Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [15]
He always refused. Not because he felt loyal or committed or even religious. He wouldn’t because he knew it was what I wanted.
7
The interminiable admissions process made me wish I’d kicked off my morning with Grand Marnier in my coffee instead of a flavored creamer.
First, there was the tour. It all sounded like, “this is that, and that is this” to me. For most of it, I suspended my peripheral vision, dreading the sight of a familiar face. Then, I spent hours fluttering through papers requiring my signature and eternal promise to release everyone from responsibility for me. Except myself. Jan rescued me after the last round of signing. “Ready?”
“Probably not.” If I’d waited for ready, I’d still be home.
Nurse Jan steered me through the brocade wallpapered halls, softened every six to eight feet with rivers of deep blue chintz curtains that puddled lavishly on buttercream tiled floors. When we reached the doors that separated the newly sober from the nearly drunk, she punched a series of numbers into the black-buttoned pad on the wall. The monster doors slowly obliged, opening their wide steel arms to my world for the next thirty days.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as we walked the short distance from the now-closed doors to what looked like a nurses’ station. Two semi-adults perched on stools, flipping through charts. How embarrassing. I’m being held hostage by people who don’t look much older than the ones I teach. They had already known we were on our way because of the closed-circuit cameras in the hallway. What a bizarre experience to stand there and watch myself watch me.
Chart Reader 1 stood, smiled, and extended a hand. “Hello. My name is Matthew. I’m one of the interns. Glad you’re here.”
He was tall, but he had one of those triangular builds that reflected hours of muscle building. An over-compensator, I figured. He had a firm, friendly grip. Not like one of those well-water handshakers, the ones who felt compelled to pump my arm like they expected water to spurt out of my mouth.
“Me too. Glad I’m here, I mean. Well, I’m not glad I have to be here, but that's another story, right?” I stared at his long blondish hair pulled back in a ponytail, wondering why white men bothered to let their hair grow long. I mean, they weren’t going to braid it or corn row it or French twist it or pigtail it or ever want an up-do.
“Right,” he said, a grin playing around his mouth. Matthew wore a white button-down collared Oxford, khaki pants, and deck shoes. And, I think, for someone who looked ready to step into an L. L. Bean catalog, he seemed a bit too happy to see me. I should ask later if they get paid per admission.
He relieved Nurse Jan of my suitcases and wheeled them into the belly of the center station. Chart Person 2 said, “Welcome,” took a set of keys from Matthew, and headed off down the hallway.
“Jan and I need to review some last-minute paperwork. We’ll finish going through your suitcases, return your purse, and then show you your room. There's a waiting area over there,” Matthew said and pointed to the right, “where you can watch television while we do this.” For the tiniest moment, I felt a swish of random panic. I’m really here. I’m really alone. Matthew must have seen that shadow dance across my face because he stopped the symphony of zippers as he opened my bag and whispered to Jan who moved to rescue me from myself.
“You might be more comfortable over here.” Jan's voice thawed my frozen moment as she took my hand and guided me to a room on the other side of the one Matthew had pointed to. She flipped the nearby light switch. “This is the patients’ rec room,” she said, with a Vanna-like sweep of her arm.
Rows of ceiling lights crackled on, like bright kicks in a chorus line, revealing a new section of my house away from home. The lavish decorating never made its way past the monster doors and into this oyster white rectangle of a room. Tired olive green, square-cushioned, pseudo-leather sofas separated by bow-legged tables