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Samantha reached over and took Adriana's hands. “I never doubted myself. Not for a single minute.”

What would that feel like, Adriana wondered. To know something with such clarity, and something so huge, so life-changing. She had never felt that sure about anything. And then to wake up, in the body of your choice. Would it be like dying and going to heaven, Adriana wondered? To finally be in the body you craved, would that be as freeing as having no body at all? It was something Adriana couldn't imagine. She had spent so much time trying to fade into the background, that to launch something as spectacular as a war on her own body seemed unthinkable. But then there were her haircuts, lopsided, striking in their unconventionality. She had allowed Jazz to do many experiments with her hair, without a word of protest. She may have been trying to blend in but a part of her obviously wanted to stand out.

Samantha leaned back in her rocker and closed her eyes. She seemed happy, Adriana thought. Despite the whole thing with Tony and the shock of the hurricane, she was smiling. Adriana felt ashamed of herself. “Sam, do you want to go downstairs and sit out back?” Adriana asked. Samantha's eyes popped open. Adriana realized she had never called her Sam before, and had never asked to do anything that took them away from the unit. Samantha grinned, and Adriana noticed how small her teeth were.

“Why I would be delighted!” Samantha said, in her best southern belle drawl. “Just let me go get my jacket.” She heaved herself out of the rocker and went off toward Laurel.

Adriana stood by the pay phone. She wanted to call Jazz but something told her to give it a little more time. Adriana wasn't used to heeding her own instincts, but she figured that it might be time to start.

The phone rang and she jumped, then collected herself enough to answer it. “Mayflower Unit,” she said. There was a pause and then a rather prim female voice asked, “Could I speak to Bartholomew?” Adriana tried to think. Was there a Bartholomew on the unit? She didn't think so. “He's rather new,” the voice on the phone said. Adriana stepped around the corner where the man lay on the couch facing the wall. His eyes were open. “Are you Bartholomew?” she asked. He turned to look at her, and in his eyes there was a faraway light. It was him—Bartholomew Banks, the spiritualist that Jazz had taken her to see, a whole other life ago.

“That's me,” he said, his voice gravelly from sleep. He slowly pushed himself to a sitting position. The phone wouldn't reach him.

“There's a chair here by the phone,” Adriana said and he rose stiffly, but almost majestically, she thought. She handed over the receiver. He wasn't wearing a buckskin like that night at the Westin, she noticed, but a neat buttoned down shirt and jeans with the same cowboy boots.

Samantha buzzed in and walked toward Adriana, but was clearly intrigued by Bartholomew, now that she saw him upright. Adriana had to admit he was quite a striking figure with his shaggy head and neat cowboy attire. She pulled the johnny shirt around her. She doubted it was cold outside but it was October now. She realized suddenly that it was her father's birthday, the day after China celebrated its national holiday. Her father hadn't mentioned it when he came to visit and Beth probably didn't even know. Adriana felt a pang of sadness. Her dad always remembered her birthday. Damn brain.

Samantha leaned toward her. “Who is that charming fellow?” she whispered.

“Bartholomew Banks” Adriana answered, apprehensive. He looked up from his conversation, his eyes glowing with an unearthly light. Samantha smiled, hungrily. Adriana took Samantha's elbow and steered her toward the exit. “He's a spiritualist,” she offered.

“ A… what's that?” Samantha asked.

Adriana sighed. It felt like too much to explain. “He talks to dead people,” she said, heading for the stairs. “Let's go outside.” Samantha was clearly perturbed by the appearance of the handsome stranger, and the fact that Adriana knew him. She even forgot to buy herself a bag of chips and a pop from the machine in the basement when they passed it.

“How do you know about all this?” she asked. Adriana shrugged.

“Jazz took me to see his show before I ended up in hospital” she said.

Samantha was awestruck. “He does shows? Where he talks to the dead?”

Adriana shrugged again. “He
says
he talks to the dead, anyway,” she allowed, pushing open the door to the back of the hospital. Samantha, lost in thought, sat down under the overhang on the first low plastic bench she came to. It looked like it had sat there since the 1970s.

The harbour was calm and grey, reflecting the clouds overhead. There were crickets in the grass, calling to one another from between the goldenrod and aster. Adriana thought about Jeff, and wondered what had happened to the cricket when he broke the jar that was its home. She imagined it crawling under the bed, away from all the blood, and she shivered.

Samantha seemed to forget about Bartholomew Banks. “Are you cold?” she asked, concerned. Adriana realized she was. Samantha stood up. “You should have brought a sweater.” Adriana shrank. It was something her mother would have said. But Samantha wasn't criticizing her. She put her enormous arm around Adriana's shoulders and laughed. “You are such a young person. Young people never think about things like whether they'll be too cold. It's only old ladies like me that dress for the weather,” she said and gave Adriana's shoulders a gentle squeeze.

They sat side by side on the plastic bench until a wind swept from the harbour across the sewage pond. Samantha held her nose and Adriana stood up. “Let's go back inside,” she said. Samantha got to her feet and stretched upward, grasping her hands high above her head. “It's been ages since I did yoga,” she said. “I'm all tied in knots.” Adriana looked shocked. She couldn't imagine Samantha doing yoga. Samantha glanced at her, sideways and shy. “Yoga is for everyone,” she said, “even old ladies like me.”

Adriana realized her head was full of knots. She had so many preconceived notions and thoughts that led nowhere but tied themselves up in a tangled mass. Somehow they had to be isolated and eased open. Was there a medication that could do that?

Samantha was humming a tune that Adriana recognized but couldn't place. They walked toward the elevator and, with a flourish, Samantha pulled some coins out of her pocket, and halted in front of the vending machine. So she hadn't forgotten. It occurred to Adriana that our habits are as much a part of us as the limbs of our body. She watched Samantha delicately fishing one chip at a time out of the bag that looked so small in her hand.

As they ascended to the third floor, Adriana realized she wasn't even sure what her own habits were. She knew that she slept when confronted with emotionally thorny problems, and let Jazz take the lead in everything—that was a kind of habit. Was her mother's presence in her mind just another habit? Adriana was struck with the idea that if we were able to shed our habits, it would mean freedom. But then, who would we be? Maybe, like Samantha, who shed her body's habitual form, we would become the people we always wanted to be. But maybe, instead, we'd be lost at sea without a life raft.

Adriana exited the elevator, Samantha trailing behind her. When Samantha put her hand on her arm, she noticed for the first time that the older woman had a slight tremor. It could be a side effect of medication but it could be something else. How had she not noticed it before? Adriana shook her head, as though trying to shake off her self-absorption.

 

The kitchen was crowded with patients. Adriana could see from the doorway that Bartholomew Banks was no longer on the phone. As she and Samantha were buzzed in, they spotted him in the kitchen, sitting at one of the tables with a Styrofoam cup in his hands. Samantha patted Adriana on the shoulder by way of goodbye and went to sit down at the table opposite Bartholomew. He looked up, his eyes glowing with that strange light, and nodded at Samantha, who put a hand in front of her mouth and tittered, like a school girl.

Adriana continued down the hall to her room. Marlene was sitting on the edge of her bed, legs shuffling back and forth in pink fuzzy slippers. Adriana could see she'd been crying. She sat on her own bed and hugged her knees, against the contagion of Marlene's misery. “Is it suppertime yet?” Marlene asked in a voice thick with snot and tears. Adriana looked at her wrist. It was already 4 p.m.

“Soon,” she told Marlene, who lifted her legs onto the bed and curled up, her thumb in her mouth.

Adriana straightened the things on her bedside table—a travel clock, a Styrofoam cup, a newspaper. She made her bed, then lay down on it, but she couldn't sleep. She thought about knitting, but for the moment it had lost its appeal. Adriana finally accepted defeat and got up and wandered to the kitchen

Samantha was now sitting at the same table as Bartholomew Banks, and was seemingly in deep conversation with him—at least, she was leaning toward him, earnest and confidential, and he was nodding. Adriana sat at another table, as far from them as she could get. Not that she wasn't curious, but she knew Samantha would prefer it that way. She would have to return to Laurel for her own supper, and Adriana knew Samantha was trying to hang on a few seconds more, until the nurse at the counter asked her to leave.

The nurse read the names on the trays out. When the name “Bartholomew Banks” was called, Samantha rose from her chair. The nurse frowned at her. “I'm just collecting the tray for my friend here,” she explained. “Bartholomew is new.”

The nurse nodded grudgingly. “You better get over to Laurel, Samantha, or you'll miss your supper.” she said. Samantha smiled and continued talking to Bartholomew, who looked politely confused. The nurse waved her hand. “Shoo, Samantha,” she said. Samantha, head held high and dignified, rose once more from her seat. The nurse bent toward her. “You can't come back here tonight, okay?” Everyone was too absorbed in their sweet and sour meatballs and rice to notice. Besides they all knew Samantha wasn't allowed on the unit when Tony came on shift.

Samantha stood in the middle of the kitchen like a mountain peak. Adriana was afraid she might overturn a table. Instead she smiled graciously at Bartholomew and, clutching her purse in front of her, glided toward the door. Adriana thought she looked quite regal and wondered if Bartholomew thought the same. His eyes still glowed with a strange light but he was clearly absorbed in his meal, methodically spooning meatballs and rice into his mouth.

Adriana watched him as she ate. When he finished the meal, he got up and made himself a cup of tea. Gradually the kitchen cleared as patients took their trays to the counter and shuffled off to smoke or watch TV. Banks didn't move again, but remained at the kitchen table until everyone but Adriana had gone.

She cleared her throat. “Bartholomew Banks.” She said and stood up. He looked at her but it was as if he looked through her to something beyond her. Adriana shivered, but screwed up her courage. “You told me there was a wraith following me, a wraith that said I have everything I need.” Banks's forehead wrinkled, as if he were trying to place her. “Remember? At the Westin?” Bartholomew Banks smiled politely and nodded to her.

A door slammed. Adriana jumped, as Melvin kept going, his eyes darkened by sun glasses. “What did you mean?” Adriana pressed him. “What did you see?”

Bartholomew Banks shook his head and looked down at his tray. He was an old man, Adriana realized. This likely wasn't his first time in the hospital. He raised his hand and let it fall to his side. “I'm afraid I don't remember,” he said, in that mild, gravelly voice. “I've seen many things for many people.” Adriana trembled. Banks peered at her, until a sudden look of recognition overcame him . “You came with a friend, didn't you?” Adriana nodded. It was typical that Jazz was more memorable than she was.

Banks nodded slowly. “I remember,” he said as though something were slowly dawning on him. He frowned. “There was a man hanging,” he said, and covered his eyes with his hands. Adriana stared, disbelieving. “You had a woman in white following you.” Adriana nodded. “Her hair… she was bald.” Yes, Adriana thought. Her mother was likely bald because the last she saw her, lying peacefully in her coffin, she was wearing a wig that was long and curly like her mother's own, but with more red in it than she remembered.

Bartholomew Banks squinted at Adriana, as though the light was in his eyes. Adriana almost felt like she was melting, fading, blending into the background. He looked through and beyond her, as though she were transparent. Bartholomew nodded to someone, but Adriana looked and there was no one behind her. “You're almost done here,” Bartholomew said, “Aren't you? You're almost ready to go home?” His voice was kind and slightly apologetic. Adriana nodded, a little shakily. Bartholomew Banks leaned his chin on his hand. “This place… can only take you so far,” he said sadly. “You have to go home to get better.” Adriana thought about it. She knew he was right, anticlimactic though it was.

Adriana got up to leave. Bartholomew nodded at her by way of goodbye, but she had a surge of courage. “What's wrong with you?” she asked, and the words seemed to her razor sharp. Bartholomew nodded again, to himself this time. “I hear voices,” he said. “I don't think of it as a problem, but my children do.” Bartholomew smiled. “The medication quiets them down, but I don't like to be alone in my head so I usually stop taking it.” He shook his head slowly and sighed. “On the pills, it's like not being able to tune into my favourite radio station.”

Adriana thought about it for a while. She understood Bartholomew Banks, because she was lonely too, without her mother gazing at her from the afterworld. These days, her mother looked like a faded facsimile of herself. She had not lived long enough to grow old, but was nevertheless disappearing before Adriana's eyes, for the second time in her life.