--from the play Confessions at Knifepoint--
I’m exhilarated as I walk towards the massive, many windowed building, but the elation quickly disappears when I step through the front door. The cold sweeps over me as the warm autumn browns disappear into the ever lengthening whiteness of the tiled hall. The chill in the air comes not from the air conditioning that seems never to be shut off, but from the private, almost clandestine nature of the work being done.
I walk. Down the hall, up the elevator—third floor—fourth—fifth—I step out into a new world. This world is shattered by the sound. Silence. It's unnatural, this silence. The hall is decorated by brightly colored balloons and floating teddy bears. Shapes in the primary colors are in patterns on the floor. And again I walk. One foot in front of the other. Past the open doors. five-oh-four, five-oh-six, five-oh-eight—all the way to the end. Room five-twenty. The door is open today. A good sign.
A white uniform sweeps by me, patting my shoulder, whispering something encouraging in my ear. I step into the room—the bed is empty. My heart stops for just a moment, but there she is, over by the window. My sister. She turns when she hears me. Smiles. How can she smile in this place? I see the bags at her feet and I find myself smiling as well. Today I can take her out of this silent, empty whiteness. I can take her home.
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