Chapter One Excerpt
Ravensbrook Sanitarium, 1970s
There’s something I’m supposed to remember.
I’m sure I knew it once. It’s long gone now.
I look out the dirty, grime-streaked window. The sky
is gray, and you can feel the moisture outside as though
you’re part of the mist.
Even inside, the world around me is dense and foggy.
I know there are others, but their lines are blurred
and distant regardless of proximity.
I look down at my lunch. The tray is still full.
Didn’t I eat? I thought I had.
I pick up a slimy peach, and it slides off the fork and
back onto the tray.
I don’t think I’m very hungry.
“Nadia, you need to eat your lunch,” says one of the
nurses, looking at my untouched tray. She looks grim, her
mouth a straight line. It’s like a child drew it in pencil and
forgot her lips. Her skin is almost gray. It clashes against
the bright white of her uniform.
“I’m not very hungry,” I tell her, looking back out the
window. It feels brighter out there, despite the gloom.
She sighs heavily. “You know you need to eat some
of it. Your meds may suppress your appetite, but we can’t
have you starving to death.” She puts her clipboard down
on the table next to me and picks up my fork. She stabs a
very overcooked slab of what might be meat and shoves it
into my mouth.
I chew obediently. It’s not a good idea to argue. Bad
things happen when you don’t do what you’re told.
Resisting any part of your treatment plan is grounds for
the seclusion room. I don’t want to go back there.
She stabs another piece with the fork and tells me to
eat it.
When I do, she grabs her clipboard and moves on to
the next patient.
I eat a little more on my own. Enough that she won’t
come back.
There’s a distinct smell to the dining hall, like junior
high cafeteria meets nursing home. Sweat, body odor,
cigarette smoke, and cheap meat permeate the area. It’s
not a pleasant place to be, but if I’m being honest, there
isn’t a pleasant room in this facility.
The nurse stops by my table again, glancing at my tray
to ensure I made an attempt to eat. She nods, seemingly
satisfied, and makes a note in my chart before moving on.
I long ago lost track of what day it is, but after lunch,
we meet with the doctors in our rooms during rounds.
At least, I think that’s what happens after lunch.
I don’t correctly remember a lot of the time anymore.
Much of my life prior to Ravensbrook Institute has been
lost, really.
Occasionally, there are flashes of people or a brief
memory that appears, but then my meds kick in, and
they’re lost again.
I typically spend my days, well, dazed, for lack of a
better term. I do my best to play nice and not anger
anyone. I’ve learned it’s not a good idea to argue.
I glance around, looking for the others with blurry
outlines. Someone I know is sitting two tables over. Betty,
I think her name is. Or is it Paula? She sees me looking
and gets up, then shuffles over to my table.
“Hey,” she says, sliding into the chair across from me.
“Did you know this used to be a tuberculosis clinic when it
was built? One of those ‘wellness retreats’ for rich people.”
She moves her head to look directly into my eyes, to see if
I’m paying attention. She’s high-strung, and she taps her
nails on the table.
“Oh?” I try to sound attentive, but I don’t care.
“Yeah, Ravensbrook was built in the 1890s or
something. Know how many people it’s supposed to
hold?” She looks like the cat who ate the canary, like she’s
holding back a secret she thinks I just can’t wait to hear.
“How many?” I wish she’d go away. My head is
starting to hurt.
“Just a hundred,” she says, frowning. “There’s almost
four hundred now. I overheard two of the nurses talking.”
She picks at a cuticle.
“Oh. Wow.” I want to go back to my room. The
lights here are too bright, and Betty/Paula’s voice is
making my headache worse.
“Can you believe that? In eighty years, it went from a
place for rich people to a loony bin where they drug us to
keep us in line. One of these days I’m going to get out of
here, I really am.” She’s agitated now.
I think the nurses may need to up her dosage.
She’s quiet for a moment, then blurts out, “Do you
hear the screams at night?” She looks at me, wide-eyed.
I think this is what she really wanted to ask. The
information about the building was a segue.
“Sometimes,” I say truthfully. Occasionally, my meds
start to wear off late into the night, and I lie in bed awake.
I hear the screams, even though I try not to.