The List

“Willis, you must turn out the light. You’re bothering James, and it’s hardly the first time. He’s complained before how you turn the light back on after curfew and keep him awake. It’s unacceptable for you to disturb another resident.” She says “resident” but means “patient.” I wish they’d just say what they mean.

I look at Nurse MacDougall. Her features are so pinched it seems like someone’s zippered up her face. She always looks that way, whether she’s just come on duty or is about to go off. I bet she even looks that way when she does it with her husband. Actually it’s hard to imagine her doing it with anyone. Probably James can imagine it though; that’s the kind of thing he’d spend time thinking about without even meaning to. It’s part of why he’s here.

Most people feel sorry for us, James and me and the others, living out our days at Cedarwood Home. But I feel sorry for Nurse MacDougall. She suffers more than we do. You can tell by her face. I only suffer when I’m deprived of words — like now, late at night, when I have to turn out the light so as not to bother my roommate, James. It’s part of why I’m here.

◊ ◊ ◊

My doctor tells me I got lost in the world of words long ago and can’t seem to find my way out. I just nod my head when he says that. I did get lost at first, but now I have a purpose. That’s the first thing the doctor doesn’t understand. And it’s not that I can’t get out, I just don’t want to — I mean, with my purpose shining clear. That’s the second thing. I’ve tried to explain this to my doctor and some of the nurses but they tell me that’s part of my problem too, that I don’t see how deep I’m in. Fine: let them think what they like. I have power ‘cause I have words and words have power. Words are power. The main trouble is we have too many words, so many that the power of each one is diluted. Our words are weak. And weak words, like weak bodies, can sicken and decay. Weak words, like weak souls, can be twisted.

It’s up to me to rectify this situation. That’s my purpose: to re-empower words. That’s why I turn the light back on after curfew, to read some more and write in my secret notebooks. Even though I tell James there is not a moment to waste, he doesn’t understand and gets angry and tells on me. He gets as pinched looking as Nurse MacDougall, which makes me feel sorry for them both. But I have no choice. You cannot buck your fate.

◊ ◊ ◊

No one around Cedarwood Home comprehends the point of my reading. Their view is narrow. They think either that I’m trying to escape into fantasy to avoid the outside world, or that I want to know everything. I have told my doctor several times that I’m reading for The Key — The Key Within The Words. The New-Age Rosetta Stone. I speak haltingly, deliberately and slowly, so he can jot all this down, which he does, in the folder he keeps on me. That folder is getting thicker and thicker, but my doctor is just where he started. Nowhere. I’ve tried writing it down for him myself, thinking maybe he can’t read his own handwriting. For an educated man he’s not very smart. Meanwhile, in between sessions with the doctor and the “daily program,” I am reading and writing down all the clues I uncover. So far I have filled six notebooks, college rule, one hundred pages each. I keep these notebooks locked up in one of my dresser drawers. After all, they are invaluable, and I want to be sure none of the other patients pee on them or burn them up or who knows what. People are in Cedarwood for all kinds of problems. I don’t want to take any chances. James, for example, used to think I had girlie magazines in there. He loves to look at girlie magazines: that’s part of why he’s here. He started hanging around my dresser, so curious it gave me the jitters, so one day I unlocked the drawer and showed him the notebooks. I even let him flip through to see for himself no dirty pictures were hiding between the notebook pages.

“I told you it wasn’t girlie magazines.”

James looked heartbroken. “What in hell you want with all that scrawl?”

He growls when he’s disappointed. I might have been offended but I wasn’t. It’s just James.

“Words are a thing of power and beauty,” I said to James.

“Yeah,” James spat back, “well so are tits.”

He left to play cards. It was two pm. James always plays cards at two.

◊ ◊ ◊

I turn out the light like Nurse MacDougall orders me to. It isn’t a good idea to get on her wrong side. I wait till James goes back to sleep; you always know when that is because he starts sucking in his breath and then blowing it out like he’s trying to inflate a balloon. It isn’t snoring exactly but just as annoying if you’re inclined to be annoyed by things like that. Fortunately, sounds don’t bother me. At least not when I have words. Once we had a fire drill and I didn’t hear the bell ‘cause I was reading. The nurses thought I was being contrary but I wasn’t. I really didn’t hear it till they shook me. Anyway, when James is sucking in and blowing out so I’m certain he’s under, I resign myself to the last resort, a tiny battery-powered reading light I hide under the covers. This never seems to bother James. He’s never complained about it anyway, which is the best indicator. It’s the last resort because I hate being confined under the covers: it gets close down there and it’s inconvenient for writing in my notebooks. And sometimes there’s a problem replacing the batteries when they wear out. But tonight I shove my paraphernalia down under and turn on the little light because, as I said, I have no choice.

◊ ◊ ◊

The first thing that happens is that a small blue sheet, maybe three by four inches, falls out from between pages 46 and 47. It’s been cut from an application form for a hunting license; I can tell that from the printing on one side. A small reddish-purple stain mars the bottom right-hand corner of the side with the printing. Maybe jam; it’s a little sticky. There’s a ghost of red purple on page 46 where the blue sheet was pressed against the book page. That mark’ll be even more of a mystery to the next person who takes this book out from the mobile library that stops at Cedarwood once a week because the blue sheet will be missing. I intend to keep it. This is a find. Possibly the first step. What I’ve been looking for.

I begin to write about the mysterious blue sheet in my notebook but am stopped cold when I turn the sheet over. I discover a list of ten items, written in pencil. Number three pencil, I’d say; pretty light. I prefer number one myself — number three looks tentative — but number ones are hard to find. I tried, once, to get Nestor, the maintenance man around here, to buy some for me in the outside world. I gave him some of the money I’ve squirreled away. He said he went to four stores and couldn’t find any. So I settle for number twos. The handwriting is loopy and erratic, a lot like my doctor’s. Oh yes, I forgot to mention: three items are crossed off, but again in light pencil, so I can still read what’s underneath. When I cross things off a list, they’re demolished. I mean, there is no way you could tell what they once said. I am very sure of myself. At least in that, the doctor and I agree.

I mark my place and close the book. I close my notebook. I fold the blue sheet very small and nest it in my fist. I turn out the little light and emerge from beneath the covers. There is no point in continuing to read: the list has taken over. I need to conserve batteries now. I’ll need every resource I can muster. I may even have to bribe Nestor; I’ve done that before. He’s a proud man, but he doesn’t make much money here. He pretends to be offended when I first offer him a bribe, but in the end he takes it. It’s how things are done — everywhere. People think a place like Cedarwood is so different from the outside world, yet as you can see, it’s not. Money is money, politics is politics, diplomacy is diplomacy. You learn how to operate. You have to, to survive. I’ve learned a lot here at Cedarwood that will serve me well when I get back to the outside world. The doctor always looks a little startled when I talk to him about my release. But that just confirms my feeling he’s not very smart.

Maybe I’m not so smart either. Maybe I should get myself another doctor.

◊ ◊ ◊

The next thing I know, it’s morning. I can hear James brushing his teeth in our bathroom. Each semi-private room at Cedarwood has its own bathroom. I am really grateful for that. James is a decent person to share a room and bathroom with; there are others here, like Mr. Abbey, I wouldn’t want to share with. Mr. Abbey is a sorry soul, always muttering to himself and moving about, shuffling and turning and popping up and down like pistons in an engine. That would be trouble, especially in the bathroom. He should probably have a private room, but those are terribly expensive and I doubt he can afford it. I wish they would make an exception in his case but, as Nurse McDougall frequently reminds me, there are no exceptions.

“Mr. Ordmann, let me assure you we would have utter chaos if we began making exceptions,” Nurse MacDougall pontificates periodically, like a person who lost his memory and keeps telling you things over and over because he doesn’t remember he’s told you before. We have patients like that at Cedarwood too. She calls me Mr. Ordmann only when she wants to impress something on me. I will admit it gets my attention. I feel like a senator or something, although I doubt that’s what she has in mind. I guess it would be okay with her for me to be a senator if she were president. Nurse MacDougall shivers ever so slightly when she says “utter chaos.” It’s one of her favorite phrases.

James comes out of the bathroom, but I pretend I’m still asleep. He dresses quietly and leaves for breakfast. When he leaves, I know it’s seven-thirty. He always goes to breakfast at seven-thirty.

You have probably figured out by now that James is what the doctor calls obsessively methodical. That’s part of his problem too, though that part doesn’t seem so bad to me. The doctors and nurses also are pretty methodical, but it must not be the obsessive kind. I’m no expert but I can’t tell the difference. I feel guilty when I keep James up late at night because I must read. You’d think that, being obsessive himself, James’d recognize that I’m obsessive about reading. Unfortunately not. But even though he gets angry, he doesn’t hold it against me. James is not the type to bear a grudge. I’m realizing, as I am telling you all this, how much I like James. How many people in the outside world can honestly say they live with someone they like?

I suddenly remember the list, which I’m grasping as if my life depends on it. My eyes snap open. I unfold the blue sheet and read the list over and over and over. Tonight I will copy it into my notebook; no, into several notebooks. I will cross-reference the entries, to be on the safe side. It will be in invisible ink in case any of the notebooks should fall into alien hands. Maybe I’ll read the list to James. I’ll have to think about that. As I plan strategy, a beam of sunlight illuminates the name “Daisy” on the list. Names. This is the sign I’ve been waiting for. I throw back the covers and swing into action. Now I know where to start.

◊ ◊ ◊

I skip breakfast and head straight for the nurses’ station. Nurse Converse, round and red cheeked as an overripe tomato, is on duty. I say “Good morning.” You always have to start the day with that. It’s not a rule exactly: it’s a courtesy. Something you have to understand to really operate. The nurses especially put a lot of stock in courtesies. Unfortunately, some of them are slow to realize that patients like Mr. Abbey are beyond courtesies.

The list is safe in my breast pocket, close to my heart. I am hoping the list is muffling my heart’s wild thumping so Nurse Converse doesn’t get suspicious or maybe worried. Luckily, Nurse Converse is too busy to get suspicious or worried. I take a deep breath and ask her, very matter of fact, if anyone at Cedarwood is named Daisy or Elsa or Mateo. Elsa and Mateo are the other two names on the list. Nurse Converse smiles her best official smile and reminds me it’s against policy to give out information on residents to anyone. And that includes other residents. Nurse Converse shivers a little when she says “policy,” like Nurse MacDougall does when she says “utter chaos.” Of course I know there will be no exceptions, so I don’t waste my time on that one. Right off I’ve struck a dead-end. I say “Thank you,” another important courtesy, and return to my room. James is back.

“You missed breakfast,” he clucks. He is always mothering me.

I don’t answer him. James thinks I’m mad at him because he called Nurse MacDougall last night. He feels guilty. Let him. I drop heavily onto my bed.

“Wanna look at some of my magazines?”

He does feel guilty.

Without waiting for a response, he rummages through his drawers and pulls out several. Nestor procures them for a small fee. James sits down next to me, very close, closer than most people would ever sit to anyone but a lover; this bothered me at first but I got used to it. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just James. He rips through one magazine after another, making funny sounds, his breathing ragged, turning pages like they’re on fire.

“James, do you know a Daisy or Elsa or Mateo?”

He gives me an odd look, like I have secret information I shouldn’t have. Then he rummages around in his drawers again. Finally he thrusts something at me. It’s a fuzzy-looking picture of two women. One of them is dark skinned. They’re both naked except for lacy stockings and some jewelry. Their nipples are as big as saucers. They are intertwined in an unusual, contorted way. James is grinning.

“Daisy and Elsa. No Mateo. They don’t go in for that kinky stuff in here.”

I look at James, uncomprehending. I look back at the picture. Sure enough, the printing below names the women “Daisy” and “Elsa.” I feel as if I’m in a little boat at sea, the waves like frenzied hands tossing me from one to the other. I’m doubly glad I didn’t eat breakfast. James seems to be swaying. His eyes are crossing. Maybe it’s my eyes that are crossing. I grab onto the headboard to steady myself. I worry I’m about to throw up.

“Whatsa matter?” James barks. When he’s scared, he sounds mean.

“Can I borrow the picture?”

“Borrow the — ? But you don’t even — “

Crosscutting his words, I repeat, “Can I borrow the picture — the magazine?” The waves begin to calm.

James is long in answering. Finally he says, “Sure. But just borrow. Not for keeps.” His voice is husky, another sign of fear. James can’t cope with uncertainty: it upends him. I feel bad about upending him, but it is necessary. He must feel really guilty to even consider loaning me one of his girlie magazines.

“Don’t worry, “ I reassure him. “It’ll be safe with me.” To emphasize my point, I go immediately to my dresser and lock it up. After that, I go into the bathroom, bolt the door, and turn on the water. James will think I’m washing my face and hands, which is what I often do after I get upset. The warm water feels soothing. Sometimes, if it’s really bad, I take a shower. The doctor says it’s therapeutic. This time, though, I have no need of therapy. I remove the list from my breast pocket and place an X next to “Daisy” and “Elsa.” The list actually says “Call Daisy,” “Write to Elsa.” I will figure out how to deal with the other words later. Right now I am thrilled at making such unexpectedly rapid progress.

When I come out of the bathroom, I find James where I left him.

“You okay?” he clucks.

“Yes, James. Fine. Just a little lightheaded from not eating.” I pause for effect. “And thanks for loaning me the magazine.” Above all, I mustn’t forget the courtesies, especially with someone I really like, like James.

◊ ◊ ◊

At lunch I play with my canned peaches and bananas. The list, still in my pocket, has me deeply distracted. James notices I am not myself. He clucks some more, encouraging me to eat. He suggests we take a walk outside after lunch since it’s such a nice day. This upends me: James detests the outdoors regardless of weather. My behavior must seem exceedingly strange for him to conclude it will take more than his pictures to set me straight. I can see I’d better watch it, otherwise some of the nurses might notice, which will mean an extra session with the doctor. I can’t be bothered wasting my time on extra sessions now. I choke down my dish of fruit and ask for seconds. James looks relieved and pleased. As we exit the cafeteria, he turns the corner fast and disappears down the hall: it’s free time, which means he can do whatever he wants, like look at his girlie magazines without fear of interruption. James has already forgotten about our walk.

Undaunted, I go outside. It is a nice day. I stroll to the edge of the wide expanse of lawn that drapes Cedarwood like an apron. A stream at the edge forms a natural barrier, so there’s no need for a fence. I’m glad there’s no fence. The doctors, who can be thoughtful when they want to be, probably helped the architects plan it that way. The stream is soothing, like the water in my bathroom — not warm of course but burbling. I have often felt the stream is trying to tell me something, something to aid me in my purpose.

I sit down on an old wooden bench covered with bird do. Usually I look up into the tree that overhangs the bench and the stream to see if an birds are in residence — it would be awful if one decided to makes its mess on me — but today I am, as I’ve said, distracted. So far I’ve been lucky with the birds. Or maybe it’s not luck at all: the birds also may know about courtesies.

I extract the list from my pocket and study it, wondering how next to proceed. A wave of fatigue swamps me. The burden of unlocking and interpreting the meaning of the list is an onerous one. I hope I am up to it. I promise myself not to skip any more meals for the duration; meals will cost me some time, but I’ll need the sustenance. Besides, the nurses mark down on their charts when you don’t eat. They are ever vigilant. One thing I really dislike about Cedarwood is this lack of privacy. The nurses and doctors make everything their business. I bet they’d go crazy if we had to know every little thing about them. Nurse Meacham and I had a talk about that once. She said, in her calm and tender way, that the staff was only trying to help the patients. Nurse Meacham rarely says “residents.” But “help,” even coming from Nurse Meacham’s lips, is another one of those weak, twisted words.

I stand up, trying to get ahead of the depression that is settling in like winter. Across the lawn, Mr. Abbey is popping up and down as usual. I can hear his muttering, which gets louder when he goes outside. It is almost like chanting but not as rhythmical. Nurse Vargo is in the background, just in case: Mr. Abbey must always have someone in attendance. Mr. Abbey is pirouetting. Some birds fly near him and he shoots up a geyser of arms in response. Then he takes off after them, his sticklike limbs and long patchy hair pinwheeling in all directions. He is headed my way. But I am in trouble. I feel weighted down. I don’t see how I can move out of his path fast enough. Beginning to panic, I call out to divert him but his mutter is now a whine that drowns out my pleas. His eyes are glazed and spittle peppers his chin. Nurse Vargo, running in pursuit, can’t keep up; she is young but not the athletic type. Her iridescent blue eye shadow flickers in the sun. Her cap sails off. If only the birds would veer in another direction, but they don’t. They and he are coming straight for me.

All at once I hear a familiar voice. James is barreling across the lawn from the other side, the side near our room. My cries must have wrenched him from his ogling. Only a dire emergency, like a civil defense alert, can do that. He is yelling something unintelligible at Nurse Vargo, who trips and falls. The birds swoop low and then arc up into the tree overhanging me. At the last minute I garner the strength to uproot my legs and dive head first under the bench.

The next thing I know, James is looming over me, redfaced and panting. Mr. Abbey has tumbled down the stream bank. A disheveled Nurse Vargo limps toward us; the front of her uniform is torn, revealing a satiny slip and more flesh than she realizes. When James sees Nurse Vargo, his eyes go blank. He is done for. I can tell he’s inserting her into the girlie magazines, decking her out in a peek-a-boo peignoir bordered with ostrich feathers and black net stockings and red garter belts. Mr. Abbey is moaning softly, so we know he hasn’t drowned. I am relieved to find the list pinned between my fingertips. A fleck of spittle rests next to “Write check.” A blob of bird do stars “Talk over expenses.” I get up, brush myself off, and proceed inside. No one else moves. Free time is over.

◊ ◊ ◊

Fortunately, this is not one of the afternoons I have a session with my doctor. Nurse Converse tells me I can arrange a special session, which means she believes I should, but she doesn’t push it and I pretend to be exhausted, acting like all I want to do is sleep. She will tell my doctor, for the next day’s session, that I’m depressed. Let her. That will keep him off the scent. She stands at my door too long; apparently, she is not too busy to be worried this time.

“I’ll reschedule James so you can sleep undisturbed,” Nurse Converse whispers. I am stunned. She has made an exception. I vow privately never to reveal this to Nurse MacDougall.

“Reschedule” is another one of those words, but I let it go this time. I am amused that the tables are turned: usually I am the one disturbing James. But I also am touched at what I believe to be Nurse Converse’s concern. Pretending to fall asleep, I watch Nurse Converse, through a crack in my eyelids, watching me. She writes down something on her chart. Maybe it’s something flattering. Finally she leaves.

I tiptoe to the door of the room and open it a hair’s breadth, to see if Nurse Converse has put the “DO NOT DISTURB” sign on my door. Bless her, she has. I unlock the dresser drawer, withdraw several notebooks, the only number one pencil I have, a pencil sharpener, a pen with invisible ink, and my little light, and return to bed where I retreat under the covers — just in case. You can lock the bathroom door here but not the room door; go figure that one out.

I print the words “Write check” and “Talk over expenses” in pencil on one notebook page. Then I corral all the vowels in one column, all the consonants in another. I also arrange the vowels and consonants in rows. The columns and rows form a square. I randomly connect letters around the square by drawing lines between columns and rows; I examine the patterns and record my interpretations. Next I count how many of each letter I have and record the sums. Then I tear out several sheets of notebook paper and tear each sheet into small pieces. I print a letter on each piece, preparing as many pieces per letter as I have summed occurrences of that letter. I pile the lot of them in my hand and throw the I Ching of pieces, interpreting the configuration without benefit of a reference book. Nestor couldn’t find me one. I record my analyses in pencil in one notebook, in invisible ink in another notebook. In the third notebook I cross-reference the other two, again in invisible ink. I notice my breathing is ragged, my muscles are stiff. My back is aching, maybe from the tension or from being stuck in one position under the covers too long. Or maybe from my life-saving dive under the bench earlier this afternoon. The excitement, almost sexual in its power to arouse, is making me sweat. I am rocking back and forth. There is a deep whir in my throat. I am James and Mr. Abbey rolled into one — which is so confusing that I gather up everything under the covers, including the list, lock it all in my dresser drawer, strip off my clothes, and stand under the hot water in the shower until my body turns the color of Nurse Converse’s rosy tomato face.

◊ ◊ ◊

I don’t see James until dinner. He acts subdued. I’ll bet he missed playing cards at two. I’ll bet he had a special session with the doctor instead. Damn. I’ll bet they upped his medication after he saw so much of Nurse Vargo. Maybe that’s why Nurse Converse “rescheduled” James. If only they’d say what they mean.

I thank James for coming to my rescue. I mean it. He nods, but his eyes look like marbles — they’ve upped his dose for sure. Mr. Abbey is nowhere in sight: probably in isolation. They do that when they don’t know what else to do with you. They say it’s for your own good but really it’s for theirs. They’re scared. The most scared are the doctors. They won’t go near you till you’re been “resettled.”

James is so out of it I give up trying to talk to him during the rest of dinner hour. I myself am beginning to feel the effects of the day as well. I eat more than I really want to keep up my strength. I notice James is toying with his food like I did at lunch. I am about to encourage him, as he tried to with me, but he puts his head in his hands and starts to cry. Double damn: they’ve overdosed him. Nurse Meacham, noticing before I can rise to alert her, is gliding toward us, her fingers fluttering like butterflies. Delicately, she removes James from the cafeteria. I drag into the lounge to watch some TV but am not there ten minutes when Nurse Meacham taps me on the shoulder with her butterfly fingers.

“He’ll be okay, Mr. Ordmann, don’t you worry,” Nurse Meacham consoles, calling me Mr. Ordmann out of respect. Unlike Nurse MacDougall, she doesn’t have to impress me with her authority to get my attention. “We’re keeping him in the Special Care Unit just for tonight, to get his medication regulated properly. Then he’ll be back with you.” Before I can respond she glides away.

I am beyond words like “Special Care Unit” tonight.

It is my turn to feel guilty. If it weren’t for the list, James would be his normal self now. The doctors would like to change his normal self, but I like him as is. My purpose is feeling like a curse. Joan of Arc must’ve felt the same when they lit the first sticks under her feet.

◊ ◊ ◊

It is nearly three am when Nurse MacDougall comes by for bed check. The light is on and I am reading and writing. The list is nestled in the bedding; I can hide it in a flash. Even though the rule says the light should be out, the doctor will have noted on my chart that I need “leeway.” Allowing leeway is different from making an exception. I know Nurse MacDougall makes bed check at this hour, but I’m not afraid of getting on her wrong side. Not tonight. Not with James gone. I’ve thought about what I’ll say. She’ll know about the events of the preceding day because they’ll be noted on my chart. And on James’.

“Poor Willis, can’t sleep? Would you like some help?” Nurse MacDougall queries. By “help,” she means a sleeping pill. I figured she’d ask that. But I can refuse a sleeping pill; some patients don’t have that choice but I do. They consider me more “responsive” than some of the others. If you go to isolation, you lose your right to choose.

“No thank you,” I answer with maximum courtesy. “I think I’ll just read awhile longer. Reading’s very soothing.” I figure she’ll fall for this because it’s consistent with my problem. Besides, without James here, there’s no one she can accuse me of bothering.

Once Nurse MacDougall retreats, I return to the list. Five items remain unaddressed — well, six including Mateo (“Make plans with Mateo”). The most troublesome is “Call doctor.” That’s a tough one: Cedarwood is rife with doctors. I mull over the pros and cons of several possibilities. I could stand in the hall and literally call “Doctor!” and see who shows up. But that would attract too much of the wrong kind of attention. I might end up in isolation. I could treat “Call doctor” like a mantra — chant it over and over till I attain the heightened awareness needed to reveal The Key. If only I could tape the chanting and play it back while I sleep, to extract the subliminal message. Unfortunately, I have no tape recorder and don’t have enough money for Nestor to buy me one. Besides, it would disturb James once he returns. Of course, I could just ignore “Call doctor”; it may be a red herring, like a false passageway in a pharaoh’s tomb. I record all these possibilities in several notebooks, in pencil and invisible ink. I’ll have to reserve judgment. I proceed with what remains.

◊ ◊ ◊

An intricately related quartet of items completes the list: “Buy tape,” “Mend book,” “Borrow fix-it manual,” and “Get film.” It is the first three of these that have been crossed off. But I don’t know in what order, which could be important. I begin writing scenarios revolving around the quartet. Maybe it’s the hour — it is just before dawn — but my pencil takes on a life of its own. I am wondering if this is automatic writing; I have read about that. Automatic writers are said to be most sensitive to suggestion at twilight and daybreak. I’ve sharpened my last pencil to a stub I can barely grasp. I will have to swipe one from the nurses’ station when no one is looking and make do till I can send Nestor to the store. I will have to settle for whatever he can find, even a number three. I must remember to have him buy more batteries too ‘cause I’ll need them once James returns.

James. I am looking forward to seeing James. I notice his bed is perfectly made, his pillow plumped for a nice welcome home. One of the nurses must have attended to that last night while I was watching TV. It is nearly six am. Pretty soon the cafeteria will open for breakfast. I’m hungry for the first time in days; staying up all night will do that to you. But I plan to wait, to go to breakfast at seven-thirty. To eat with James.

James is not at breakfast. I keep looking at the big clock on the cafeteria wall. The hands of the clock keep moving, my oatmeal is congealing, but no James. I crane my neck to look around. I angle my chair so I can see everyone entering the cafeteria. Various people come and go, but none of them is James. In frustration I stab the gluey brick of oatmeal with my spoon: the spoon is held fast, slim metal tombstone marking the demise of my appetite and my patience. It occurs to me then that James may have eaten in the Special Care Unit. I return to our room, hoping that he’ll be there.

He is. But he isn’t. It’s another James, not my James: James the Tornado. Going wild. His eyes are utter chaos.

“Whadja do with ‘em?” he roars.

“With what? What — what’re you talking about, James?” My voice sounds disembodied. Far away. My brain is tracking slowly: I am tired from being up all night and weakened from not eating. Maybe I’m even hallucinating. James is ripping the sheets off the bed.

“Where ARE they? I left ‘em here on my bed when I ran outside to help you. They were right here” — he stabs the bed like I stabbed my oatmeal — “I left ‘em RIGHT HERE. Now the bed’s made and my magazines are gone.”

James is toppling furniture. I expect Nurse Converse or one of the burly attendants hired just for trouble like this to burst through the door but no one comes.

“I — I didn’t do anything with them, James. I didn’t see them. The nurses made the bed. I don’t know anything about the magazines. I came back to the room and — “

“I loaned you the one. JUST LOANED. And I didn’t say you could — “

James freezes, leaving me and his sentence hanging. We are in the eye of the storm. He stares at my dresser and grins. It’s not James. But before I remember to breathe, the demon is at my dresser, dumping every drawer. He claws at the locked drawer: the reservoir of my notebooks and his one magazine and the list. But it resists. He swings the dresser free from the wall and with one power punch springs the lock. It must be his medication. It’s definitely not James. He clutches at Daisy and Elsa but sees, like I said, that’s it.

“Where’re they? WHERE?! Where’ve you hidden ‘em, you — I’ll show you, I’LL SHOW YOU — “

James grabs the wastebasket and crams it full with the contents of the drawer. I grab for James, but a second power punch knocks me flat.

W-I-L-L-I-S, I’ll show you!

I lunge for James in a last desperate effort but miss. He is out the door, down the hall, into the stairwell, by the time I can mount a posse from the nurses’ station. Hugging the bulging wastebasket to his chest, he is flying across the lawn, Nurse Converse and two attendants in his wake. I am bringing up the rear but cannot move fast enough. Dread retards my every step. It is variations on a theme from yesterday.

James has the list.

He has the notebooks.

The nurses probably took the magazines.

The doctors probably told them to.

I am slowing down. Stopping. Stopping and standing in the middle of the lawn. Sitting down. I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

I am watching a movie. My movie: the movie of my life. I am me but not me. James is James but not James. The light has yellowed and everything goes in slow motion. I hear voices — a soundtrack? Mr. Abbey speaking in tongues? Suddenly I am calm, calmer than I’ve been for days. Maybe I’m out of my body, near death even.

I continue to watch the movie — the movie in which James arrives at the wooden bench, my favorite spot, and in one sweeping gesture thrusts the wastebasket and its contents into the stream that washes them clean and carries them away.

◊ ◊ ◊

Nurse Meacham tells me I was in isolation for three days. I remember her visiting once. But that’s impossible: they would have had to make an exception, and they don’t make excep —

They have rescheduled me, and I am ready to return to the regular ward. To my room. I have no worries about the past: about James, or the list, or my purpose. That is all behind me. I feel fine. I feel confident. I will have a session with the doctor today now that I am resettled. I will give Nestor some money to buy James some new magazines.

Nurse Meacham accompanies me to my room. A stranger is in James’s bed.

“Where’s James?” I ask Nurse Meacham, puzzled but not alarmed.

“We’ve moved him to another ward,” Nurse Meacham answers, plain as day. She could have said “re-situated,” but didn’t.

“This is your new roommate, Willis,” Nurse Meacham says, turning toward the stranger. “Say hello to Mateo.”

copyright 2011 Carol Rosenblum Perry

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