Page 25 of Ward D
Dr. Beck nods, impressed. “Someone came prepared tonight.”
Cameron beams. Oh great, now that he got some positive feedback, he’ll be completely intolerable.
“He thinks that the webs in his hands are linked to urination,” Dr. Beck explains to me. “So he just stands over the toilet, trying to shoot out webs. And of course, it’s all made much worse by the fact that the medications he’s taking cause urinary retention.”
“Poor guy,” I murmur.
“You should go see him, Amy,” Dr. Beck says. “He’s got a classic case of schizophrenia, as I said. It will be a good learning experience.”
“I already saw a patient with schizophrenia.” It’s better than saying that the idea of interviewing a man who thinks he’s Spider-Man makes me uneasy. “William Schoenfeld.”
Dr. Beck considers this. “He’s interesting in a different way. His presentation is atypical for paranoid schizophrenia.”
“It is?”
“I’d say so,” Dr. Beck says. “He has the positive symptoms Cameron mentioned, such as hallucinations. And definitely paranoia. But not many negative symptoms. Also, he says he only started hearing the voices a few months ago, and it’s pretty rare for a man in his late twenties to have a first schizophrenic break. Usually, males present in their late teens or early twenties.”
I frown. “So what does that mean?”
“Could be an atypical presentation of schizophrenia, like I said.” He lifts a shoulder. “But there’s also a chance that his symptoms started a long time ago. Way before a few months ago. After all, many people with schizophrenia aren’t aware that they’re experiencing symptoms.” He drums his fingers on the table. “He could have been hearing those voices foryears.”
I try to imagine what it must be like to spend years of your life hearing voices telling you to kill people.
“Anyway.” Dr. Beck waves a hand. “The medications are currently suppressing Schoenfeld’s symptoms. Go see Daniel Ludwig. I think you’ll find it very interesting.”
“I’d be happy to introduce you, Amy,” Cameron speaks up.
Great. They’re both looking at me. I’m going to have to do this.
“Sure,” I say. “Let’s go.”
15
Hours Until Morning: 11
Since the patient rooms are so small and there are two of us, we decide to interview Spider-Dan in the patient lounge.
The patient lounge is larger than the staff lounge, but it’s not any nicer. Also, it must have been painted recently because there’s a faint fresh paint smell hanging in the air. I wait there, sitting on a sofa that has a pattern of cherries on it. I can’t stop tapping my feet.Tap tap tap.Between me and Mary with her knitting needles, we could be a band together.Tap tap tap. Click click click.
I try not to think about Jade. I get to leave here after tonight, but Jade is stuck here indefinitely. I don’t know what she did to land herself in this place, but I don’t doubt she deserves to be here.
What I know for sure about Jade is that she’s bipolar. That was the diagnosis she got when she was hospitalized when we were sixteen years old. I found out after that her mother had the exact same diagnosis—these things tend to run in families. They put her on a medication to control it, then a second medication. She seemed so different once she was on a bunch of medications—like a zombie. She wasn’t my best friend anymore. It was like she had a frontal lobotomy.
Well, the best I can say is that she seems like her old self right now.
God, I hope she doesn’t tell Dr. Beck that she knows me. That would be beyond mortifying. Especially if she tells him that—
“I’m not supposed to have these crackers!”
An elderly man is standing in front of me, gripping a crumpled paper bag. I don’t know who he is, but he’s got a white wristband on his left wrist, which means he’s a patient. He looks like that actor who used to be in the westerns a long time ago—my grandmother used to love him. Clint Eastwood, I think his name was.
“Excuse me?” I say to the old man.
“These crackers.” The Clint Eastwood look-alike shakes the bag in my face, which I can now see contains about a dozen packets of saltines. “I’m diabetic! Who gave me all these crackers?”
“Um,” I say. “I’m not sure.”
“I’m not supposed to have them,” Clint informs me. “This is a mistake. These crackers could kill me!”
