"I need something to drink," Francis croaked.
The attendant nodded. "That's the medications they gave you. Make your tongue all thick, kinda like it be all swollen, huh?"
Francis nodded. The attendant retreated to the corridor, then returned with a plastic cup of water. He sat on the side of the cot and held Francis up like a sickly child, letting him gulp at the liquid. It was lukewarm, almost brackish, with a slight metallic taste, but at that moment, just the mere sense of it pouring down his throat, and the pressure of the man's arm holding him, reassured Francis more than he had ever expected. The attendant must have realized this, because he quietly said, "It gonna be all right, Mr. Petrel. Mr. C-Bird. That what that other new man called you, and I'm thinking that's a fine name to go by. This place a little rough at first, take some getting used to, but you gonna be just fine. I can tell."
He lowered Francis back to the bed, and added, "The doctor gonna come in to see you now."
A few seconds later, Francis saw Doctor Gulptilil's round form hovering in the doorway. The doctor smiled, and asked, in his slight singsong-accented voice, "Mr. Petrel. How are you this morning?"
"I'm all right," Francis said. He didn't know really what else he could say. And, at the same time, he could hear the echoing of his voices, telling him to be extremely careful. Again, they were not nearly as loud as they could be, almost as if they were shouting commands to him from across some wide chasm.
"Do you remember where you are?" the doctor asked.
Francis nodded. "I'm in a hospital."
"Yes," the doctor said with a smile. "That is not difficult to surmise. But do you recall which one? And how it was that you arrived here?"
Francis did. The mere act of answering questions lifted some of the fog he felt was obscuring his vision. "It is the Western State Hospital," he said. "And I arrived in an ambulance after having some argument with my parents."
"Very good. And do you recall what month it is? And the year?"
"It is still March, I believe. And 1979."
"Excellent." The doctor seemed genuinely pleased. "A little more oriented,
I would suspect. I think today we will be able to remove you from isolation and restraint, and begin to integrate you into the general population. This is as I'd hoped."
"I would like to go home now," Francis said.
"I am sorry, Mister Petrel. That isn't yet possible."
"I don't think I want to stay here," Francis said. Some of the quavering which had marked his voice the day he'd arrived threatened to reemerge.
"It is for your own good," the doctor replied. Francis doubted that. He knew he wasn't so crazy to be unable to see that it was clearly for other people's good, not his. He didn't say this out loud.
"Why can't I go home?" he asked. "I haven't done anything wrong."
"Do you recall the kitchen knife? And your threatening words?"
Francis shook his head. "It was a misunderstanding," he said.
Doctor Gulptilil smiled. "Of course it was. But you're going to be with us until we come to the realization that we cannot go around threatening people."
"I promise I won't."
"Thank you, Mister Petrel. But a promise isn't quite adequate under the current circumstances. I must be persuaded. Utterly persuaded, alas. The medications you have been given will help you. As you continue to take them, the cumulative effect they have will increase your command of your situation and help you to readjust. Then, perhaps, we can discuss returning to society and some more constructive role."
He spoke this last sentence slowly, then added, "And what do your voices think of your presence here?"
Francis knew enough to shake his head. "I don't hear any voices," he insisted. Deep within him he heard a chorus of assent.
The doctor smiled again, showing slightly uneven rows of white teeth. "Ah, Mister Petrel, again, I'm not completely sure that I believe you. Still" the doctor hesitated "I think that you can succeed in the general population. Mister Moses here will show you around and fill you in on the rules. The rules are important, Mister Petrel. There are not many, but they are critical. Obeying the rules, becoming a constructive member of our little world here, these are signs of mental health. The more you can do to show me that you can function successfully here, the closer you will step each passing day toward returning home. Do you understand that equation, Mister Petrel?"
Francis nodded vigorously.
"There are activities. There are group sessions. From time to time, there will be some private sessions with myself. Then there are the rules. All these things, taken together, create possibilities. If you cannot adjust, then, I fear, your stay here will be long, and often unpleasant…"
He gestured at the isolation cell. "This room, for example" and he pointed at the straitjacket "these devices, and others, remain options. They always remain options. But avoiding them is critical, Mister Petrel. Critical to your return to mental health. Am I being quite clear about this?"
"Yes," Francis said. "Fit in. Obey the rules." He repeated this inwardly to himself, like a mantra or a prayer.
"Precisely. Excellent. Do you not see, already we have made progress? Be encouraged, Mister Petrel. And take advantage of what the hospital has to offer." The doctor rose up. He nodded at the attendant. "All right, Mister Moses. You can release Mister Petrel. And then, please, escort him through the dormitory, get him some clothing, and show him the activities room."
"Yes sir," the attendant snapped off with a military crispness.
Doctor Gulptilil waddled off through the door to the isolation room, and the attendant went about the task of unsnapping the bonds of the straitjacket, then unwrapping the sleeves from around Francis, until he finally came free. Francis stretched awkwardly, and rubbed his arms, as if to restore some energy and life to the limbs that had been locked so tightly. He placed his feet on the floor and stood unsteadily, feeling a sensation of dizziness overcome him. The attendant must have noticed, for a huge hand grasped his shoulder, preventing Francis from stumbling forward. Francis felt a little like a baby taking his first step, only without the same sense of joy and accomplishment, equipped only with doubt and fear.
He followed Mister Moses down the corridor on the fourth floor of the Amherst Building. There were a half-dozen six-by-nine padded cells arranged in a row, each with a double-locking system and portholes for observation. He could not tell whether they were occupied or not, except in one case, when they must have made some sound passing by, and from behind a locked door he heard a cascade of muted obscenities that dissolved into a long, painful shriek. A mixture of agony and hatred. He hurried to keep pace with the immense attendant, who didn't seem fazed in the slightest by the otherworldly noise, and who kept up an impressive banter about the layout of the building, the hospital, and its history, as he passed through a set of double doors, leading down a wide, central stairway. Francis only vaguely remembered ascending those steps two days earlier, in what seemed to him to be a distant, and increasingly elusive past, when everything in what he had thought of his life was totally different.