When the order of the day was to keep me inside, the task was carried out with efficient ease by a host of dedicated personnel. When it became time for me to go, however, I was on my own. Whatever details had to be taken care of–housing, job, money, transportation, even basic clothes–all this I had to coordinate myself. Maybe they figured that if you really were cured, and you really weren’t crazy anymore, you didn’t need help with the basics. I wasn’t crazy, and I still maintained–at least to myself–that I never had been. All the same, I still felt intimidated, and almost overwhelmed, trying to take care of myself again after being in this supervised care for so many years.
“The big day’s coming up soon, right, Jack?” Glen asked. “You must be pretty excited.”
“Yeah,” I said. Glen was the leader of the group therapy sessions. It had taken me a long time to realize that I genuinely needed his approval to get out of here, and still longer to allow myself the indignity of seeking that approval. Now, so close to getting out, I felt terrified of losing it. I kept my answers as short as I thought I could without appearing reclusive. “I can’t wait.”
“You going home to Kingman?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, though in truth I knew for certain I would not. “I think I’ll stay here in Phoenix.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Got friends here? Family?”
I smiled. “Not yet.”
In the days leading up to my release, Glen pretty much left me alone at the group meetings. Now on the verge of getting out, I didn’t need to talk to understand, anyway. I felt possessed of a glow of joy within me, contrasting sharply with the cold embers in the hollows of some of the newcomers. In them I could see reflections of myself on my arrival–not that I still could believe I had ever belonged here. After nearly four years, though–nearly a fifth of my entire life–I could not deny I had experienced a certain growth. How could I have avoided it?
The process of arranging to leave highlighted shortcomings of the budget or the planning of the hospital. When the plan was to stay, there was no shortage of therapists to pronounce judgment, doctors to prescribe medication, and nurses to enforce the order. When it came time to plan to leave, however, the help the staff could provide was limited to two things: a phone, and the Sunday paper. I was afraid of the phone, afraid everyone I might talk to could tell where I was calling from. I knew it wasn’t true, but I was afraid all the same. In the Sunday paper, on the other hand, I found a dizzying, amazing, exciting burst of life. The whole world was out there, waiting in the hot Arizona sunshine for me, and somewhere in those pages of classified ads were the little squares that were my place in it. I spent many careful hours studying the ads and clipping out the most promising.
Dr. Watson, I guess, had the task of making sure I had everything in order before I was released. “You got a place to stay lined up, Jack?”
I nodded wisely, and I could feel sweat burst out under my shirt. I had gotten better at lying since I came here, but I still wasn’t very good at it. I patted the pocket of my shirt, where I could feel the little bundle of newspaper clippings through the thin fabric. “I’ve got some places to check out, a couple near here, one over on Devonshire on the west side. I don’t want to make a decision before I see them.”
This brought no reaction from the doctor. He had a bald head with a fuzzy fringe of gray hair. He worked on a paper in my file, ticking off points on what looked like some kind of checklist. “You’ve been in the vocational training here, too, I see.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Bartending.”
He raised his eyebrows without taking his eyes from the page. “You going to stick with that?”
“For now,” I said. I had long given up on talking about art. “Until something better comes along.”
He nodded, looking up at me. “You have some money to tide you over?”
“Yes. My mother sent me some to help me get myself going.”
“Is she coming up here to pick you up when you get released?”
“No, sir. I’ve asked her not to come.”
Dr. Watson’s pen stopped on the page, and he looked at me with a puzzled frown.
“Some things, you just want to do by yourself,” I said. “You know?”
I didn’t sleep at all the last night. I was about to turn a major corner in my life, and I felt anxious and excited. It seemed as though I should be thinking, reflecting on the moment, and if I should find some clever insight, something to make sense of the past four years or sum up my experience. I lay in my bed, and I thought about this, but I found nothing.
Instead, I saw the elements of my surroundings keenly, clearly as never before. The darkness of the ward was almost misty. I could see dark lumps on most of the other bunks, where the others in the unit were sleeping. I could hear two people softly snoring, and from somewhere more distant came the softer sound of someone crying. The light from the nurse’s station cast a yellow glow into the far end of the room, and the whole scene had the character of a photograph of the past. I felt ambivalent. On one hand, this had been my home for nearly four years. It was comfortable, and on some level, I would almost miss it. On the other hand, I wanted never to return, nor even to remember.
The sky began to lighten around five a.m., and the sun had completely risen by six. I got dressed and had my small bag packed even before the day shift of nurses and orderlies had arrived. They gave me the option of eating breakfast before heading out into the big world. I declined.
The last bit of paperwork seemed to take forever, but it was still before nine when I cracked the front door open and the Arizona sun washed over my face. My breathing had grown shallow, and tears had welled up in my eyes. I brushed them away with the hand holding the batch of Sunday paper clippings. Behind me, someone said something that might have been “goodbye”. I glanced back, and the great hall already looked like a dim old memory.
I let the door hush closed behind me and quickened my step. I walked out the door into the brilliant sunshine–it seemed so much brighter on the outside than it ever had on the inside. The air was hot and clear, and all the world, it seemed, was waiting before me. As I walked across the sun-dappled lawn to the sidewalk, I caught sight of a Valley Metro bus lumbering toward me down the street. The weight of four long years fell away from me, a nearly physical act of shedding, and I began to run.
