My mouth has been watering, so I pick up the slice of pizza and take a rather large bite. As soon as I’ve swallowed it, I say quietly, “So I don’t remember ever actually eating pizza, but something tells me this is a poor excuse. I’m pretty sure the crust shouldn’t have such a cardboardy texture.”
“Yeah, well, but it’s better than gruel.”
The other man mutters and nods while the woman picks an invisible bug out of her hair and seems to consider eating it for a microsecond. I also can’t help but agree, so I nod and take another bite before moving on to my salad.
After a little while, the man starts putting all his empty dishes and silverware back on the tray. Looking up at me, we make eye contact while he says, “I didn’t know you talked.”
I almost smile. “I guess I just needed something to say.”
“Fair enough. I’m Harley. Nice to meet you officially.”
“I’m Anna. Likewise.”
Joe, like the life of the party, lights up. “Hey, you can never have too many friends in a place like this.”
“True.” The man hunkers over the table, lowering his voice. “Speaking of which, Barrett is on a manhunt today. Watch your back.”
I ask, “Who’s Barrett?”
Joe, expressive as always, still manages to keep his volume contained. “He’s an asshole that runs around like he owns the place. A real pushy motherfucker. You’ll know him when you see him.”
“Does he happen to have short dark hair? First name Bruce?”
“Oh, yeah. That’s him. Is he the guy who was yelling at you earlier?”
“Yes. I’m pretty sure that’s him.”
Harley says, “Avoid him at all costs. Seriously, just go the other way if you see him coming.”
“Ah, but,” Joe says, picking up his glass, “that doesn’t always work. Sometimes you’re drawing attention to yourself when you do that. And then you’re doubly fucked.”
“True.”
The young woman beside me begins twitching her head. At first, it looks like she’s starting to shake it in disagreement, but she stops halfway and repeats the motion. It looks almost like a nervous habit, but then I realize I probably know what it is I’m witnessing. It seems like a Tourette Syndrome sort of tic.
Again, how do I know this?
“Come on, Cleo. Let’s go.”
I hope I can remember these people’s names, but right now I’m just hoping I can retain the majority of memories I’ve gathered from the day. That alone I’d consider a success.
After my new friends leave, Joe says, “You still have lots of exploring to do. Maybe tonight at shift change or tomorrow I can show you stuff no one else ever sees.”
There’s so much to unpack there, I don’t even know where to start.
So I don’t.
Instead, I take another bite of the salad. Despite the too-sweet, too-oily dressing, the cherry tomatoes are nearly perfect. They’re flavorful with the right amount of firmness, the best thing I’ve eaten today.
I wouldn’t venture to say they’re the best thing I’ve eaten all my life—but maybe during my life as I now know it. That would definitely be a fair statement.
*
Later that afternoon, we’re once again sitting at the windows in the living area, looking out on life uninterrupted below us. I bet none of the people in those cars or any of the folks walking down the sidewalk have thought twice about what’s in the building beside them. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have thought even once about it. After all, if you don’t have a reason to be in a building and it’s fairly nondescript from the outside in the middle of a city hustling and bustling, full of life designed to draw your attention, it would be easy to overlook.
Yet we’re here and we’re watching their blissful ignorance.
What did I do out there before I came here? I might have worried that I’d been here since I was Cleo’s age, but Joe assured me I’ve only been here a couple of years. Why, I didn’t know, but I thought maybe my age is around thirty, and maybe that’s Joe’s age, too, but I don’t want to ask. It doesn’t seem that important when I ponder all the things I need to know. Maybe that’s the kind of thing I could ask someone like Rose.
Something dawns on me, making me wonder if I’m beginning to shake those old memories loose—and it gives me hope. But I can’t celebrate that small victory because I have a burning question for Joe. “I don’t suppose we have access to the internet here.”
“Are you kidding? Contact with the outside world? That’s cute, Anna.”
“Why not? We’re not prisoners, are we?”
The way he cocks his head is endearing, and I love his raw brashness. “What do you think? You think you could just tell them you’re good and you’re ready to leave? You think they’d let you walk out of here?”
“That seems really wrong not to.”
“Maybe. If you voluntarily committed yourself, you might be able to do that.”
“How would I find out?”
“Fuck if I know.” As he draws in a deep breath, he rests his arm on the wall before leaning so that his forehead rests on it but he’s still looking out over the tiny slice of city in our view. “A lot of people here have been committed either by family members or doctors. They were probably told they were a danger to themselves and others.”
That’s a phrase I know I’ve heard before, but I have no idea if it had to do with me. I find myself nodding absentmindedly while biting my lower lip.
“Some people here have been ordered here by the court. So you tell me—prison or hospital?”
I shrug, still disappointed that I can’t get my hands on a computer. Somehow I know I’d be able to find answers to all my questions, including ones I don’t even know I have yet, and I have full faith in myself that I’d know what to do sitting in front of one.
But not all is lost.
Turning my head, I look toward one of the doorways. “What about the books in the rec room?”
He scoffs, lifting his head. “What about them?”
“I might be able to find something in them, to learn something important.”
“You might learn Jack shit, Anna. Those are mostly trashy novels in there.”
“Have you read them?”
“Hell, no. But don’t let me stop you.”
I touch his arm thoughtlessly. I say thoughtlessly, because already in the short time I’ve actually been awake here, I realize that while touching isn’t forbidden, it’s not necessarily a good idea. Some people here seem to have delicate psyches and a touch could send them over the edge. I just know that in my bones.
Not Joe, though, and I somehow knew that. He looks at my hand before making eye contact. And he smiles. It’s warm and almost loving, an expression I could easily get lost in.
So much so that I almost forget what I was going to say.
But I don’t. “Let’s go check them out.”
With a slow shake of his head, the smile plastered on his face, he says, “The things I let you talk me into…”
Already, this man makes my heart swell.
5