In a Haze: A Romantic Thriller Page 2

  And special.

  His full lips curve into an easy smile that reaches his sapphire eyes, making me feel warmer than I have since I first woke up. Somehow, I feel as though I can trust him completely—so I’m going to ask another question. “This is an insane asylum, right?”

  He lets out a soft chuckle. “They wouldn’t like hearing you call it that. I believe the term they use is mental health institute or behavioral health center. Depends on who you’re talking to.”

  “Same thing.” I pick up my glass of juice. “I don’t suppose you know what I’m here for.”

  He shakes his head, pausing to stroke the short stubble on his chin. I want to ask him what he’s here for, but that seems a little too forward. Even though he’s known me for a couple of years, I feel like we just met.

  And I’m a bit enrapt at the moment. I doubt there’s a better looking male anywhere on the planet—not that I’d be able to see him. This man, he’s like a beacon in the middle of a sea of darkness. He’s warm and kind and he has me intrigued.

  As we eat our food in silence, I prick my ears up, listening to some of the other people here. Some of them sound so sad. Others sound completely crazy. And it makes me wonder: Am I insane? Did I lose my mind and, unable to cope with reality, someone put me here to be safe?

  Or am I all alone in this world?

  When Joe looks at me over his cup of coffee, the twinkle in his eye reassures me I have him if no one else.

  I am not alone.

  *

  After breakfast, Joe and I have made our way to the living area, not to be confused with the rec room. All of this is new to me, so I’m taking it all in. Right now, I don’t know if I’m happy or distraught that I’m in a place like this. It would help if I knew why I was here.

  If I knew who I truly was.

  But agonizing over it isn’t going to make it all known to me. Fortunately, Joe feels like an old sweater—warm, soft, and comforting—and I feel lucky that he’s my friend.

  We’re sitting by the windows. The view here is similar to the one from my room, except the window’s overlooking a one-way street. This road, too, has three lanes, but the traffic seems to be a little calmer now, less bumper-to-bumper. There’s another park-like area just past the road, but I know for certain we’re in a big city. I see some skyscrapers off in the distance, confirming that thought. The TV at the other end of the room, hanging on the wall, is playing an old movie. It’s turned up a little too loud but at least it affords Joe and me as much privacy as we’re likely to get in a place like this.

  I ask him, “You said you and I agreed to stop taking our meds?”

  “Well, yeah. But, honestly, it was my idea and I talked you into it.”

  “I wonder if that’s why I can’t remember anything.”

  “Seriously, Anna? You can’t remember anything?”

  “It’s weird. Like I could remember how to brush my teeth, but I couldn’t tell you how old I am. Or like where I used to live or what my favorite food is.”

  “That is strange.” He’s looking around behind me, and I know it’s because of the subject matter. Obviously, we’re supposed to be taking our medicine, and he’s making sure no one nearby can hear what we’re saying. “Maybe this is a good thing for you.”

  “What gave you the idea in the first place?”

  He takes in a deep breath through his nostrils and my eyes shift to look back outside. After a moment, surveying the strip of grass and trees past the road, I realize it’s either late spring or summer. Or, perhaps, very early autumn before the leaves start turning. Everything is lush and green and, even though it’s cool in here, I imagine it’s really hot outside. It looks like it.

  Joe says, “When I take the stuff they give me, I feel groggy. Almost hung over. Sluggish. That’s no way to live your life.”

  I nod my head. “Yeah.”

  “And I was telling you I was going to stop about a week ago. Anna, I’m telling you it was hard getting two words out of you, but I’d swear you nodded your head that you wanted to quit taking yours, too. Holy shit, it’s amazing, the difference. Everything seems so much clearer. It all makes a lot more sense. And you. Jesus Christ. You were a total zombie. You’d sit in this chair here and stare out the window all fuckin’ day. If one of the techs was paying attention, they’d make sure you kind of ate. But what kind of life is that?”

  Now that he’s mentioned it, I realize I was able to see my ribs easily in the shower this morning. Another thing that’s maybe not so normal.

  “Yeah.”

  After a few seconds of silence, Joe whispers, “Look, over there on the sofa.”

  When I turn, the only thing I see on the sofa is a young woman with long dark hair. She might be a teenager for all I can tell, but what strikes me the most is her eyes. They’re beautiful and dark—and empty. But I’m not sure if the girl is what Joe wanted me to look at. “What?”

  Lowering his voice, he leans close. “She got here about a week ago and she’s been like this the whole time. We’re calling her Zombierella.” That seems insensitive, but I don’t remember enough about this place yet to voice any sorts of opinions. “That’s how you were when you first got here.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. And you got a little better, but you had lots of moments like that.”

  We sit in silence for a bit until I ask, “When did I quit taking my meds?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve been telling you to quit for a few days, but yesterday it seemed like maybe I got through to you. I’d bet a million to one that that’s why you’re talking now. Full sentences.”

  “But why can’t I remember anything?”

  “I wish I could tell you. You know what, though? Maybe if you stay off that shit, it’ll come back to you.”

  A patient shuffles past us and Joe and I merely look out the windows for a time. I don’t even have to ask to know that these windows are probably impossible to break. It wouldn’t make sense to put mental patients on a floor this high otherwise.

  Once the fellow patient gets out of earshot, I ask, “So tell me how I can get away with not taking my meds again.”

  “You know how the med nurse comes to your room with that cart and hands you a little cup with your pills?” I nod, but no, I don’t really know. I can’t remember how it works, but I can imagine it. “You pop them in your mouth like you’re taking them, but while your head’s back, you shove them in between your teeth and cheek with your tongue.” Lowering his voice, he says, “Like this,” and proceeds to demonstrate. “As long as you don’t have anything too big, it’ll work.” I nod my head, gazing into his beautiful blue eyes. “You don’t, do you?”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Take any huge pills?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

  “You must not. I’m sure you pulled it off. Why else would you all of a sudden be alert?”

  God, how bad had I been before? Was it really just all the medication making me out of it? Is it simply remedied by not taking it anymore?

  But why is my memory completely gone?

  His words interrupt my thoughts. “If they think you’re not taking your meds, they’ll make you stick your tongue out to make sure you’ve swallowed them. What did you do with the ones you weren’t taking?”

  I shrug, because it’s like he hasn’t been listening to me. “I’m telling you I don’t remember anything.”

  “Shh. You don’t want anyone to hear that.” He looks around, almost paranoid, reminding me that we are in a mental hospital, and I wonder if he’s got heightened paranoia issues. Maybe that’s what’s going on with him—but what about me? He asks, “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. There is literally nothing I can remember.”

  “That sucks. I guess in some ways that might not be bad. Do you think maybe you’re blocking out some horrible memories?”

  That thought hasn’t occurred to me. “Maybe.” I don’t like that idea at all, but it is definitely possible. What the hell kind of pictures are trapped behind the curtain in my mind?

  Almost whispering, he continues talking, but he’s looking out the window. “You have to figure out a way to dispose of your meds. If they find them, then they’ll know you haven’t been taking them.”

  “What about the ones I didn’t take already?”

  “If it was me, I’d look all through my room. See if you hid them somewhere in there.”

  “What are you doing with yours?”

  “I work out a little of the hem on the bottom of my shirt.” He lifts his t-shirt and shows me how he’s managed to separate the threads. “Then I slide them in there. When I go to the bathroom in the morning, I flush them down the toilet.”

  “Do you have someone watching you, taking you everywhere?”

  “You mean like Rose does with you?” I nod my head and he continues. “No. But I don’t seem as helpless as you.”

  “Helpless?”

  “Anna, with the exception of today, you’ve been…what’s that word they use? Catatonic. The only time you seemed to even care about anything was when I’d talk to you. Even when you didn’t say a lot, your eyes told me you were listening.”

  An idea shoots itself through my brain, making me shiver with realization. “They’re going to be able to figure out I’m not taking my meds if I’m that much different now. I don’t even know how to act like I was before.”

  Slowly, he nods, clenching his jaw. Finally, he says, “Just don’t talk to anybody. Or, if you do, give ‘em one-word answers. And when a tech or a nurse is around, just stare off into space.”

  “Do you know if I ever have sessions with a psychiatrist or something?”

  “I don’t know. You do have group once a week.”

  “Group?”

  “Yeah, we all have different sessions, but you and me are in the same one. It’s on Wednesdays.”

  “And I never said anything?”

  “No, not really. There was one time. You’d been here for a couple of months but you hadn’t been to a group session yet, at least not that I knew of. They had you doing ECT and some other stuff first. You were in group, and you were trying to say something.”

  This is a window to my past. “What did I say?”

  “Jesus. I can’t remember. That feels like forever ago.” But I can tell he’s not done talking. Instead, he’s probing his brain. “You said something about cattle.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Cattle. Cows. That’s all I can remember.”

  I have no idea why I would have said anything about cows, but I hope to find out sometime.

  About this time, Rose walks by, placing her hand on my shoulder. “Doing okay, Anna?” I consider smiling but realize, based on Joe’s description of my former self, that it might be a bad idea, so I merely make eye contact and give her a short nod. The way she looks at me with a warm, sweet smile tells me she’s bought it. Then she looks at Joe. “What about you, Joe? Doing all right?”

  “Yup. Better than a man deserves.”

  Somehow, I doubt that.

  3

  Joe is now in some therapy session, leaving me alone with my thoughts. They’re cyclical, though, my thoughts, continuing to revolve around the one question I can’t answer—and if I wasn’t crazy before I entered this joint, I will most certainly drive myself there.

  There are no answers in my head, nor will there be.

  Which means I need to look outside myself.

  I decide to explore my limited world. I realize before I start wandering around that even doing that I might give myself away, based on how Joe said I was a ”zombie” before, but I can’t just sit here acting catatonic while my brain is in a frenzy. I have to do something. Anything.

  When I get up from the chair where I was sitting, I decide to stare toward the ground as I walk so I won’t accidentally make eye contact with anyone on accident. There will come a point where I’ll want to study people as well but, for now, I want to keep my head low. And even though it will drive me crazy, I need to move slowly. Based on reactions around me, I’ll adjust my behaviors as needed.

  I haven’t seen the rec room yet, but I know it’s next to this living room area, so I begin shuffling in that direction.

  It’s not till I pass the TV that I realize it’s playing DVDs. What I wouldn’t give for some news.

  Not that it would matter. Everything is news to me right now.

  Two people sit on the sofa, not really watching the movie, and I only know that because I sneak a peek at them. Some other people are sitting in chairs. One is talking to himself and the other two appear to be engaged in conversation.

  I make my way through the door leading to the rec room. It’s as big as the cafeteria but with fewer people. There’s a corner with books and comfy chairs; directly opposite that are board games and card tables, and one woman is working on a huge puzzle. On the other end of the room, though, are what appear to be a foosball table and some yoga mats. There are also an acoustic guitar, electric keyboard, and some tambourines. That might not be a good thing come Christmas if anyone here fancies themselves a musician. But, as I look out over the group who appear to be as drugged out as I imagine I was before today, I think I might be giving them too much credit.

  Suddenly, I feel overwhelmed with cascades of sadness. Maybe that’s the beginnings of depression, and I wonder if that’s what I was hospitalized for, but I have no way of knowing at the moment. What hurts me so much is seeing all these souls disconnected. Being human is all about connecting—I know in my core I believed that as much as I do now with my seemingly limited experience—and all these bodies are together yet completely separated by unseen barriers. That breaks my heart.

  And already I’m feeling a closeness to Joe for that same reason. He seems to be my island in a sea of darkness and uncertainty. For that, I am grateful.

  I don’t see myself spending much time in either the living area or the rec room. Nothing against my roommates, but I don’t feel comfortable around a lot of them. Some of them are constantly muttering and whispering while others feel on the verge of violence. Granted, I haven’t tried to get to know them, but I don’t know that I want to.

  I need to get to know myself first.

  Spending time in my room isn’t exactly an option because there’s nothing to do in there. It feels like solitary confinement with the luxury of a window. But maybe that’s what I need. A place where I can just sit and think.

  I realize, though, that it would be better if I had someone to bounce ideas off of. And Joe is the only person here I can trust.

  Until he gets out of his session, I plan to continue exploring. As I walk past the doors to the cafeteria or mess hall or dining room or whatever the hell they call it, I smell that they’re gearing up for lunch already. I’m hoping there’s less grease and sugar in that meal. Then I spot the wing where my room is located, and there are two wings off it. At the end of one of the hallways, I spy a locked door. It has a rectangular window, longer than the one on my room door, but I know without even walking to it and grabbing the handle that I wouldn’t be able to make it through there.

  Still, I could look, right?

  And I have no idea what I’ll learn from anything. It’s worth a shot.

  I’m shuffling again, hoping to deflect attention in case anyone thinks I’m acting suspiciously. After what seems like forever, I reach the end of the hall. I can’t hear anyone around but I can see a person walking down a hallway out the window—so I move forward, leaning my head closer to the glass. It looks like just another hallway, but there are doors—not to rooms but to offices. I’m not sure who all is out there, but I’m curious.

  The voice that suddenly begins speaking behind me makes me nearly jump out of my skin. “What are you looking at?”

  I need to play like old Anna, so I ponder for a moment if I should even turn around. Considering I startled when he spoke, I probably should—so I slowly turn my head around, attempting to have as blank a facial expression as possible. When I turn around, I don’t quite make eye contact with the angry looking guy behind me. Instead, I look at the tip of his nose and keep my jaw a little slack, my mouth open, hoping to communicate that I obviously meant no harm.

  “Oh, it’s you, Clawson. Get back to your room.”

  I don’t know this guy, but he’s mean and nasty. I try to keep my expression frozen and start shuffling back down the hall, but I happen to catch his name on the badge hanging from his scrubs pocket: Bruce. Maybe I’ll ask Joe later what he thinks of good ol’ Bruce. Not that he’ll change my mind. I already don’t like the guy.

  Soon enough, I’ve turned down the hall toward my room. I don’t know if Bruce is following me or has gone on with his business, but I don’t want to take a chance. In my limited experience, the one thing I’ve learned is I don’t know which people I can trust, especially the workers. Rose seemed nice enough, but it’s not like I have a broad base of behaviors to judge these people on—including Joe. But I need a lifeline and, for now, he’s it.

  I decide to rest in my room. At least there I’ll have a little quiet and a place to think. I’m beginning to feel exhausted, overloaded. But that woman in the wheelchair—she’s still in the hall, almost in the same spot she was earlier this morning. Hasn’t anyone moved her? Stuff like this just adds to the surreal ambience of this place.

  As I shamble past her wheelchair, a few beats of silence tell me that maybe I’ll make it to my room without her somehow frightening commentary. But no such luck. Once I’m about a yard away from her in the other direction, I hear the start of her mantra: “Rep.” I notice I’m grinding my teeth and my fingers get shaky. Without thought, I pick up my pace, subconsciously not caring who sees it. By the time I reach my door, I hear her voice following me. “Resent.”

  I wonder if it’s okay—if it’s proper protocol—to close my door, and I decide I don’t give a shit. I don’t want to hear the woman start muttering in that creepy way she does, and I definitely don’t want her potentially coming to my doorway, blocking it with her wheelchair—if she can move. My inclination is to slam it, but I know that wouldn’t be a good idea if I want to avoid being caught, so I close it deliberately. Quietly.