Joe found the images on the TV screen distracting. Even without the sound, he knew the words to the Sony Walkman commercial and mentally inserted them: “Sony introduces the only cassette player as small as a cassette case. The incredible-sounding Super Walkman!” The banner at the bottom of the screen said, “Coming this September!” The new one looked cool, but he wasn’t about to replace the one he had back in his room. He’d packed only a few cassettes, not realizing he’d be gone for so long. Joan Jett & the Blackhearts. Fleetwood Mac. Hall and Oates. Before coming to Trendale, he’d used his Walkman every day, but they’d discouraged it here, saying he was using it as a buffer to keep from dealing with real life. He missed having his music with him all the time.
The Trendale Psychiatric Treatment Center was a big believer in schedules, something that kept him occupied from the time he woke up until lights out. Sleep schedule. Meal schedule. Exercise schedule and, of course, therapy schedule. He attended a lot of therapy discussion sessions as well as a regular one-on-one appointment with Dr. Jensen. And tucked between the regularly scheduled activities were music therapy and art therapy.
The staff seemed to believe that their therapy, combined with the right medication, could cure anyone. Joe was proving to be a challenge, but they assured him they wouldn’t be giving up on him anytime soon.
He tried, really he did. Joe had discussed every event in his life in detail, with a special focus on his mother’s death and his father’s remarriage, since Dr. Jensen thought the disturbing images that came to him in the night stemmed from childhood trauma. While it was true his mother had died in a car accident when he was a toddler and his father had remarried when he was in first grade, neither event struck him as being overly traumatic. He’d been home with his father at the time of the accident and didn’t remember his mother at all. Shortly after her death, he and his father had moved in with his aunt Betsy, who had been kind and nurturing. Nothing traumatic there. They’d lived with her for two years until his dad had met and married his stepmother. Joe had adjusted well to the new family dynamic. It helped that his stepmom was a sweet woman who loved his dad, cared about Joe, and was a good cook. And after she’d given birth to his little sister, Linda, they’d come together as a real family. From then on, she was his mom. There was no trauma that he could recall, no matter how hard he tried.
On the day he was sprung free, Nurse Fletcher was leading the group, starting them off with the topic of “Progress,” which was really just a sneaky way of getting them to talk about their problems and how they were faring. One by one, they went around the circle, explaining the events that had brought them here and talking about how Trendale had helped improve things. It could have been a commercial for the place.
When Joe had first arrived at the facility, his philosophy had been to downplay his symptoms, hoping to sound sane and reasonable, all the quicker to go home. No problem here! Just a few bad dreams! He’d glossed over the lack of sleep, made light of how he sometimes woke up in a cold sweat, screaming, his heart pounding, the memory of the dream as vivid as anything he’d experienced in real life. Making light of his situation had backfired in a big way. When Dr. Jensen told Joe one of the therapists had labeled him uncooperative, Joe adjusted accordingly, using more descriptive words and making sure to be expressive, using gestures and talking about his feelings, but they still viewed him suspiciously. He suspected his status had been changed from uncooperative to holding back.
If there was a way to satisfy them, he couldn’t figure it out.
This particular evening, he listened intently to each of his fellow patients, nodding sympathetically at their litany of woes. When it came to his turn, Joe took a deep breath and summarized the situation as it had happened at home. “It started out when my parents were concerned about the dreams I’d been having,” he said.
“Your parents were concerned?” Nurse Fletcher raised one eyebrow.
“I was concerned too, of course.” He looked around the room, taking note of all the expressions. Most of the others had heard his story many times before and were clearly bored. The newest patient, a doughy-faced woman in her forties with a tendency to swear like a sailor, looked only slightly more interested. “The dreams were vivid and had auditory, visual, and olfactory components.” He was proud of this additional information, the wording of which he’d stolen from one of the doctors. “A physical exam and blood tests did not show a biological reason for my problems.” Finding that out had proved reassuring, until he realized that since there was no biological underpinning, he was now officially a head case. “Two of the dreams leave me feeling sad and depressed, and two are frightening.”
The new woman broke in. “What is it about them that’s sad and frightening?”
Even though he knew the answer, Joe took a moment to appear as if he were seriously considering her question. Finally, he spoke. “They didn’t feel like dreams. They seemed real. Like I was there.”
She scowled. “That’s no big deal. All dreams feel like they’re real when you’re in them.”
Nurse Fletcher cleared her throat and said, “This group is about respect. We don’t disparage the experiences of others here.”
“Sorry.” Her head dropped, and her gaze went to the floor.
“Don’t worry about it,” Joe said.
The door, which was slightly ajar already, flew open, and one of the aides stuck her head into the room. It was Frieda, a favorite among the patients, known for her cheery disposition and sympathetic glances. “Joe Arneson? Someone is here for you.”
Nurse Fletcher stood, all the better to show who was in charge. “He’s in a therapy session right now.”
Frieda said, “It’s his grandmother. Come to check him out and take him home.”
“Check him out?”
“Yeah. It’s his dad’s mother. She says he’s being held here illegally, and she’s threatening to call the authorities.”
“Very well then.” Nurse Fletcher gestured impatiently to Joe to leave. “You may go.”
Joe rose to his feet, puzzled. There was no way someone had come to check him out, and especially not his dad’s mother, who’d died before he was born. Following Frieda down the hall, he squelched the urge to tell her there must have been some mix-up. Maybe he could take advantage of the confusion and slip out the door before they figured out this woman wasn’t connected to him at all.
“She’s a feisty one, your granny,” Frieda shot back, walking quickly. “Said if we couldn’t produce you packed and ready to go in fifteen minutes, she’d leave and come back with the police. She brought her attorney with her.”
“Sounds about right.”
Frieda stopped now, gesturing down the hall toward his room. “Better get scootin’ then and get your things together. Dr. Jensen don’t want no trouble.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She waited while Joe gathered up his few possessions and stuffed them in his duffel bag. He took one last look at the room: twin beds bolted to the floor, dressers built into the cement block wall, and a clock over the door, the incessant ticking enough to make a person insane if they weren’t already. His roommate, Clarence, was not in the room, probably pacing the hallways near the dining room. Poor Clarence. Nice guy but so troubled. Clarence had routines he couldn’t seem to stop doing, no matter how much talk therapy he participated in. He’d had electroconvulsive therapy and had lost some memory. The staff said it was likely to come back over time, but the loss troubled him, and sometimes at night, Joe heard him crying. The only things that helped were the pills the nurses doled out each evening. As much as Joe wanted to leave, Clarence wanted to stay. He liked the routine. He said it made him feel safe.