In Between Times (Complete Novel, Mastered May 12th, 2022)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

—Dead-end

Circle – Abhi The Nomad ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬

AMELIA:

I'm standing in front of the building as the bus speeds away behind me in the distance. I look down at the green grass at my feet, and then back up at the building. I sigh as my hands form fists. I need to stop shaking. I must face her. I want to take my mother away from this place, but I don't know if I can. As my feet move in front of me, I realize she might not want to see me. She might not want to be taken away from here. I pause as I stand in front of the entrance double doors. What will I say to her after all these years? What if my mother lost her sanity, being locked up in a place like this?

I could never expect that. She's strong. No matter what, she must remain strong.

I push the doors open, coming to face a very bland — white building on the inside. Everything is white. There is a white woman wearing white clothing, and she's standing behind a desk. She makes eye contact with me, but she doesn't smile. It looks like she's trying to, but she fails.

"May I help you?" she asks, once I am about a foot away.

"Yes," I clear my throat. "I'd like to know when I can visit a..." I pause, trying to say it out loud even though it doesn't make sense. "A patient here," I conclude in a smaller voice than before.

"Hmm..." she hums, and I hear a ruffling noise as she momentarily disappears to look under the desk.

After a few seconds, her head pops back up, and she holds out a paper attached to a clip board.

"Fill this out," she mumbles, as she gestures her hand towards a line of chairs near the front desk. I take it in my hands as I look her over briefly.

She has brown hair, but I can see a few grey strays swiveled at her hairline. Her light brown eyes are tired, and her skin is a pale white. She's scrawny. I'd say she looks like a thirty-year-old, or something like that, but I could be off. She does work inside of a mental hospital, after all--she could be younger. I grab one of the black inked pens from the jar on her desk, then turn to walk towards the line of chairs.

I notice how empty the waiting room really is once I hear my own chair squeak as I sit down in it. My eyes focus on the paper I must fill out. I must fill out a paper in order to see my mother. This couldn't be even a little bit less confusing.

I must answer irrelevant questions, like, "Do you have an illness?" or, "Have you been treated in the past year?"

No, I have not. I'm not the one in the mental hospital; I'm the one trying to get my loved one out of a mental hospital. After ten checks indicating — I myself do not have a problem, I then see questions that test my knowledge on my mother.

"Is the patient you are visiting a relative?

Yes.

"Does the patient you are visiting have an illness?"

I suppose she does, or she wouldn't be here. I check the word, "Yes" again.

"Have you visited this patient before?"

No.

"Has the patient you are visiting been admitted for longer than 6 months?"

I suppose she has. I haven't seen her in four years. I check the word, "Yes."

"Has the patient you are visiting committed murder, or attempted murder?"

No.

"Is the patient you are visiting bi-polar?"