Schizophrenics in Heaven

She sat by the window, immobile.

No one in the Home disturbed her; not that she'd move, anyway. Sheila Duffy was a sad case of catatonic schizophrenia. She'd spent a good 15 years here, in Helfer's Home. Sitting by the window, a curious expression on her frozen face. The nurses always placed her there, seeing as that had been her favorite spot before she'd stopped moving. They'd put her hands in her lap, giving her the appearance of waiting for someone.

Kids usually thought she was fun to play with; some jackass would visit a relative, leave his kids in the lounge. They'd make their way to her, waving hands before her eyes, lifting an arm – bemused that it stayed where they put it. The nurses would find her in some weird poses, most days. Sheila, if she cared, never let on.

No one visited Sheila Duffy anymore; her son found it too depressing. Her parents, now getting in to the 60s and 70s, respectively, found it too disturbing to visit a silent Sheila. All accounts reported that she once was a rather talkative gal. Middle-aged now, she looked more like a youthful teacher. Someone intelligent, even with her expression conveying her absent state.

I was a nurse in the building, but only for 5 months. I think it was Ms. Duffy's case that convinced me that there was no place for me here. She was my favorite; stock-still for all of my time there, I'd talk to her as if she was a friend. I imagined that her eyes moved, just a little, projecting assurance and acceptance. I told her my secrets. I never could decide.. why her? Why not Mrs. Thompson, with her dead husband's items in her room, on display? Why not Mr. Benny? Or any of the others?

There was something about Ms. Duffy.

Maybe it was her sad back-story – hardworking, coming from a history of poverty; rising to moderate success as a bookstore owner. A family that left her behind, most of whom moved to other provinces. All that she really had left was that son; Raymond was 25, and planning to move his ass out of Dodge as well.

Maybe. Maybe she was just a likable little character.

I got fired for trying to get her to eat. Seeing as she didn't move, I found out, she wouldn't swallow. That's why the IVs were used on her. Gentle bird, cooped up in a silent cage. No food, no water. An existence wherein she was absent from her own life. She didn't die that time, but, I know she was close. She choked on the apple. I don't know why I thought she would accept it with mobile teeth and a functional throat; I don't know why I didn't think of her stomach, so unused to solids.

All I wanted was to wake her up, wake her out of the solitary hell she must have been in.

It made me wonder about Heaven; would she be there, later? Would I meet her? Would she finally tell me why her husband left? What it was like, to be cooped up for 15 years?

What would it be like, to meet her – the real her?

I will wait for you, Ms. D. I will wait, and I can't imagine all the shit we'll shoot when we meet up, face to face.