Читать книгу THE HIDING PLACE - John Burley - Страница 9

You’ve got a visitor,” Marjorie said, smiling over at me from the nurses’ station.

I glanced toward the intake room. Through the rectangular glass pane in the door I could see Paul, one of the orderlies, ushering in a new patient. A visitor, I thought. One of Marjorie’s euphemisms.

“Is this going to be one of mine?” I asked, checking the roster board. I hadn’t been advised of any new admissions.

Marjorie nodded. “I think you should see this one.”

“Did he come with any paperwork?”

“Not that I know of.” Marjorie’s eyes were back on the chart in front of her, her attention elsewhere.

I sighed. The protocol was that we were to be advised ahead of time regarding any new transfers to the facility, and that those transfers should arrive with the appropriate paperwork, including a patient history and medical clearance assessment. Patients weren’t supposed to just show up unannounced, and it irritated me when that happened. Still, one had to keep in mind that we were dealing with a state bureaucracy here. Nothing really surprised me anymore. I decided not to be a hardnose and to let the administrative screwup ride for the moment, although I certainly intended to bring it up with Dr. Wagner later.

Paul had stepped through the door and closed it gently behind him. He motioned me over, and I walked across the room to join him.

“What have we got, Paul?”

“Young man to see you,” he said, and we both peered through the glass at the patient seated in the room beyond.

“What’s his story?” I wanted to know, but Paul shook his head.

“You’ll have to ask him.” Apparently, Paul had no more information than Marjorie did.

I pushed through the door. The patient looked up as I entered, smiled tentatively at me. His handsome appearance was the first thing that struck me about him: the eyes pale blue, the face lean but not gaunt. He had the body of a dancer, slight and lithe, and there was a certain gracefulness to his movements that seemed out of place within these walls. A lock of dark black hair fell casually across his face like a shadow. He was, in fact, beautiful in a way that men rarely are, and I felt my breath catch a little as I sat down across from him. I gauged him to be about thirty, although he could’ve been five years in either direction. Mental illness has a way of altering the normal tempo of aging. I’ve seen twenty-two-year-olds who look forty, and sixty-year-olds who appear as if they’re still trapped in adolescence. Medications have something to do with it, of course, although I think there’s more to it than that. In many cases, time simply does not move on for these people, like a skipping record playing the same stanza over and over again. Each year is the same year, and before you know it six decades have gone by.

“I’m Dr. Shields,” I said, smiling warmly, my body bent slightly toward him in what I hoped would be perceived as an empathic posture.

“Hello.” He returned my smile, although it seemed that even my opening introduction pained him in some way.

“What’s your name?” I asked, and again there was that nearly imperceptible flinch in his expression.

“Jason … Jason Edwards.”

“Okay, Jason.” I folded my hands across my lap. “Do you know why you’re here?”

He nodded. “I’m here to see you.”

“Well … me and the rest of your treatment team, yes. But can you tell me a little bit about the events that brought you here?”

His face fell a little at this, as if it were either too taxing or too painful to recount. “I was hoping you’d already know.”

“Your records haven’t arrived yet,” I explained. “But we’ll have time to talk about all this later. For right now, I just wanted to introduce myself. Once again, my name is Dr. Shields and I’ll be your treating psychiatrist. We’ll meet once a day for a session, except on weekends. I’ll review your chart and medication list once they arrive. Paul will show you around the unit and will take you to your room. Meanwhile, if there’s anything you need or if you have any other questions, you can ask Paul or one of the other orderlies. Or let one of the nurses know. They can all get in touch with me if necessary.”

I stood up, but hesitated a moment before leaving. He watched me with an expectant gaze, and despite my better professional judgment, I leaned forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s going to be okay,” I told him. “You’re in a safe place now.”

He seemed to take my words at face value, trusting without question, and in the weeks and months to come I would often look back upon that statement with deep regret, realizing that nothing could have been further from the truth.