My new administrative assistant, Shannon—a middle-aged blonde with a passive-aggressive smile—greeted me at the center’s reception. The one-story glass building, with excessively vibrant landscaped grounds, was a mere ten minutes from downtown Santa Barbara and contained two hundred beds, fifty of which were reserved for long-term care. The rest were for the weekend benders, meltdown moms, and variety of people simply going through an anxiety rough patch. Substance abusers and alcoholics went to the rehab center across town.
“And here is our resident patient ward,” Shannon said, gesturing toward the set of beige double doors with small windows to prevent the staff from slamming into one another. “Fifty patients who receive around-the-clock care, including one-on-one and daily group therapy.”
Shannon pushed through the doors, and I followed along, feeling a bit like I was being led on a tour of a people zoo.
“These first ten rooms are for our suicide watches. The others are a variety of conditions—PTSD, chronic postpartum, eating disorders. The usual.” Shannon strolled along the hallway, waving her hands toward the different doors as she spoke.
There was nothing here I hadn’t seen during my last four years working at County, which meant most of these patients were textbook. Roughly seventy percent would respond to standard psychotherapy treatments. The other thirty percent were statistically likely to require life-long care, show little to no improvement, or require a treatment we weren’t able to provide.
My job was to ensure the center ran efficiently and benefited as many patients as possible.
“And that’s the tour!” Shannon said cheerfully, her brown eyes reflecting a different emotion altogether, while we stood at the end of the hallway.
Suddenly, my gaze was pulled down the immaculately polished, beige tile floor, gravitating toward the last room on the right. The small frosted-glass window was completely dark.
“Who’s in that room?” Room twenty-five.
“Which room, Dr. Valentine?”
A hard shiver sprinted through my body, and I rubbed my goose-bump-covered arms. “It’s a little cold in here, isn’t it?” Yes, we wanted to watch our expenses, but this was a little much.
Shannon shrugged. “I feel okay.”
Hmm. “I’ll look into the thermostat later.” I then pointed at room twenty-five. “And that? The room with no light inside despite it being ten in the morning and our facility having a strict rule about keeping to a schedule.” Routines were important for everyone—sane or not. So was sunlight. And no, the room couldn’t be empty. Not possible given we were full and turning people away from our lovely sanctuary of mental healing.
“Oh. That room…” Her eyes shifted a bit. “That’s Dr. Wilson’s patient.”
“Does the patient have an aversion to light?” Because obviously the curtains were drawn inside and the lights were off.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“So then?” I asked.
“Well, that patient is a little…” She leaned in to whisper, “He’s difficult.”
“I’m not following.” After all, that was our purpose: dealing with difficult people or people with difficulties.
She drew a breath so deep that her sagging posture almost looked correct for a moment. Almost. “He won’t speak to anyone, so Dr. Wilson gave us instructions to leave him alone until he’s ready.”
I lifted my chin and pushed my glasses back up my nose. “If the patient isn’t willing to engage in his own healing process, then we can’t help. Send him home or transfer him to County.” This facility was private, but operated mainly on grants from the state or donations, so we had a mandate in our charter to process a certain number of patients each year.
Shannon blinked at me.
“Are you confused?” I wasn’t sure what her blinking meant—not so obvious to someone like me.
“Dr. Wilson was very clear; the patient is not to be disturbed.”
Ah! Meaning, Shannon didn’t want to upset Dr. Wilson. “I see, Shannon. My apologies. It wasn’t my intention to put you in the middle.” This was a classic example of how my brain worked. The human-feelings element was generally an afterthought. I did try my best, however, to be aware of such things. I truly did. It was why I’d adopted a dog to help cultivate my ability to pick up on subtle emotional cues. So far, Bentley only stared a lot, as if waiting for me to do something.
I continued, “I’ll ask Dr. Wilson myself about Mr. Room Twenty-Five later. No action required on your part.” I offered Shannon a smile, hoping she’d know I meant no harm. I’m just a robot soul in a people suit. Don’t be frightened, human.
As we concluded the tour and walked away, I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder at that little dark window. Why was it so fascinating to me?
I shook it off, and Shannon then showed me back to my office—a bland-looking rectangle with a wall of windows facing the parking lot. Suited me fine. I wasn’t into fancy feng shui. Or mood lighting. Or anything that wasn’t functional. Desk, two chairs, computer, bookcase, done.