people-sketch: Night Shift (part 7)

(part 6)

Stories from my previous job. For the privacy of those involved, names and details have been changed.

2006.

5:45a.m.

I'm sitting in the kitchen area, at a little table. I'm drinking coffee. Across from me, Diane is holding a cup of coffee as well. She's staring into it, thinking.

She's 54 years old.

She is up unusually early...well before the other clients. Which is a notable change in behavior. She is typically one of the hardest ones to get out of bed in the mornings.

I don't say anything. I drink coffee, stare through a window. She looks around; opens her mouth...closes it. She's dwelling intensely on something, but can't get it out. She's been like this all week. Mentally perturbed, but struggling to get the words out.

For most of her life, Diane lived in the mountains, way out. She spent her entire childhood and much of her adult life living in a small trailer, with her mother and younger brother. They shunned outsiders, lived insular lives in an isolated town. Her brother ran away as a teen. Her mother died when Diane was 35.

So she continued to live alone, in that trailer, into her mid-40's. One day, a case worker arrived to help her fill out financial assistance forms. When the case worker drove up to the trailer, Diane walked onto the front porch...lifted a rifle...fired into the air.

She shot off to the side, no one was hurt. Police arrived...Diane went to jail. It was determined fairly quickly that Diane was severely mentally ill. She was diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder (sort of a mix of schizophrenia and a mood disorder). She bounced around various hospitals and psych wards for a few years, before winding up at our psychiatric facility.

I worked with her for a total of six years. She was mostly quiet, kept to herself. She was suspicious of others, especially staff. She preferred to stay in her room most of the time. She made no friends. She talked to herself, in a mumble, almost continually.

So on the morning that she woke up early and sat across from me, it was a little unusual.

I just drank coffee and waited.

She rubbed her hands together...mumbled to herself. The she asked, "M?"

"Yes ma'am?"

She stared at me for a few seconds and then said, "There was this Mormon fella' that came to the door."

She stopped, said nothing else.

"Here?" I asked. "A Mormon came to the door here?"

"No, no," she replied. "This was ages ago. Momma answered the door and this Mormon fella started talking his devil talk. I could see that, the devil in his heart. And, uh...you know, I just saw him there, the Mormon. And I knew him, I recognized him. He worked at the grocery store. He stocked the cans and the cleaners. He had the devil in his heart, but I knew he worked at the store in town. And, uh...do you know what he said?"

"No, ma'am."

She glared at me...pointed a finger at me...and said, "Well, that little Mormon up and said, 'A tide is rising. A black tide.' And he said, 'It will cleanse this world of it's thorns and dander.' Clear as day, he said a black tide was rising. And Momma...she just startled and said, 'What kind of talk is that? What kind of talk is that?' And she slammed the door in that Mormons face. Oh she was so mad."

Diane looked around, confused expression on her face. Exasperated, she said, "I was fourteen! But I hated that man. I could of slapped him. I saw him at the store later on and I screamed, 'Devil!' And it's true, that man was just filthy with it, with his unclean words. And I, uh...can I...well, anyway."

She mumbled to herself for awhile. I couldn't make out what she was saying. I think back over what she just said, try to categorize it...but I can't tell if she's describing delusions or real memories. No way to know.

She mumbles...looks around. Then she says, "M?"

"Yes ma'am?"

"In the world, how many Mormons are there? Like, in the woods and in the cities and...you know, the world...how many Mormons are there?"

I think for a bit. I sip coffee. I say, "I need more coffee."

She stares at me. I say, "Diane...what about you, a little more coffee?"

She holds her cup out. I fill hers, mine. She mumbles to herself for a bit. She says, "I just wonder...how many Mormons are hiding in the world?"

I don't say anything.

Diane asks me how many Mormons I know personally. I ignore the question, ask if I can make her some breakfast. She ignores me and talks about Mormons.

Then it's quiet.

She and I drink coffee, wait out the shift.