Conditional Voluntary

by Geoffrey A. Feller

“Why didn’t you introduce me to your brother?” Justine asked when she met Patrick in the smoking room.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Sorry. I just didn’t think of it.”

  “Oh, really?” Justine asked, grinning. “Come sit down.”

  She was wearing a pair of pale blue shorts that covered the top third of her long, sleek thighs. The tank top was less revealing only because Justine had less to reveal when it came to her chest.

  “I… I think Scott’s uncomfortable in here,” Patrick told her, distracted by those legs. “You know why.”

  “Scared of people like me?” Justine giggled.

  “Not you,” Patrick whispered. “More like him.”

  He nodded towards the opposite corner where Wyatt was hunched over in a chair, indifferently smoking a filterless cigarette. At least he’d stopped muttering to himself lately.

  “Asshole,” Justine hissed.

  “He might’ve heard you,” Patrick whispered nervously.

  “Well, I’m not afraid of him.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve got you here to protect me,” Justine said, taking his hand.

  Her touch felt wonderful. Patrick gazed dreamily at their long, intertwined fingers. Justine was rubbing the tip of her thumb over Patrick’s thumb joint; their hands were resting on the warm skin of Justine’s thigh. Patrick was getting an erection.

  “There’ll be a van ride tomorrow sometime,” Justine told him softly.

  “Uh-huh,” Patrick murmured, still fixated on their hands.

  “Let’s make sure that we both get to go on that ride.”

  “Yeah…”

  Patrick looked up into Justine’s eyes, wanting to kiss her right then and there. But even Wyatt was a potential witness as long as he seemed to be getting more lucid. Justine smiled at Patrick, obviously wanting to kiss him as well. Was it worth the risk? Maybe no one would believe Wyatt even if he did blab about it.

  “Hey, break it up in there!”

  Patrick jerked his head sharply away from Justine’s face and pulled his fingers loose. Charley was standing there in the doorway. Patrick blinked a couple of times but no staff member materialized behind his roommate.

  “You son of a bitch!” Patrick sputtered. “You scared the shit out of me!”

  “Hey-hey!” Charley said with a grin. “Coulda been worse, man! Oughta be more careful!”

  “I… I guess so,” Patrick admitted, rubbing his forehead. “Have a seat.”

  “No, I’m going downstairs before they close the snack bar. Wanna come?”

  “Well, why not?”

  “How ’bout you?” Charley asked Justine.

  “Don’t talk to me.”

  Charley smiled and shook his head. Patrick stood up uneasily and looked back down at Justine.

  “Go on,” she said, pulling a cigarette from the pack he’d bought for her.

  “See you on the van trip?” Patrick asked hopefully.

  “Sure,” Justine promised him with a smile. “And before that… and after…”

  Art, the counselor with the thick mustache, was happier than any of the patients to see the van was back in working order. He worked in a research facility during the rest of the week and his part-time hours at Hillside covered the Friday evening shifts plus twelve hour shifts – seven to seven – on the weekends. After almost as much experience as Frank, he was about as cynical as staff members could get, refusing to take anything too seriously.

  Friday afternoon, Art had nodded frequently as Frank gave him detailed instructions about how to maintain the structured care plan he had designed for Anthony Gingarella. As soon as Frank had left for home, not to return until Monday morning, Art had shrugged and wandered off to the day room. He would barely speak to Anthony that evening, otherwise taking the patient’s word for it when Anthony said he was doing fine.

  For his part, the young patient was delighted to replace his catheter on his own. So what if there had been a puddle under the bed? Anthony would let nature take its course and the urine would dry out by itself overnight. That counselor Art was respectful of Anthony’s autonomy.

  The next morning, however, Anthony was resentful that he would not be allowed to go on the van ride. Dr. Adams hadn’t yet written any privileges for him.

  “I still want to go!” Anthony shouted during the activity meeting, the abbreviated, weekend version of the ward assembly.

  It was normally a casual gathering, used primarily to announce the planned outings for the day. No need to carry the tables out or threaten to suspend privileges for absenteeism. None of the patients who did attend usually bothered to voice any complaints but here was Anthony, making a nuisance of himself; other patients fidgeted as he spoke.

  Simon presided over the meeting with no additional staff on hand. He got up from the sofa armrest where he’d been leaning casually and stepped up to the table between himself and Anthony, who was sitting in his wheelchair.

  “Can’t help you,” Simon explained. “Doctor’s orders.”

  “What about my rights as a human being?”

  “Your rights as a what?” Justine asked sneeringly from the far table, where she sat tantalizingly close to Patrick.

  Simon shot she a reproachful glare. Justine said nothing, not wanting to risk a ward restriction.

  “We both have to obey doctor’s orders,” Simon continued with Anthony. “If you aren’t satisfied, you can take it up with him on Monday.”

  “Couldn’t you bend the rules and take me out in the van anyway?”

  “Are there any more announcements,” Linda asked, standing up from her seat, “or can the rest of us leave?”

  “Nothing more for now,” Simon told her with a nod. “Meeting adjourned!”

  “But I haven’t finished!” Anthony protested.

  “If you let him go on that van ride,” Justine said as she passed behind Anthony’s wheelchair, “I’m going to stay right here!”

  Patrick had stumbled against Justine’s empty chair and so lagged behind her by several paces. Pausing before going out the door to follow her, he looked at Simon to say: “She, uh, didn’t mean that.”

  “Yes, she did,” Simon countered. “But it doesn’t matter. Go sign up for the ride while there’s still room in the van.”

  As soon as Patrick was gone, Simon returned his attention to Anthony.

  “Now listen,” he said calmly. “Could we physically take you out to the van, let you ride to the park and back? Yes.”

  Anthony grinned expectantly.

  “But everything you do here today has to be reported. We tell the charge nurse what all of you did today. She passes it on to the evening nurse, the evening nurse passes it on to the night nurse, and so on. Then Stacey hears about it in the shift report on Monday morning. She’s your team leader, Anthony, and she knows you don’t have privileges. She tells the head nurse, who calls me into her office and asks me how Anthony Gingarella got to go outside the hospital on Saturday. You expect me to say: ‘Gee, Rachel, he really, really wanted to go on the van ride so I said it was okay’?”

  “You could,” Anthony replied.

  “I could,” Simon agreed. “I could also get fired. Do you understand now?”

  “It’s still not fair!”

  Simon shrugged and walked slowly out of the room. Anthony wheeled back from the table and rolled his way into the corridor. He saw Simon disappear into the staff office and close the door. Looking farther down the corridor, Anthony noticed Patrick, Justine, and Charley standing in front of the bulletin board next to the entrance.

  They were writing their names on the signup list for the van ride. None of them seemed to notice Anthony. Patrick and Justine headed on down towards the smoking room with Charley trailing after them.

  Anthony continued to propel himself forward, using his feet. It annoyed him when other patients – especially that tall, thin girl – hassled him for using the chair. Just beca
use his legs weren’t paralyzed didn’t mean he didn’t need to roll instead of walk sometimes. If she had unsteady hips like his, well, then she wouldn’t jeer at him. It was so rude!

  Reaching the bulletin board, Anthony locked the wheels into place and pushed himself up from the armrests. He tottered forward and leaned against the wall, then looked at the signup sheet. So far, only Justine, Patrick, and Charley had scrawled their names over the hand-drawn lines. Five slots remained.

  Anthony grabbed the ball-point pen hanging from a bit of twine, the other end stapled to the board. He wrote his first name in a looping, childish flourish over line number four.

  Anthony decided it was like signing his very own declaration of independence.

  Meanwhile, Patrick was inhaling the cigarette exhaust from Justine, Charley, and Linda. The older woman smiled at them, as if she knew all about Patrick and Justine’s budding couple hood, knew about it and approved. But Patrick still kept his hands to himself.

  Charley was sitting on the table that overlooked the short sofa. He was swinging his legs as he smoked, hanging around until nervous energy took him on another walk back down the hallway or off to the snack bar.

  “You think Simon’s going to be along for the van ride?” Patrick asked warily.

  “He told me he was,” Charley responded. “Somebody’s got to keep an eye on you two!”

  “Charley!” Patrick shouted. “Damn it!”

  “Ignore him,” Justine said with a yawn. “He talks so much, no one really listens to him.”

  Charley laughed loudly in response.

  “See? Look at him: ought to be mad at me but he just laughs like a hyena!”

  “So I’m a happy motherfucker,” Charley replied with a shrug. “You should try it sometime, you’re always in such a shitty mood.”

  “That’s ’cause I’m smart enough to see what’s going on. You’re so simple minded!”

  “Now kids,” Linda spoke up. “Don’t fight.”

  Patrick nodded with gratitude. He had like Linda since the day they’d met and hoped that his girlfriend would listen to this motherly advice. Justine, however, wasn’t going to let anyone else have the last word on the subject at hand.

  “Why don’t you do us a favor,” she asked Charley, “and escape from the trip? Go run home. Wouldn’t that be a fun adventure for you?”

  Her tone was so nasty that Patrick cringed. He wondered if Charley was enduring her abusive contempt out of friendship for him. Or was Charley just being himself, enjoying whatever attention a girl might give him, even if it was negative?

  “Yeah, yeah,” Charley said. “Maybe I will! No promises, though! You ain’t seen the last of me!”

  With that, Patrick’s roommate dropped from the table and scurried out of the room. Justine and Linda rolled their eyes in unison. It seemed that Linda was almost as much of a high-privileged snob as Justine.

  “Maybe I’ll escape,” Patrick remarked mildly. “It would be an adventure I guess. Of course I’d hate to have Simon tackle me.”

  “He can’t touch you out there,” Linda said. “It’s the law.”

  “Really?” Patrick asked.

  “Seriously,” Linda insisted. “They can put you in restraints in here, but outside you’re free. You’re at a point where your doctor has decided to, like, trust you. The staff is taking the risk letting you go outside, not you.”

  “I… I never thought of it that way,” Patrick said.

  “See?” Justine chirped. “You listen to people like us, not dingbats like Charley.”

  Before Patrick could dispute that comment, he heard a shuffling gait approaching from the hallway. He looked to the doorway, assuming that Wyatt was about to come into the room and make them all uncomfortable. But no, it was Cindy, Justine’s roommate.

  It looked like she hadn’t been awake for more than a few minutes. Her long, dark hair was tangled and matted, her face puffy. Cindy was wearing a pale blue bathrobe with her large breasts filling out the top, threatening to put cleavage into the neckline.

  Cindy coughed and wandered over to a folding chair. Patrick smiled at her politely but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “Anyone got a cigarette?” Cindy asked in a deep, hoarse voice.

  “Here you go, dear,” Linda said, extracting one of her menthols.

  Cindy showed gratitude in her smile; Linda also lit the thing for her.

  “My folks would kill me if they knew I was smoking’,” Cindy said, her smile widening further.

  “They don’t approve of smoking?” Patrick asked.

  “It’s one more thing that’s sendin’ me to hell, they say.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Patrick asked, smiling. “What are some of the others?”

  “Takin’ the Lord’s name in vain. Getting’ bad grades. Talkin’ back to my folks. Losin’ my virginity before marriage.”

  Patrick chuckled nervously. Cindy smiled at him.

  “I did that,” she said. “Honest.”

  “I believe you,” Patrick told her.

  Justine kicked his ankle almost instantaneously. She snuffed out what was left of her cigarette and stood up.

  “I’m going for a walk,” she said tersely. “Want coffee?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Wait for me in the day room. You don’t want to be breathing in all this smoke, right?”

  A jealous girlfriend, Patrick thought behind his smile as he idly watched a cartoon show from the day room sofa. I never had anyone get jealous over me before.

  It was almost ten o’clock. The little field trip wasn’t going to be until after lunch. Patrick wondered how long Justine would stay outside. Was she pouting? Then again, if she was all that jealous, how could she let him sit around here, wide open to her imagined rival?

  Cindy didn’t happen to stop by the day room while Patrick was waiting. But that didn’t bother him. The girl seemed nice enough but Patrick didn’t find her attractive, despite Justine’s worries. Cindy was too fat for him.

  Skinny Justine barged into the room around 10:30. She seemed to be angry at first – at least she wasn’t smiling at him for some reason. But Justine did have a take-out cup of coffee with her. She put the cup on the armrest next to Patrick, then leaned in close. Justine planted a kiss right on his lips; an angry kiss that almost hurt him. She barely parted her lips as Patrick squirmed.

  “J-Justine,” he gasped after she stood back up, “we’re out in the open!”

  “I don’t care who knows about us,” Justine declared. “As long as you know about us!”

  Patrick glanced back and forth. Three patients were in the day room with them but no staff.

  Albert, the pudgy alcoholic, was one of them. He smiled slightly under his white mustache. Patrick hoped he was right in assuming Albert was on their side. Another of the patients was a middle-aged woman named Clara. She seemed to be too invested in her own depression to notice what Justine had done. Finally, there was Anthony.

  Jesus! Patrick thought. Anthony!

  He was grinning happily at them from the other side of the long table. Patrick didn’t care whether Anthony approved but was worried about his discretion. He had some success so far in getting Charley to keep their secret but had no idea of how to handle Anthony.

  Before he could consider the options, a piercing shriek came from the hallway. Patrick felt Justine’s hand clutching his.

  “You dirty bastard! You son of a bitch!”

  Simon heard it from the staff office. He scrambled up from the table and dashed into the hallway. Looking to his left, he saw what the fuss was about.

  Wyatt was walking towards him, head dipped slightly, shoulders hunched. Trudy Maxwell was several paces behind him, standing by the sign-in desk. She was shaking her right index finger at Wyatt’s back.

  Simon let Wyatt go past him without question or comment. Then he went over to Trudy.

  “He gave me the fin
ger, that bastard!” Trudy shouted, her bright eyes blazing. “The finger! I bought that scumbag cigarettes and he does that to me?”

  “Oh, uh,” Simon reacted, glancing between Trudy and the still-moving Wyatt. “I’ll talk to him, Trudy. I will.”

  “Talk to him?” Trudy scowled. “He needs more than that!”

  “He’ll be restricted to his room,” Simon declared. “I’m going after him now.”

  “He’d better stay in there if he knows what’s good for him!” Trudy yelled, now pointing at Simon. “You tell him for me, buddy: no more favors!”

  Simon nodded, noticing the self-inflicted cigarette burns along Trudy’s spindly forearm. Wyatt had just crossed the angriest woman in Eastern Massachusetts.

  Charlotte, the weekend day shift’s charge nurse, caught up with Simon as he passed the staff office door. She had been using the employee toilet when the commotion had started.

  “What happened?” Charlotte asked.

  She was a small, chubby woman in her late thirties. Her baby-doll face was framed with reddish-brown curly hair.

  “Wyatt just flipped the bird at Trudy,” Simon explained as Charlotte fell in beside him.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “He’s lucky she didn’t break that finger. I think we need to get him away from the other patients for a while.”

  “Seclusion room?”

  “No,” Simon replied, looking down at her. “His own room, I think. For now.”

  “Hold up there!”

  At first, Simon thought the nurse was about to rebuke him for taking the lead in this situation. After all, Charlotte was in charge on the floor until 3:00 and actually outranked him. Simon was embarrassed, worried that he looked like some presumptuous macho fool to Charlotte.

  But she had something else in mind. They were just a few steps away from the day room.

  “You want to go in there all by yourself?” Charlotte asked quietly. “Art’s on his break. Should I call upstairs for backup?”

  “It’s okay,” Simon replied. “I’ll give Wyatt the chance to cooperate without too much intimidation.”

  “All right,” Charlotte said skeptically. “Just stay out his hitting range.”

  “Right,” Simon agreed, grateful for that consideration.

  “One more thing,” Charlotte added. “I’ll wait and see if he goes willingly, then offer him a PRN. There’s one on order.”

  Simon nodded, took a deep breath, and strode into the day room. Wyatt was standing by the refrigerator, a silly grin in his face. He was holding a paper cup. With a half-gallon milk carton on the counter, Simon could guess what Wyatt had chosen to drink. He was aware of the other patients in the day room watching as he approached the offending party.

  “Wyatt, it’s time to go to your room.”

  “What for?”

  “I think you know what for. We can’t tolerate disrespectful behavior around here.”

  “Aw, you’re spoiling my fun,” Wyatt said, still grinning.

  “Let’s go,” Simon told him firmly. “One hour in your room.”

  Wyatt finished his milk and left the cup on the counter alongside the carton. Then he walked slowly past Simon and on out the door. Charlotte got out of Wyatt’s path and kept watching as Simon shadowed the patient down the hall to his room.

  Then she hurried back to the nurse’s station to pour the dose of liquid Thorazine. Charlotte tried to will her pulse back down into a double-digit rate. Simon had been talking about being a chaperone for Patrick and Justine on the afternoon outing. But with Wyatt becoming unstable, Charlotte wouldn’t feel safe unless the young counselor stayed on the ward with her.

  Simon’s got to be over six feet tall and must weigh at least two hundred and twenty-five pounds, she estimated. Can’t spare that kind of protection. Who cares if those kids make out in the park, anyway?

  Charlotte didn’t want to order Simon to do anything. Carrying the little plastic shot glass down to Wyatt’s room, she thought she might drop a hint that he was needed, mixed with some flattery about his size and strength, a pretty good way to get a man to do something useful.

  But after Wyatt gulped down the sedative and flopped back on his bed, Simon ushered Charlotte out into the hall, where he told her he’d better stay behind to watch Wyatt. Art could handle the van trip on his own.

  “If you think that’s best,” Charlotte responded coyly.