“I want to come home,” were the only words he could understand. She was crying and sometimes yelling more than the phone speaker could take, and his hearing hadn’t been good in a long time.
“I know,” he said, hoping his soft tone would calm her down as it had when she was a tiny child afraid of everything. “But you need to stay until you are better.”
“I can’t get better!” she screamed. “They won’t let me do anything I want to.” Her eyes were wide. He felt them through the Plexiglas separating them like a blow to his chest.
He sighed, just trying to breathe so his words would be controlled. “What do you want to do?”
“I want to come home,” she told him again.
“Other than that.”
“I want them to leave me alone.”
“Is someone hurting you?” He was genuinely concerned. He barely knew those caring for her.
“They make me go to group. I don’t want to talk. Every time I draw a picture someone takes it to talk about it. I don’t like them looking at my pictures and talking. Sometimes, I get a shot after they are done talking.”
“Are you eating?”
“What kind of question is that?” she asked, shaking her head, her eyes looking tired. “Probably.”
“Just making sure you are okay.”
“Then take me home.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” Her voice was calmer, but her eyes watered.
“You know why.” He couldn’t look at her.
After some silence, she began to talk about more ordinary things: his work, what she got to watch on television when she was good, and the colors and shapes of pills. Before long her eyes were red but no longer pleading. Neither talked about sadness. He watched her through the glass and knew that even after he’d gotten in his car, even if he turned up the radio, all he would hear would be her voice trying to rip though her jacket.
Michael Neal Morris has published short stories, poems, and essays in a number of print and online venues. He most recent books are naked and Recital Notes, Volume I. Collections of his work are listed at Smashwords and Amazon. He lives with his family just outside the Dallas area, and teaches at Eastfield College.
Alone is a post from: Straylight Literary Magazine