It didn’t always feel like this. Sometimes things made sense. Back when I felt like I understood what was going on, and I wasn’t just going through the motions.
The subway is down. There is a fire on the tracks on the A/C Line, and I have to get off the train a hundred blocks from my apartment. For whatever reason, I am walking now. I tend to think when I walk, which is probably not a good thing, because I don’t have any cash and I can’t stop somewhere for a drink to help me stop thinking.
It’s cold out. The kind of cold that makes your knees hurt and your lips get solid, so it’s hard to talk. My eyes are watering, but I’m not crying. I’m smoking back-to-back cigarettes, and I don’t have gloves, so I have to keep switching hands.
Even though it’s freezing, there are families out in the street. I’ve seen them since I got off the train. There is a mother pushing a stroller on the other side of the street, and we have been pacing each other for blocks. She looks like me. Well, she looks like my mom, and I guess I look like my mom, too. We’re blonde, and I’m guessing the woman has blue eyes like we do, even though I can’t see that far. She’s small, like my mother is. I’m much taller than they both are; I always thought my dad must have been a pretty big guy. Now I’m stuck thinking about my own family as I walk south in this bitter city.
It was just me and my mom growing up. My dad is somewhere, but I don’t know where. I’ve never met him, but it doesn’t really make a difference because Mom was almost too much to manage on her own. Sometimes she sang his praises—Your father is a wonderful man. And sometimes she shit all over him—He’s just some mick fuck who doesn’t deserve me. I wonder if that baby in the stroller knows her dad.
My name is Samantha because my mom’s name was Samantha. I think that’s why I go by Sam. Our last name is James. So I have two first names. I always told people never to trust someone with two first names.
I can see my apartment now. It’s the only one on the floor with no lights on. It’s in an old limestone walk-up building in the middle of the block. I’ve been living in New York City for a few years. I bounced around different studios and tiny one-bedrooms in Brooklyn and Manhattan after I came here for graduate school. My current apartment has three closets, which is practically unheard-of, and a bathtub. I have a desk and a coffee table and it could pass for a grown-up apartment if I could just buy food to put in the fridge. My couch is brown and I have different pillow covers for different seasons. Now it’s the dark blue ones. I have a carpet that’s mostly sun bleached because my windows face south, so the summer sun is in here for the whole day, and I used to like the colors but now I think it looks like a little girl’s carpet. My kitchen is very clean and has a window above the sink, so I can look out while I’m washing wineglasses and see what everyone else is doing. The radiator makes noise, which is comforting because if it didn’t, there would be no sound in here. I never turn on the TV because it makes me feel small.
The front door to my building has a tricky lock, and it always seems to get stuck right when the wind picks up and starts to make my ears hurt. The dark green tile floors in the lobby always look dusty and I’m afraid I’ll slip on them and crack my skull. The stairs are wide and rounded, from a New York era long forgotten, and as I wind up them to my apartment, I peel off my outside layers.
I’m opening a bottle of wine that I bought at the liquor store across the street last night. I always make sure to be delicate and grown-up about my drinking. I drink every night, but that’s okay because it’s expensive wine that I drink out of expensive wineglasses that I always remember to wash before I go to bed. I also always clean my ashtrays, because even I think it’s gross to have stale butts around the house. I quit smoking a few times, but then I gave up quitting because something else is going to get me first anyway. Desperation makes you hold on to funny things.
I’m sipping the acrid, burned coffee from the lounge, waiting for my boss, Rachel, to start the clinical-staff meeting. My nails are grimy and dirty, and the nail polish is mostly peeled off. I look up to catch my colleague Gary staring at me. He immediately looks away when our eyes meet, but then he quickly turns his head back to me.
“Yes?” I ask him, eyes wide.
He brushes the side of his temple with the back of his left hand and juts his chin in my direction.
“What?”
He does it again.
I put down my red pen and coffee cup and wipe the sides of my face. I pull back my left hand to see a streak of unblended cakey makeup across my pinkie. Crispy little bits of scab are dotting the makeup.
Rachel begins the meeting.
“Good morning, team. Nice to see everyone bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning.”
Muffled laugher and sarcastic snorts.
“I know it’s been getting a little overwhelming with all the new patients starting, but as you know, there are seasons and cycles that are at play with mental health, and with winter almost here, even though it’s only October—” she shakes her fists at the windows “—with the shorter and colder days come more depression, seasonal affective disorder, hopelessness and the like. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. That being said, as you’re already aware, we have another new patient, and he is starting today.”
The staff begins to look around nervously; people start adjusting their shirts, looking down at notepads, trying to disappear into the noise.
“I’ve heard a lot of chatter in the hallways. I understand that it’s natural to speculate, but it’s very difficult to maintain unconditional positive regard, an unbiased attitude and an open mind when rumors are being spread in this manner. You all know what I’m talking about.” She glares at us like we should know better.
“Well, can you give us a little more insight into the story with this guy?” Gary.
“I’m not really privy to any more information than you are, so we’re in the same boat. But I am urging you to put your preconceived notions away, set down these ideas you have about him and focus on the little information that we do have. He is coming here for treatment, for help, and your job is to provide that treatment without making the man into a monster.”
“Look, I’m all for positive regard and unbiased treatment, but isn’t it important to ensure the safety of the staff?” Gary again. “I mean, I heard his file is incomplete because he attacked his last counselor. I heard he refuses to answer intake questions, and won’t discuss his history, and if you pry, he goes ballistic. I mean, he’s forensic, and I’m not sure I’m comfortable treating a patient who is known for attacking his counselor.”
“Well, we are not in the business of turning away problematic patients.” Rachel lowers her head and shuffles out the file. “And there’s nothing in here that indicates he has been violent with staff in the past.”
“That’s because there’s nothing in there at all! The file is nearly empty. It says he is a big dude and wears a hat and doesn’t talk. It says he’s been in jail half his life. But, somehow, it doesn’t say on what charge? Hmm? That’s insane! You can’t have a forensic patient with no history, and no psychosocial, and no diagnosis, and nothing in his file, just waltz in here, and we’re supposed to figure this all out from nothing!” Gary is exasperated. Gary used to be a social worker in the finance world. He worked for a firm that did corporate layoffs, and Gary’s services were offered to those individuals who lost their jobs. He always ended