in my room isn’t exactly an option because there’s nothing to do in there. It feels like solitary confinement with the luxury of a window. But maybe that’s what I need. A place where I can just sit and think.
I realize, though, that it would be better if I had someone to bounce ideas off of. And Joe is the only person here I can trust.
Until he gets out of his session, I plan to continue exploring. As I walk past the doors to the cafeteria or mess hall or dining room or whatever the hell they call it, I smell that they’re gearing up for lunch already. I’m hoping there’s less grease and sugar in that meal. Then I spot the wing where my room is located, and there are two wings off it. At the end of one of the hallways, I spy a locked door. It has a rectangular window, longer than the one on my room door, but I know without even walking to it and grabbing the handle that I wouldn’t be able to make it through there.
Still, I could look, right?
And I have no idea what I’ll learn from anything. It’s worth a shot.
I’m shuffling again, hoping to deflect attention in case anyone thinks I’m acting suspiciously. After what seems like forever, I reach the end of the hall. I can’t hear anyone around but I can see a person walking down a hallway out the window—so I move forward, leaning my head closer to the glass. It looks like just another hallway, but there are doors—not to rooms but to offices. I’m not sure who all is out there, but I’m curious.
The voice that suddenly begins speaking behind me makes me nearly jump out of my skin. “What are you looking at?”
I need to play like old Anna, so I ponder for a moment if I should even turn around. Considering I startled when he spoke, I probably should—so I slowly turn my head around, attempting to have as blank a facial expression as possible. When I turn around, I don’t quite make eye contact with the angry looking guy behind me. Instead, I look at the tip of his nose and keep my jaw a little slack, my mouth open, hoping to communicate that I obviously meant no harm.
“Oh, it’s you, Clawson. Get back to your room.”
I don’t know this guy, but he’s mean and nasty. I try to keep my expression frozen and start shuffling back down the hall, but I happen to catch his name on the badge hanging from his scrubs pocket: Bruce. Maybe I’ll ask Joe later what he thinks of good ol’ Bruce. Not that he’ll change my mind. I already don’t like the guy.
Soon enough, I’ve turned down the hall toward my room. I don’t know if Bruce is following me or has gone on with his business, but I don’t want to take a chance. In my limited experience, the one thing I’ve learned is I don’t know which people I can trust, especially the workers. Rose seemed nice enough, but it’s not like I have a broad base of behaviors to judge these people on—including Joe. But I need a lifeline and, for now, he’s it.
I decide to rest in my room. At least there I’ll have a little quiet and a place to think. I’m beginning to feel exhausted, overloaded. But that woman in the wheelchair—she’s still in the hall, almost in the same spot she was earlier this morning. Hasn’t anyone moved her? Stuff like this just adds to the surreal ambience of this place.
As I shamble past her wheelchair, a few beats of silence tell me that maybe I’ll make it to my room without her somehow frightening commentary. But no such luck. Once I’m about a yard away from her in the other direction, I hear the start of her mantra: “Rep.” I notice I’m grinding my teeth and my fingers get shaky. Without thought, I pick up my pace, subconsciously not caring who sees it. By the time I reach my door, I hear her voice following me. “Resent.”
I wonder if it’s okay—if it’s proper protocol—to close my door, and I decide I don’t give a shit. I don’t want to hear the woman start muttering in that creepy way she does, and I definitely don’t want her potentially coming to my doorway, blocking it with her wheelchair—if she can move. My inclination is to slam it, but I know that wouldn’t be a good idea if I want to avoid being caught, so I close it deliberately. Quietly.
Resting my back against the door, I survey this room again. This tiny space is like a birthplace for me, and it almost feels like forever since I was here. As I walk toward the bed, I realize it’s been made—the pillow fluffed, sheet drawn tight in military fashion, the spread folded at the foot. This adds to that hotel feeling, just like the chairs in the dining area. But I’m pretty sure I don’t have a checkout time.
Now alone, I walk normally toward my bed. Something tickles my brain, and I wish I could go for a run. I get the feeling I haven’t done that for a very long time. At least in the privacy of my room, I don’t have to act like I’m carrying multiple sacks of potatoes on my back.
Or do I?
I lie on my bed, hoping I still seem casual, and then I look around the room, paying attention to the corners. There are no big cameras, although it wouldn’t have surprised me. After all, I don’t get the feeling I’m here of my own free will. I determine after some time that if there are cameras in here, they’re small. But I’ve walked a couple of the halls now and seen at least one, which would mean they’d be observing a lot of people if they did have them in all the rooms. The one I saw in the hall was big, and there’s nothing like that in here.