The boy wavers, glancing at us, then back at the girl. I see his chest rise and fall as he sighs, and then he runs over to her and grabs her hand. They disappear into the crowd just as a cop car pulls up. Two officers in dark blue uniforms spill out. I crane my head to see what happens, but Wes puts his hand on my back, urging me forward.
“What was that?” I ask him as we start walking again.
He shrugs, though I notice that he’s staring back at where the boy disappeared.
“Did you know him? Was he yelling at us?”
“No. Come on. We’re almost there.”
“Wes.” I stop walking and look up into his face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, Lydia.”
“It’s just that . . . your eye is twitching.”
He jerks his hand up and covers his eye. I watch as his face convulses, as though all his muscles just stop working at once.
“Are you okay?”
“I said I’m fine!” He snaps the words as he turns away from me.
I automatically take a step backward—Wes has never spoken to me like that, and I don’t know what to say. Finally he faces me again, slowly lowering his hand. His eye looks a little red, but otherwise he seems normal.
“Sorry,” he says quietly.
“I was just worried about you.” I sound defensive.
“I know. I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I really am fine.” He reaches down and grabs my hand. I let him hold it, and I don’t say anything when I notice he’s shaking.
Bellevue Hospital sprawls along the east side of the city. Over the years it has been added to and adapted and now it is a series of tall buildings made of glass, concrete, and red brick. A black wrought-iron fence still sections off the original buildings. There is something creepy about the dark metal juxtaposed against the modern glass structure.
Wes and I find the entrance and approach a wide front desk.
“We’re looking for the psychiatric ward,” I tell the young female receptionist. “My . . . uncle is a patient there.”
She doesn’t look up from her desk. Her hair is a teased, puffy blond cloud, and her nails are long and red. “Emergency room or committed.”
“Committed.”
The word makes her finally lift her head. “How long?”
“About four weeks now.”
“Psychosis or drugs and alcohol related?”
I swallow. “Psychosis.”
“You want Unit Nineteen North.” Her voice is a little softer. She quickly gives us directions.
We walk through a few hallways until we reach an elevator. The car we get on is filled with people, and we have to squish together just to fit.
As soon as we get off on the psychiatric ward, the atmosphere changes. Instead of a busy hallway, with doctors and staff and patients teeming the halls, this place is quieter, more deserted. In the distance I hear someone shouting.
We approach a heavy metal door with a red button on it. I push the buzzer and hear someone fumble with a lock on the other side. The door opens a little, and a male nurse in pale blue scrubs sticks his head out. “Yes?” he asks.
“We came to see Peter Bentley,” I reply. “He’s a patient here?”
The man frowns. He is young, though the fluorescent light overhead bounces off the dark, shiny skin of his bald head. “Is he expecting you?”
I shake my head. “But he’s my uncle,” I add.
“It’s visiting hours, isn’t it?” Wes asks.
The man scratches his bushy eyebrow, then looks over his shoulder. I can only see a little of the room behind him. It has white walls and shiny beige floors. “Wait a second,” he says. The door shuts, and Wes and I are alone in the hallway.
After a minute the door opens again, and the nurse gestures us forward. “We don’t usually let visitors into this area,” he says. “But Bentley is a special case. We can’t move him right now. Keep your hands to yourself and don’t talk to any of the other patients.”
I exchange a glance with Wes before we step into the psychiatric ward. The nurse locks the door behind us with a key. We’re standing in a long, wide hallway. Directly across from us is an open entertainment room. I can hear a cartoon on the TV in the background, with loud, exaggerated sound effects. To our right is the main nurses’ office, with glass windows that look out onto the hallway.
There are a few patients roaming around, some accompanied by nurses, some alone. A woman with taped-up glasses and wild hair sees us hovering near the doorway. “I hate this place,” she says, her words slurring. “It doesn’t work. It doesn’t work.” Her voice is getting louder and louder. A nurse comes forward and takes her arm, steering her back down the hallway.
“Welcome to the loony bin.” The male nurse laughs loudly, a booming sound. Wes and I are both silent.
“This way,” he says, still chuckling.
The hallway has a few pictures, cheerful landscapes in gold frames. Though the walls are white, the doorways are painted a sunny yellow. I remember reading that color can affect mood, and that yellow is supposed to make people feel happy and productive. I wonder if it actually works.
We pass a door with the word SECLUSION written above a narrow window. Inside, a man rocks back and forth on a mattress on the ground, staring at nothing. I slow down as I watch him, wondering who he is, and if my grandfather has ever ended up here in this room. Wes must feel me pause, because he turns around and follows my gaze. His face softens, and he steps back until he’s close enough to whisper in my ear. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
I straighten my shoulders and nod. His hand finds the small of my back, and together we walk down the hallway toward my grandfather’s room.
The nurse pauses at a door and turns
