20. Johnny

The porn version of a strip search is much sexier than the real thing.

After Kurt leaves, a male nurse walks me to the locked ward and into a room containing a bare bed with no sharp edges that's bolted to the floor. I freeze, wondering if it's there so they can strap down unwilling patients. There's literally nothing else in the room: no sheets or other bedding, no chair or nightstand, no curtains. Through an open door off to the side, I can see a bathroom with a roll of toilet paper on top of the sink. It doesn't even seem to have towels or a mirror—just a sink and a toilet.

The nurse hands me a hospital gown with snap fasteners and says, "Put this on, opening in the front. No laces are allowed. No strings on hoodies or sweatpants. No belts. No weapons. Take off everything you're wearing, and put it on the bed." Although he gestures toward the bathroom, I'm not feeling the need for privacy. Which is just as well, since I doubt I'll have much of that in here. There's no handle on the bathroom door, let alone a lock. I shuck off my shirt and put the gown on, then unbuckle my belt and drop my pants and boxers per his instructions.

He makes me open the gown and turn around so he can see my whole body. "No tattoos," he murmurs. "No cuts or burns." Next, I open my mouth so he can poke around inside. He checks me everywhere and then marks something on a clipboard, seemingly satisfied, before squeezing my clothes, feeling through every pocket and all the way down the arms and legs to make sure, I guess, that I haven't snuck in a knife or something. He finds the slip of paper with Kurt's phone number and places it on the mattress.

He's making sure I ain't got nothing I could use to kill myself.

As the violins start up in my brain again, I want Kurt. I want to be able to talk with him about being strip-searched. I want to talk with him about how I feel. I've been lost in my head for months, and the past couple of days, having someone to be honest with, has really meant something. I miss him.

The nurse finishes with my clothes and tells me I can get dressed, but he keeps my boots and belt. He hands me some thick socks with tread on the bottom, then leaves the room, giving me some semblance of dignity now that he's taken away anything I could use to hurt myself.

This is so weird. I put my T-shirt, boxers, and jeans back on, and when I'm ready, I knock on the door—because I'm locked in—and the nurse returns to let me out. I follow him down the hall into the section where, I guess, the other inpatients are. We pass a room where someone is screaming, and two large, burly nurses go racing past us and scoot in there.

I really am in the locked ward of a mental hospital.

Is this where I belong? Are my problems the same as that person's?

I deserve to die.

As we continue on to the main area, other than there being nothing loose that we can use to harm ourselves or each other, it ain't much different from a regular hospital or dorm. It feels institutional, with terrazzo flooring and windows in all the doors.

The nurse shows me to my room, which has two twin beds and—continuing what seems to be a trend—nothing else, not even a dresser or chair. "Your roommate uses a sleep apnea machine, so you'll be under supervision all night," he says. I must look puzzled, because he adds, "The sleep apnea machine has wires," and then I figure it out. Whoever I'm sharing with needs the machine, but they don't want anyone using a cord or whatever to kill themselves.

"Okay," I say quietly, staring out the window. It's early evening, but the sun hasn't set yet.

"Someone will come get you when it's time for dinner," he says.

"What do I do until then?"

He gives me a small smile. "Just try to relax."

Relax? Without a phone or a book or anything to do? He's gotta be kidding.

But I try. I sit on the bed and stare out the window. It looks out on a mountainside, so there's not much to see but dry brush. For the next however long, I think about why I'm here and whether I can get better. I can, because I decided to. Trying not to panic that I can't leave this building or even this room, that's an interesting mind game.

How long will it be until l see Kurt again?

It's idyllic here, away from the city. Quiet. In some ways, it calms me, and in others, it creeps me out. It's like the people running this place know that everyone here is on edge, so they need to put a damper on all the inputs to avoid triggering an explosion. We're not safe enough for a regular, noisy environment.

As day turns to dusk, I keep watching the outdoors, since I have nothing else to do. I'm finally zoning out from the lack of any stimulation when, out of nowhere, a mountain lion appears right outside my window, sending my heart racing. The big cat's right there. There's a pane of glass between us, but he's not more than five feet away from me. I want to call out to someone to come watch with me, but who? I don't know a soul in this place, and my roommate hasn't showed up yet.

So I sit there and watch alone. The mountain lion swishes his tail and prowls just like any other cat, except he's huge. His paws are probably the size of my hands. After a little while, he freezes, then stares down a small hole, still as a silent night. I hold my breath as I watch him watch the hole. Then the cat pounces, and he's got dinner—a rodent of some kind. Unlike the way a person eats, he just chomps that little critter in half without pausing to ask permission.

Well, hell. That's not something you see every day.

There's meaning here, but I'm not sure if I'm the mountain lion or the gopher.

I want to call Kurt, the folded piece of paper with his number burning a hole in my pocket. But I don't want to seem needy, and I don't know what the rules are for the phones, anyway. I want to know how my mama is, but I don't want her to worry. I want to get better, but I don't think that's going to happen instantly.

Heck, my brain spins out fast.

The only way out is through.

A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts. "John Haskell? You have a delivery," a new nurse says as she enters the room.

I frown. "I do?"

"It's been cleared." She hands me two full paper bags, and inside I find a bunch of new clothes in my sizes with the tags cut off, plus toothpaste, a toothbrush, deodorant, body wash, and shampoo. Everything's obviously been processed by the hospital, since the hoodies' strings have been removed. There's also a book of cowboy poetry.

"Who brought this?"

"Your husband had it delivered," she says. Damn, Kurt really is a fairy godfather. The toiletries are my favorite brands, so even if he just asked his assistant to take care of this, he must've had some kind of personal involvement.

That man. He's walloping my heart, I tell you.

I look at the book until yet another nurse comes in and says it's time for dinner. He escorts me into a common room that has four picnic tables off to the side, as well as several couches and a television playing some show I don't recognize. A few people are lounging around, and some are eating, but none of us are talking to each other. I sit at one of the tables and pick at the lasagna and salad and garlic bread a staff member brought me. It's surprisingly tasty.

Before Kurt, how long had it been since I'd eaten well?

All the patients around me—maybe eight or ten—are wearing sweats or pajamas and have a beaten-down look about them. I probably look the same way.

We can't all be in here for the same thing, though. And it dawns on me that I have no idea of these other people's circumstances and experiences. One young woman shuffles by in fuzzy slippers, an enormous sweatshirt, and Minion-patterned pajama pants, laughing. She goes down the hall and I guess into her room. She comes back a few minutes later, and now she's crying. Then she repeats the circuit, laughing.

Should I do anything about her? Is she okay? No one seems to pay her any mind.

I haven't been looking much past the end of my own nose lately—except as to Mama—but there's a big world out there full of other people and other problems.

I finish my meal and watch the boring TV show until I can't stand it no more and return to my room.

As they warned me, a huge, tattooed male nurse sits in a chair, his arms crossed over his chest, staring at my roommate, who's already in bed with a mask over his face. The sleep apnea machine makes a constant noise, so it'll be hard to get to sleep. That's on top of the fact that I'm in a new place and have a guard who's gonna be watching me all night.

There's no privacy. I guess I should be getting used to that. Kurt certainly wasn't giving me much privacy since he discovered my plans.

I nod to the nurse, who gives me a cursory nod back, and put my new sweats on. After taking a leak and brushing my teeth—grateful for the familiar flavor of my usual toothpaste—I crawl into the cold, narrow bed covered in thin blankets and stare at the ceiling. This is the exact opposite of where I want to be. Last night, I was sleeping with a warm Kurt in my arms.

Except … as I lie in the hospital bed, a calmness does come over me. Being cut off from the outside world is helping my mood. The horrible pressure that I've felt for so long is … not gone, but held at bay. While I ain't forgotten about my mama by any means, and the violins are serenading me in the dark, I'm not as desperate as before. Perhaps because there ain't nothing I can do. I can't text her. I can't talk with her. I'm stuck.

I think about what Kurt said, how I'd be hurting her by killing myself.

Yeah. Maybe. Okay, yeah. That would've happened. I would've hurt her. I can see that now.

I couldn't keep trouble from visiting—no one can—but I went a step too far when I invited it in for a drink and made it my guest of honor.

Kurt seems to think I can get better. Can I?

That little sweet spot for Kurt in my sour heart is getting bigger and bigger.

Thinking about his gorgeous face, I drift into a restless sleep punctuated by the noise of the apnea machine.

In the morning, I'm bleary-eyed, but I get up and do my usual exercises: push-ups, crunches, planks. Just because I'm stuck in here doesn't mean I can let myself go, and I've already taken too much time off, what with the bender in Vegas. I'm itchin' to go for a run, but unless I want to do laps up and down the hall, that's not happening. So I content myself with body-weight exercises. I may have no job prospects now, but maybe I have a smidgen of hope I will in the future.

They bring us breakfast, and we eat it at the picnic tables in the common room. We aren't even allowed out to go to the cafeteria, which is in a different building. I literally am locked up. Going to get our own food is a privilege reserved for those in the unlocked ward. Sunshine and fresh air are privileges. It's like I voluntarily put myself in prison. I'd laugh if it were a laughing matter.

Thankfully the doctor comes and sees me first thing after breakfast. He's a younger guy, seemingly harried, but with a patient manner, and when I talk, he studies me intently.

"I was planning to kill myself so my mama could get the money from my life insurance," I say, and explain what happened.

"I'm so sorry," he says, and he sounds like he means it.

After he asks me a few questions along the lines of Christian's yesterday, he says, "This is the wrong ward for you. You don't need this level of supervision. I'll have you transferred to the unlocked ward."

"I 'preciate that," I say faintly, surprised at how relieved his words make me feel. The admissions nurse had said everyone started off here, but in the back of my head I was scared that the doctors would say this was where I belonged—like, forever. So that's one thing going right.

One thing besides Kurt saving me, that is.

The doc and I talk about medication. "I ain't a fan of drugs, but if it will help, I'll try it," I say. I guess I really am beaten down. "Better living through chemistry?"

He nods and smiles. "Are you in?"

I think about Kurt and my promise to him to stay alive. I think about my mama and my need to take care of her. I think about my sister and how she's sacrificed her dreams for Mama, too. I think about Christian saying that to decide is to cut off all other options.

The only way out is through.

"I'm in," I say, and he smiles.

"Good. You're on the road to recovery." Shortly after he leaves, a nurse brings me a few pills, including one for anxiety, and while I understand some of the meds will take weeks to kick in, that one hits me almost immediately and is more calming than weed.

Okay, I do feel better.

While I wait to be transferred, I look again at the cowboy poetry book Kurt sent. The break from my routine's given me a different perspective.

Helplessly watching my mama get worse backed me into a corner so I felt like I had to fight my way out. And while I still feel like that, I'm thinking that there might be some other way to help her.

I'd felt so alone. But I'm not alone anymore, thanks to Kurt. Something as simple as him sending me clean underwear and a book to read makes me feel … seen. Cared for.

Almost hopeful.

I start thinking about what I have to live for. Mama, May Ella, Kurt. And maybe myself.

Pretty sure that's enough.