We throw everything in the trunk of Maureen’s Toyota Camry before entering one of the old brick buildings on the grounds of the former state hospital. We learn from the plaque near the door that this particular building once operated as a men’s asylum.
No cell phones.
No wrapped presents, even though it’s Christmas time.
No purses.
When we check in as visitors, I look to my left. There’s a locked door that opens at the top and bottom. A couple of plain white pieces of paper are crudely taped to the wall surrounding the door.
“TONGUING MEDS GRANTS IMMEDIATE DISMISSAL,” says one.
“Rather fail with honor than succeed by fraud. –Sophocles,” says the other.
Dan, Maureen, and I sign in. Maureen hands the unwrapped presents through a window so they can be inspected. She bought Jimmy a couple of board games and card games so he could keep himself entertained. Jimmy already got through all the puzzle books she brought a couple of weeks ago.
The board games will have to be opened, and each little part will have to be inspected before it can be turned over to Jimmy.
I look to my right. There is a man sitting on a ripped up couch who is partly bald, due to what appears to be an old bullet wound in his head.
It’s like a damn prison, or what I would imagine prison to be.
The doors and windows are locked and have bars on them. The only fresh air Jimmy gets is when he is allowed to visit the facility’s courtyard. Since he has been there a few weeks and has been sober for more than six, he is allowed this privilege.
We show the check-in lady that there is nothing in our coat or jean pockets, and are allowed inside. Jimmy is standing behind the check-in table. He looks fat, but he also looks calm.
“Hey, what’s up?” he asks as we pass the check-in table. We enter a community room where other people in recovery are visiting with their families.
“Nothing,” Dan says. “How are you?”
“All right. Want to sit down?”
“Sure,” Dan says. We take seats in folding chairs surrounding an old, scratched up card table. As Jimmy nods and greets someone walking by, Dan leans over to me and explains, “Jimmy has gained some weight because of the medication he is taking. And because he is no longer drinking.”
I nod. I already know this.
We sit down. I look around. “So how is it here?” I ask.
“Pretty boring,” Jimmy says. “I got through all those puzzle books Mom brought me. I spend most of my time in my room, down that hall (he points to the east hall, where we aren’t allowed to go), and at the AA meetings they have here. Actually, I’ve been doing a lot of cleaning lately. My therapist says it’s good for when I’m feeling manic, and I’ve been feeling kinda manic lately.”
Dan nods.
“I like to stay busy,” Jimmy says.
“Well that’s good,” Maureen says. “I brought you some board games and card games. I thought you might like them, and maybe the other people here could use them too.”
“Thanks,” Jimmy says. He points his thumb to a bookshelf behind him. “A lot of the board games they have here are pretty old. Most of them are missing pieces.”
“So do they do anything for Christmas here?” Maureen asks. She looks around, but sees that there are minimal Christmas decorations and no Christmas tree.
“Yeah,” Jimmy says, “They cook up a special meal. Roasted turkey, stuffing, green beans, the works.”
“Is anybody allowed to visit on Christmas?”
“No. Visitors are only allowed on the weekends.”
“Well that’s kind of sad.” Maureen makes a frowny face. Yes, Maureen, why don’t we just rub it in Jimmy’s face that he’s not going to have a real Christmas this year, I think.
“It’s all right,” Jimmy says. “We have a special AA meeting that day and we have a new speaker coming. He’s sort of well known in the area. Used to be a boxer.”
“That’s good,” I offer.
Maureen and Dan nod.
Jimmy darts his eyes around the room. “Let me show you guys around,” he says.
It’s an all-male unit, so I see several men visiting with their families. None of them look as weird as I expected, like bullet wound guy. They just look like normal, white, middle-class people. Like us. When we get downstairs to the recreation room, one man, who appears to be in his thirties, is playing table tennis with his daughter as his wife (or girlfriend) looks on.
There is one man in the corner of the recreation room punching a punching bag. The sound of the chains rattling each time he punches the bag disturbs me. It’s so noisy and the sound echoes throughout the room. He doesn’t have any visitors. I feel bad for him.
“Don’t mind him,” Jimmy whispers. “He’s here by a court order. Some of those guys get better, but most don’t. It’s because they don’t want to be here in the first place. You have to want to be here and want to get better.”
There is a kid bouncing a ball with his little brother as we leave the recreation room. Jimmy then leads us to a wall on the west side of the building. It’s painted white, and has names listed on it, under local town names. I see that there are seven names under our hometown.
“Are these people who have been here?” I ask.
“No. They’re people who have lost their battle with addiction,” Jimmy says. “It’s a memorial wall. So if you know somebody who has died from addiction, you can put their name up here.”
I notice a familiar name under our hometown.
“Kevin Meara,” I say, pointing to the name. “I went to school with a girl named Allison Meara.”
“Yeah, Kevin was her younger brother,” Jimmy says. “I used to run into him here and there.” Jimmy points to another name: Derek Mulvaney. “I used to see him at the Charlestown meeting.”
The wall is completely white, except for the names. Some of the names have positive messages surrounding them, or simply, “Rest in Peace.”
“They ask everyone to remain respectful and not write anything bad about the people who died,” Jimmy explains.
There are more names listed under the poorer communities, like Charlestown and Lynn.
Dan surveys the wall thoughtfully, looking at the names.
“There are too many names on this wall,” he says.
We all agree with his statement in silence, adding nothing to it.
Jimmy shows us around a little more, and then we hear a bell ring. It’s time to go. We’ve only been visiting for an hour. Jimmy leads us back upstairs.
“Can I give you a hug?” I ask Jimmy before we get to the door.
“Sure.” We hug. I want to tell him I love him, but I’m afraid that I’ll cry.
“Merry Christmas Jimmy. You’re doing good. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks Katie.”