The Whispering Room

Hospitals affected by the storm had to be evacuated quickly and even though every effort was made to relocate the more violent patients—those designated criminally insane—to maximum-security facilities in other parts of the state, the sheer number of beds lost to flooding forced low-to-medium-security hospitals like Pinehurst to take in the overflow.

One of the patients evacuated to Pinehurst was Mary Alice Lemay.

For over thirty years, Mary Alice had been incarcerated at a branch of the South Louisiana State Hospital in Plaquemines Parish, a dingy, gloomy facility with cinder-block walls, chipped tile flooring and hallways that reeked of urine.

In that building, the worst of the worst were housed and treated—the serial killers, rapists and child molesters who had been remanded to a state psychiatric hospital rather than being sent to prison.

Mary Alice had spent the first few years of her custody under a suicide watch and in virtual solitary confinement. During that time, she received not a single outside visitor. Friends and relatives were so shocked by what she’d done, they couldn’t bring themselves to meet her gaze in the courtroom, let alone visit her face-to-face in a mental institution—especially considering most thought she deserved the electric chair.

The weeks, months, years of her internment were passed alone and in complete silence until a new doctor assigned to her case decided one day that integration into the general population of the institution would be beneficial to her treatment.

So the door to her room came open, and Mary Alice Lemay stepped through into a world unlike any she could have previously imagined.

A nightmare world of confusion, misery and perpetual terror.

She was encouraged to mingle with the other patients, but she didn’t like eating her meals in the cafeteria or socializing in the solarium or taking group walks around the grounds. Her ward was filled with all sorts of people suffering from all kinds of distress—addicts, schizophrenics, those with depression and bipolar disorder—and Mary Alice was afraid of them.

She’d been born and raised in a small town in Southern Louisiana. For the most part, she’d lived a very sheltered life, and what she saw inside the walls of that hospital shocked her.

Some of the patients were so violent, they were never allowed to leave their cells. Others were let out, but were kept restrained, and it was those patients that seemed to watch Mary Alice with more than a passing interest.

They were the ones with the dark stares and the knowing smiles, the ones who gave her a nod as she passed by in the hallway, as if to acknowledge a kindred spirit.

And then there were the sad cases, the distraught patients who tugged at Mary Alice’s heart. The elderly woman who stood in a corner all day long pulling imaginary spiders from her tangled, gray hair. The young man who drew nothing but eyes, then cut them out and taped them to the back of his head.

Sometimes Mary Alice wondered what that young man had been like as a child. Had he been happy and carefree, or had the seeds of his sickness already been sewn?

Sometimes Mary Alice thought of her own children, but she’d learned early on that it was unwise to look back. No good could come of living in the past, of trying to remember a time when she, too, had been happy and carefree.

It had all been so long ago.

Before evil had invaded her life.

Before she had been forced to do the unthinkable.

The unforgivable.

Mary Alice didn’t want to look back, but the only thing she had to look forward to each day was art therapy where, instead of drawing eyes, she took up origami. Some of the doctors used the art of paper folding as a way to decrease anxiety and aggression in the patients, but for Mary Alice, it was an escape.

Her fingers were very nimble, her patience boundless, and she could lose herself for hours in the intricate folds. Soon her room overflowed with the tiny paper cranes, each one beautiful and unique and—to Mary Alice—each represented a very special wish.

She’d had to leave all her cranes behind when she was transferred to Pinehurst, but she didn’t really mind. The new facility was so much better. The building was old, but it had a lot of character and there where windows everywhere. The green-gold light that filtered down through the trees outside her room each morning reminded her of the bayou, and when she stared out that window, she could easily ignore the bars and imagine that she was back in her own bedroom.

But she refused to dabble in the dangers of make-believe, nor would she allow herself the luxury of losing her mind. Every hour of every day, Mary Alice Lemay was cognizant of where she was and why she was here.

She knew what people thought of her, what they called her here and in the outside world. But they hadn’t looked into the eyes of her children. They hadn’t seen what she’d seen. They didn’t know what she knew.

So, no, Mary Alice did not— would not—look back with regret.

Sorrow, yes, but not regret.