As we went up the stairs, I realized it was unwise to go back to the common room without hiding the hanger first. Kit and Grace might not even be there. I couldn't possibly have my hand stuck in the pocket for an eternity, waiting for them.—It would be a matter of time before it elicited suspicion from the staff. Yet freeing my hand might pose a risk. The wire might poke through the fabric of my sweater, or some unimaginable thing might happen and it might just fall out of the pocket. At this point, I couldn't be too cautious. I needed to hide it, somewhere nobody could see, somewhere even Grace or Jude couldn't imagine to be a hiding place.
The females' ward was located on the second floor, so when we got there, I stopped Mary.
"I'd like to go back to my cell. I don't feel really well."
"Do you need to go to the infirmary?" she said.
I shook my head, as I looked down at my toes. "No, it's not that— I just— It's probably the electroshock therapy I had this morning. I feel a little dizzy."
"Does your throat hurt, too?"
I looked up, and find her eyes looking back, worried. And it was only then that I realized there was a hand on my throat—my hand. Although I'd been cautious with this habit around Kit since he pointed it out, it never occurred to me that someone else might be aware of it, too. I didn't know if Mary Eunice knew it, or simply was concerned about my throat.
"Yes," I said, "yes, it does hurt." I swallowed. My heart thumped so hard, with such a violent force, that it really clouded my mind. It gave a heavy stone in my stomach. A faint taste of iron stung the tip of my tongue.
"Okay," she said. "To your room."
Then, as we changed our direction, she put her hand on my back. It was warm and soft. Even though my sweater and gown I felt it, and I feared the pounding of my heart would too travel to her hand.
The females' ward felt stifling, as always. With most of the inmates spending time in the common room, it had only some people during the day time. And as they almost never had a good reason to stay inside their cells—incapable of walking, too troubled to interact with others, restrained to their beds, or what have you—the ward at this time of day was the most daunting place on earth.
Walking down the corridor, we heard an earsplitting scream. The first millisecond of it startled both of us, but the rest was all too familiar to keep me on my toes. For good or bad, we were all going numb. Mary left my side, and went into the cell the sound came from. I hesitated, but kept walking. And as I walked past there, I saw, from the wicket, her and a young woman. They both sat on the bed, the head of the inmate on Mary's shoulder.
Only a glimpse. A brief moment.
But the image was burned in my mind, behind my eyelids, as I stepped into my own cell. Mary had their fingers intertwined, and her other hand stroked the brunette hair, that was a little longer than mine. It turned my stomach, but I couldn't put my finger on it. The way Mary held the woman in her arms, the way the black of her habit made a brutal contrast with the worn-out fabric of the hospital gown, or the fact that it could easily be us. I didn't know, I didn't want to know.
Would she hold me the same way, if I screamed like that?—She would. It was her job.
In the corner of my cold cell, I stood by myself, feeling the coldness of the hard floor crept up my legs. I waited for Mary, even though I didn't know if she would come. When she was done with soothing the woman, she might forget about me, and go about her business. But if she were to come, it was important she wouldn't catch me hiding the hanger. That would be a disaster. So I stood there, as I pushed my thumb into the edge of the hanger in my pocket.
"Miss Winters." Mary's face popped up from behind the door frame. "Don't you need to lie down?"
I nodded and sat on the edge of the bed. "Is she alright?" I asked, as she stood in front of me. "The woman, she was screaming."
"She's . . . easily disturbed, but she is no harm to anybody."
"How long has she been in here?"
She bit her lip, her eyes wandering. "She was already one of the oldest patients when I came here. More than two decades for certain."
Twenty years in confinement! The six-and-a-half-foot cube of her cell being her entire world for that long. Even a child could imagine what it would do to a person's mental hygiene. Whatever had gotten her admitted in the first place, it couldn't have been worse than what she suffered from right now. And that very idea frightened me to the core, that just like apples, humans could too rot if surrounded by other damaged humans for a length of time. It sent me chills, just to think I was one of the apples.
"Enough with the talking," Mary said. She gestured toward the pillow then, and her other hand grabbed the blanket folded at the end of the bed. "Lie down. I'll tuck you in."
At the suggestion I failed to hide my shock. "Tuck me in?" I let out a laugh before I could help it.
She looked as if she was going to blush. "I— Yes?" she said. "I don't know why you find it so funny." Her hands never let go of the blanket.
"I didn't say it was funny."
"You laughed."
I shrugged. "I just hope you know that I'm not five years old, nor am I your child."
"I'm very aware, but you're ill." The color of her cheeks darkened slightly.
"I hardly call myself ill," I said. "It's just . . . a mild headache."
"You need a rest. You said that yourself, remember?" She gave me a tiny grin. She put her hand on my shoulder, and gently pushed me towards the pillow. "Get some sleep and you may feel better."
The hand, though soft and warm like her smile, had a rather insistent grip on me. I figured she wouldn't go away until she was satisfied with her care.
"Fine," I said, and scooted up. But with my left hand still stuck in the pocket, the way I wiggled on the mattress was, without a doubt, unnatural and suspicious.
She must have seen it. She couldn't have missed it. Her gaze lingered on my bulgy pocket, but being the typical Mary Eunice, she didn't say anything. No question, no look of suspicion, no frown, no snicker.
She pulled the blanket up to my chin. Her fingers brushed against my hair in the process. She didn't draw away, or apologize. Her hand stayed there a little longer, and she looked at me, her face hovering over mine.
I fiddled with the coat hanger under the blanket. "Thank you, sister."
She smiled. "I'll see you tonight."
I waited until her footsteps disappeared behind the corridor door, and waited some more. Just in case she, for some mysterious reasons, decided to come back. Staring at the ceiling, I shivered at the coldness of the mattress under my back. The easily-disturbed woman, I think, began to sob again. But that was all there was, with no other sounds to break the silence. The hanger clinked in my grip.
Then, for the first time in an eternity, I unwrapped my fingers around it. I took my hand out of the pocket. The wire left red lines in my palm, and red dots on my thumb, where the tip of it dug in. It gave me unsettling feelings at first, not to have it pressed against my skin. It felt as though I'd lost an important part of my body. When I stretched my stiffened fingers, my joints ached.
I slid off the bed, and strode to the closed door. I pressed my cheek against the wicket, and when there was nobody in the corridor, I went back to the bed and hid the wire in the mattress. And as I sat on the bed, my head became clearer, and I realized what I had just done. The rush of adrenaline flooded me inside. I couldn't stop shaking, couldn't stop imagining what could've happened if Mary had caught me. Then, the sense of guilt clouded my mind again. I curled up, and closed my eyes. I wanted to scream, I wanted to sob, like the lady across the corridor.
Of course, this was not the end of it—far from it. But all the things that had happened today so far—and the sun was still rather high above the horizon—got my nerves worn out. It drained my energies, and stripped me of motivation, will to do anything anymore. I just felt like an empty vessel wrapped up in the blanket. Just a chunk of flesh and blood. I craved sleep, some blankness, a liberation from the weight of reality, no matter how fleeting it might be.
.
Mary came that night, as she promised. I felt her presence outside my cell, staring into the dark to see if I was awake, waiting for me to stand on the other side of the door. Her crucifix clattered against the metal, as if she couldn't get close enough.
I closed my eyes and continued sleeping, as she was part of the reality I was running away from.
ooOooOoo
So then I had a coat hanger. It remained unclear whether it'd really give us freedom, to the outside world, but either way it would restore Kit and Grace's trust towards me. That blackish-silver length of wire—it'd be the sign of my conviction in the eyes of Grace, the testament to my capability of deceiving Mary Eunice in those of Kit. In mine, it was the undeletable proof of my betrayal against Mary. Every time I felt it in my hand, I felt a wave of guilt.
But there was no other way out, no path to keep everyone from getting hurt. It was either betrayal against her or them. One of them meant eventual escape from this hellhole. The other one guaranteed nothing—nothing bright. I needed my future back. Not the one in a thick fog of insanity with Mary by my side, but the one filled with ordinary routines and peaceful boredom.
I had to choose one or the other. I had to choose freedom over Mary.
"Where's Kit?" I sat beside Grace on the couch the next morning.
The common room had changed its atmosphere while I was away for one night. The change was subtle, nothing too drastic. But at first view, I could tell what fit in and what didn't. A song with the slightest taste of Christmas had replaced Dominique. Mr. Bader had an ugly sweater on. Pepper's hair ribbon had changed to a green one, and her rag doll had a red ribbon around its neck.—Mary did that. It was the beginning of December.
"In Arden's lab," Grace said. "Where were you last night?"
"In my cell. I wasn't feeling well."
She nodded, bringing a cigarette to her mouth. "Kit said that— In the bakery yesterday, he said you were with Mary Eunice."
"I was." Then I knew what she was about say.
"Did you get it?" she said.
Still, I hesitated, because I felt like every part of this plan must be carried out with all three of us. Even an action as small as sharing information. I wished to do it when Kit was with us.—But if I withheld anything right there, Grace would see how deep the distrust between us was. If I seemed anything but forthright, the suspicion would be stronger, more prominent. This kind of stuff wouldn't vanish with time. It only grows, like a tumor. This would grow into a peril someday.
I looked around to see nobody was looking at us. Then, I turned my face to her, and gave a nod.
"You did?" Her eyes shone, as she scooted closer. "Shit, that's amazing. Where is it?"
"I hid it," I said. And when she kept staring into my face, I said, "In my cell. Nobody else knows."
"Is it thin enough for the locks?"
"I don't know yet— I think so. I couldn't just try it on my cell. It's too risky."
She bit on her lip, tapping her thumb on the inside of her knee. "Do you know where the old females' ward is?"
I said no. I never even knew there was an old ward.
"Right below our ward," she said. "We can test the— We can test it there. No one goes there anymore, so we don't have to worry about anyone."
"Are the locks the same as ours?"
She shrugged. "I think."
"Ok." I gave her a nod. "Yeah, it sounds good."
"Alright, let's do it, then." She sat up in her seat, and rubbed her fists against her thighs, as though to control her sudden surge of adrenalin. "I'll leave first. You wait five minutes and go back to your cell for it. We'll meet down in the old ward." She tried to stand up, but I grabbed her by the arm.
"Wait— Now?" I asked, pulling her back in the couch.
"You got a problem with that?"
"I don't know. Shouldn't we wait for Kit?"
"We don't know when he'll come back. I bet even Arden doesn't. We don't need him to simply see if it works or not." Her eyes flew to the door. "Just— Be careful, don't let anyone catch you sneaking in there."
Then she left. As I watched her walk out of the room, my eyes met with those of the guard, Sánchez, near the door. He had his arms crossed in front of his chest, as he glared at me. I looked down.
The next five minutes was possibly the longest limbo I'd ever had to endure. Though I tried to count in my head at first, I lost track after what I thought was a minute. Being away from a clock, or even the concept of time for so long, I had forgotten how long was a second. Five minutes was just a number to me now. It was easier to count the number of times I blinked, than to count five minutes. I tried to picture the pocket watch Arden gave Mary, and the second hand of it. Ticking on the black dial, oblivious to the cruel world of human beings. Again, it worked for the first thirty seconds or so. But as I followed the hand, it seemed to gain speed, a little faster with each ticking sound—ticktack, ticktack—until it became in sync with my bouncing knees.
I gave up and decided to smoke, then. It would usually take me a couple of minutes to finish one cigarette. So I smoked at a slower pace, as I thought about what I needed to do. The fire reached the filter at last, and it was my cue to leave.
When I was walking towards the door, however, Sánchez stopped me there. "Where're you going?" he said, with a deep crevice carved just in the middle of his thick unibrow.
"The bathroom," I said.
"Is that right?" He lifted the corner of his mouth. "So you aren't following the axe murderer?"
My blood nearly froze. I said no, as I tried not to shiver.
His black eyes flashed.—There was something other than suspicion. "You think you're being clever, not leaving here together and all." His Boston accent was thicker than Jude's. "But I've seen you two talking over there." He jerked his chin up at our designated couch.
"I didn't know being nice to each other was frowned upon here," I said.
Then, he snorted and called me a dyke. "Better watch your back." He curled his lip. "You prey on other patients, and I'll see to it that you'd spend the rest of your pathetic life in solitary confinement."
He put his hands on the hip, his right hand resting on the top of his police baton. And it clicked, that this guy was no psychic or lip-reader, but simply a homophobe. Watching me and Grace talk in secret, he assumed we were hooking up.
"Can I go? I'd like not to wet the floor," I said.
A big, fat storm is coming, guys.