Chapter 4
4
For the rest of the week, I kept an eye on Jane Doe, increasingly certain I knew her. Every time I stopped in her room to study her blank, frozen face, the feeling grew.
If only I could talk to her. If only I could find out what had happened to her—something so presumably horrific that it had caused her conscious mind to shut down.
On Monday morning, I came into a flurry in the break room: joyful voices ringing out, growing louder as I approached.
“Gorgeous!” Rachel was gushing to Amani. The twentysomething new hire was nice enough, but I disliked how she constantly used the royal “we,” bringing her boyfriend into every conversation. I’d always been vaguely annoyed by people who did this, shoving the reality of their relationship—the fact that they’d been somehow chosen —into my usually single face.
Now, she hoisted Amani’s wrist. “Thea, look! Our girl’s enga-a-aged!”
“Oh, wow. Congratulations!” I took Amani’s hand, exclaiming over it like a courtier, the way you were supposed to. “It’s beautiful! Derek did a great job.” I let go and Rachel snatched her hand back, examining the ring like a jeweler.
“Thanks.” Amani smiled demurely. “He let me pick it out, thank God. Otherwise I don’t know what you’d be looking at.”
“Tell her how he did it.” Rachel nudged her.
I kept my face ecstatic as Amani shared the proposal, which involved their first-date restaurant and the ring dropped in a glass of champagne.
While Dom was my aspirationally nontraditional friend, Amani was the opposite. A stunningly pretty biracial woman, she’d been with her boyfriend for years and wanted to get married and have kids soon, even though she was only twenty-six. At thirty-three, I didn’t know what I wanted. Admittedly, I’d fantasized about a more traditional life with Ryan. After all, that was the way I’d been raised: in a conservative town, to Christian parents, where the path to partners and parenthood was so straightforward. But there was a reason I’d left.
Still, a weight sat in my stomach as I did my morning rounds. Why did it seem so easy for certain people to find their person?
Maybe because they don’t have disgusting, shameful secrets like you. The insidious thoughts rose like smoke. Ones that cause people to dump you instantly.
I tried to push them away as I approached Block D. Lonnie was again in the doorway. But this time he clearly had an erection.
“Lonnie, you can’t be here.” This wasn’t the first time I’d seen someone masturbating at work, but something about it being Lonnie disturbed me.
He pulled his eyes away and focused on me. “What?”
“You. Cannot. Be. Here.” I pointed to his groin. “Do I need to call someone?” I knew he hated being put on observation, which we did for patients acting sexual or aggressive.
He scoffed, straightening his glasses. The ghostly air of his past professorship came through. “No need for dramatics.”
“Then you need to leave.”
He raised both hands. “It’s not my fault. Look at what she’s wearing.”
I peered in the door. Jane Doe was sitting on her bed, facing the back of the room, wearing one of the standard-issue sports bras given to female clients. Her shirt was laid out neatly beside her like a nurse had been called away in the midst of dressing her. The nurses had to do everything for her: walk her into the shower and soap her up and rinse her. Sit her on the toilet every few hours so she wouldn’t soil her pants like she had the second day. Feed her with a spoon.
“She’s doing it on purpose, you know.” Lonnie spit the words out, his face now rigid with anger. “She’s fooling us all. She’s a spy; can’t you see that?”
Before I could respond, he strode off, muttering to himself.
I took a deep breath and went into the room. One of the other patients’ gentle snores sounded like purrs.
“Hi there,” I said in a soothing singsong as I approached Jane Doe. Diane had encouraged me to talk to her, even if she didn’t show any signs of hearing. “It’s me, Thea. Looks like you need a little help getting dressed today.”
She sat hunched over, her hands curled in her lap. A strand of drool wet her chin. I watched her for a moment, considering Lonnie’s words. He was stretching it with the spy thing, but it wouldn’t have been the first time someone had faked mutism or catatonia. According to Amani, one patient had done just that two years ago. It had ended when he’d been caught making calls in the bathroom. He’d owed dangerous people money and thought the locked doors, security cameras, and security guards would protect him. I’d wondered what had happened to him after he’d been kicked out.
But Jane Doe… It was clear to me, at least, that she truly wasn’t here. That she’d retreated to some back corner of her brain.
I picked up the shirt, noticing a tattoo on her pale, sunken chest, over her heart. It looked like a symbol or hieroglyph about two inches high. I didn’t remember reading about a tattoo in her chart.
I leaned closer. The symbol was a spiral inside a triangle, with dots at different intervals along the curve of the spiral.
I’d seen it before. The small tug of recognition ignited a spark of excitement.
But where? I couldn’t remember. If I could look it up, though… it had to be online.
I looked to the bedside table for the pad and pen before remembering another patient had presumably taken them. I pulled my phone out of my back pocket, and before I could even pause and question it, I took a photo. The sound was on and the loud click in the quiet room made me flinch.
“Okay.” I slipped the phone back and stood. “Let’s get you dressed.” It was surprisingly hard to wrangle an item of clothing onto someone who did nothing to help you. But as I pushed her cold hands through the sleeves, I also shoved away the remorse and fear rearing up.
Taking a picture of a shirtless female patient—I could get fired for that.
But another part argued back.
You did it for a reason.
It’s a clue to who she is, what she went through.
You’re just trying to help.