Freedom of Sketch

Visitation, Part III

I hear the unit doors buzz and unlock. I lean forward, wringing my hands in anticipation. A tech escorts Lizzie into the cafeteria. She sees me but quickly takes in the rest of her surroundings with shiny, frightened blue doe eyes before moving an inch. Daniel was right: she looks incredibly ill.

"Lizzie!" I yell, waving my arms.

"No yelling," admonishes one of the techs on visitation patrol.

My friend tiptoes toward my table. She's dressed fashionably for our cold front: chunky, fur-lined boots, thermal plum leggings, thick black shorts, likely another thermal or two beneath a hand-crocheted snowflake sweater, and a self-made beige infinity scarf. She straightened her hair and bleached the ends since I last saw her.

When we hug, I still feel her bones under a thousand layers of fabric.

Tech on Visitation Patrol: *of our embrace* "Okay, ladies... hurry it up!"

We sit next to each other. Lizzie doesn't say much. Her eyes focus on a bright laminated sign hanging on one of the walls: "All patients are expected to finish their meals within thirty minutes."

"What's up, Lizard?" I say, attempting to annoy her into talking to me. I flick my tongue at her. Eventually she can't help it and cracks a smile, but quickly hides it behind her infinity scarf.
Her voice is slightly muffled. "I'm okay. How about you?"

I deliberately look around the room, hold up my arm, and twirl the bracelets around my wrist. "It's a nuthouse. But I'm okay."

"Why do you call this place a 'nuthouse'? It doesn't look so bad."

"I could call it the Land of Sparkly Fairy Unicorns and things wouldn't change," I insist.

"And the other people," Lizzie murmurs, discreetly looking at the sprinkling of other patients and visitors, "they're nice?"

Me: "Yeah, but some are like crazy as hell."

Lizzie: "Why do you say things like that?" She turns to me, her eyes critical.

I have to swallow a few times to get rid of this choking feeling. "I'm sorry. It's just easier to hate this place if I don't respect the people in it."

"Maybe it'll be easier to tolerate this place if you respect the people in it. I'm sure a lot of them feel like you: stuck in a prison."

"I guess; I'm definitely not popular here. Not with staff, and not with the other inmates."

Lizzie: *shivering* "Did you get in trouble?"

Me: "Guess. It's ME you're talking to, Liz. Of course I got in trouble."

Her shivering escalates. Her teeth chatter so hard, I'm concerned she'll bite her tongue. I look at the door and thankfully Tori, who is staying overtime, strolls in to dump off a paper bag of approved belongings to one patient. I call her over.

She wipes her hands on the front of her scrubs. "Yes, Shiloh?" Her green eyes focus on Lizzie. A look of concern crosses her face when she sees how thin and pale Lizzie happens to be. I ask Tori for a warm blanket, but she's trapped in Lizzie's eye sockets, which are like craters.

"Yo... Tori!" I try again.

She shakes her head as if to clear it of cobwebs, her soft hair flying back and forth in its high ponytail. "Sorry, Shi. What can I get you?"

"Do you have any of those pre-warmed blankets?" I say.

"Oh. Yeah, I think so. Gimme a minute, okay?" She hurries to the door, stops, and turns around. "Sorry about that."