The Blind

by A. F. Brady

  Frequently asked for bathroom and water breaks.

  All assessments inconclusive; erratic answer patterns; inconsistent control responses.

  Fit to continue adjusted employment: recommend increased supervision and continuing education, decreased patient contact.

  Axis 1 Diagnosis: Generalized Anxiety Disorder

  Axis 2 Diagnosis: None

  I guess we didn’t all fly by under the radar. I suppose Travis and Dr. Brooks had to be more scrupulous with the clinical staff. My heart begins to flutter as I get closer to looking at my own evaluation, no longer confident that I will have gotten away with anything. My palms are sweating as I quickly review the results from both our staff psychiatrists. Obviously, Travis and Dr. Brooks protected their own. MDs will always support other MDs, so there’s nothing but egregious praise and penned blow jobs in the summary reports. Assholes. I throw these folders on top of all the other ones. Just two more to go now.

  I slowly open David’s folder, cautious not to get sweat stains or chocolate on his file, careful not to mar my best friend’s clinical reputation. The goofy, reformed frat boy with a lopsided grin and permanently rumpled hair who I know and love is not the same David as the one he brings to work. He’s not hiding his true self or pretending—he just has the capacity to turn his professional persona on and off.

  Everything about David’s file is perfect. Even the xeroxed signatures on his performance reviews are flawless. His five-point ratings rival my five-point ratings, and I never thought of him as quite as good as me. The recommendations at the bottom of his reports are thinly veiled compliments. Trying to make perfectionist sound negative, as if he is too good at his job. I thought I was the only one with this kind of reputation around here; I thought I was the golden child. He even charmed the OMH doctors. All compliments and no diagnoses on his assessment and interview summaries. This isn’t fair.

  I pull a shiny yellow M&M out of the package and let it sit between my fingers for a moment. Before I pack up for the night, leaving just one evaluation left unread, I smear the candy coating on the front of David’s review. Not so perfect anymore, are you?

  DECEMBER 21ST, 9:46 P.M.

  I’m curled on the couch in Lucas’s apartment. There’s a bottle of Chablis chilling in a bucket that looks like it costs more than my rent, and I’m terrified of leaving water rings on the table. I’m wearing navy blue socks, and I don’t want them to leave little fuzzies on his cream-colored couch. It’s clear I don’t belong here and that makes me extremely uncomfortable.

  He lives in one of those buildings that’s half hotel and half apartments, and he has access to all the hotel amenities—including the housekeeping staff. A cleaning lady is in here every single day, so everything is immaculate. His chrome furniture is perfectly shiny, and his fluffy white rugs are perfectly fluffed.

  Lucas went shopping earlier, and he’s now giving me a fashion show of all his purchases. He wants me to pick the best outfit for him to wear to some New Year’s gala to which I am not invited. Oh, I would bring you, Sam, but you know how boring these things are. I wanted to spare you the misery. I’m sure it’s because he’s still mad about that dinner weeks ago with some of his coworkers when I didn’t properly laugh on cue.

  “And this one,” he says as he saunters out from his walk-in closet, “is Armani. It’s got a peaked lapel, which I usually don’t go for, but this suit is cut so impeccably, and the stitching is just beautiful.”

  To me, it looks like another dark suit, the same as the thirty dark suits already hanging in his shiny, perfectly lit closet. “What’s the difference between this one and the last one?”

  “Well, first of all, this one is blue.”

  “But you’re wearing black shoes. Aren’t you not supposed to wear black and navy together?” I pull a cashmere blanket off the arm of the couch and drape it over my shitty socks and Old Navy jeans.

  “Can’t you see the difference in these suits? This one’s got a completely different texture. Here—” he comes closer to let me feel “—touch it. The other was much lighter.” When he approaches, I see the price tag hanging from the jacket sleeve. The jacket alone was $3,600. I wipe my hands on the front of my sweatshirt before touching his pristine suit.

  “Oh. Yes, it’s very nice.” Maverick ambles into the room and jumps up to sit on my lap. I think he likes me better than Lucas.

  He continues to show me various suits and shirts and ties and cuff links. He’s putting together different combinations and different personas. When he goes back into the closet, he continues talking to me from inside, and I can’t understand anything he’s saying, but intermittently I call out an “uh-huh” or a “really?” so he thinks I’m paying attention. I’m picturing my evaluation in my head, hoping it looks as good as David’s. Knowing it probably won’t. Maverick starts licking the rim of my wineglass, and I let him share my Chablis with me.

  “This one,” he says as he exits the closet, “I think this is the one for the gala.” Again, it looks exactly the same as all the other ones. His shoes look smaller than his feet should be, and his belt isn’t closed.

  “You think that’s it? It looks good. It looks especially good with the coke you have on your face.”

  “With what?” He furiously wipes at his nose and mouth with both hands, then pulls his palms back to see if he got it. “I don’t have anything on my face.” He quickly turns into the bathroom and mops his face with a Frette washcloth.

  “I thought you said you weren’t going to do that shit anymore.” I wrap my cheap viscose scarf around my neck and start throwing my things into my handbag.

  “Sam, I’m not doing coke. I don’t know what you think was on my face, but it certainly wasn’t cocaine.”

  “Okay. And all this energy you have to talk a mile a minute while putting on and taking off enough suits to clothe all of Manhattan, I’m sure that’s because of an afternoon espresso, right?”

  “It’s just excitement. Just regular old excitement about my new suits. Of course you have to make a big deal out of it. Of course you can’t just be happy for me and help me pick something out. You have to force me to be one of your patients. Make me look sick so you can save me. As usual.” He’s always very quick to turn the tables and displace blame.

  “There’s a prescription bottle with someone else’s name on it in your medicine cabinet, and I can see the ‘spoon’ you’re using to take bumps. It’s sitting right there, you fucking idiot.” I’m walking past his closet to put on my coat, and reflected in the closet mirror is a small bag of cocaine with a gold collar stay sticking out of it. “So, unless you’ve recently changed your name to Michael Sumner, and you need oxycodone for some injury or surgery or whatever, then you’re still a liar and you’re still a drug addict. Merry Christmas, asshole.” Maverick follows me to the door, his tail wagging dramatically. I bend down to kiss him goodbye. I wish I could take him with me.

  “You’re leaving? What are you—a saint? Too good to be with me now? It’s just coke, Sam!” He screams this and his voice just escapes the door as it slams behind me. I used to pause in the hallway after I stormed out. I would wait for him to come out and get me, to apologize and promise to change. To admit that he is a liar, but vow to make it better. Now I just head straight for the elevator. He’s never come out after me.

  DECEMBER 22ND, 11:34 A.M.

  Richard is sitting in my patient chair, and we’re still getting nowhere. He finds himself in my office on a Thursday because Christmas is this weekend and half the staff have taken time off, so the groups aren’t running regularly. The heap of evaluation folders caught his eye when he walked in this morning, because they’re in the spot where he usually leaves his load of newspapers. He gave the pile a once-over, sneered at it, then placed his stack precariously on the windowsill. I keep glancing at the evaluations. I’ve avoided completing the last file, my file, and it’s been filling up my head ever since. After seeing that Gary’s file, and even Julie’s, were filled ou
t with professional precision, and actual recommendations as opposed to just flying through and marking everyone competent, my convictions that I’m safe are faltering.

  Richard is talking to me again today, but still not about anything useful. He’s mentioning the weather, telling me about how this is good fishing weather, but the city is too noisy for fish. He’s describing the way the city used to be when he was young, when it was still gritty and full of character. He says now it’s gone soft, and only millionaires can play in its gilded playgrounds. The “soft hands,” he calls them. People who have never done an honest day’s work. People who don’t deserve their money, who don’t deserve this city. He tells me how happiness doesn’t come from money, so I ask him where it comes from, and he replies “How the hell should I know?”

  “There used to be a time in this city when people walked the streets with their heads up,” he says. “Before the stock market crashed, before the buildings went down. Everybody wasn’t always so miserable. And they weren’t always so coddled. These days, you hear about a kid who won’t pay attention in school, and so they say he has some disease, and he can’t pay attention. So they put him in a special class where he doesn’t have to come in until later, and they give him special pills to help him concentrate, and it’s all bullshit. Whatever happened to telling the kid to buck up and pay attention? Whatever happened to discipline? Now it’s all lawsuits.”

  As Richard gets on his soapbox, I hear some kind of rumbling in the hallway. Not like a train below us, or construction noises, but some kind of disturbance. I keep one ear strained toward the door and half-heartedly listen to Richard continue on his tirade.

  “The parents sit at home in their piles of money, and they hire all the nannies and the housekeepers to raise the kid—I bet you the dads don’t even know their kids’ names—and the moms are getting their fat pulled up and sucked out and their faces picked up and sliced out, and—”

  In the middle of Richard’s sentence, the intercom siren screams into my office, announcing a code blue on the second floor of the unit. The siren blares repeatedly, with a panicked, mechanical voice echoing “Code Blue, Code Blue” over and over. Before I can explain to Richard what’s happening, I fly out my door and tear down the hallway. I run down the back stairwell to find a cluster of patients and staff standing in a tangle around some central commotion. Patients on the outskirts of the clump are jumping up to see over the crowd and assess what’s going on.

  I grab sweaty shoulders and bathrobes, pull people to one side or the other and shove myself into the middle of the fray. On the floor in front of me, an orderly is performing CPR on Adelle. A couple of female patients are crying hysterically, and another orderly is offering them oxygen. There’s a backboard on the ground next to Adelle, and it keeps getting kicked around by frightened patients. Other clinical staff members are spangled among the crowd. I capture Gary’s attention and do a helicopter with my left hand.

  “Everyone out of here, Gary. Help me.” Gary nods at me and starts with the people to his immediate left and right. The orderly who was offering oxygen to the women is enormous, and I think his name is Carl.

  “Carl, help me get these people out of here. Adelle won’t be able to breathe with all this around her.”

  “It’s Kyle.”

  “Sorry, Kyle. Please help me.” Kyle straightens and is even bigger than I remembered. His shaved head glistens with sweat under the fluorescent hallway lights. When he spreads his huge gorilla arms, his wingspan holds five bodies on either side. But his voice is not as booming as I would have imagined as he gently asks the patients to move back. I step in.

  “Everyone back! Thank you for your concern, but we need you all to clear the area now. Please go to your rooms, or somewhere else, but we need this area clear right now.” I’m holding my hands above my head, bellowing as loudly as I can. With Gary and Kyle helping to escort patients in the right direction, the crowd is thinning. I can hear the sirens of an ambulance arriving outside.

  “What happened?” An out-of-breath Shirley appears at my ear.

  “I don’t know. Adelle is unconscious, and Terry is doing CPR. I heard a commotion earlier, but I have no idea how she ended up like this.”

  “Seizures.” Gary backs into us as he’s shooing away a straggling patient in pajama bottoms and no shirt. “She was in my group, and she started to have a seizure. I sent Tyler to call Rachel on the intercom, and she coded it, then the ambulance was called. I just heard them pulling up.”

  “Is she epileptic?” Shirley asks.

  “I have no idea, but she’s at least ninety years old,” Gary says, still facing the other way. “Here they are.”

  Oh, my God—the olanzapine.

  Shirley and I turn to see Rachel and two EMTs rushing down the hallway with giant medical bags and an oxygen tank. Rachel is clutching a file to her giant breasts, keeping them from wildly escaping her blouse.

  Terry the orderly lifts his head when he sees the EMTs’ medical bags crash onto the floor next to him. “She’s breathing, but barely. I have a faint pulse. Been down for seven and a half.”

  The remaining staff and a couple of trailing onlookers pull back and let the medical technicians take over. We encourage the lingering patients to leave the area, and then convene together, leaning on the front desk by the elevator. Rachel is still holding Adelle’s file to her chest, and as she pulls it away to check Adelle’s medical history, huge crescent-shaped sweat stains are revealed under her enormous breasts.

  “Thank you all for your quick response. My God, I hate it when this happens.” Rachel huffs into the file as she scans for information. “I have the rest of the clinical staff doing checks with patients now, and I’m sure you know the rest of the day is going to go haywire.”

  My breath catches in my throat, and I fear Rachel will discover that Adelle’s meds were the cause of this.

  “Haywire?” Gary asks.

  “When something like this happens, a lot of the patients tend to get pretty spooked, and we usually end up using the rest of our shifts to ensure that everyone is okay, process what happened. Depending on Adelle’s condition later today…you know.” Shirley.

  “Yeah. I’m not even going to get prepared for that at this point.” Rachel. She turns to the technicians and hollers, “No history of epilepsy or seizures. Get some bloodwork on the meds.” Rachel looks at me with concern. I hold up my hands.

  Everyone is alert, with ears ringing and heads vibrating, still sweaty and out of breath. Sal the janitor approaches with four tiny Poland Spring bottles.

  “Thank you, Sal, you’re a lifesaver,” Rachel says.

  “Nah, those guys are lifesavers,” he says, nodding in the direction of the EMTs.

  We sip our waters and watch as the EMTs pull Adelle’s frail body onto a gurney, hang a pouch of fluids at her side and tighten the oxygen mask around her face. They slowly walk past us, then push the down button on the elevator. Rachel ambles over and has a hushed conversation with the EMTs, and all we can see is a series of nods and handshakes. I couldn’t possibly have fucked up the meds. The elevator opens and closes, taking Adelle away, and Rachel returns to us with arms closed across her chest. She shuffles slowly in her too-tight skirt and furry winter boots.

  “They’ve got her stabilized, but who knows. She’s in her nineties, so we’ll have to wait to hear what happens. I’ll keep you all posted as we get more information. Thank you again for your level heads and quick responses. Let’s get back to our days, okay? Make sure you check in with all your patients, keep everyone’s spirits lifted. Maybe I’ll organize a game night tonight, or a movie or something…” She trails off and wanders toward Terry and Kyle, who have been standing by the elevator. Rachel shakes both their hands and bounces her head as they speak.

  Shirley, Gary and I slowly walk to the rear staircase and silently make our way back to our offices. When we open the door to the third floor, a huddle of patients has been waiting for our return. We’re greeted
with a cacophony of “What happened?” and each of us ushers a few back to a group room or a lounge area.

  I need to get back to my desk and go through my files to find out what I did to Adelle’s medication. Did I take her off the risperidone before I added the olanzapine? Do I dare mention to Richard what just happened? After seeing their friendship in groups, I don’t know how he would react.

  Drained, I push open my door to find Richard’s chair empty.

  PART TWO

  DECEMBER 27TH, 8:37 A.M.

  Now that the unbearable loneliness of Christmas by myself is behind me and the vacationing staff is back in the madness, I have some time to face the task I’ve been avoiding. I’m staring at my evaluation, and I don’t know that I want to bring myself to open it. I need to get the summary back to Rachel before she becomes suspicious; I figure I better shoot to have it done this week. There’s no such thing as a good time to read this, but I can feel the headache that only comes with being hit in the ears, and I’m sure this can’t be the best mental state in which to read about my fragile sanity.

  I hide it in my desk drawer and finish my coffee to settle my nerves and counteract the remnant alcohol. I hang one of the more decorated In Session signs on my door. I can feel the evaluation staring up at me, like the monster under the bed. I’m frightened, and my breathing is panicked. I’ve never looked at a document like it was going to hurt me before. But I’m better off knowing than not knowing. That way I can focus on damage control.

  I ease it out of the top drawer of my dented, rusty gray desk. Some of the papers are tucked neatly inside and some have their curled edges poking out, and this pisses me off because I think it looks sloppy and unprofessional. I set the daunting sheets on my desk and watch them until I catch my breath.

  My fingers and lips are trembling as I pull open the folder and begin to scan the results. The fear rising in my chest is tremendous, and my knees are involuntarily bouncing. Please, slip through the cracks. My eyes are periodically blurry as the tears form and fall, and it’s hard to stay silent. The tiny squeals coming out of my mouth are beginning to border on hysterical, and the pain in the base of my skull is pounding. Please, slip through the cracks.