by
Mary E. Overstreet
Two days passed, and there still was no change in Willie. The fatigue lines and dark circles under his eyes faded, but he remained withdrawn and unresponsive. He stayed in his quiet private room most of the time, when he was not in the dayroom. He would sit unmoving wherever he was placed and never looked at anyone or anything.
Carolyn was heartbroken when she failed to get through to him. Seeing him that way had upset her more than anything in years. Julia had had to take her away sobbing bitterly for Willie's sake.
But he wasn't aware of it, except when she touched him. And then he only felt a physical sensation to which he tensed imperceptibly. When he was put in his bed for the night, his eyes didn't necessarily close as the light was shut off, but he would eventually drift into sleep.
He never knew or felt when his awareness came back or when he had climbed back up into outward reality. But when the nurse came in in the morning and started to pull the cover off him, he looked at her, waking. She looked back and smiled gently.
He sat up and looked around the room. It reminded him of a hotel room, lacking a closet and a television, but there were flowers on a chest of drawers beside a window. Morning sun streamed through the gauzy curtains, not hiding the heavy bars over the window. It was Wyndecliffe, he knew.
Nothing had left him since his repressed memories had surfaced. This place was the scene of— His face screwed up with the memory, and he hugged his arms to his chest.
"Willie," the nurse said. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
He shook his head. There was no forcing the pain away or burying it now. They'd really broken him here, he thought. In the ward, the two on night shift, they's dragged him out and hurt him. More than once because he couldn't fight back, because one time they pushed him too far and he'd tried. All his burning helplessness had built into an explosion, and he had fought them. And they retaliated. Denied his painkillers and taken to a padded room, clothed only in a strait-jacket, one man took the hose to his back and the rest of it was a blur, but he knew what had happened. And he had shattered completely, living in terror when he came out of withdrawal. He couldn't tell the doctor lest they do it to him again. So they kept him on edge, taking him out occasionally to keep him in line. He was more vulnerable than the other patients because of his back, but it happened to them as well.
It wasn't till he thoroughly "adjusted" to life in the ward that he repressed the worst of it. And later when he was put in a semi-private room, he put the rest of it away, forgetting because it was easier to deal with everything else without knowing he'd been broken. From then on he could hardly tell that he was different. That came only after he had been "outside" a long time and regained some of his maturity. Even working at Wyndecliffe as he had for a time had not jarred his memory.
But all this was not so clear cut and laid out for Willie to understand. He felt more than thought right now, and those feelings were quite staggering.
"Willie," Julia said, suddenly sitting on the bed. "You're going to be all right."
He hadn't really noticed the nurse leave. His eyes found the doctor's, and he stared in disbelief—that she would've let terrible things happen to him that had no possible connection with treatment. He started to form words, but his throat seemed to freeze up. The muscles of his face strained with effort, and he finally managed, "Y-y-you—" He was stunned that speaking was so difficult and tried again. "Y-y— Y-you—" he started to sweat, the concentration this required drained him, "d-did. . ." He panted, looking at her in frustration, his difficulty shaming him.
"It's all right, Willie. This will pass. Just try to relax." She put her hand on his shoulder.
He twisted away from her and swung his legs out of bed on the opposite side. The frustration made him angry, and as far as he was concerned, she had betrayed him.
Julia did not understand what was going on inside him now. She wasn't sure where to start or how to approach him. "Willie, Nurse Jackson will take you to breakfast now. I'll talk with you later." She stood up.
"N-n-no!" he stuttered. "I-I-I'm-m n-nnot. . .a. . .p-p-p. . .p-pa-tient." He stood, glaring at her. "I-I-I. . .w-w— w-wan'. . .o-o-out!" He gasped, his face red from the effort.
"I know you do." It was hard to watch his bitter struggle to talk. "But you know you're not ready yet. Give yourself a few days."
He clenched his hands and turned his back to her. He heard her leave and was annoyed that the nurse had stayed. She tried to hand him his robe, but he flung it to the bed and shook her off. Willie thought he'd be damned if he'd cooperate with them now.
Willie waited for her to leave him alone, then searched the drawers for his clothes, but the only thing he found was one other set of pajamas and bed linens. He sat dejectedly down on the bed, half expecting to see a couple of muscle bound male orderlies come in to hold him down while the nurse or Julia gave him a shot to make him more cooperative. It was an upsetting thought, and he hoped it wouldn't happen partly because he was afraid of how he'd react. None of his memories had gone away. And they still hurt.
He sat motionless as the pain filled him. They had taken it all away, made him into only a small part of a person. And he knew why Barnabas affected him the way he did. He had invaded him and taken away all the years of self-reliance he had built up. Willie couldn't shake what that did to him. He'd never let anyone get that close. Despite the violation of his inner being, Willie felt sorry for Barnabas. He pitied the man's affliction and what it did to him while he hated him for what he'd done to him. Barnabas symbolized the changes in this part of his life, and he had been his only hope for escaping Wyndecliffe. When he had seen Barnabas and Julia standing in the visiting room he had felt massive confusion, old feelings mixed with a desperate hope. He'd known in an instant that he was needed, and his best chance was if they thought he didn't remember everything. Barnabas was like an anchor that would keep him from drifting forever in a useless waste of what was left of his life. That Barnabas needed him, wanted him around, colored everything. He could understand only a part of his behavior toward Barnabas. There were too many feelings to sort out any more than a few.
His head sank to his hands. There was just so much that he was close to despairing. It served Barnabas right that he was out ten grand, Willie thought, for using him for so long without any consideration whatsoever. Barnabas had gotten away with so much. It wasn't fair.
The sound of the door opening didn't make him move. He had heard the key turn in the lock.
"Willie, I've brought your breakfast," Julia said, setting a covered tray down on the dresser. She could see the tension in his shoulders and hands.
He did not look up, feeling too much. She sat beside him, putting her arm around his shoulders.
"It's all right, Willie." She thought perhaps he was crying, but he jerked away from her and stood up, looking down at her with dry, angry eyes.
He wanted so much to tell her what he thought of her hospital, but the struggle to make himself understood would not be worth it. And she would want to know why he felt that way. He was not about to tell her what had been done to him. That was far too personal to even think about saying aloud.
She could see the rancor in his face, the way he thrust out his jaw. "Willie, I'm sorry we had to bring you here, but Wyndecliffe was the best place for you to receive the care you needed during your regression. Now you've just got to relax and take it easy." She stood up, going over to the tray. Julia lifted the cloth cover, picked up a small paper cup and a glass of water, and held it out to him. "Here, Willie. Please take this. You're so tense. This will help."
Willie crossed his arms and turned his back to her. He'd made up his mind not to cooperate. If he was drugged, he thought, he'd never straighten out the mess in his head and heart.
"Willie, please. I only want to help you." When he didn't respond, she set the cup and glass down. "Then eat your breakfast at least." She moved to one of the two chairs in the room. "Willie, please."
He didn't move, and stared at the wall, wondering if he stood a chance if he tried to escape. Maggie had done it. He looked over at her and walked past her to the door. He took the knob in his hand and turned it, stepping back as if to tell her to leave as the door swung open.
"Willie," she began, rising to her feet. "I don't—"
He darted out the door, shutting it and turning the key that had been left in the lock.
"Willie, don't— This won't help!" he heard her saying.
He wished he'd put on his robe, but walked down the corridor, his bare feet making a few of the cold, wooden floor boards creak. Wyndecliffe had not originally been a hospital—it was an old, very large house, a mansion, converted into a sanitarium years before. The room he had been in was on the second floor. He quickly reached the stairs and went down quietly. Even if he got caught, the feeling he got from having tricked Julia made it worth it.
At the bottom of the stairs the door was locked. He'd known it would be. When he had worked here, his contact with the patients had been limited but he knew his way around well. He could've picked the lock easily had he a hair pin or set of tools. Willie knew he'd have to take another way out. There was another set of stairs at the other end of the corridor. He went up, rounding the corner to the first landing and looking up.
Julia, Nurse Jackson, and two male orderlies stood on the top step. "Willie, I told you that wouldn't help," the doctor said, starting toward him.
Willie couldn't stop himself from backing away. The feelings of fear and shame were overwhelming, brought on by the sight of the attendants. It didn't matter that they weren't the same men that hurt him. His memory wouldn't go away. He just knew what could happen.
Julia noted the expression on Willie's face and how he was trembling when she gently took his arm. His eyes were full of fear as he looked up. He turned to her, and she smiled encouragingly. "It's all right, Willie. Come on, you must be getting cold."
He shook his head, the fear slipping away. Nothing violent would happen with Julia there, he thought. Nothing should ever have happened. He pulled his arm from her grasp, refusing to go back to his room where he shouldn't have to be anyway.
Defiance raging in him, Willie suddenly reached into the pockets of her lab coat with both hands. His fingers closed on a set of keys, and he dashed down to the first floor, knowing he would never find the right key even if it was with these in time to unlock the door and get out.
The keys went to her car, he discovered and turned to face the group which stood a few steps from the bottom. He threw the keys down at Julia's feet and felt the helplessness and frustration that being an inmate in a mental hospital one was subjected to as a matter of course. He wanted to scream and rave at them or tear his way out.
The doctor went to him first. "Willie, no one is going to hurt you. I know you want out, but you'll just have to be patient. If you take it easy, all this will pass, and you can leave." She tried to take his arm but he pulled away. "All right, I'll give you a choice. Come back to your room quietly, and you won't have to take any pills. Or I'll have Nurse Jackson give you an injection right here."
Now that the nurse was closer, he could see that she held a syringe. He swallowed, not knowing what to do. Julia moved to touch him again, and he backed away into the door. Both Julia and the nurse approached him in the corner, and he pushed past them, not wanting them to win.
Julia sighed and stepped back, letting the two men go to him. Seeing Willie's face stricken with fear as they cornered him and took him by the arms, made her wonder.
Willie could feel it starting again, and thought as his mind went wildly irrational that he would be stripped and put in a strait-jacket and. . . His mind reeled, and he couldn't stand up. Strong hands held his arms and his body was pressed between the attendants, immobilizing him though his struggles had ceased. He felt the nurse pull his pants down part way and inject him with something that burned as hot as his rage had before his fear had consumed it. His face was a mask of anguish.
Julia made them let him go, seeing the pain he was in. He went down on his hands and knees, shuddering and shaking. "Willie, it's all right."
He didn't protest her touching him now. In fact, he held onto her as she helped him to his feet, looking at her for reassurance. It was still whirling through his mind like a nightmare. He was nowhere near ready for a test like this. He wasn't over any of it, he only knew about it.
"Willie, everything is going to be fine," she told him gently, putting an arm around his back and walking him slowly up the stairs.
He knew he should not be letting her take him anywhere, but he couldn't help himself, and her presence was a comfort because she had made the men release him.
By the time they reached his room, he felt much calmer. No doubt the drug was already working, he thought, its distribution accelerated through his blood stream by his pounding heart. He was also mad at himself for letting the situation go as far as it had. He knew he should've gone back when she offered to not drug him. It was too late now, however, and he settled down in the bed, sitting up to eat with the tray across his lap. He ate half-heartedly. His mind was dulled by the tranquilizer, and he wanted to be alone.
Julia sat with him, telling him how he'd feel better in a few days. She really wanted to know why he'd been so terrified of the guards, but knew he would probably not tell her even if he could now. And his feelings for Barnabas also concerned her. She didn't yet know what they were.
"You can have visitors if you like, Willie," she said cautiously, watching his face closely.
He was about to drink the last of his orange juice but stopped and looked at her. He did not want anyone to see him now while he was hardly able to speak. Willie shook his head and, after considerable effort, said, "N-no."
"All right, Willie. You certainly don't have to see anyone you don't want to, but Barnabas and Carolyn are worried about you."
He shook his head emphatically. He never wanted to see Barnabas again, and he was too embarrassed to think of Carolyn seeing him like this. He wanted to go away and never see any of them again.
"Well, if you change your mind, I know they'll want to visit you."
He looked down at his half-empty plate and continued to shake his head. He pushed the plate away, crossing his arms and leaning back against the bed's headboard.
She didn't bother to try to get him to eat more. His eyes had become half-lidded from the medication. "I have an idea, Willie that might make it easier for you." She got up and took the tray to the door. After leaving it with the nurse, she came back and pulled her note pad out of a pocket in her lab coat.
Willie expected to see her hand him a crayon and not her pen. Such a small gesture of trust embittered him further.
"If you want to communicate something this might work for you," she said optimistically.
He took the pen and paper, his right hand closing around the pen's shaft with a death grip. He wanted to tell her to get out and leave him alone, but his hand wouldn't move for him. He strained, starting to sweat, but could not write even a single line. He wondered what was wrong with him and flung the pen and paper to the end of the bed.
He got up and stood with his back to her, immeasurably frustrated, afraid it would never end.
"Willie, try not to let it bother you. Now why don't you sit back down. I'd like to ask you a few questions. All you have to do is nod yes or shake your head no." She retrieved her pad and pen.
He shook his head and remained standing. He didn't want her asking him anything.
"Willie, please." When he didn't move, she sighed and sat in one of the chairs. "Then I'll ask you anyway." She prepared to write, shifting her mind into a logical, analytical frame. "Have you ever experienced regression before? I mean, have you ever withdrawn before?"
He knew he had but made no answer. His situational withdrawal had previously been triggered by violent abuse accompanied by extreme physical pain. He only knew he had reached the breaking point and shattered.
She also knew he had withdrawn, it was in his record. "Willie, I know that you have. It happened twice when you were in the ward. Now did you have any difficulty with speech when you came out of it?" She was testing his memory more than anything else.
He ground his teeth, clenching his hands under his arms. The answer was really no, except he had stammered a great deal whenever someone had required him to speak.
"How about writing?" She persisted, knowing he would grow tired soon under the tranquillizer's effects.
He didn't know; he hadn't had the opportunity.
"Do you remember the other times?"
He considered lying, but she would then think he was starting to cooperate.
"Were you afraid when you were in the ward?"
God, yes, he thought, still unmoving.
"How about the infirmary? Or your other room?" His refusing to answer was so frustrating she was tempted to threaten him with putting him back in the ward. She was certain that he must've been afraid of the orderlies there since he would have had less contact with them anywhere else. Threatening him would not help her gain his trust, and it was a poor tactic to use because of its negativity. "Willie, please answer me. I'm only trying to help you."
Invading his privacy would not help him, he thought. He wanted to lie down but thought it better not to move yet.
"All right, have it your way. But I'm not through yet. Now did any other patients ever hurt you? I know it's not supposed to happen, but it does sometimes."
Willie loathed what he was seeing in his mind and feeling, brought there by Julia's question. It was another thing that was too personal to tell anyone.
"Did any of the staff ever hurt you?"
He wanted to scream at her that they had, more than once, and always in the name of "curing" him, and that counted physical therapy and regular medical treatment. "Corrective therapy" was what they had called it when he was about to be punished. It was "destructive therapy", he thought, suddenly noticing he was breathing hard.
Julia noticed, too. "All right, Willie. I know something happened to you." She didn't want to believe it could've happened in her hospital. "I will find out what it was so I can help you. Now you just lie down for a while, and I'll be back to see you later."
He sat down when she'd gone and rubbed his face with his hands. He wondered if she would really be able to find out what happened to him, hoping she would not. Just the thought of it filled him with anxiety. She'd want to talk to him about it. He didn't want the experience of hearing anyone saying the things that had happened to him. Now that he knew about it, he wanted to get past it where it didn't hurt so much. He didn't know how he knew that having repressed memories of the events which had broken him was somehow responsible for keeping him so dependent on Barnabas. Why had he let him get away with some of the things he'd done to him? And what hurt even more was why did he want so much to be his friend? It didn't make any sense to him now. He only knew Barnabas had seemed his only hope. And now he felt only hatred and anger toward him. No more forgiving everything.
*