by Emma Janson
“Get your mush off my leg, old man.” She giggled. “No one can stand being around those twins for more than an hour. The only guest who finds them remotely interesting is the crazy kid in room 19 who eats his own hair! If we let them live here, it would turn into a nuthouse! A German, government-sponsored nuthouse!” She dismissed the idea and turned to pick up her book from the top of the nightstand, opening it to the page she’d bookmarked the night before.
Jack, piney-eyed, sent her thoughts as he blinked and shouted from within his own head. Jill couldn’t plug her ears from the noiseless message, either. They had been on the same wavelength for years; always in tune with the other, knowing the other’s thoughts...tonight was no different. Jill huffed and puffed with pretending to read, but slid her eyes over the same sentence at least a dozen times before bashing the two sides of the book together and tossing it at the end of the bed.
“Jack, a nuthouse? You want to run a nuthouse?”
“A resort for people with mental instabilities,” he corrected her as he blinked rapidly. “Behavioral health rehab – outpatient and inpatient, whatever. We won’t deal too much with the patients, honey; we just maintain the building and focus on the vineyard. The people with the PhDs will deal with the whacky-jacks.”
“Is that what Germany called them? Whacky-jacks? ...We could make them pick grapes and call it therapy.” She giggled at her joke and then pulled a notepad from her nightstand along with a monogrammed pen.
Jack sat up to prop a pillow behind his back because he knew a new business arrangement was about to be developed. This process was old habit since their days of dreaming and preparing for their floral shop, planning each one of their children’s births and then the bed and breakfast proposal. Together now, they toiled over the details of the mother-of-all of their ideas, combining their efforts to submit a proposal to the bank and offer a separate offer to the private German organization. When the hour neared three in the morning and Jill’s hand began to cramp, they smoked a celebratory joint that she’d found while cleaning one of the rooms.
By early 2016, they were established entrepreneurs of a medical facility in the first building of its kind. Their new age treatments, backed by private funding and research grants, were labeled breakthrough procedures via reviews from psychiatrists who, ironically, sported traditional German names. Doctors who heard of the facility through medical channels were more than happy to work there. They were hired by a neutral third party to ensure that patient files remained detailed and unbiased to cater to researchers. The overall appeal of Northern Lights was the controlled environment without the traditional clinical setting. The beauty of the minimal security mansion enabled its long-term patients to live as normally as possible during treatment and observation.
***
Hilda and Ute Schmidt did not share the same memories as Mr. and Mrs. Reed when it came to Northern Lights’ origins. In 2004, during their extended bed and breakfast stay, a representative from their assisted living home, four distant relatives, and a lawyer had come to sign paperwork with the Reeds. The twins had seen the oncoming chain of events that followed as an unfortunate but repetitious occurrence, as this was not the first time they’d been pulled strangely from one place to another by some unknown power.
Each had felt an indefinable sadness based in their lifetimes of automatic hilarity, but vineyard staff had only seen two pudgy women dying of laughter. The situation had spun out of control when the laughter caused involuntary muscle spasms in their larynxes and diaphragms. By the time emergency crews had arrived, they’d literally been choking to death on emotion they were unable to express.
In the beginning of their eleven-year stay at Northern Lights, drugs helped to subdue the hysteria, but the sisters would never be free from their cycle of elation. Their energy was and would be far beyond their physical capabilities; however, even they were not immune to the process of aging. Inevitably, getting old takes a toll on everyone. By the time the twins shared their eightieth birthdays at the facility, they no longer helped with the wine making process and, by eighty-two, the twins stopped helping altogether with facility maintenance and polishing antiques. Still, they were quite mobile and feisty, but they just couldn’t move bushels of grapes anymore. The downfall to losing strength was the question of what they were to do with such active minds when their bodies couldn’t follow through? The sisters began to wreak havoc through gossip and endless schemes to bust out of the house – or, the ‘bonker-haus’ as they referred to it. No one ever knew if they were just bored or if they truly hated it there because their disorder veiled all their raw emotions.
As far as Jack and Jill were concerned, though, the women had indirectly helped them run the business for eleven years. They were interwoven into the fabric of Northern Lights, so the couple had taken them in fully and treated them like awkward yet loving stray dogs who you couldn’t just take out to the field to put down – especially since their disorder paid the bills.
Whether they had privileges or just thought they did, the twins felt a certain respect was owed them by all of the patients and clients who entered the facility – though they tried several times to escape the vineyard mansion, as mentioned, as if it were truly a terrible place. Each attempt would have worked, too, if there’d ever been a way for them to control the giggling and laughter that always gave them away.
In fact, they were planning another scheme near the front reception area, next to a large bay window, when an olive-skinned stranger of average height walked through the doors wearing a black beanie. Their welcoming methods were overwhelming and a little insane, but Ignacio Cheyez smiled because he knew his dimples and shoulder-length hair always pleased everyone.
The Schmidt twins were, of course, unaware that the Mexican’s arrival story was as twisted as their own history or the censored brochure this new patient believed in.
*****
Eight hours of driving to upstate New York had taken a toll on Ignacio’s patience and neck, but his relief had come in a lovely wooden sign with burned lettering that said Northern Lights – a mile away. This had rejuvenated him and shaken his mind away from the thoughts in his head and the burning in his neck. The magnitude of the vineyard that surrounded the mansion was unjustly captured by brochure photos. The perfectly aligned rows of grape vines around the property seemed endless in their symmetrical spacing. He rolled down his window to see if it smelled different in the North Country than it did in the city, and when he inhaled, the burst of early September air chilled his warm nose. It was crisp, this being the only word he knew to describe such a snap of freshness. As he slowly drove onward, he took note of the empty two-lane, rural road while approaching another wooden board with professionally engraved lettering. Ignacio gently stopped so that he could see the detail in such a beautifully crafted sign, and wondered if the facility would be reflective of the effort someone had placed into even this detail.
His next moment of peaceful reflection, while looking at the beautiful Northern Lights building, was disrupted by the stench of gas station junk food flatulence. He tried to fan out the distraction, which felt like a horrible reminder of the things he’d left behind. When it dissipated, he refocused on the charming location set on the top of a rolling hill with a warm, still presence.
The mansion was indeed grand from where he sat, about a half mile from the main door. His timing was accidental, but seeing the vineyard and beautiful building in the foreground of a colorful sunset made it more approachable, warmer, and intensely inviting…as if it was, in fact, home.
Without traffic to worry about, Ignacio was compelled to step out onto the grounds where he would rest for the next month, just to assess life for a moment. He immediately became emotional. The beauty of the scenery did it to him. Then questions ran across his mind, the longer he stood there looking at the vineyard. His gut told him that the answers to all his questions were coming.
As the colors of the sunset behind the build
ing became richer, the smell of grapes gently filled his nose and lungs. His memory of the grape scent came from the fine powder drink mixes supplied by food banks. As a child, it had seemed like ghetto aroma therapy with a stinging chemical overtone. It had burned to breathe it in and the concoction always left a bitter aftertaste. The vineyard smell was soft and pleasant to inhale, though...almost smooth. This new sensation gave him pause until the cool air made him shiver. He grabbed at his arms, noticing just how steep the temperature drop had been from what he’d gotten used to in the car. Although he didn’t see his breath when exhaling, Ignacio suddenly questioned his decision to pack one sweater for North Country September weather which was clearly much colder than the rest of New York’s early Fall. Adding to the cold were winds from the dreaded Tug Hill region, that pushed all the bad weather down from Canada through focalized air currents. Ignacio had heard that locals called it ‘Canada’s piss pot’ for a reason, but now he felt the truth in the statement. He shivered again and wondered why the owners of the facility hadn’t picked a warmer climate.
Ignacio ran his cold fingers through his thick black hair, then tucked them under his armpits. He was underdressed in a t-shirt because, as young men were known to do, he’d neglected to think about the weather. His hands felt like ice cubes as he nestled them into the dips of his pits, but survivalists were right – it worked, and his hands felt warmer already. As for his armpits, well, the sensation was shocking to say the least. He looked down to shake off the chill that accompanied the cold blast to his upper body and, when he did, he second-guessed the shirt he was wearing. It was classic white with a hand-sized Mexican flag screen printed on the front. Over the graphic was text that read: ‘Are you a Mexi-Can or a Mexi-Can’t?’ He read the upside-down words and giggled to himself. Way to represent one’s heritage.
His body shivered uncontrollably before he rushed to return to the driver’s seat of his car, and then he cranked the heat as high as it would go. He just wanted the strange freezing sensation that had somehow permeated his bones in less than a minute to go away. So much for Mexican pride, he thought as he thanked God that his gas had dissipated into a passive stink that didn’t make him gag. He stretched his black beanie over his head again before placing the car in drive and heading toward the main entrance of the Northern Lights residential mental health facility. Nestled where it was in a mansion on vineyards, it was a vacation resort as far as he was concerned.
There were no gates, no intercom systems, and no fences to pass as he slowly drove to a small parking area that held only one other car. The front of the building was landscaped perfectly to showcase huge wooden doors and a new cement sidewalk running parallel to an older, pebbled pathway – clearly enough, the new sidewalk was built specially for handicapped accessibility. Huge windows lined the right side of the building. Seated close to one window were two older women watching him walk to the door. They appeared to giggle as he stepped closer. A hidden sensor within the bulkhead of a renovated archway alerted the security system to unlock the doors. No sounds of technology gave the security system away, though. It was as if Ignacio entered the building freely. Even when the door shut behind him, he assumed he could leave.
The lobby, once a grand foyer, was filled with beautiful seating arrangements. Some were tables and chairs, some were rocking chairs near antique lamps, and others were leather couches or chairs upholstered in fine fabrics. The area appeared to have all levels of comfort to choose from for the delicate derriere. The bookshelves were full, and a gas fireplace comforted a frail woman as she flipped through pages of her bible. To the left was a guard who stood for a moment watching Ignacio walk in. He quietly and discretely said something into the walkie talkie mounted on his uniform, then disappeared down the hall. The center of the lobby held a hand-rafted receptionist’s desk in a curved C-shape with an enclosed back side running level with the front. Behind the desk, Ignacio could see a long hallway that appeared to be just as beautiful as the rest of what was in sight. The far-right corner of the lobby held modern glass doors and beyond them was another room, an obvious addition that caught Ignacio’s curiosity.
Lydia, the receptionist, was filing paperwork and didn’t notice him standing there – but nevertheless, he was greeted by the German sisters just like everyone else who came to Northern Lights.
Ute, now eighty-three, watched Ignacio as he walked uncertainly to the desk for admission. She rushed away from her window to Lydia, who was still seated behind the reception desk. Ute’s breasts bounced and slapped together even in the supportive brazier she supposedly had on.
Ignacio said, “I just want to admit myself. Dr. Klein made arrangements for me.”
Lydia seemed distracted, but she pulled out a packet of papers and began her monologue of instructions, which Ute interrupted almost immediately. “Velcome to the Northern Lights bonker-haus!”
Lydia shot her a disapproving look as Ignacio jumped at the shear tone and volume of her voice when it shattered through the hushed atmosphere. He offered Ute his hand, but she gently swept it aside to hug him – without regard to spatial comfort – before she stepped away to giggle at his shirt. “Vich one are you? Mexi-can or a Mexi-can’t?” She reached up to pinch his cheeks, once again without permission. The receptionist smiled at the new client and politely asked Ute to have a seat, which was a request the older woman ignored all together.
Lydia immediately picked up the phone, and had begun to call security when Hilda bombarded Ignacio like an excited second puppy. “Oh, the most adorable thing we have seen around this place! I hope your visit ist long. Come sit, und velcome to Northern Lights! I’m Hilda und das ist mine twin, Ute. Most Americans say it like the state.”
Ute interrupted her sister as she attempted to guide Ignacio to a formal chair for conversation. “You don’t have to say, ‘like the state’ every time we meet a new person!”
Ignacio just tried to be polite. “Ladies, I would love to chat, but I should check in first.” He winked at Lydia, who shook her head in understanding and then told the person on the other end of the phone to hurry.
Ute leaned into Ignacio as if to whisper, but it her voice was just as loud as when she’d been speaking before. “She thinks she’s spry.” Ute circled her index finger near her temple and looked over to Hilda, smiling at her mirror image.
Hilda laughed in perfect timing with her sister while they both used Ignacio’s shoulder to keep themselves upright as a fit of hysteria began to boil inside of them. The women escorted him to a nearby couch. He didn’t resist the happy elderly twins; in fact, Ignacio thought they were cute. As he removed his bookbag to lighten his load, he said, “They say that laughter is the best medicine. I suppose check-in can wait a moment.”
To which the women roared and grabbed at their pudgy stomachs while their faces turned nine shades of red. Ignacio sat with an uncomfortable smile, five feet away. Hilda tried to catch her breath, but barely got through her next statement before her failed attempt to hold in the pending squeal proved to be too difficult. “Best medicine is Opium und Heroin!” Her beady eyes scrunched up so tightly that a vein popped bright blue under the thin skin at her lower eyelid.
Ute practically lifted herself from the couch as she shouted with even more force, “Morphine!” The two released themselves from holding any emotion at all in and began their jovial fit – so intensely that they slapped at each other and cried as if the devil himself were tickling them from the inside.
Ignacio had initially wondered why these women were in a mental health facility, and thought perhaps they were visiting. They’d seemed happy enough and definitely in good spirits. Their comments had since made his eyebrows shoot to the top of his hairline, though. They were obviously patients based on the hilarity and on the receptionist’s negative reactions, but the insanity of their hysteria was still infectious. He couldn’t help but laugh. For a moment, he forgot about being crazy, faking crazy, his mother, and why he was actually sitting on a
leather couch at Northern Lights at all. He was comfortable and happy. He did not care about the brochure, the things it said or didn’t say. He didn’t care how these women had ended up in the beautiful mansion, either, but he was willing to listen and learn for the next few weeks of his perceived vacation.
LYDIA & BUCK LYNN
For Lydia, it was just another hectic day at Northern Lights when the Mexican arrived – except for a mistake she’d made for the first time in six months. She’d forgotten to alert Buck to a prescription scheduled for the twins. She glanced at the clock on her desk to confirm that it was nearly an hour later than when she should have called him, and knew that she was probably the reason the sisters were reverting to full-blown Hypermania symptoms. Her stomach twisted in knots from the error, but the handsome Mexican had also added a secondary unsettling to her body.
The man had said, “I just want to admit myself.” He’d partially smiled, but his eyes really sparkled as Lydia grabbed a half-inch thick folder from a preset pile; they’d been expecting him.
Lydia shook her eyes away from his to place the packet on the desk between them. She was clearly nervous about something. “Welcome to Northern Lights. This is the self-admission packet. Northern Lights cannot admit you until you have filled out all of the forms and…”
That’s when Hilda interrupted. She ran over so fast she practically hit her face with her own unrestrained breasts.
Yep, Lydia thought, I’m so late.
She had indeed neglected to alert the head nurse of their scheduled medication just before the Mexican had walked in and the twins had taken over the lobby. Usually, patient medications were handled elsewhere in behavioral health facilities, but this was Northern Lights – and nothing about it was usual. Since the situation had escalated, she had to call the head nurse, Buck, who doubled as security because the paid guys secured a different wing of the mansion and came to this side only when urgent. She was nervous about watching the sisters with any new client, but this time she was watching Ignacio simply because of her familiarity with him — and he was handsome. Sure, she might be fired within the next hour for her mistake, but she couldn’t take her eyes off this man’s dimples and his hair that sort of made him look like a renegade. When they made eye contact, she removed her hands from her face long enough to wave him toward the desk again – before returning two of her nails to between her teeth.
