Unlocked Page 6

  “Sure. Let’s buzz the station and ask.” They pushed the button and a chair was brought in and placed by the window a few moments later. Clara rose from her bed, adjusted the chair so she could see out the window and see her doctor at the same time, and she sat.

  “Dr. Lindenhurtz, I’ve been stuck in here for almost a week. I don’t have television. I don’t have my phone,” Clara cringed as she remembered the last time she held her phone…when her world shattered, “I don’t have my parents, and I don’t have any contact with the outside world or human beings for that matter except for you and the nurses and orderlies who only come in when it’s time to give me food or meds.” Clara chewed at her pinkie. “Can I at least leave this room? I’m feeling claustrophobic.”

  “Soon, Clara. I can’t necessarily make these decisions on my own. There’s a team of people looking out for you, and I need to run certain things by them.”

  “But you’re my doctor! Why can’t you decide?”

  “Well, Clara, on most things, I can. But with big decisions like lifting your room restrictions, or graduating to office visits, or—”

  “Wait, office visits?” Clara prodded. “What do you mean office visits?”

  “Well, as we progress through treatment, you will eventually be well enough to come visit me at my office. And after that, you’ll be released to home visits.”

  Clara was both nervous and excited. She didn’t like it at Breemont and wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. Unfortunately, the alternative would be to go home with strangers. Clara was hopeful that if she, in fact, was crazy, that she’d be well enough to recognize her parents sooner rather than later.

  Clara turned her head toward the window, aching to go outside. “How long will it take to find out if I can leave my room?”

  “I’ll have an answer for you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow’s Friday?”

  “Yes, Friday.”

  Clara bit her thumbnail and then rubbed her forehead, obviously troubled. Lydia noticed. It was a job requirement. “Clara, what’s wrong?”

  “Tomorrow’s Friday. That’s exactly one week since I last remember my life being normal. Just one week ago, seven days ago, I was thinking about a boy in my geometry class; I was worried about if some guy liked me or not. Today I’m locked away in an asylum, and I’m worried about if I’m a stark-raving lunatic or not. How could so much possibly change in one week?”

  Lydia was aware that Clara wasn’t really seeking an answer and that the question had been strictly rhetorical, so instead of responding, she smiled reassuringly and allowed her patient to continue.

  “My whole world is upside down. I don’t know if I’m coming or going. My mind feels strange. Foggy. Fuzzy. And my body feels like it’s not my own. I just…I don’t think this is my life. This isn’t where I’m supposed to be.”

  Lydia did not want to distract Clara by digging for her legal pad, so she kept mental notes as accurately as she could. She nodded, encouraging Clara to go on.

  “Even before I “went crazy” or whatever, I felt strange, like I didn’t belong…” Clara trailed off, realizing that she had been stressed lately, and wondered if that had contributed to her alleged psychotic break. Surely that was just a teenager being a teenager, she thought, fighting the ideas that were entering her mind. Ideas that made her doctor and her fake parents right. Ideas that made her...crazy.

  “How so?” Lydia asked.

  “I just felt…different. I can’t explain it. I felt like I could see more, hear more, do more.” Clara explained nervously, aware that she sounded nuts. Her doctor kept her poker face, which didn’t allow Clara to know whether or not Dr. Lindenhurtz thought she was nuts too.

  Lydia realized that her patient was finally opening up. She decided it was time to start getting a patient history from the patient herself to add to what Clara’s parents had already offered. She was careful not to be too pushy. She didn’t want to demolish the progress they had just made.

  “Clara, may I ask you a few questions?”

  She shook her head. Lydia took advantage of the pause and pulled out her legal pad. She knew she’d need to write down this information. She thought about recording the audio, but she remembered how Clara had been uncomfortable with it before. Another time, she thought.

  “Clara, let’s think about the last six months. Try to answer all questions honestly and as accurately as you can, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “In the last six months, have you become withdrawn from doing things with others?” Lydia began.

  “Well, yes. And no. I mean, I’ve always been a bit of a loner. When you move twenty times a year,” she exaggerated, “you kinda hafta be.”

  “Alright.” She scratched the paper with her pen. “Do you tend to be uncertain and shy when dealing with other people?”

  “Sometimes, I guess. I was pretty shy at my last school, especially around Michael.”

  “Who is Michael, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  For the first time since she had met Clara, Lydia saw a real smile spread across her patient’s face. “He’s the boy from my geometry class. I had a huge crush on him. I had finally worked up the nerve to invite him over to study when everything went haywire.”

  “I see.” Lydia smiled back, relieved that she was finally building a rapport with Clara. “How about your frame of mind? Have you felt depressed, sad or uncertain over the last few months?”

  “Well, I’ve been sad and depressed for the last week. Does that count?” The smile faded from her face. “But over many weeks? No. Not really. But, I guess, I’ve sort of been uncertain for a while. I’m not even sure about what. I guess I’m uncertain about what I’m uncertain about.”

  Lydia continued to write as quickly as her hand would move. She could have just written down “yes”, but that wasn’t as accurate. She preferred to record direct quotes to get a more personal, detailed feel for the patient’s mindset. “Has your sleep pattern changed? For example, do you have difficulties falling asleep, sleeping through the night, or waking earlier than normal?”

  Clara thought for a moment before answering. “I think I’ve been sleeping fairly normally, except for the last week. The pills they give me make me so tired. You’re my doctor, can’t you change that?”

  “I will most certainly see what I can do.” Lydia confirmed. “I’ve got to work together with the team, but I’ll go over your meds list with the Breemont staff tonight after BioTech sends your medical file over. We all need to be on the same page before we go switching up your medicine.”

  “BioTech? Like, where my dad works? Why do they have a medical file on me?” Lydia was caught off guard. Did Clara not know she was part of a trial? She erred on the side of caution explaining that her dad kept her records at work for easy access in case anything ever happened, and that it would be easier and faster to get the file directly from him rather than from the doctor. Lydia wondered why Clara’s parents would keep that information from her, she guessed that maybe it was for the same reasons some parents waited to tell—or never told—their children they were adopted. She made a note on her legal pad to ask about it when she saw Mr. and Mrs. Marcel again.

  Clara, sharp-minded in spite of the fact that she said the meds made her foggy, immediately questioned her doctor: “Well, then why wouldn’t he have brought it over already.”

  Quick-minded herself, Lydia didn’t miss a beat, “He had to copy it all, and he and your mother were so busy making this,” she motioned to the scrapbook, “that it slipped his mind. We should have your file any time now.” Clara looked as if she believed her doctor. This relieved Lydia.

  “Moving onto the next question: Have your movements, thoughts and speech become noticeably slower?”

  “Actually, no. The opposite is true. I feel like I’m moving more quickly and thinking more clearly,” Clara proudly stated, “Until they started drugging me, anyway. My speech is the same, though.”

  “Has your stamin
a and motivation at school and during leisure time activities decreased noticeably?”

  “No, I guess it’s about the same. I’ve always gotten good grades. Studying comes naturally, and I have really good test taking skills. Or at least that’s what my teachers tell me.”

  “Okay, are you often nervous, uneasy, or tense?”

  “Yes. Lately, I have been. I’ve just felt…off. I can’t really explain it.”

  Lydia was pleased with how well this was going. Clara was really putting herself out there, and Lydia was able to get a glimpse into the months leading up to Clara’s break with reality. She noted the answer dutifully and moved on to the next question: “Do thoughts in your head often become mixed up?”

  Clara laughed uneasily, “Well, yeah, I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, Clara, but what about before?”

  “Yes, sometimes. Sometimes I’d forget how I got somewhere, or I’d think someone was talking to me when they weren’t. Not often, though. Not like some weirdo. Just sometimes.”

  “Do you have the feeling, more often than before, that people want to trick you, use you, or cheat you?”

  “Yes, but that’s only been the last week. I feel like my parents,” Clara choked out the word, “are lying to me. I don’t believe they are really my parents.”

  “Clara, in the last six months, have you had the impression that certain everyday events that occur, for example the wording on street signs or a commercials on television, are personally related to you or are meant for you alone?”

  “Like a sign? Like a personal message from the universe? Straight out of the tv or off of the radio?” Clara scoffed. “No, I’m not a loon.” Clara was clearly embarrassed and offended by the question.

  “Clara, I’m only asking a set of predetermined questions. And this,” she motioned to the space between them, “is a no-judgement zone. Whatever is said between us,” she motioned again, “is safe.”

  Clara’s posture seemed to loosen. She thought about signs from the universe. All teenagers looked for them, especially teenage girls, she thought of all the phrases she’d recited over the years, I wish I may, I wish I might; he loves me, he loves me not; find a penny, pick it up the next song that comes on the radio will determine if he’ll go out with me or not. Didn’t all girls do that? She tried to think if there were any instances where she was given a sign she hadn’t asked for. She couldn’t remember any.

  Lydia began to speak again, “Do you observe sounds or colors in your environment as being unusually intense or clear?”

  “Well, like I said earlier, I feel like I see and hear better. Like, everything’s clearer or something. I don’t know.” She explained, blushing.

  “Do you sometimes feel your thoughts are being interrupted or disturbed by others’ thoughts?”

  “Like, can I read minds? No. I can’t read minds. I don’t need a tin foil hat, and I don’t believe the government is watching me!”

  Clara’s outburst startled both of them. Finally, Lydia said, “Clara, I know you are frustrated. We only have one more question, okay?”

  Clara nodded and continued, “I’m sorry.” She meant it. “I just…I just don’t like the idea that people think I’m crazy. To answer your question: No. I’ve always been really good at reading people by their actions and the tone of their voice, but as far as reading their minds? No, I can’t do that.”

  Lydia made notes and moved on, “Last question: At times do you feel that you are being especially observed, followed or threatened by something?”

  Clara chuckled at the question, “Well, I think I already answered that. Didn’t I just say I didn’t think anyone was watching me—not even the government.” Lydia returned Clara’s smile.

  #

  Later, as Lydia walked out of the building and headed home, she thought again of Clara’s ability to laugh at herself in light of her situation when she had been asked about being watched. “Not even the government,” she had said with a smile. On her way out the doors of Breemont, Lydia spied a potted plant in decorative gravel. She snuck a piece and bounced it in her hand until she was out of sight of anyone who might be watching from the Information Desk. She whispered to the rock, “You’d get a kick outta this one, Ollie,” and tossed the pebble into the gutter, reminiscing about the first time she had met her eccentric friend.

  Chapter Eight—Lydia’s New Friend

  “That’s the last of the boxes, I think.” Lydia said to Dylan who was supposed to be helping her move. Instead, he was scrolling on his phone, forever scrolling on that damn phone. Sure, he had done a lot of the heavy lifting, but she had packed everything in both his and her apartments, sealed every box with tape, labeled everything herself, rented the moving truck,paid for the moving truck, paid the first month, last month, and hefty deposit, and now she was unpacking all the boxes she had packed alone, filing cabinets and drawers and closets with their stuff. She was happy he had suggested they move in together, but Lydia rarely enjoyed happiness without a price. She felt as if she was already beginning payment on this one.

  She hadn’t really wanted to move, but when she lost her job after the…incident…Dylan had suggested not only that they move in together, but that they relocate. “It’s the only thing that makes sense,” he had convinced her. “Besides, you have plenty of savings to get us through.” This was true. Lydia was a saver, not a spender, but she hadn’t planned on solely funding this “new adventure” with every last cent of her savings account. Dylan, on the other hand, spent enough for the both of them. He picked up odd jobs here and there that usually made ends meet, but he mooched off of Lydia when he came up short. He had a lead on a job in Breemont, and so they moved. Lydia was in too fragile a state to argue or suggest an alternative. Quite frankly, she was ready to move on.

  “I’m beat.” She sighed as she flopped down on the couch beside him.

  “Me too,” he mumbled, not looking up from his phone, “Who knew moving could be such hard work.”

  “Right. I’m going to jump in the shower, and then I think we should go out and explore the neighborhood…find somewhere to eat. I definitely do not feel like cooking.”

  “Uh oh. Day one and you’re already slacking!” His face suggested he was teasing—what she could see of it since he hadn’t looked up when he said it, but his tone seemed accusatory. At any rate, it rubbed Lydia the wrong way. She was educated, employed, and paying all the bills. She knew she would be paying for dinner too, so why should it matter whether she was the one who cooked it or not?

  “It will be nice to go out. We can get a feel for where we live. Maybe while I’m in the shower, you can search for a little bistro or something, find us somewhere to eat.” Lydia suggested as she rose from the sofa and crossed to the other side of the apartment.

  “Sure,” he murmured.

  When Lydia was freshly showered, which took a little longer than usual because she decided to organize the bathroom while she was in there, hanging towels and unpacking the box of toiletries she had slid in front of the sink and forgotten about earlier that day, she felt refreshed and ready to explore. She slung her hair up into a white towel, wrapped another around her small frame, and opened the bathroom door.

  “Where are we eating?” Lydia called. Because of the open floor plan, she could see from where she was that he hadn’t budged since she left him sitting there at least a half an hour before. “I am absolutely famished!”

  “Oh. Ya know, I’m tired and I don’t really feel like going out. I just called in a pizza. Should be here soon.”

  “Dylan, I’m exhausted too, but I really wanted to check out the neighborhood…and commemorate this big day. We just moved in together!” Lydia was annoyed and disappointed, but she had gotten used to that. No relationship is perfect. She knew that better than most due to her profession as a psychiatrist.

  “Yeah, we just moved in together. Let’s relax in our new place. We can enjoy an evening in. Doesn’t that sound nice too?” Lydia admitted to her
self that after a long day of moving, it did sound nice to stay in, but for weeks, every time Lydia suggested they take a weekend trip to the new neighborhood to scout it out, he put her off, promising that as soon as they had officially moved in, they’d do exactly that.

  “I think I’ll go check things out myself.” Lydia threw this out with the hopes that Dylan would reconsider. He didn’t.

  “Alright. Maybe you’ll be able to weed out the bad restaurants before I waste my time with them.” Lydia sighed and stepped back into the bathroom. Behind the closed door, she wiped the fog from the mirror and looked herself in the eye. She shrugged her shoulders and began drying her hair. She dressed and began to leave her new apartment…and her new roommate who was still on the couch entranced with his phone. When she opened the apartment door a uniformed teenager held out a pizza.

  “$16.42.” a flat voice stated.

  “Hon, since you’re up, can you pay him.”

  Lydia hid her disgust and opened her pocketbook. She handed him a twenty and squeezed by him. “Keep it.”

  As she made her way down the hall, she heard Dylan muttering something about how he guessed she wasn’t going to bother to bring the pizza in, apologizing to the pizza boy.

  She let out one irritated chuckle and continued down the hall.

  She meandered through the streets. They were busier than she had originally thought, but it was still a much quieter area than she had lived in previously. The shops were cute. There was a clothing boutique called Chartreuse You, a happy little salon with the word “Hair-etige” painted in white across the glass pane on the door, and a couple of restaurants. She stepped inside “The Rare Bird”. It had a charming outdoor seating area, and the name made her giggle. Why “The Rare Bird”? she wondered. Undercooked poultry sounded less than appetizing. But despite the strange name, it was close, cute, and smelled delightful, so she sat down and ordered.