Page 38 of Ward D
She laughs. “No, I don’t care for knitting.”
The scarf trailing from the needles in her hands travels the length of the room. She has done nothing but knit since I set foot on this unit. “I would have thought you liked to knit. I mean, you’re doing an awful lot of it.”
She laughs again. “I’m not knitting because Ienjoyit. I’m knitting forprotection.”
I shake my head. “What do you mean?”
She looks down at the two knitting needles in her hands. “You can’t exactly bring a weapon onto a psych unit. But in case I need protection, I believe these will do nicely, don’t you?”
I look down at the shiny steel knitting needles, one in each of her gnarled hands. She’s right. They could serve as weapons if need be.
I wonder if I should warn Dr. Beck that she is thinking that way.
Mary reaches into the handbag next to her chair. She digs around for a moment and pulls out another knitting needle. She holds it out to me.
“Here,” she says. “You’re going to need this.”
My mouth falls open. “I really don’t think—”
“Take it, Amy.” Her hand holding the needle trembles slightly. “You’re going to want it when Damon Sawyer comes at you.”
Damon Sawyer.Yet another patient obsessed with him, certain he’s going to try to harm us tonight. I wish I could just ignore them. I probably should. But it’s hard when I keep hearing the same thing again and again.
“Damon Sawyer is locked up in seclusion,” I tell her.
“Yes.” Mary’s watery eyes bore into me. “For now.”
“Mary, I…”
“Take the knitting needle. Please, Amy. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
I start to shake my head, but instead, I grab the knitting needle out of Mary’s hand. She watches me as I bury the needle deep into the large side pocket of my scrub pants.
After all, it can’t hurt to have a little protection.
21
Hours Until Morning: 8
Ispend the next hour with Mary,
I learn more about her life. She worked as a secretary for thirty years for a man named Mr. Timmerman. Mr. Timmerman liked a cup of coffee every morning at ninety-thirty sharp, and he liked one spoonful of sugar and one spoonful of cream in his coffee, and to stir it once, but no more than that. Actually, I learned quite a bit about Mr. Timmerman’s coffee.
“Well,” Mary finally says, her voice raspy, “I’ve talked your ear off, haven’t I?”
“I like listening.”
“You’re a very good listener,” she tells me. “It’s a fine quality. You’re going to make an excellent doctor, Amy.”
My face flushes. “Thank you.”
“Also,” she adds, “will you please tell Dr. Beck that I never would have hurt that little girl? I was just taking her off the swing so the squeaking would stop. You know how annoying those swings can be, right?”
“Absolutely. I always hated swings.”
She looks relieved. “Thank you, Amy. I just want to go home. Tell Dr. Beck that I’m okay to go home, will you?”
“I will,” I promise. As if the attending would listen to me.
