“Where is Mr. Oswald?”

It’s on day twelve of forty-two, in the hellhole that Calligan Farley is confined to, when Theogony House Orderly, Van Pierce, strolls into her room, innocent and bright-eyed and beautifully confused, with messy dark hair and a five o’clock shadow.

Calligan blinks at him. “Who the fuck is Mr. Oswald?”

She can’t be sure who looks more taken aback in that moment. He’s an orderly, judging by the boring, head-to-toe white ensemble, and the little nametag pinned crookedly to his breast pocket. Calligan, who is sitting cross-legged on the middle of her bed, with white sheets twisted around her shapely legs that would have once been tanned from the sun, leans forward to squint at the name printed on it.

“Van?” She doesn’t try to hide the way her tongue curls around the word with distaste. “What’s that short for? Ivan, Evan?”

She looks at him expectantly. He’s not the worst orderly (“caretaker” is what the Centre calls them) she’s seen around, glancing at his light-colored eyes. Blue? Green? She’ll have to get closer to find out. She sizes up the plastic tray he’s carrying, where little pots contain a myriad of colored pills.

Those don’t look like her meds?

“It’s not short for anything,” he says slowly, observing her as if she is a serpent coiled to strike. He steps back, his eyes darting to the room number on her door and her surname below it. Realisation dawns swiftly on his face, and Calligan clocks on moments later.

“Wrong room,” she tells him brightly, gaze sweeping down to the pills. “But you can leave those here, if you’d like.”

He smiles, taking her teasing in stride. “Nice try, Ms. Farley, but Mr. Oswald will be having a pretty bad day if I don’t get these to him.”

“Pity,” she murmurs, leaning back into her pillows.

“Can I get you anything, Ms. Farley?” he asks politely, even as he’s pulling her door shut.

She thinks about it for a moment, even though the query is likely ingenuine. “French toast.” She points a finger at him sharply. “I’m sick of that cereal shit—and make sure it’s maple syrup, not that knock-off sugar water they try to clown us with.”

Van’s throaty laugh shows off a set of straight white teeth.

“Noted,” he replies, nodding with mock sageness. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good,” Calligan declares, her voice rising as Van shuts the door behind him. “Because the food around here is shit!”

 

~*~

 

Time moves a lot slower when you’re sober.

It isn’t exactly a revelation, but it still sucks, more so because sobriety is being forced upon her.

Calligan wonders idly, one morning over soggy cornflakes for breakfast, if she’d have received special treatment if she had come in kicking and screaming. Probably not; as far as she’s been able to tell, everyone here operates on fairness and other nonsense. That’s the first thing they preach when you come in for the assessment, that everyone in the therapeutic community lives by a set of shared values, otherwise known as The Pillars.

Trust, Honesty, Responsibility, Concern and Love—it’s monotonous, almost cult-like, the way the patients have these ingrained into every aspect of their lives here at the Centre.

Calligan realises, belatedly, that she has been stabbing her cornflakes in irritation, and now the minced-up pieces are floating in the vestiges of her room-temperature milk. She pushes the bowl aside bitterly and looks around for a caretaker, so she can go back to her room.

“How’s it going?”

She’s shocked into silence when Van slides into the seat across from her, black breakfast tray clattering to the table somewhat haphazardly. He smiles at her, bright and open, and she notices his eyes are blue.

Then, she sees what he has for breakfast.

Indignant fury licks up her spine at the plate of golden French toast before her. It’s certainly drowning in syrup; thick, Canadian maple, looking sticky-sweet as it drips from the corners of the toast and onto the styrofoam plate. It’s topped with a smattering of icing sugar, and there’s fruit—strawberries and blueberries—heaped up on the side.

“You selfish fuck,” she hisses, grabbing her spoon and brandishing it in his face threateningly. “I will end you.”

Van throws his hands up in surrender and leans back in his seat, brows rising closely up to his hairline. “Whoa, cool it, Ms. Farley.” He grimaces, pushing the spoon shoved into his face away with the tips of his fingers. “If you’d have let me get, I don’t know, a single word out,” he shoots her an accusatory glare, “I would have told you I’m open to sharing.”

Wary, but obviously tempted, Calligan lowers her dull weapon and regards him suspiciously. “Why?”

Van shrugs. “Why not?”

She pins him with a flat look. “Because that’s how the world works,” she drawls. “You have something I want, so what do I have to do, or owe you, to get it?” She glares at him suspiciously. “New meds? A different schedule? I have to take on another activity?” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m telling you right now, I am not signing up for crochet classes. You can tell that orderly, Gina? To shove it.”

This startles a laugh out of him, a replica of the same throaty sound she had heard a few days ago.

She finds herself struggling to admit she likes it.

“No motive,” he assures her, once he’s stopped laughing. His eyes still glint with amusement however, and Calligan doesn’t trust him. She doesn’t trust anyone these days.

She’s silent as he spears a triangle of toast and plops it onto her plate, which twenty minutes ago had been home to her own singular piece of toast with blackberry jam. Then he adds a second, and some of the fruit, until the meal has been divided into halves. He digs into his own share without preamble, and Calligan tries not to look as he uses his thumb to wipe an errant drop of syrup from the corner of his mouth.

Her first bite is bliss, and she honestly tries to savour it, but before she can think twice, she’s polished off the whole plate and is scraping her fork a little desperately at the lingering syrup pooling in the rim. Ridges of her fork dig lines into the plate, much like a mini zen garden minus the zen.

“Good, right?” asks Van, as he swallows a mouthful.

“Yeah,” admits Calligan, feeling only slightly ashamed at her earlier outburst. She graces him with a smile that might almost read as apologetic. “Thanks.”

He starts clearing their things. “Don’t get used to it,” he warns her, not unkindly. “I had to pull some strings for that one.”

The suspicion comes rolling back. “Why, then?”

“Why not?” he shoots back, the same answer as before. The expression on her face must be clear enough for him to realise this won’t suffice, so he sighs and gestures vaguely around the mess hall. “It costs you nothing to be kind.” His voice is carefully light-hearted, though he does not meet her eyes. “I think everyone in here could do with a little more kindness in their lives, you know?”

Calligan frowns and chooses not to comment on that. “Thank you for breakfast,” she says instead, and she means it.

~*~

 

The next few days pass in the sluggish, stagnant way they always have done since her arrival; she rotates through her designated activities with little vigor (gardening, Holistic therapy, a music class, and a fishing excursion she definitely doesn’t enjoy) and has nothing of worth to offer her therapist in their one-on-one come Friday afternoon.

“Are you looking forward to visitation tomorrow?” the woman asks kindly as their session comes to an end.

Calligan pretends to be absolutely riveted by her cuticles. “Overwhelmed with excitement,” she drawls witheringly. “Time’s up, yeah? See you on Tuesday.”

She bolts from her seat and heads straight back to her room, ignoring the other patients and staff members that litter the halls as she goes, even when they greet her.

It’s purely by chance that she peers into Room 45, the one right before hers. Calligan is aware that her neighbour is a young woman, somewhere in her mid to late twenties, but she’s very quiet and hardly interacts with anyone. Excellent neighbour material, if Calligan says so herself.

It’s harmless, just a wee look, because the door is open a crack and it’s usually always closed tight, but Calligan instantly regrets it when she sees two bodies pressed close on the small, single bed—a man in a faded brown leather jacket has his hand carding through 45’s long, blonde hair—his lips at her jawline.

Visitors, family, and friends are encouraged at all times; there are even opportunities for shared meals—though most usually come during the weekend.

Calligan averts her eyes as quickly as possible, hurrying past and slipping into her own room.

Good on 45, she thinks blithely, at least someone is having some fun here.

 

~*~

 

The weekends are usually reserved for recreational time, and family and friend visitations. For Calligan, this means she can hole up in her room with her ferreted bundle of goodies, courtesy of the buffet lunch the Centre provides, and binge watch some television. She has RuPaul ready to go, and even a few cans of soda she’s managed to swipe, when someone knocks on her door.

She’s shocked, momentarily, because the idea that one of her family or friends has shown up is quite literally impossible. Even so, someone is there, so she drags herself off the bed and yanks the door open.

“What?” she spits. RuPaul and her soda are waiting, and this is bound to be some nonsense.

A lazy, somewhat amused smile manages to tug at the corner of Van’s mouth. “Always such a pleasure, Ms. Farley.”

Calligan visibly deflates. “Oh, sorry.” It’s a half-assed apology and they both know it. She peers over his shoulder, but he’s alone. “What do you want?”

“I wanted,” he replies slowly, clearly mocking her tone, “to see if you’d like to join me for lunch.”

Calligan grimaces. “What’s your game?” She leans her shoulder against the door frame, surveying him with narrowed eyes. “You’re not one of my regular staff, and you don’t run any of my scheduled activities. What are you playing at?”

Van hesitates, picking up the defensiveness and accusation in her words. “I—” he sighs in a way that suggests he’s laying all his cards on the table. “I thought you looked like you could do with a friend.” Then, before she can rip into him for assuming anything about her, he says: “And if I’m wrong, you can tell me to go fuck myself.”

Calligan considers this, and him, for a long moment. “I’m not eating lunch with the Brady bunch,” she tells him firmly. “But you are welcome to join me in my room for turkey sandwiches, chips, and one episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race.” She turns, pointing to the singular visitor’s chair in the corner of her room that has never seen a guest. “You may sit there, and if your shoes are clean, you can rest them on my bed.” She looks back at him expectantly.

Van, clearly doing his best to hide a grin at her behaviour, nods as seriously as possible. “Sounds like a deal.”

 

~*~

 

Calligan is forced to give credit where it’s due, because she had been expecting to have to explain at least some of the drag queen basics to Van. He has pleasantly surprised her, however, with enough basic knowledge and quick understanding that they’re able to watch not one, but two episodes, amicably and with a fair amount of banter between them.

He reclines in her guest chair, looking for all the world like he belongs there, munching away on chips and sipping, on occasion, from one of her pilfered soda cans. He’s such a good sport; he doesn’t even ask how many she has ferreted away in her room. (The answer: many. Calligan is in no rush to have her therapist tell her she’s replacing one addiction with another, thank you very much. Even if she was, Sprite Zero is a far better addiction than cocaine.)

In fact, the whole afternoon has gone rather splendidly, and Calligan is even contemplating inviting him back next Saturday—until he brings up visitation.

“I hardly ever see you during the weekend,” he says offhandedly, his eyes never leaving the tv. “Does your family come during different hours?”

Something cold and stark trickles down Calligan’s spine. “No,” she replies flatly.

She figures that her tone is enough for him to drop the subject, but there’s clearly a level of density she had missed in her initial evaluation of his person, because he hums and says: “You’ve been here a few weeks now, right? Are you wanting to settle in before you have visitors?”

Calligan gets up and switches off the TV abruptly. Van turns, confusion washing over his features.

“You can leave now,” she tells him clinically, walking over to the door and yanking it open. When he doesn’t stand, she points a finger out towards the hallway. “Get out.”

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, getting up and putting her chair back into the corner. He gathers up the rubbish from their makeshift lunch. “I didn’t mean to pry.” The worried, apologetic frown he’s sporting almost makes her believe him. She doesn’t say anything, choosing to stew in bitter angry silence for the moment as he walks resignedly past her and into the hallway.

He attempts to offer another bout of apologies, she can feel it, so she stops him before his mouth can open fully. “My family doesn’t know I’m here.” She crosses her arms over her chest and looks anywhere but at him. “Or my friends, for that matter. They think I’m in Europe for the season.” She exhales heavily through her nostrils. “You don’t need to tell me that keeping my addiction a secret is detrimental to my progress. The therapist already does that on the regular.” She fidgets, but finally meets his eyes. “So don’t ask again, please.”

Van inclines his head gently. “You got it.”

They linger, both of them unsure what to say now that Calligan’s scathing moment is over. She acknowledges, unhappily, that Van has been nothing but pleasant to her, so at the very least she can offer a proverbial olive branch.

“We could do this again.” He looks up sharply at her invitation, and she rolls her eyes. “Don’t get too excited; I’m not a fucking charity case. You can bring some chocolate; it’s the least you can do.”

She hates the way his grin is infectious; she can feel herself fighting the corners of her own mouth to stay in the tight, imperceptible line she’s come to perfect.

“Not to make it worse,” he hedges, and Calligan’s brow rises sharply, but he soldiers on: “A lot of people don’t tell their friends and family. It’s not as bad as some of the other healthcare workers make it out to be. You’ve got to do everything at your own pace.” He juts his chin in the direction of her neighbour, 45. “Just between you and me, Ms. Newton has been here for almost a month, and she hardly ever has visitors.”

Calligan frowns, the memory of yesterday clear in her mind. “Well, she seemed like she had a good time last night with whoever was there.”

Van looks from her to 45’s door quizzically. “What do you mean? Nobody signed in for her last night.”

Calligan stills, because she might be an addict but she’s not seeing things. Can’t see shit when you’re sober.

“I must have gotten the rooms mixed up,” she murmurs, and even she doesn’t believe her own words.

Neither does Van, by the look on his face, but he offers one hand in a friendly awkward wave and says, “I’ll see you around, but we’re on for next Saturday, yeah?” before walking away.

~*~

 

Her clay sculpture class is followed by an orienteering course work that tests her patience to the limit. Group settings aren’t where Calligan shines, and when she loses her temper and tosses the compass to the ground, she’s escorted off the team and into the cool down zone. In her defense, they’d gone in circles at least three times.

There is a fallen branch lying in the path ahead. Calligan steps on it and relishes the way it crunches like a broken bone beneath her boot.

Quite frankly the cool down zone is a delightful break from the menagerie of her bickering team mates. She lays sprawled out on the grass outside of the orienteering ring, and lets her gaze wash lazily over the other patients that are subjected to Adventure Activities. There’s maybe forty of them out on the lawn, involved in various ventures. She zones in on a flash of long, blonde hair knelt down in the rose bushes.

45. Ms. Newton.

Calligan makes sure her group leader is paying more attention to the idiots with the compass before getting to her feet and strolling casually over to the gardening section.

“Hi.” She shields her eyes from the sun and peers down at Newton.

The blonde is startled, dropping her little rake and blinking up at Calligan with pale blue eyes. “Hi—hello,” she mutters, her hands fidgeting before she decides to stand. She’s tiny, maybe 5’5? She’s got nice skin. She doesn’t seem to recognize Calligan. In fact, she doesn’t really seem to be there at all. Her pale eyes are a little bit hazy and they dart around the yard without focus.

“I’m Calligan Farley. I’m in room 47, next to yours?”

Newton’s vague gaze manages to stick on Calligan for a moment. “Jenna,” she says quietly, and then starts fidgeting with her hands again. “My name’s Jenna.”

Like pulling blood from a stone, Calligan thinks tiredly. She tries for a wide smile, but it probably comes out a bit threatening, because Jenna curls back and tugs at her long shirt sleeves. Her eyes dart around like she’s inside a pinball machine.

“It was nice of your—” Calligan struggles momentarily for the right word, “—friend to come by last night.” Jenna still looks slightly dazed, so Calligan continues. “I just wanted to let you know, you left the door open a bit. I wasn’t perving or anything. I—”

“I didn’t have any visitors last night.” Jenna cuts her off succinctly, with a firmness to her waifish voice that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Her eyes continue to shift around the yard, and Calligan can’t help but start looking around, too. There’s nothing and no one out of the normal, mainly patients, and a few staff members dotted around, the Gardening Team Leaders by the looks of things; a tall, brunette man and a plump, older woman. Jenna’s hazy gaze lingers on them for a moment before she finds something interesting on the ground to inspect.

Calligan doesn’t say anything for a long moment, attempting to come to terms with the idea that maybe she had looked into the wrong room; 43, maybe? But no, the distinct image of Jenna Newton’s bright blonde hair coiled around a man’s large fingers is embedded in her memory, and she will not be swayed. Calligan knows what she saw; damn what everyone else says.

“Right.” She flashes Jenna an insincere smile. “Well, I better get back to orienteering.” She waves goodbye, reminiscent of Van’s awkward parting gesture the night before, and turns on her heel.

 

~*~

 

It’s Tuesday when Calligan sees Van again. She greets him with a firm punch to his bicep as he steps out of the rec room.

“What—” He clutches at his arm protectively, and the dirty mugs he has just collected clack together loudly. “What is wrong with you? Can’t you say ‘hello’ like a normal person?”

Calligan sneers at him accusingly. “Where have you been?”

“On my days off,” he bites back, affronted by her attitude. “I don’t work Sundays or Mondays.”

“That’s really unhelpful.” Calligan looks down at the mugs. She snatches two from him, ignoring his protests. “Come on, I’ll help you take these back to the kitchen.”

Van stares at her incredulously as they begin to walk. “Who are you, and what have you done with Calligan Farley?”

“I need your help with something,” she says, ignoring his teasing. “You have access to the visitor logs, right?”

“Yes.” If Van knows where she’s going with this, he doesn’t say so.

“Good. I need you to check a date for me.” They turn down the hallway, and Calligan lowers her voice as they pass other employees and patients. Van lifts a hand in greeting and smiles at them. He’s always so nice. “Someone was in Jenna’s room on Friday night, and I want to know who.”

“Jenna?” he asks, and then makes a muted sound of understanding in his throat. “Ms. Newton, in the room next to yours? I’m telling you, Ms. Farley—”

“Calligan,” she says brusquely. “Call me Calligan. This Ms. Farley shit makes me feel like my mother.”

“Alright, Calligan,” he says, emphasising her name deliberately. “I signed in a lot of visitors on Friday, and none of them were for her. Also—” he stresses the word atop her protestations, “—it is somewhat a violation of patients’ privacy for me to disclose that sort of information to you.”

They reach the kitchen, and Calligan plans to drop the mugs and leave, but Van bends down to pull out detergent from beneath the sink. “Don’t be lazy,” he chides, running the hot water. “Get a washcloth; you can dry.”

Calligan, never one to be deterred, grabs the nearest washcloth and waits patiently for him to start scrubbing the mugs. “I have counselling in, like, thirty minutes, so I can’t stay long.” She pauses as he hands her the first mug, and then asks, “What’s Jenna in here for?”

Van gives her a sidelong glance. “Everyone is here to live the lives they want, free from drug, alcohol, and other addiction challenges.”

“Don’t spout that shit at me,” snaps Calligan, snatching another mug from him. “You know what I mean. I’m in here for a cocaine addiction, and Mary Sue is in here for alcoholism. What is Jenna Newton in here for?”

Van sighs dejectedly and turns, leaning his hip against the sink to look at her. “Have you thought about getting to know her? Maybe you could ask her yourself?” He gestures at her with soapy hands. “You’re similar in age; it might be nice for you both.”

“Van.” Calligan stares up at him with an expression too close to pleading for her to be truly comfortable with. They’re no more than a foot apart, she realises, noting the fine lines in the corners of his eyes. She might be an addict, but she isn’t blind; it hasn’t passed her by that Van is an attractive guy. Part of the withdrawal, however, is the inability to get turned on. It’s an absolute kick in the gut, because one of her favorite bedtime routines was rubbing one out and falling asleep in a blissful high of coke and endorphins. Not anymore…

She shifts her weight back, putting a bit more space between them.

“How about this,” he says eventually. “You make an effort to be nice to Ms. Newton, and I’ll check the visitor log again.” He fixes her with a firm look. “Not because I think I’m wrong, but because peace of mind never hurt anyone.”

“Sounds like a deal.” Calligan grins, too excited at the prospect of getting her own way to notice how Van’s eyes drop to her lips.

 

~*~

 

There are good days and there are bad days.

Most of the bad days are over; seven to ten is the average for the majority of cocaine withdrawals, depending on the dosage and usage.

Calligan is almost three weeks in, and today is Thursday, but it’s been a horrible twenty-four hours.

The nightmares are sporadic, but when they come, they’re horrible, and she will wake in cold sweats with tremors wracking her body while her muscles ache. She’s probably had around four, maybe five hours of sleep, and today, she is restless and lacks the ability to concentrate. It feels like a huge backwards step after so many days of feeling okay.

She can’t focus in her sculpture class, her hands are shaking and her concentration is failing as she tries to reread the instructions in front of her. She gives up after forty unsuccessful minutes and goes for a prolonged bathroom break.

She’s splashing cold water on her face when Jenna walks in.

“Hey!” Calligan says, too enthusiastically, and the other woman stops in her tracks and looks nervously around the bathroom. Her eyes appear to be a little more focused today, and her clear skin is flushed with a warmth that hadn’t been there a few days prior.

Jenna smiles tightly. “Hi, Calligan.” Her perusal of Calligan’s clammy face and messy hair doesn’t go unnoticed, but her expression softens with understanding. “Some days are better than others, right?”

“Yeah,” says Calligan, softly. “They are.” She clears her throat and tries to fix her hair as Jenna makes her way to a cubicle.

“You’ve got lovely hair.” It’s almost a physical shock when Jenna calls out to her from the toilet. “It looks like Mahogany. Is it natural?”

Calligan blinks at her own reflection. “Uhm, yeah, yeah, it is.” She hesitates before saying, “I think yours is beautiful, too.”

The toilet flushes and Jenna exits the cubicle, coming to stand beside Calligan so she can wash her hands. She frowns, staring at herself in the mirror like her reflection is the enemy. “Sometimes I wish I could chop it off.” The words are vehement and bitter—Jenna’s pretty, petite face is marred by a scowl. “I hate it.”

“Why don’t you cut it, then?” The question is innocent enough, Calligan thinks, and they do have a hairdresser that you can book into. This place is pretty well-equipped. Jenna, however, looks like the impossible has been suggested. She shakes her head sourly and exhales a sardonic breath through her nose.

“I would if I could,” she mutters.

It’s clear that the conversation is over, but it’s an amicable silence they share as they exit the washroom. They say muted goodbyes, and Calligan can’t help but be jealous that the other woman is having a better day than her; highs and lows be damned.

 

~*~

 

When Van comes knocking the next day, Calligan is in a better state of mind. A shower and freshly washed hair have helped her feel marginally like a normal human being again, but the sleeping pills she had requested take a lot of the credit. Her counselor is pleased she’s feeling more chipper, and Calligan even graces her with mild chit chat. By the time the afternoon rolls around and Van arrives, she’s practically pleasant.

“What have you got for me?” she asks when he’s settled into her guest chair and she’s sitting cross-legged on her bed. “If it’s what I want to hear, I offer you chips as a reward.” She fishes a bag of Lay’s out from her bedside table.

Van gives her an amused look. “Where do you hide these things? Don’t we do room checks anymore?”

Calligan shrugs. “I’m too smart for most of you. Now, the visitor log, and yes, before you get on my case, Jenna and I have talked more. She said I had nice hair.”

“Well, you do,” he agrees blithely. “Upholding your end of the bargain too; that’s what I like to hear.” He hesitates for a moment and then says, “But unfortunately, I still remain correct. There were no visitors logged in for Ms. Newton last Friday, or any Friday, in fact, since she’s been here.”

Calligan glares at him. “Did you check it twice?”

Van barks out a laugh. “What am I, Santa Claus? Yes, Calligan, I actually did check it twice. I swear, there’s no log.”

Calligan has been surreptitiously glancing at him the whole time; his face, his hands, his feet—absolutely nothing gives way to the possibility that he might be lying.

“Van, I saw someone in that room with her. They were kissing.”

He bites at his lower lip, glancing over at the wall that separates Calligan’s room from Jenna’s, as if he might be able to see through it and glean some answers.

“You know,” he says slowly, still looking at the wall. “Everyone has good days and bad days—”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” seethes Calligan, fury ripping through her limbs like wildfire. She practically throws herself to the edge of the bed, pointing an accusatory finger into Van’s face. “Don’t you dare try that shit with me, Van. I am not crazy and this is not the addition. I saw what I saw. Jenna Newton had a man in that room on Friday night.”

Van holds up his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. “I’m sorry,” he says, loudly and sincerely, meeting her eyes with his own. “But you have to realise that it sounds weird.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looks at her imploringly. “We have a strict visitation sign-in process, Cal.”

They both recognise the moment he says her name like that; short, sweet, fond, and softer than all the other times before it. It feels, very suddenly, as if the air in the room has become thin, and it takes Calligan a very long moment to realise she isn’t having a withdrawal; in fact, it’s the complete opposite—she’s turned on.

The gravity of this singular moment must impact him as much as it does her, because he’s on his feet and skirting around the bed to get to the door as quickly as possible.

“I’ve got to go,” he tells her brusquely, even though she’s made no effort to stop him. “I-I’ll see you around.”

He shuts the door firmly behind him, and Calligan is left with the steady echo of her beating heart and the lingering scent of his cologne.

~*~

 

She probably looks crazy, walking up and down the hallway periodically through the evening, but if Van can’t help her, then Calligan will have to figure out the mystery herself. Fridays are busy; family and friends come in through the early evening until late, most of them choosing to stay and share a meal with whomever they’re visiting.

Jenna doesn’t leave her room, at least, not in the hour and a half that Calligan stalks around outside like a predator, and certainly no one goes in. She even goes as far as to linger around the front entrance of the Centre, which garners a few looks from the staff. It isn’t often Calligan actively participates in anything, let alone anything to do with visitation times, so she allows them to be curious for a solid fifteen minutes before scurrying back down to her room.

As she approaches, the handle on Jenna’s room turns and the door opens.

Calligan stops, body rigid, as she tries frantically to think who she might have passed or missed on her journey around the centre.

A staff member steps out, carrying a plastic tray with the little clear pots their meds come in. He shuts Jenna’s door behind him, and when he spots Calligan, he gives her an easy smile.

“Ms. Farley,” he says as if he knows her. He’s a tall, slightly lanky-looking man with hair that curls at the nape of his neck. His name tag reads Darren. She vaguely recognises him as the Gardening Team Leader. “Are you waiting for visitors?”

Calligan shakes her head slowly. “No,” she clears her throat, gesturing to Jenna’s door. “Actually, I was on my way to see Jenna.” She smiles beatifically.

“Ah,” he nods, but his mouth is curved into a slight frown. “Ms. Newton was expecting visitors later this evening, but she wasn’t feeling too well.” He lifts the tray, showing the empty plastic pots. “She might prefer to rest for a while. Why don’t you come by in the morning? I’m sure she’ll be feeling much better then.”

Calligan swallows, but does her best to keep the smile plastered on her face. “Of course.”

She turns, even though the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, and opens her own door, shutting it with a soft ‘click’ behind her.

 

~*~

 

She knocks on Jenna’s door first thing in the morning.

Half the centre isn’t even awake yet, but Calligan couldn’t care less as she raps sharply on the white wood.

Jenna, bleary-eyed and unfocused, opens the door a crack. “Hello?”

“Hi, Jenna.” Calligan tries to sound as soft and gentle as possible, but it’s a difficult task considering the adrenaline pumping through her body. “I wanted to see how you were doing. One of the nurses said you weren’t feeling well?”

He wasn’t lying, either. Clearly Jenna is having another bad day. She looks pale, and her eyes have that glazed, unfocused look to them like they did the other week. There’s a waneness to her features, and Calligan can’t help but feel horrible for the jealousy she had experienced on Jenna’s good day when they’d conversed in the bathroom. It looks like the woman could do with any good day she can get.

“Would you like some company?” The question startles herself, even though it’s her mouth the words come out of, but Calligan quickly comes to realise that she means it. “Just me,” she adds when Jenna’s eyes dart around the hallway behind her at nothing. “I’ve got some chips and some soda we could have for breakfast?”

Jenna’s smile is watery. “Okay.”

 

~*~

 

It isn’t for lack of trying; Calligan does her best to try and find a TV programme that Jenna might be interested in, but the other woman is too concerned with picking at her long sleeves and staring into nothingness than watching sitcoms. Eventually, Calligan finds a marathon of Community, and they settle in to watch that. She opens her chips and offers Jenna some soda, but the other woman nibbles at a single chip a bit like a mouse might a piece of cheese, and she vehemently refuses the soda.

It’s a strange morning for both of them, and Calligan realises that other than Van, this is the most time she’s spent with another human being in weeks.

It’s nice actually, even if her company isn’t all there at the moment.

Calligan hasn’t pushed her luck; she’s made herself comfortable in the guest chair, pulling it around to the side of the bed so she can tug some of Jenna’s duvet over her cold, bare toes. They spend most of the morning that way, in a strange, amicable silence while curated comedy plays on in the background.

At one point, Calligan looks over and notices that Jenna is dry swallowing, her tongue coming out to wet her lips sporadically. There’s no more soda left, but there’s a half-empty glass of water beside the bed, so Calligan picks it up and offers it to the other woman.

“Hey,” she says, lifting the glass so Jenna can see it. “Are you thirsty?”

Jenna reacts so fast, Calligan couldn’t have stopped her if she tried. Perhaps she’s taken her by surprise, maybe Jenna just doesn’t like being handed things, but the minute her head turns and she catches sight of the glass of water, she wails, her arm lashing out to knock the glass from Calligan’s hand.

Water spills down her front and onto the comforter, but Jenna, now curling into her pillow and sobbing, is far more cause for concern than damp clothes.

Calligan panics, unsure of what to do, before hitting the emergency nurse button atop the bed. She hesitates, half out of her seat, and then tries to reach out for Jenna as the door opens behind her. Jenna’s eyes widen as Calligan’s hand comes nearer and the woman shakes her head viciously, kicking out and knocking Calligan back.

A nurse and an orderly rush past her, and Calligan recognises the nurse as the man from last night, Darren, and the other orderly she can’t name. Darren reaches for Jenna, a hand—larger than expected—brushing disheveled strands of her blonde hair away from her face while she sits, wide-eyed and mute, and the orderly moves around the other side of the bed.

Something about it is off.

“What’s happening here?” Another nurse and an orderly arrive to usher her out of the room.

“I—we were just watching TV,” blurts Calligan, as they close the door to Jenna’s room behind them. “I asked if she wanted some water, but she just—”

“It’s alright,” soothes the nurse, one of the older ladies, with a strong hand and firm smile. “It looks like Ms. Newton isn’t having a very good time right now. It’s almost lunch. Why don’t you go down and get something to eat?”

Calligan nods dumbly. “Is she going to be okay?”

“Of course,” the nurse assures her. “Everyone’s journey is different, and our recoveries are very personal. Not one person is the same. Ms. Newton is in good hands. Her nurse, Darren, has been with her since the beginning; I’m sure he knows how to handle her.” Calligan’s expression must read as confused, because the old nurse huffs and gives her a firm pat on the back. “I’m telling you, love. She’s just having a bad day. Same as you do, sometimes.”

“Yeah,” echoes Calligan, flatly. “A bad day.”

 

~*~

 

It is absolute mayhem, trying to track Van down on a Saturday. The centre is awash with patients and visitors, eating lunch and partaking in activities. She must look erratic to most of them, running barefoot through the halls and calling Van’s name. She even goes to administration, but the woman at the counter can only tell her that yes, he’s on shift, but she doesn’t know where he is right this moment. It takes her a better part of an hour, but she finally finds him coming out of the kitchen, chatting animatedly with another staff member.

“Van!” Calligan practically throws herself at him, the morning’s exertion finally taking its toll. “I need to talk to you. It’s important Van, please—”

His hands are warm and steady over her own as he extracts her vice-like grip from his arms. “What’s going on?” He excuses them from his present company, pulling her to the side down a hallway, and rubbing a hand down her shoulder, like one might calm a skittish horse. His eyes are bright with worry, his mouth pulled into a concerned frown. “Cal, hey, what is it?”

“The visitor logs, you were right, Van. There was no one signed in for Jenna because no one did sign in for Jenna.” Calligan grabs at his shirt, pulling him in closer to try and make him understand. “They were already here.” She smacks his chest imploringly.

“Cal, what the fuck.” Van grabs her wrist before she can hit him again. “I’m listening,” he stresses. “Stop hitting me, Jesus. What do you mean, they were already here?”

“You were right!” she tells him fiercely. “About the sign-in roster and the bad days. There was no family or friend signed in for Jenna Newton because the person who was in her room, that I saw, was already in the building.” She sees the moment he makes the connection, his jaw going slack as he processes her words, but she says it regardless. “He works here.”

Van shakes his head, pressing the fingertips of his right hand to his temple. “Cal, this is a huge accusation. We don’t even know—”

“We do!” She smacks him again while he’s busy rubbing his head and he winces.

“Stop that. Cal, there are over one hundred and eighty staff members here—”

“And I know exactly who it is.”

Van’s eyes are sharp as flint. “Who?”

Calligan looks furtively around to make sure no one is in earshot. “It’s Darren. He’s a nurse. I didn’t understand it at first, Van, but it makes sense. I saw him last night coming out of her room. He’s drugging her, Van. That’s why she has bad days that are horrible like clockwork, and I’ll bet you anything her good days are his days off; when he’s not around to keep her meds up.” It comes out in one messy rush, each word on the heels of the other as she spits them out. Van has paled considerably, but he doesn’t look as if he doesn’t believe her. “You said it yourself,” insists Calligan, “sometimes we do have bad days, but all of hers are manufactured. What is she in here for, Van? Because I can’t believe it’s something so bad that she’s behaving like this weeks after being admitted.”

Van winces, and she can read the guilt etched across his face like a script. “Alcoholism and drug abuse,” he murmurs after a long moment. “No narcotics to this level of withdrawal. I checked her charts the first time you brought it up.” The admittance pains him, and Calligan knows he feels responsible in some way; so does she. “The signature for most of her doses is the same. I’ll bet it’s his.”

“Whatever he’s giving her, he’s adding something else, surely.”

Van exhales heavily. “Alright, okay. I’m going to go speak to someone in the Head Office. Does he know that you know this?”

Calligan shakes her head. “No, but he might have an idea. He caught me outside her room last night, and I was in there this morning. That’s what happened; she had some kind of panic attack when I tried to offer her some water—” Calligan trails off, a sick, coiling feeling rising in her chest. “She had a panic attack after I offered her water,” she whispers. “That’s probably what she has to take her meds with; it would have looked like I was trying to make her take something—”

A sob heaves its way out of her chest, unbidden, and before the tears start to fall, Van pulls her in, letting her rest her head on his collarbone. He smells of freshly washed hair and slightly sweaty skin, but it is a rich mix and it is intoxicating.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” He presses his cheek to her head. “Cal, it’s going to be okay, but we’ve got to get proof first. I need you to stick with it until then, you hear me?”

Calligan nods into his chest as her tears dampen his shirt front. “Yeah, I hear you.” After a moment, she’s able to extract herself, and Van gives her as much of a smile as he can manage before grasping her chin with his fingers, angling her face up to his.

“Cal, this is important. If this is true, we need to make sure Jenna will come forward. If she doesn’t—”

Calligan nods. “I don’t know about right this second, but she will.”

“Okay. Stay out of trouble. I’ll come find you shortly.” In what appears to be a moment of blind action, he presses his lips to her head in a chaste kiss before turning and heading in the direction of the administration office.

 

~*~

 

Jenna Newton comes forward to say that her nurse, Darren Lowe, has been sexually abusing her for the past six weeks.

It happens on a Tuesday.

It’s a good day for Jenna, and it coincides with being Darren Lowe’s first registered day off; the second being Wednesday.

She rolls up her shirt sleeves to show them the bruises on her wrists, the ones that overlap the scars from previous self-harm attempts.

Security footage shows Darren arriving and leaving work in the same brown, leather jacket that Calligan had first witnessed him in when she’d peaked into the room.

 

~*~

 

After charges are pressed and he is removed from employment at Theogony House, every day starts to become a good day for Jenna. Her eyes are alert and bright, and she isn’t constantly watching over her shoulder for Darren’s foreboding presence—he would punish her if he thought she was talking to anyone else.

She tells Calligan this a week or so later while the two women are curled up in Jenna’s bed late in the afternoon, sharing a bowl of popcorn and watching reruns of RuPaul’s Drag Race. (“It’s a great show,” insists Calligan. “There’s like twelve seasons for you to catch up on.”)

“Thank you.” It’s certainly not the first, nor the last, that Jenna will say this to Calligan, but it’s become easier for both women to say it, and hear it, respectively.

Calligan smiles. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m going to cut my hair off,” Jenna tells her as they watch television. Her mass of blonde hair is pulled up into a messy bun. “I made an appointment. Would you like to come?”

“I’d love to,” replies Calligan, reaching for more popcorn. “I think you’ll suit short hair. You’ve got great features for it.”

Jenna smiles nervously. “I wanted to when I was little, but my parents always said no. It got so long, I was scared of doing it.” She pauses, hesitant over her next sentence, but Calligan waits patiently and doesn’t press her. “He loved my hair.” The bitterness in Jenna’s voice makes Calligan’s chest ache. “He used it to hold me down and—” she inhales, turning to look at Calligan instead. “Why did you care?”

Calligan doesn’t really understand the question. “What do you mean?”

“Why did you care about me?” Jenna clarifies. “What made you check in on me? I mean, if you hadn’t—” She doesn’t need to finish the sentence for both of them to know what she’s implying.

Calligan thinks about it for a long moment. “It costs you nothing to be kind.” She says the words slowly, as if testing them, and finds that they work well on her tongue. “Everyone in here could do with a little more kindness in their lives.” She shoots Jenna a sheepish look. “I can’t take credit for the sentiment. A friend actually told me that, but he was right.”

“You know, I’m never going to get tired of you saying that,” a voice says.

Calligan turns sharply to find Van lounging in the open door frame of Jenna’s room. His grin stretches from ear to ear.

“I came by to see if you ladies needed anything, but it looks like you’re all set.”

Jenna beams at him. “We are, thanks.”

“Excellent.” He flicks his amused gaze back to Calligan. “Your mom will be here at seven for visitation; don’t forget. It’s lasagna night, and apparently we’ve got Pictionary afterwards.” He shoots them an affronted look as they giggle. “We take Pictionary very seriously around here.”

Calligan smiles at him fondly. “Seven, it is. I look forward to demolishing you in friendly fire.”

“It’s a date.” Van grins, dropping her a slow, sly wink before departing.