Chapter 1
It is true that the life of a nurse, except in the case of a few personalities, is not an experience that requires extensive documentation, for our role is akin to that of a mortar holding the institution of medicine together, albeit behind the scenes. Hence, when recounting the events of my life, I have always done so through a rose-tinted lens that romanticizes my rather unceremonious encounters and paints them into incidents of sensational intrigue and significance. While the reader may consider this disingenuous and thus categorize my following recount as little more than an egregious embellishment of mundane events, I profess that the absurdity of the tale debilitates the need for even the minutest of sensationalism.
Although the case is still fresh in the public’s mind, knowing the full extent of the truth, it has become heavy-laden for me to exercise further silence, even when it seems to be the soundest course to follow.
In hindsight, perhaps it was my mistake, after all, to decamp from the serenity of nursing in the English countryside and fly across the Atlantic in pursuit of a more illustrious career on the eastern shores of America. But the invitation from my long-time friend Joan Gates and the promise of a senior post in the charming state of Vermont compounded to be an irresistible proposition. The appointment was a senior nursing position at the Bolton Ridge Psychiatric Institute in Burlington, Vermont, which initially caused me slight concerns since I did not have considerable experience dealing with patients suffering from mental ailments. Joan, however, eloquently explained that my duties would primarily encompass that of a registered nurse working under a senior physician, something I had over a decade of experience with. Furthermore, by that time, she had been working at the institution for the better part of five years and conveyed multiple times in our conversations that the position was more aptly described as a caretaker and very rarely did any incident require serious medical attention.
After giving the offer much profound thought, I realized it to be the ideal change in my rather unceremonious life at the time, and so, in the blossoming spring of 2016, I arrived in the idyllic city of Burlington. I was received by Joan with an enthusiastic welcome and initially boarded her flat, which sat in the northwestern part of the town a few miles from Lake Champlain. Unmarried, she lived alone, which explained her motivation to have me over as a colleague and companion. I had first met her during my maiden visit to America in the summer of 1996, where I had spent a semester as an exchange pupil at Castleton State College. From our first meeting, I had found her to be amiable and charming, with her modest nature inciting confidence and sincerity. Ever since then, we had maintained correspondence, even making multiple visits to each other’s countries. As such, I was understandably elated to reconnect with her, and during the first few days, we discussed extensively about our lives and what the future had in store.
Three weeks after arriving at Burlington, I visited Bolton Ridge Institute for the first time and in my professional capacity. The appointment had already been secured while I was in England, and registering with the board of nursing had been much easier than I had initially anticipated, mainly because Joan had provided her invaluable assistance every step of the way.
The institute was a twenty-minute drive from Joan’s flat, standing unobtrusively at the north-westernmost edge of Lake Champlain. The area was mostly secluded, with a few single-storied houses sparsely scattered within a mile-wide radius, which seemed befitting given the nature of the institution’s residents. The establishment was comprised of two buildings, both of them constructed at the beginning of the 20th century. According to historical data, it was initially built as a prison before being turned into a psychiatric institution after the Second World War, as a treatment facility for veterans suffering from post-traumatic stress disorders. I had found the conversion of a place built to house delinquents into one offering resolution to heroes of society a tad bit unnerving but soon realized that economics triumphed over considerate sentiment.
The general architecture was more draconian than palliative, with the brusque grey brick buildings and barbed laced walls appearing to strike fear and solemnity rather than offering hope and retribution. The buildings stood near the backend of the property, with large singular towers protruding from each, acting as a vantage point for guards to keep watch. As our car stopped in front of the entrance, waiting to be opened, I said to Joan with a feigned chuckle, “This seems a bit desolate to be a hospital.” Joan smiled and, in her cordially assuring tone, responded, “I know. It used to be a prison. They didn’t bother with the renovation when they made it a hospital. But don’t worry, on the inside, it is much more welcoming.”
A minute later, the gate opened with a creaking sound, and the front yard hovered into view. From its placement, I thought it to be a recreational space, although the absence of any sporting facility made me slightly uneasy. The buildings now peered into full view, appearing even more tenebrous as the curtained windows and shoddy brickwork added to the eerie feeling. Most installations were three-storied, with only the one to the farthest left standing at five floors tall. It exuded a more intense atmosphere of gloom than the rest, as the wearing on its facades appeared to be more pronounced.
Joan cut her car across the yard, turning right, and after passing through a narrow corridor to the rightmost corner of the facility; we entered a structure that housed all the cars. It was not built for the purpose most certainly, as the dilapidated condition of the walls and dim lights indicated, but there was ample space and several vehicles.
“You have to get a car.” Joan suddenly said to me after putting the car in park.
“I don’t see the need, as we can commute together,” said I.
“Yes, but we are kind of in the middle of nowhere, so it would still be a better choice. I suggest you get one as soon as possible.” She answered imperatively.
I did not add anything to the conversation except for a reserved nod before we stepped out of the car. A straitened doorway stood in front of us, leading to a stairway into the main facility. Joan led the way, and I followed, climbing two floors before the path opened onto a long corridor with bright white installations on a vaulted ceiling, illuminating the entire vestibule more than necessary. Glancing at my watch, I found it to be four-thirty in the afternoon, hinting that there was still plenty of sunlight outside to necessitate any artificial lighting. I was confounded at this choice until I surveyed my surroundings with a keen eye.
The interior of the facility was conventional to early twentieth-century industrial construction as I identified two sets of four rooms on either side leading up to the reception at the end of the hallway. The doors were closed with no opening to glimpse inside as the sheen on their wooden surfaces exhibited that they had been painted sometime recently. What struck me as peculiar were the curtains firmly drawn on the two windows next to the reception desk, severing any visual link with the outside world. This was consistent with the rest of the building, I realized, after remembering that most of the windows, too had blinds drawn on them. The lack of intrusion of the outside light made illuminating the interior a necessity, albeit it was strange decision in the first place.
“Is there a problem with the windows?” I asked Joan.
“No.” She tersely responded.
“Oh, then why are the curtains drawn on them? It would do good to let some light in,” said I.
“Well, management thought it would be a good idea to create a closed environment to offer the patients a sense of security. A kind of safe space, if you will. Some of the residents have been known to become agitated in the past after catching the view outside, especially of the lake.” She explained.
I continued my observation as we walked up to the reception, where a man waved at Joan and greeted her genially before extending the courtesy to me as well.
“You must be Kelly Spears. Joan has mentioned you would be joining us.” He said, holding his hand out.
“Yes. Nice to meet you, Mr...”
“Siles. But call me Eric. I am the floor and logistical manager of building 4.”
“Hmm. I am looking forward to getting to know you,” said I, shaking his hand.
“I certainly hope so,” said Eric with an effervescent smile, his flawless white teeth sitting in perfect harmony against his dark, polished skin.
“Now, Eric, could you give Kelly her duty schedule? I need to get to work.” Joan interjected.
“Sure, I’ll give it to her now. I just need her ID number,” responded Eric.
“Here you go,” said I, handing him a paper with my details in it.
Eric spent the next few moments searching through the computer as I continued scouring the interior. The hallway extended to the right of the reception, with the theme of rooms facing each other persisting until the very end with one large door standing in the middle of the wall, presumably a gateway to other buildings. All the doors were, as usual windowless, preserving the confined arrangements of prison floors.
“So, have you given her the tour yet?” asked Eric to Joan while continuing his search.
“No. I was hoping you could do that. I am already running late, and Dr. Gary has a session scheduled with patient 361, so I need to stay on guard today.” Joan replied in a purposeful tone.
“Oh! That guy? Yeah, he is a mess. I still wonder why they don’t transfer him to tower 156. He seems like he would be right at home,” said Eric before turning to me.
“Ms. Spears, you are under Dr. Manning in building 2, second floor. He usually oversees twenty patients, but at the moment, it’s fourteen. So, you will be attending to them. Let me print out the details.”
The printer whirred for a couple of seconds, breaking the stillness of the hallway as all three of us unmindfully exchanged glances with each other. After the paper came out, Eric handed it to me, pointing at the part that denoted patient 208. “He is the one you need to attend to now. Dr. Manning has a session scheduled with him in half an hour. You can find his files in the doctor’s office in building 2,” said he.
“Okay. I need to hurry. I’ll see you guys later. Your shift ends at eleven, right,” asked Joan.
“Yes,” I confirmed, glancing at the paper. “By the way, which building are you in?” I added.
“Building 3,” said Joan. “And Eric, could you please escort Kelly and help her settle in?”
“Sure,” nodded Eric.
Joan left shortly through the door at the end of the hallway. As she swung open the door, I caught a glimpse of a dark corridor before it opened into another similarly illuminated hallway.
“Okay. Let’s go,” said Eric, getting up from his seat and heading down the corridor through which I had initially entered.
“Don’t we go through there?” I questioned, pointing at the passageway through which Joan had departed.
“Oh, that only connects building 3 and 4. To get to building 2, you have to enter from outside. It is a confusing design, I know, but you’ll get used to it. Plus, you don’t have to go to other buildings, so it won’t bother you much,” said Eric as we continued through the car park and out into the front yard.
“What about building 1?” I questioned curiously.
“That is on its own. It mainly houses management personnel and doctors,” explained Eric.
“Is that tower 156?” I suddenly declared, pointing my finger at the six-storied high edifice adjacent to the leftmost building.
“Yeah. You are pretty observant, I see,” answered Eric with a chuckle. “That is for patients who are severely distressed or pose a threat to the other residents.” He added.
“Well, how many patients are there in the tower?” I asked.
“I don’t know. People keep moving in and out. At the moment, we have 150 patients in the facility. Usually, the tower has like 20 to 30 at most. Needless to say, it is restricted. Most people are usually required to stay within the building they are assigned to. Building 4 is an exception as I have to oversee the personnel arriving and leaving.”
“Well, doesn’t every building have its separate reception?”
“No. They could have had a separate department for each building, but it saves money to just put everything in one place. And corporations need to cut costs,” remarked Eric as we entered building 2.
The interior was similar to building 4, with the drab walls, almost overbearing lights, and a long row of rooms with windowless doors with numbers on them. We walked over to the reception, where I saw a woman brooding over a few papers, impassive about our presence. Eric and I walked past her towards the long hallway stretching to the left. Unlike building 4, however, the first three rooms on the right side of the hallway did not have any doors; instead, a curtain stood as the demarcation line. There were fourteen rooms on either side, much more spacious than building 4, although the corridor was considerably narrower.
“Okay. This is your workspace. All files regarding your duties and everything else should be in there,” declared Eric as we stopped in front of the third curtained room. I slightly tugged on the drape and saw a neat chamber with a stout curved table and cushioned chair in the middle, surrounded by three-drawer cabinets on the adjacent side and the back. The furniture was of a grey color, complementing the muted and almost insipid atmosphere of the surroundings.
“It’s lovely,” said I.
“Great. The next one is Dr. Manning’s office. He’s the one you will be working under,” explained Eric.
Walking over to the next room, we stopped in front of a closed door with a nameplate reading “Dr. Herbert Manning, Doctor of Osteopathic Medicine.” Eric then knocked on the door a few times, but no response was heard.
“He must not be in.” He remarked.
“Hmm. So, why doesn’t my office have a door, along with those other two rooms?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t really know. When I joined, it was already like this. Back then, nurses didn’t really have a whole room to themselves. Later on, management decided to use these as rooms for senior nurses,” elaborated Eric.
“Still, a strange decision,” I remarked.
“Well,” Eric slightly leaned in. “The Wilkins group did not spend much on renovation when they took control. I guess they were content with keeping the whole prison vibe. Honestly, the only thing that makes this place a good option is the pay, almost fifty percent more than you would usually get on average, which is quite unusual.” He added.
“The Wilkins group? Isn’t this government-owned?” I questioned; a little bewildered by the revelation.
“Used to be. Back then, it was exclusive to veterans. About seven years ago, the government handed it over. Seems like spending money on used-up soldiers just was not very appealing to them. So, they gave it to the Wilkins group, who opened it up to the public. Well, only the ones willing or able to pay, that is...”
As Eric was in the middle of his exposition about the institute, a man’s voice interrupted us, whisking our attention away.
“Mr. Siles.” The man expressed in a tacit, sonorous tone. I turned my gaze towards the reception from whence I had heard it to see a lean figure in a white coat standing near the desk.
“Ah, Dr. Manning. I was just talking....” Eric gestured for me to come along mid-sentence as he started walking toward the man. “...to Ms. Kelly about you.” He said after reaching the reception, standing next to him.
“Ms. Kelly?” Dr. Manning asked, looking at me through the elliptical lenses of his golden-rimmed spectacles.
“Yes. I am Kelly Spears, the newly appointed senior nurse.” I answered.
“Oh, yes. From England?” He said, extending his hand.
“Yes. I will be working under you, Dr. Manning,” said I, shaking his hand, which immediately stung me with a coarse, frigid texture as though it had been kept in a freezer for a prolonged period. I quickly released my hand to avoid causing disconcert as the skin on the thenar of my palm had already reddened. I was astonished by the peculiarity of the incident, for I had never known it to be possible for human hands to be so cold, let alone one belonging to a living person.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Spears.” He paused momentarily as a listless smile appeared on his lips. I gazed at his hollowed but firm face in stupefaction as his glimmering amber eyes generated a sense of inexplicable uneasiness within me.
“I have a patient at 208 that I will need your assistance with. The file is in my office. If you could kindly get it for me. It is the one with the red cover on my desk.” He instructed before turning to Eric.
“Well, Mr. Siles. Thank You for showing Ms. Kelly around. I’ll take it from here. You can head back now,” said Dr. Manning in an imposing manner.
“Sure. Let me know if you need anything.” Eric succinctly responded before briskly heading towards the exit.
“I’ll get the file,” said I, walking over to the room and turning the handle on the door. The inside was similar to the office I had been given, with the exception of a few bookshelves and a slightly more spacious interior. The table was cluttered with an array of documents, but it was easy for me to identify the red folder, peering from the corner. When I went to fetch it, my eyes were instantly drawn to a rectangular sheet of paper protruding from underneath one of the folders, which on closer inspection, I found to be a photocopy of a check made out to Dr. Manning for $350000.
“That is quite an amount,” was the first thought that came to my mind before I wondered why there had been a need to photocopy it in the first place. Soon, however, my train of thought was halted as Dr. Manning’s baritone voice caused me to quickly depart from the room.
“Let us hurry. The session has already started.” Dr. Manning said, glancing at his watch. I answered with a nod and quietly followed him down the hallway until we arrived at the door marked 208.
