Chapter Text
“I don't know. I can't remember.”
How many more times can Gerard give the same answer? He withholds a sigh, changing his seating position on the lime-green upholstered recliner. He fiddles with a zipper pull on the sleeve of his leather jacket.
Before him is a female psychiatrist, known as Doctor Schrauben. She has brown hair that cascades over the shoulder of her white suit. In her hands are a pen and clipboard. After every I don't know, she gives a gentle grin, a slight crinkle in her eyebrows with understanding nods. Her voice comes out as slightly garbled, coming through her set of large teeth with visible gums, asking, “History of self-harm?”
Gerard's eyebrows crinkle. “Maybe?” He wonders if any scars got overlooked by both him and the nurse during their exam earlier, standing with his arms outstretched after changing into a hospital gown. “I don't know.”
“Do you know why you're here?”
“No. I mean… I guess it was after…wait.” He squeezes his eyes shut, probing for an evocation that fails to crystalize. “Sorry. I don't know.”
Schrauben nods. Gerard turns towards a blinded window, a sliver of the cold day in view. He hears the woman ask, “Did they give you anything at the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me what it was?”
“Just…something to calm me down. Don't remember the name of it.”
When they are done, Schrauben says, “I'll be checking in every Saturday. During the week, you'll meet with Doctor Roa for medical adjustments. For now, we'll keep it simple with you getting multi-vitamins from the nurse every morning after breakfast.”
•••
Afterward, Gerard goes to the main living room upstairs, where the group meeting is being held. He sits on the end of the dark blue sectional couch.
Leading the group is one of the two dietitians of the facility, Rockelle. She is a woman with short, black hair.
Rockelle has a list of the effects of malnutrition on the white board behind her in blue marker, of whatever the clients have said. With his arms crossed on his spot on the couch, Gerard simply listens and looks around at his fellow seated clients–who will be his housemates, for now.
There is a young woman with a chic brunette bob cut and big, blue eyes. Gerard admires her curvy figure in her white blouse. Next to her is another girl, who has a head of vibrantly orange hair, sleek straight and swept to the side. She has on a red and navy blue-striped collared shirt. Then there is a heavy-set man with light brown hair that grew in sideburns. He is wearing a cap hat and spectacles. Something about him niggles at Gerard's attention, trying to place where he has seen this man before, to no avail.
Rockelle carries an ease about her, laughing as she engages with the clients. Her demeanor is quite different from Gerard's assigned dietitian, Julie. A plump and bespectacled woman with bronze hair tied back, Julie had a smile throughout the assessment, like she was plotting to dissect Gerard's empty brain.
Not long after joining, Gerard hears his name being called. He turns behind him to a woman approaching, her wide lips upturned readily for greeting. She has long ginger hair, the ponytail draping down the shoulder of her cerulean blue cardigan. She says, “I'm ready to meet with you.”
As Gerard gets up to follow her, he thinks, Jesus. Not again. He goes back downstairs, into yet another therapy room.
In the room, the woman maneuvers to sit at the office chair in front of a desk. “Have a seat.”
I know the drill. He sits on the only other seat available in a corner: a cushioned armchair.
“My name is Samantha, but you can call me 'Sammy.' I'll be your assigned therapist during your stay.” She clasps her hands together in her lap, decorated with colorfully beaded bracelets and golden rings. “Can you tell me what brings you here?”
God damn it. These fucking questions again. He keeps the thought to himself, not daring to disrespect the staff with harsh language, let alone, a woman.
When Gerard opens his mouth, his voice is raised to a pitch: “No!” With clenched fists, they swoop upwards and down to his lap. “I don't know!” Realizing that he looks and sounds like a whining child, his cheeks and palms warm. He steadies his breath. “I just…woke up, and everything was a blur. My-my friend said I needed help. I trusted him, so…here I am.”
“And that's brave of you–being here,” Sammy says evenly, her posture steady from the outburst. “Getting help when you know you need it is always the toughest first step. I've read through your file, and I understand that things escalated recently with your family. But I don't have to know the whole story right away. Stress or shock from certain events can affect your memory. We'll be meeting three times a week, during free time or mealtime.” Gerard had received a copy of his new routine, included in a folder with the rules and expectations. He did not bother reading through them, considering the manager, Cierra had talked him through it. “So,” Sammy continues, “hopefully, you'll start to remember, and we can make some progress.”
Gerard responds with a flat, “Sure.”
“Any questions or comments you have for me?”
His first day, and Gerard already hates the silence between them. He dreads for more. “What if,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I can't make progress?”
“Then, we'll take things slow. Some memories come back when you're ready, and some don't. We can't force you into anything.”
Ray did, Gerard thinks with bitterness. When nurse Victoria, a heavy woman with brunette hair, had presented him with the consent form to sign, he hesitated for a few seconds. With a trembling hand, he picked up the pen and wrote his name down in the blank lines.
Like Sammy can read his doubt, she says, “It's true. You deserve safety over answers first.” Gerard droops his head with a huff. “I understand that you're scared, and that's okay. We'll stop here for today.” Relieved to hear that last sentence, Gerard stands to his feet and makes his way to the door. “They should still be having Nutrition Group right now.”
He heads out to the hallway. He walks down, past the Arts & Craft table that sits between the nurse's office and the outdoor patio. As he makes his way to the stairwell, a figure approaches from the corner of his eye. A brush past his arm. Startled, Gerard halts and turns to see who it was. No one else is there.
•••
He looks at himself in the restroom mirror, decorated with sticky notes saying positive affirmations. His hair is jet black, draping his round face and falling to his shoulders in moppy strands. His skin is fairly pale, his eyes a hazel brown. He stands with a hunch.
There is a knock at the door, and the orderly, Georgia, calls his name from outside.
“Almost done,” Gerard tells her. With his hands, still wet, he rubs them over his eyes, massaging and cooling them. He gets a paper towel from the dispenser to wipe them dry, balling and tossing it into a plastic wastebasket liner. The door is opened to Georgia: a curvy woman with platinum blonde hair gathered in a bun with a claw clip. Long, fake lashes extend from her eyes, a shining gloss on her lips. Gerard did not expect any staff members to make up their faces for such a job.
“Everything alright?” Georgia asks him.
“Yeah, why?”
Georgia looks around behind him, and informs, “I have to let you know that whenever you use the bathroom, you should keep the door open just a crack. Just in case of anything.”
“Okay,” Gerard drawls, closing the door behind him. “Didn't you notice it was shut after I went in?”
“I'm sorry, I got distracted. That's why I knocked–to check in. Just keep that in mind for next time, okay?”
“Sure thing.”
At the long dining table, Gerard finds his name written on a sticky note, at the far end, beside Georgia. On the other end of the table sits Rockelle. Everyone uncovers a plate of teriyaki beef with rice and steamed vegetables. The clients have their names written on laminated cards, held on wire card holders. The brunette is named Eliza; the man, Patrick, and the redhead Hayley. They also have their spots with personal items–photos of loved ones, small and colorful plastic tubes.
While focusing on his meal, his peers are throwing out guesses. Looking upward, he realizes that a game had started by Hayley. The smile on the girl's face offers some ease to Gerard's tension.
“You can bring,” Hayley says, “a mid-point twist.”
“Can I bring Helena Bonham-Carter?” Eliza asks.
“Yes,” replies Hayley.
“Can I bring,” Patrick goes, “hallucinating?”
“You can,” Hayley answers.
“Can I bring Fight Club?” Gerard blurts.
The table laughs light-heartedly.
“It is Fight Club,” Hayley says. “But how you play the game is, you say, ‘Can I bring…?’ with a hint on the movie's plot. And when everyone's figured it out, you say, ‘Three, two, one,’ and then the title.”
Gerard appreciates the socialization, a clear distraction from where they are residing, cut away from the outside world.
It is free time. Eliza is at a table by a window, writing in a journal. Georgia sits in a corner, her eyes cast down at a clipboard. Patrick grabs a remote control and pushes the power button, the television turning on with a whir. He sits back on the blue sofa, next to Hayley, who is reading a thick book. Gerard looks over to the shelf where their fabric bins as cubbies are stored. In one with a sticker name tag marked, Hello, my name is Hayley, he sees stacks of novels, like Shirley Jackson's We Have Always Lived in the Castle. It is a paperback, the cover of a woman and young girl, cast in shadows as they look at the viewer out their large window. Sounds of canned studio laughter come from the television. On the screen is a viewing of Drake & Josh on Nickelodeon, the catchy rock theme song beginning.
Gerard heads over to the man. Standing before him, he greets, “Hey.”
“Hello,” Patrick welcomes with a smile.
Gerard slightly squints. “You look really familiar.”
“I don't think we've ever met. Unless…” Patrick lifts a finger. “Did you attend any of my shows? Arma Angelus? I was on drums.”
“Mm-mm. Sorry. Must be mistaking you for someone else.”
Patrick nods with acceptance. “That's cool. Oh, do you wanna watch something? Or is it fine if I change it to whatever?”
“Whatever's fine.”
The last show Gerard remembers seeing had been the mystery-filled Lost. But not the specifics of how the episode ended. He went to the rocking that was in front of the fireplace, minding his own business while warming up until they were called for bedtime snack.
•••
Gerard is alone in his room. He has changed from his pair of jeans into soft, pink pajama bottoms.
You don't have a roommate for now, Cierra informed when she unlocked the door for him to unpack, following a tour of the house.
Cierra had blonde hair of a natural shade, draped down her hot pink sweatshirt. She had all of Gerard's items looked through, finding nothing sharp or concerning. Only clothes and hygienic products. His bag containing his cellular phone and money was confiscated in the orderly office.
There is a digital clock on the nightstand by his bed, unplugged. Since Gerard has no wristwatch or other way to tell the time at the moment, he does not bother plugging it in. He is so tired, sleep easily claims him as he settles underneath the white sheets, weighing over him.
Drifting off, his ears catches voices critiquing, You're so useless! and You're so lazy! which startle him awake several times during the night. In one instance, he hears footsteps treading outside, a flashlight passing by the gap at the bottom of his door. Gerard, half-awake, barely registers this.
I'm just dreaming, he has to tell himself.