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appeal.”

    . . .

    I learned a few things, that first day on Red Maple. One was that the other patients didn’t bother with the “Maple” part; to them it was just Red Ward, the place where everything stopped. Being in Red Ward meant you’d been “acting out” or were otherwise seriously unstable; you were an escape risk, or you were on suicide watch, or just too volatile to be trusted without close supervision. So once you’d had breakfast and taken your meds, you could play cards or board games in the lobby, and if you’d earned the privilege (which I hadn’t) you might get ten or fifteen minutes in the courtyard before lunchtime. You’d have a short meeting with your psychiatrist or one of the nurses, and then at four P.M . an aide would turn on the TV. But that was pretty much all. No wonder the other patients seemed frustrated and depressed.
    Another thing I learned was that being on antipsychotic medication makes you really, really tired. I thought that maybe they’d just given me an extra-strong sedative at St. Luke’s, but even after a night’s rest, I didn’t feel any less bleary. I borrowed some magazines from the lobby and tried to read, but the words swam away from me. Then I laid out a game of solitaire, but it took all my concentration just to get through one round. Finally I convinced the nurses to let me go back to bed, only to be reminded that being exhausted and being able to sleep are not always the same thing. So I ended up just lying there for most of the day.
    I was still afraid to spend much time with my fellow inmates, in case something went wrong. So I asked if I could take my meals in my room, but the nurses refused. They only did that for patients who were sick or in isolation, they said. So at lunch and supper I had to join the others in the kitchenette. There were eight of us all together, though the ward could hold as many as fourteen. The food was brought in from the cafeteria, and by the time it got to us it was lukewarm. But we could also eat bagels (pre-cut, since none of us were allowed knives), or fruit, or yogurt. And there was plenty of milk and juice in the fridge. No tea or coffee, though—I guess caffeine would have been one drug too many.
    I didn’t talk to the others much. Some of them were manic or lonely enough to start up a conversation whether I encouraged them or not, and I soon learned more about their diagnoses, treatments, and medical complaints than I’d ever wanted to know. But confronted with a patient like Micheline, whose face was set in a permanent scowl and was already carrying on a constant, muttered dialogue with the voices in her head, I didn’t know where to begin. I knew I should try to be friendly, but what if I said something that upset her, and she freaked out? I couldn’t risk getting into a fight, not after what had happened with Tori. So I mostly just kept to myself.
    At last, the day shift ended and the night shift came on— including Ray, who ambled around the ward like a tame bear and smiled at me so sweetly that my eyes stung and I had to look away. The nurses called him “Sunshine,” and seeing him interact with the other patients, I could see why. He could coax a smile out of nearly anyone, even Micheline, and unlike the other aides he wasn’t afraid to pat a shoulder or give a hug if he thought someone needed it. When two of the younger boys started swearing and shoving each other around, Ray gently pried them apart and talked to them in his soft, furry voice until they cooled down. With Ray around I felt safe, and I was grateful for that small comfort.
    Visiting hours were after supper, and I braced myself in case my mother decided to put in an appearance. But the only one who showed up was Micheline’s older brother—greasy-haired, plaid-shirted, and reeking of cigarettes—and I was torn between disappointment and relief. When I came back to my room, however, I found a suitcase full of clothes sitting at the end of my bed.