Page 11 of In a Haze

“That seems really wrong not to.”

“Maybe. If you voluntarily committed yourself, you might be able to do that.”

“How would I find out?”

“Fuck if I know.” As he draws in a deep breath, he rests his arm on the wall before leaning so that his forehead rests on it but he’s still looking out over the tiny slice of city in our view. “A lot of people here have been committed either by family members or doctors. They were probably told they were a danger to themselves and others.”

That’s a phrase I know I’ve heard before, but I have no idea if it had to do with me. I find myself nodding absentmindedly while biting my lower lip.

“Some people here have been ordered here by the court. So you tell me—prison or hospital?”

I shrug, still disappointed that I can’t get my hands on a computer. Somehow I know I’d be able to find answers to all my questions, including ones I don’t even know I have yet, and I have full faith in myself that I’d know what to do sitting in front of one.

But not all is lost.

Turning my head, I look toward one of the doorways. “What about the books in the rec room?”

He scoffs, lifting his head. “What about them?”

“I might be able to find something in them, to learn something important.”

“You might learn Jack shit, Anna. Those are mostly trashy novels in there.”

“Have you read them?”

“Hell, no. But don’t let me stop you.”

I touch his arm thoughtlessly. I saythoughtlessly, because already in the short time I’ve actually been awake here, I realize that while touching isn’t forbidden, it’s not necessarily a good idea. Some people here seem to have delicate psyches and a touch could send them over the edge. I just know that in my bones.

Not Joe, though, and I somehow knew that. He looks at my hand before making eye contact. And he smiles. It’s warm and almost loving, an expression I could easily get lost in.

So much so that I almost forget what I was going to say.

But I don’t. “Let’s go check them out.”

With a slow shake of his head, the smile plastered on his face, he says, “The things I let you talk me into…”

Already, this man makes my heart swell.

5

Joe was mostly right regarding the quality of literature on the big bookshelf in the rec room. Still, I am literally picking up every book and reading descriptions, because I want to see if anything catches my eye. Some of these books are Harlequin and historical romance but there are some thrillers in the mix as well and, as I settle into this new normal, I realize some of these books sound really good. If I wind up retaining my memories from here on out, I’ll consider reading some of these just to pass the time.

The old forties and fifties movies playing in the other room hold absolutely no interest for me.

After I’ve made it through half of the books on the top shelf, Joe says, “Hey, Blocks. Play some foosball with me.”

I turn my head slightly to find the Blocks person Joe is talking to. He’s a really thin guy, scary thin, with light brown hair and sharp dark eyes. Even though he looks really paranoid, he almost smiles at Joe. Joe turns and grins at me and I nod, letting him know I’m good with him being across the room instead of close by.

My arm is getting tired from reaching this high up to the top shelf, but I want to leave literally no book unexamined. This is all seemingly new to me, and I don’t want to miss anything. By the time I make it to the middle shelf, Joe and Blocks are in their second or third game of foosball and I’m getting tired—but I won’t give up. Most of what I’ve looked at is fiction, but there’s been a smattering of nonfiction—a Dave Ramsey book (which I fear wouldn’t help me or any patients in here until we leave this place), a book on marriage, a philosophical tome, and a slim volume covering the topic of copywriting.

Nothing and I mean nothing to help me with my plight.

But now I’m down on the floor looking through books on the fourth shelf before moving to the one on the very bottom, and I find something that might be helpful, although I’m not sure. The cover is green with yellow writing—theDSM-III, also known as theDiagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. I’ve heard of this before, I think, but the book in my hand is really old. When I open it, I also see that it’s missing lots of pages, maybe torn out by patients like me who want some information about their disorders. I leaf through it some and then put it back on the shelf, making a note that it’s there, just in case I want to access it later.

In the meantime, there might be even better resources for me to access. I’m starting to feel like I’m striking out.

On the bottom shelf, I’m finding some cookbooks of all things, along with an old treatise on economics and something focused on interior design. Why are these books here? It’s not like patients can enjoy any of them.

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