Page 20 of Ward D
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, unsure how to respond to that.
“No,” Will says. “I don’t hear the voices anymore. The medications got rid of them.”
According to the printed medication list Ramona showed me, Will Schoenfeld is on a cocktail of two antipsychotic medications. He’s only been on them for a short time, but they seem to be working.
Or so he says.
“Do you live with anyone?” I ask.
“No. I live alone.”
“So you’re not married?”
“No. Never.”
“Do you have a significant other?”
He squirms. “This isn’t exactly an ideal time in my life to be getting involved with a woman. I need to get myself together first.”
That’s the most logical thing I’ve heard anyone say since I’ve been here.
I glance at the stack of books on his dresser. I hadn’t noticed it before but he was readingA Prayer for Owen Meany, which is one of my favorite books of all time. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anyone approximately my age reading that book before, and I’m not sure how to feel that the first person I’ve seen reading it is in a psychiatric ward.
“What?” Will says.
“That’s my favorite book,” I say. “Owen Meany.”
For the first time since I came into the room, I get what looks like a genuine smile out of him. “I love John Irving,” he says. “He’s been my favorite since I was ten years old.”
“Oh my God, me too!” I cry. “I’ve read everything by him.”
“So have I.” He gestures at the stack of books, which I now realize is all John Irving books. “I brought them with me to keep me company. I’ve been rereading them since I got here.” He picks up the thick paperback copy ofOwen Meany.“This one, I’ve read about fifty times.”
“I’ve read it a hundred times.”
He laughs. “Competitive, are you?”
“Well, like I said, it’s my favorite.”
“I love to read,” he says. “I try to read at least one or two books a week, and I try tore-read at least one Irving book a month.”
“That’s impressive,” I comment. “I don’t have time to read more than a few books a year. What do you do for work?”
In an instant, the walls go up again. When he answers, his tone is flat again. “I drive for Uber.”
Well, that does it—I’m never taking an Uber again. My mother will be thrilled. But the truth is, I’m surprised by this choice of occupation. He looks more like he would be a teacher or a writer. He doesn’t look like someone who would drive for a living. Then again, I’m sure it’s steady, flexible work if that’s what he’s looking for.
“So I guess you see a lot of people in the course of your job,” I say.
He pushes his glasses up his nose again. “That’s right.”
“And did the voices ever tell you to…”
Will Schoenfeld tilts his head to the side. He’s quiet for a long time, then he finally says, “I already told you. I would never hurt anybody.”
He holds eye contact while he answers my question. Why wouldn’t he tell me the truth? What does he have to gain? We’re here to help him, and as far as I can tell, he’s here voluntarily. Doesn’t hewantto get better and stop hearing voices? Still, something in my gut is screaming one thing:
This man is lying to me.
