On the day he was sprung free, Nurse Fletcher was leading the group, starting them off with the topic of “Progress,” which was really just a sneaky way of getting them to talk about their problems and how they were faring. One by one, they went around the circle, explaining the events that had brought them here and talking about how Trendale had helped improve things. It could have been a commercial for the place.
When Joe had first arrived at the facility, his philosophy had been to downplay his symptoms, hoping to sound sane and reasonable, all the quicker to go home. No problem here! Just a few bad dreams! He’d glossed over the lack of sleep, made light of how he sometimes woke up in a cold sweat, screaming, his heart pounding, the memory of the dream as vivid as anything he’d experienced in real life. Making light of his situation had backfired in a big way. When Dr. Jensen told Joe one of the therapists had labeled him uncooperative, Joe adjusted accordingly, using more descriptive words and making sure to be expressive, using gestures and talking about his feelings, but they still viewed him suspiciously. He suspected his status had been changed from uncooperative to holding back.
If there was a way to satisfy them, he couldn’t figure it out.
This particular evening, he listened intently to each of his fellow patients, nodding sympathetically at their litany of woes. When it came to his turn, Joe took a deep breath and summarized the situation as it had happened at home. “It started out when my parents were concerned about the dreams I’d been having,” he said.
“Your parents were concerned?” Nurse Fletcher raised one eyebrow.
“I was concerned too, of course.” He looked around the room, taking note of all the expressions. Most of the others had heard his story many times before and were clearly bored. The newest patient, a doughy-faced woman in her forties with a tendency to swear like a sailor, looked only slightly more interested. “The dreams were vivid and had auditory, visual, and olfactory components.” He was proud of this additional information, the wording of which he’d stolen from one of the doctors. “A physical exam and blood tests did not show a biological reason for my problems.” Finding that out had proved reassuring, until he realized that since there was no biological underpinning, he was now officially a head case. “Two of the dreams leave me feeling sad and depressed, and two are frightening.”
The new woman broke in. “What is it about them that’s sad and frightening?”
Even though he knew the answer, Joe took a moment to appear as if he were seriously considering her question. Finally, he spoke. “They didn’t feel like dreams. They seemed real. Like I was there.”
She scowled. “That’s no big deal. All dreams feel like they’re real when you’re in them.”
Nurse Fletcher cleared her throat and said, “This group is about respect. We don’t disparage the experiences of others here.”
“Sorry.” Her head dropped, and her gaze went to the floor.
“Don’t worry about it,” Joe said.
The door, which was slightly ajar already, flew open, and one of the aides stuck her head into the room. It was Frieda, a favorite among the patients, known for her cheery disposition and sympathetic glances. “Joe Arneson? Someone is here for you.”
Nurse Fletcher stood, all the better to show who was in charge. “He’s in a therapy session right now.”
Frieda said, “It’s his grandmother. Come to check him out and take him home.”
“Check him out?”
“Yeah. It’s his dad’s mother. She says he’s being held here illegally, and she’s threatening to call the authorities.”
“Very well then.” Nurse Fletcher gestured impatiently to Joe to leave. “You may go.”
Joe rose to his feet, puzzled. There was no way someone had come to check him out, and especially not his dad’s mother, who’d died before he was born. Following Frieda down the hall, he squelched the urge to tell her there must have been some mix-up. Maybe he could take advantage of the confusion and slip out the door before they figured out this woman wasn’t connected to him at all.
“She’s a feisty one, your granny,” Frieda shot back, walking quickly. “Said if we couldn’t produce you packed and ready to go in fifteen minutes, she’d leave and come back with the police. She brought her attorney with her.”
“Sounds about right.”
Frieda stopped now, gesturing down the hall toward his room. “Better get scootin’ then and get your things together. Dr. Jensen don’t want no trouble.”