Evenings by Joanne Parsons

SUNDAY 7:00 p.m. … Cynthia closes the door. She earned the privilege. Privacy. The quiet of the dayroom after hours. She turns on the lamp and positions the green upholstered chair, its back to the wall of windows and next to the table with the telephone, completing the ritual she’s performed every Sunday, Wednesday, and Friday evening for two months.

MONDAY 9:10 a.m. … She apologizes for her lateness. “Elevator’s broken. I had to walk.” Her stalling technique.

Doctor Tanner gestures. Cynthia sits in the chair facing his. “It’s important you arrive on time for your appointments.” Next she distracts.

“There wasn’t a sign, so I waited. Took me a few minutes to realize I had to walk the three flights. How ‘bout you? Did you walk up? That elevator’s broken more than it’s fixed, isn’t it?”

“Have you been attending your groups, Cynthia?”

“Sleeping does me more good. I don’t like listening to all their long stories.”

“Groups have their purpose. Arriving on time for your appointments with me and participating in groups are conditions of your contract.”

I know. For my privileges. The evenings in the dayroom when I talk with Hope.”

He nods.

“The thing is, Doctor T., those talks do me more good than the groups and these meetings with you. No offense. But, okay, I hear you. I’ll go to the groups, just don’t take away my evenings in the dayroom.”

“With Hope?”

Cynthia shakes her head. “She worries me.”

“Worries you?”

“Our talks are all she’s clinging to. We’re old friends, you know. She’s always been the nervous type. Anxious.”

“And you reconnected a couple of months ago. Hadn’t spoken in a few years?”

“She was on my mind. I’m glad I followed my instincts and reached out to her.”

“Do you have a lot in common?”

“She has an infant and a two-year-old son. It’s been a tough go for her. The infant has her days and nights mixed up, and the toddler has become very clingy since the baby was born. Poor kid has one ear infection after the other.”

“And that’s been hard on Hope?”

“I’ll get to my groups, swear, Doctor T. Don’t take away my evenings.”

“I know they’re important to you, Cynthia.”

“More important to Hope, I’d say. She got a bad case of post-partem depression. Her doctor gave her pills, but they make her sleepy.” Cynthia asks Doctor Tanner, “How’s a mother supposed to sleep when she’s got one kid awake all night and the other one whining and crying all day?”

“You’re her only support?”

“It’s just her and me.”

“Do you talk about your circumstances?”

“What’s there to say about me? I’m here and going nowhere.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You know, the dream.”

“Are you having the dream every night?”

“Not every night. It’s not really a dream. Or maybe it is. Can never tell if I’m awake or asleep. It’s just me, blind.”

“So, in this dream, you can see yourself, but you’re blind.”

“It’s weird when you put it that way. But it’s the dream. I’m there, watching myself, but I’m blind.”

“You can’t see anything?”

“The only vision I have is me, my eyes are open, but it’s just black.” Her right index finger strokes the rough scar on the inside of her left wrist. Can’t see behind me, can’t see in front of me.”

“Your past or your future.”

“Is our time up? Feels like our time’s up.”

Wednesday 9:00 a.m. …“You’re on time, Cynthia.”

“And I went to my groups.”

The doctor glimpses his computer screen. “You went to two out of four of your groups.”

“I sleep a lot.”

“The groups will help you.”

“My evening talks with Hope are my therapy.”

“You feel better when you talk with her?”

“Seems so.”

“Why do you suppose?”

“I’m supporting her. Like in one of your groups, but it’s just her and me.”

“It’s nice to be needed. Healing.”

“Frankly, Doctor T., She’s depressed, overwhelmed. I think she’s on the brink.”

“Brink?”

Cynthia strokes her scar. A habit. “Yeah.” She jolts in her chair.

“What just happened, Cynthia?”

She blinks, crosses her arms over her chest, and mutters, “She was holding an infant.”

“Hope?”

Cynthia stands up. “Yeah, I guess so. I gotta go.”

WEDNESDAY 6:30 p.m. … Cynthia doesn’t stir at the knock. Doctor Tanner enters her room,  finding her curled up, a pillow wrapped around her head, he places a hand on her shoulder. She asks, “Why are you in my room?”

“The nurses tell me you’ve been in bed all day.”

“Let me sleep.”

“This morning, in my office, what happened?”

She mumbles. “Go away.”

“Cynthia, something flashed in your mind. A vision. You weren’t blind. That’s significant.”

She rolls over and faces the doctor. “I’ll tell you what’s significant. Hope is losing it. I’m very concerned … ” She jolts and grabs the doctor’s arm.

“Tell me what you just experienced, Cynthia.”

She tightens her grip. “I saw it again. My baby’s in my arms.”

Doctor Tanner helps Cynthia to sit on the side of the bed. “Go on.”

She puts her hands to her head, and closes her eyes. “The baby’s crying woke me from a nap. I’m walking, carrying her. I pass my son’s room.”

Her eyes pop open. “His little toddler bed is empty.” Cynthia jumps up and looks at Tanner. She presses her arms to her chest as if clutching the infant, and whispers, “The back door. I forgot to lock the back door.” A gasp and a moan. Her face cracks with agony. “Oh God, the gate to the pool.”

A few seconds pass, and Cynthia relaxes her arms. She looks at the doctor, calm restored to her face, and then to the clock radio on her nightstand. “It’s almost seven. The dayroom. Hope will be waiting.”

Joanne Parsons

Image; Pixabay.com – Alarm clock with bells on the top showing the time at ten to eight.