We’re instructed to have a seat until they’re ready to bring us into the visiting room. I sit next to Jenna and look around before bringing my gaze to her. “How long has your grandmother lived here?” I ask.
“I’m not exactly sure, but I believe over twenty years. It was definitely after my mother and father got married. She’s my maternal grandmother. My mother’s side of the family isn’t wealthy. I think my father put my grandmother in here so she could have the best care possible.”
“Why do you say it like that? Like it’s not the best care?”
She sucks in a lungful of air before slowly letting it out. “Because there was no saving her. She was already in a mental institute for at least ten years before my father had her moved here. When she was in the other one, they pumped her full of experimental drugs and other crap. She’s older now and suffers from Alzheimer’s as well.”
“What is her diagnosis?”
Jenna’s mouth twitches and moves around, like it always does when she’s chewing the inside of her cheek. “Schizophrenia,” she mutters.
“Is she one of the reasons why you want to teach art to teens with a mental health issue?”
“No, she’s not the reason.”
Before I can open my mouth to ask what the actual reason is, a nurse strolls out and waves us over. Jenna stands and I follow close behind. We step into an elevator, go to the second floor, and exit into an enclosed entryway. The nurse thumbs in a code, swipes a card, and the door unlocks. The three of us walk into a visiting room.
Now this looks more like the mental institutions I’ve seen on TV. There aren’t a lot of people in here, probably around twenty. Half seem to be patients of different ages, races, and genders. The rest are visitors or nurses. I’m still following Jenna; she strolls straight to an elderly woman who’s sitting in a wheelchair. Jenna takes a seat across from her. The nurse that led us up leaves to attend to another patient.
Not sure what else to do, I settle into a seat beside Jenna. Her grandmother is incoherent; she’s just sitting there, zoned-out, blankly staring straight ahead. Her grey hair is brushed back into a ponytail except for a few white, frizzy strands that stand out. I can’t find any resemblance between Jersey Girl and her grandmother. Sure, Mrs. Peterson is older—streaks of wrinkles crease the corners of her slightly slanted eyes, thin lines are etched around her mouth, and dark spots dot the top of her stiff hands—but Jenna doesn’t have the same light green eyes or pale, lifeless complexion as her grandmother.
“Good morning, Grandma. This is Logan,” Jenna introduces. My eyes narrow, cautiously taking in every detail and potential movement from her grandmother. But…nothing. She doesn’t move or say a word or even blink.
“Hi,” I say awkwardly, low. This is weird. What does any of this have to do with Jenna’s and my relationship? She said she wanted to show me something. I wonder if she comes here often, but in the past few months I’ve taken up most of her free time. “Do you volunteer here?” I ask.
Jersey Girl shakes her head with a smile. “No.”
“Oh.” I look around, spotting a young teen by the corner. She’s standing there, facing the wall like she’s a toddler on time-out as she mumbles to herself. “You visit her often?”
“Once a month. I usually take a cab up here.”
“That’s nice,” I say, my gaze shifting over to a man seated on one of the couches. His legs are up against his chest as he bangs his head into his knee and slams a fist to his temple. He keeps going and going until he’s yelling, “Get out! Get out! Get out!” A woman seated across from him—I assume she’s visiting since she’s not wearing scrubs—tries to soothe him by making hushing sounds, but that just makes it worse. He gets louder and punches harder. A nurse runs over and stabs his arm with a needle; he instantly calms. Then he’s taken away.
“Are you okay, Logan?” Jenna prods, her hand at my arm.
“Yeah. I’m fine. How long is your visit for?”
“Only forty minutes.”
I nod. I can handle forty minutes.
During our visit, there was no time for Jenna and me to talk. It was too noisy or something happened with a patient within those forty minutes. In a way I’m happy it’s over. Jenna and I step out of the building in silence. I’m still just as confused as I was when I first walked in there. Nothing has been answered; nothing makes sense.
We both jump in my truck and sit there. No words are spoken. We just sit there, staring blankly ahead at the brick wall of the building, both of us a mirror image of her grandmother. I shake my head, releasing the thought, then turn to look at Jersey Girl. “Jenna, I’m glad you shared this part of your life, your grandmother, with me.” I pause, pressing my lips together, and then continue. “But I don’t understand what this has to do with us, with you. Is this the part where I get my answers to everything?”
She brings her head back, her gaze lingering on the ceiling of my truck. “Yes. Just bear with me, okay?” Her lips trembling, she tries to breathe smoothly. “This is hard for me to say.”
I adjust in the driver seat so I’m fully facing her profile. I sit and I wait. I don’t rush or push her. It’s the longest six minutes of my life until she finally says, “Four years ago, I was diagnosed with a mental illness.”
On the words diagnosed and mental illness my stomach drops. “What were you diagnosed with?”
“Schizoaffective disorder,” she says, deadpan.
I rack my brain, trying to figure it out. “What is that? I’ve never heard of it. What is it?” I rush out.
Jersey Girl’s eyes are still glued to the rooftop. “There are two types of schizoaffective disorder. The schizo side is when a person experiences schizophrenia-like symptoms like delusions or hallucinations, sometimes both. The affective side is where there are two types: there is a manic type, like bipolar symptoms, or the depressive type where a person struggles with depression.” She says all of this like it’s rehearsed. Then shaking her head, she goes on, “I’ve been diagnosed with schizoaffective depressive type by many psychiatrists.”
“No,” I shake my head.
She crooks her neck and finally lands her eyes on mine. “Yes, Logan.”
I ignore her response. “No.”
“Yeeesss.” She nods, stressing the word as if it will make me fully understand it.