Nick and June Were Here

by Shalanda Stanley

  “We can’t know for sure yet,” she said.

  It amazed me how much guesswork went into making a diagnosis. I wanted it to be an exact science, but that wasn’t the case. There was no blood test.

  I’d been in the hospital fifteen days now. They were talking about transitioning me back home soon. I was equal parts excited and terrified. Part of me worried that I was making progress only because I was at the hospital, in a controlled environment, and as soon as I checked out, the voices would come back. Dr. Keels promised me that they wouldn’t just send me out the door, though. She said we’d start with night visits and then weekend passes, gradually building up to spending weekdays at home, too. She said everything would go at a pace I was comfortable with.

  There was a knock on the bathroom door and I put my gown back on. A nurse popped her head in. Her name was Rachel, and she looked young for her age, like the girls in my high school. I missed Janet, but she worked seven days on and seven days off. It was her week off. I knew Barry wasn’t far behind Rachel. He never was. He was the orderly who was her shadow. He reminded me of a club bouncer. If people got out of control, Barry stepped in. I hadn’t seen anything like that yet, but I didn’t doubt that it happened. My bed came with restraints.

  Rachel led me back to my room. It didn’t have a window. None of the rooms they’d placed me in had windows. It made it impossible to know what time of day it was.

  In addition to seeing Dr. Keels every day, I’d been sleeping and reading. I’d accrued a lot of sleep debt and I had to pay up. Dr. Keels called it recovery sleep. I’d read everything she’d given me. They didn’t let me keep the materials at night, though. They took them away every evening and brought them back during the day. They probably worried I’d obsess over them like I had the college information. As if I could fight the sleeping pill.

  They took my notebook away at night, too. I started a new section in it called “You’re Not Crazy, You’re Sick” and I wrote down the things I’d learned about schizophrenia that were the most important to me.

  A person with schizophrenia could lead an independent, successful life.

  A person with schizophrenia could experience recovery.

  A person with schizophrenia could enjoy relationships,

  have a job,

  drive a car,

  go to college,

  love,

  be loved.

  A person with schizophrenia could experience all human emotions, because she was a real person. A person with schizophrenia could be happy.

  I could be happy. Dr. Keels had said so and it said it on page eighteen of the Living with Schizophrenia pamphlet from the National Alliance of Mental Health and those guys couldn’t be wrong.

  There was a weird kind of relief in knowing that what I was experiencing could have a name and that there was a treatment plan. There were other people who felt like this, too. They heard things and saw things and they weren’t crazy either, just sick, like me.

  I was doing better, I had to be, because they were leaving me alone more and more. Nobody watched me pee anymore. That had to be a sign of improvement. I wouldn’t admit it, but I was lonely. In the past couple of months, I hadn’t had that much practice being alone. I’d started talking to myself.

  What do you want to do today, June? I asked myself.

  Oh, I don’t know, I thought I’d sit on the bed for a while and then maybe go to the bathroom later.

  That sounds like a fine plan for the day.

  Sure, sure, and if I’m feeling up to it, I might just take a nap, or turn in circles in the middle of the room, who knows.

  There was movement behind me and my face flushed hot. I whipped around and Nick was there, standing in the doorway of my room, like magic. Just when I thought I was getting better. I’d never hallucinated him before, but maybe I was taking the wrong drug. He wore his usual uniform of scuffed-up jeans and white T-shirt. There were dots of blue paint on his hands. His face was somber and a little scared. Nick was hardly ever scared. Just when I was convinced he was never going to speak, he held up a piece of paper. It was a drawing of a window, and through it was a beautiful garden with flowers and a fountain. He pulled tape from his pocket and came into the room, shutting the door behind him. He taped the drawing on the wall across from my bed. When I lay on my side, I’d be able to see it.

  I didn’t know how he knew I was in a room with no window, but Nick always knew things about me he shouldn’t. He came to sit on the bed with me. I wanted him to touch me, but he looked like he was scared I might break. I didn’t think he was breathing. I still wasn’t sure if he was real.

  Tired of waiting, I reached out and covered a freckle on his face with my finger, right above his lip.

  “I’ve never liked that freckle,” I said.

  He was warm and real. He smiled and my finger slipped from his face.

  “How did you get in here?” I asked.

  “I’m good at getting into places I shouldn’t be,” he said.

  I’d missed him so much. I hadn’t realized how much until this exact moment with him sitting half a foot from me, his eyes warm on my face, his mouth just like I remembered it.

  “How did you get in here?” I asked again.

  “My aunt Linda,” he explained. He pulled her badge from underneath the collar of his shirt and touched the bar code at the bottom of it. “This can open any door.”

  “I haven’t seen her since I’ve been here,” I said.

  “She’s seen you, though. She’s only here at night. She’s kept me updated.”

  “You look tired,” I said. The skin underneath his eyes looked bruised.

  “I haven’t slept so good since you’ve been here.”

  “You’ve been worried about me?”

  “Yeah,” he said, his voice low.

  He reached out and took my hand and I closed my eyes, because it felt like coming home.

  “Bethany said to give this to you.” He pulled something from his pocket.

  It was a letter, folded into fourths, with Bethany’s pretty handwriting on the outside, For June.

  “She wanted to come with me,” he said. “But I knew it wouldn’t be easy for me to get in here without getting noticed and two people would make it that much harder. She’s currently not speaking to me.”

  “She’ll forgive you,” I said.

  “Will you?” he asked. He looked like he had right after he’d found out John was being sent to Afghanistan. He looked like he was preparing to lose another person from his life. “I broke my promise to you,” he said.

  I tried to say something.

  “I wanted to keep it, but I was scared. Me and Bethany weren’t helping you by hiding it. I think we were hurting you. I think if it hadn’t been for us, you would’ve asked your parents for help a long time ago, and I think you needed help a long time ago.”

  “It’s okay.”

  His look said he didn’t believe me.

  “This was too important. You’re too important,” he said.

  “It was the right thing to do,” I said.

  He looked like he was unsure that he could trust what I was saying.

  “Tell me you forgive me,” he said.

  “I forgive you.”

  He didn’t look convinced.

  “Tell me everything will be all right,” he said.

  “I can’t.”

  “Please?”

  “I don’t want to lie to you. Don’t make me.”

  He thought about it and then nodded.

  “I wanted to come sooner, but Aunt Linda said to give it some time, that you might need some time.”

  Those last words stumbled out of his mouth, like he’d tried to eat them back at the last minute.

  “It wouldn’t have done any good to come earlier,” I said. “
I’ve been pretty out of it. Today is one of the first days that I feel like I’m getting closer to being myself.”

  I’d almost forgotten what that felt like.

  “What have you been doing?” he asked.

  “Sleeping, mostly,” I said.

  “That’s good.”

  “And I see Dr. Keels every day. She’s the psychiatrist that’s treating me.”

  I wanted to call her mine, as in She’s my psychiatrist, but I didn’t know how long Dr. Keels was sticking around Creed. That thought scared me, because I was already attached to her.

  “What are they saying?” he asked. “What do they think it is?”

  “I only have a working diagnosis right now.”

  Dr. Keels’s words felt funny on my tongue. I was scared to tell him what it might be, scared he’d look at me differently.

  “They’re still trying to figure it out?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, they’ll get it. It’s their job.”

  The way he said they was like he believed there was a team of people working on it somewhere in the back. I imagined them in a room with one long table in the center of it. They’d sit around it, poring over papers and adjusting their glasses. There’d be a whiteboard with elaborate notes with pointing arrows and Venn diagrams.

  I didn’t want to disappoint him with the truth that at this hospital, it was just Dr. Keels and my dad. And me. Dr. Keels had told me I was the most important person in the equation.

  I wanted to tell Nick what she thought it was. It would be my first time saying the word out loud. My face felt hot. I didn’t understand this feeling. I didn’t understand why I felt ashamed.

  “It could be schizophrenia,” I said. I said it like a question.

  My eyes stung and I waited for his gasp, or a look of revulsion, or a proclamation. That can’t be right. You’re not crazy.

  He didn’t say anything, though, just kept holding my hand, his eyes still looking like the sea.

  “Hey,” he said, reading the fear in my face. “It doesn’t matter what it’s called. I know who you are. Nothing can change that.”

  I wanted to believe him.

  He looked around the room, assessing. I wondered what he thought of it.

  “Would you like the tour?” I asked. “There’s no need to stand. This is a sitting tour. Over there is a corner and about five feet to the left is another corner. Right here is a corner that looks exactly like the first two. This one over here is different—no, wait, I’m kidding, it’s the same.”

  “You’re such a smart-ass,” he said, and smiled. “I’m glad that hasn’t changed.”

  I wanted to talk about all the ways I hadn’t changed, but he noticed the restraints on the sides of the bed and his face went hard. His aunt Linda probably hadn’t told him about those.

  “What the hell, June?” He picked one up and fingered the straps. His voice did that thing where the madder he got, the quieter he got. “They’re not using these on you, are they?” he whispered.

  I shook my head. “They haven’t had to so far.”

  “So far?” He looked like he wanted to burn the place down. “Does your dad know about this?”

  I nodded. “It’s okay. Everyone has been really great. They’re super nice.”

  He looked like he didn’t believe me.

  “It was really scary at first, but I’m getting used to it. Dr. Keels said the restraints are there for the patients’ safety, or for the staff’s safety if it’s someone who’s violent.”

  I wasn’t making him feel better. “I’m not violent, so I should be good,” I said, smiling.

  “Nothing about this is funny, June,” he said.

  “I know. This is the most unfunny thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I picked at the blue paint on his hand. “Have you been to the barn?”

  “Yeah,” he said guiltily. It was like he was worried I didn’t want him going without me.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I’ve been imagining you there. It’s helped.”

  Some of the paint from his hand was under my fingernails and I wondered how long I could keep it.

  “If my parents ever let me out of their sight again, am I still invited to go with you when you go to Hank’s?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said, with no hesitation. “I don’t want to go without you.”

  “That’s good, because I could use something to look forward to. When you see Bethany, tell her I love her and I miss her and thank her for the letter.”

  It didn’t matter what it said, I was thankful for it. I felt like I was going to cry.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “How did it feel to quit Benny’s?” I asked, trying to divert the tears.

  “Like someone cut a rope from around my neck.”

  “I’m proud of you.”

  He pulled back, letting go of my hand. “Don’t be proud of me yet,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “I haven’t seen you in days,” he said. “I don’t want to talk about Benny. Let’s get out of here.”

  Another escape.

  “I can’t. I have to stay until they tell me it’s okay to go home.”

  “I don’t mean out of here out of here, just out of this room. Let’s go to the roof. I want to show you something.”

  As much time as I’d spent in the hospital with my parents, I’d never gone to the roof. It had never occurred to me.

  “Why? Is there this thing you want to do to me?” I asked, repeating his words from the other day at school.

  “Well, yeah,” he said, smiling. “But I didn’t bring paint.”

  My smile fell, remembering the birds.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I only have one feather left,” I said, putting my hand over the last feather where it sat under my gown, right by my hip.

  His eyes went to my hand. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll paint them back. I promise. Now come on. Let’s go. How close do they watch you?”

  “Close. I’m a mental patient.”

  He smirked. “I’ll have you back before anyone notices.”

  Saying no to him was something I’d never been good at. I stood, putting on the cotton booties they’d given me. It was either those or flip-flops. No shoelaces allowed on this floor.

  “I might be clumsy,” I said. “I’m still getting used to the meds.” I winced when I looked up. “And the lights.”

  “I’ll help you,” he said, his hand grabbing on to mine. “I won’t let you fall. It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

  Walking to the door, he said, “Don’t look like you’re sneaking. The trick is acting like you know what you’re doing. Walk with purpose. Everyone will think you have permission to do whatever it is you’re doing.”

  He stuck his head out the door. “Let’s go.”

  We moved down the hall as stealthily as a boy and a mental patient getting used to antipsychotic medication could move. When we came around the corner, we saw Nurse Rachel and Barry. We ducked down a hall and hid in a janitor’s closet. The smell of cleaner was sharp and my eyes watered. His face was close to mine, our breathing loud in the small space. He smiled and I didn’t want to do anything else but stare at his face. I was excited. All this time I’d spent in the hospital, I’d felt like I was moving underwater, and just a few minutes with Nick and everything was real again.

  When we thought it was safe, we ventured out and made it to the stairwell. The stairs proved difficult. I imagined what a heart patient felt like after surgery, my hand going to my chest to keep my heart from beating out of my body. I didn’t know if this was a side effect of the drug or of me lying still for days.

  He pushed open the door to the roof and a part of me was surp
rised that there was no alarm. He tried to pull me along, but the sun stopped me. I kept my eyes down, thinking they’d adjust. So far the sensitivity to light was the hardest side effect to deal with. Nick pulled his backpack off and reached inside it. He pulled sunglasses out and put them on my face.

  “Is that better?” he whispered, his voice soft and so close.

  “Yeah.”

  “I want to show you this. It’s special.” He led me to the far corner. “My aunt Linda told me about it.”

  I followed him. He squatted down in front of the half wall that went around the perimeter of the building. There were names, so many of them, carved into the concrete.

  Mary was here.

  Cody was here.

  Brittany was here.

  Kendrick was here.

  Logan, Faith, Emily, Broderick, Amber, Jake.

  They were all here.

  Dawn, Melissa, Courtney, Kate, Erin, Susan, Mike, Kurt, Ronald, Eliza.

  They were here, too. I thought of John carving his name into things before he left Creed.

  Nick read my mind and pointed to a spot, his finger running over the name.

  John was here.

  “Your John?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “When did he do that?”

  Nick shrugged. “Aunt Linda thinks it was one day when she asked him to come pick her up from work. She wasn’t ready to leave and he went exploring.”

  “Who are they?” I asked.

  “Aunt Linda says they’re patients, mostly. She’s seen some of them sneak up here at night.”

  I imagined the patients sneaking out of their rooms and onto the roof so they could add their names to the wall, so they could be part of something, or to leave proof that they were here. I wondered how many of them were from the fourth floor.

  He reached in his backpack and pulled out a pocketknife and opened it. “Let’s add ours,” he said.

  I nodded. I couldn’t explain the need to be a part of it, but it was there.

  I squatted down next to him. I felt dizzy. “I don’t think I should hold a knife right now.”

  “I’ll do it,” he said.

  He pressed his knife to the concrete under John’s name and started carving, concrete dust falling to the roof floor. When he was done, he stood. He took my hand and we backed up so we could see it better.