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“They told me not to give you my name. Didn’t they?” Her voice is scratchy and I can tell it hurts her from the way she winces.
She must be out of it. There’s no way I’d know what anyone told her. I don’t even know who “they” are.
The end of my ponytail brushes against my shoulder as I shrug and say, “I don’t know what they told you. I just know it’s not in your files.”
My answer brings tears to her eyes; tears I think were coming regardless. Her face doesn’t crumple or contort though and when the tears fall from her chin, down the pillow, she pulls back and then reaches to her cheek before staring at the moisture on her fingertips. Like she didn’t even know she was crying.
“I lost everything… I can’t lose my name.”
“There’s always more, you didn’t lose everything.” I’m quick to console her and I slowly, cautiously, pull out the corner chair to sit in it.
“Do you know what it’s like to lose everyone you love? To watch—” Her head falls back as her silent tears turn to wracking sobs. “I have court on the third. For my own custody. For them to take that too.” She moves as quickly as she can to brush away the tears, accepting the tissue I offer her. It’s a good sign. It’s a good sign that she’s talking, that she’s aware of her pain.
“None of that is in our files.”
“Please,” she says. Her voice turns hoarse and she lies on her back, calming herself down, just breathing. “Call me Ella… please.”
“I’ll call you Ella. It’s nice to meet you, formally.” My quietly spoken joke comes with a warm smile and she gives me one in return before turning her back to me.
“Good night, Ella.”
“Good night, Laura.”
Just breathe. It’s all I can think to keep from losing it when I leave her. Her pain is palpable and it wreaks havoc on my heart.
Some patients leave and they never return. Their trip here is only a blip in their life. The one time they hit so low that they needed help. That’s all this will be for them. I’m grateful we’re able to give them that and that their life goes on.
Then there are other people. Patients who are admitted against their will. Patients who are a harm to themselves. Whether they want to die, or just get off on the pain, sometimes they just want to hurt outside like they do inside.
Those are the patients I worry about when they leave. When the doctor or judge says they can go. Sometimes they come back here, worse off than before. Other times they leave here and within a week, their obituaries are in the paper.
The cup and pills are waiting for me on the floor just outside her door. It doesn’t take long to dispose of them and gather the last cup for Melody. It takes me longer to mentally prepare more than anything.
Melody’s waiting for me, rocking but not humming, when I enter her room. All of the rooms are standard. A bed, nightstand, and dresser. A TV in the upper right corner and an attached bathroom. White sheets, white furniture and soft gray walls. The only difference is the artwork in each of the rooms. And we provide plenty and offer to change them based on patient preference. It was an idea Bethany had years ago. I backed her and we had to pressure corporate to give us the funds to purchase additional artwork. It took nearly a year, but they agreed. I think it makes all the difference.
Neither Melody nor E.J.—Ella—cared about the artwork when they first arrived. Melody decided to change hers nearly a week ago though and I’m hopeful Ella will also come around, although the third of October is right around the corner. And if she’s right about having a court date, she may be long gone sooner than I think.
“You changed your pictures again,” I remark when I come in and Melody smiles.
“I asked the new girl to do it while I was in the library. She seemed like she had the time just sitting in the back, watching us.”
Is that where she was? Hiding in the library? That little… I stuff my snide remark into the back of my head, jotting it down on the memo pad of complaints to give Aiden before my shift is up.
“I like it,” I say, nodding one by one at the row of prints.
“They’re all classics,” she tells me with plenty of pep in her tone. “The Starry Night is Van Gogh and this one,” Melody gestures as she rises off the bed, making the metal legs squeak as she does so, “Blue Nude is Picasso.”
I know she’s right, because I picked out the classics when Bethany wanted help choosing what art to order. They’re only cheap prints, but they’re still beautiful.
