Free Dream Walker by Shannan Sinclair Page A

something within Aislen. As much as she loved her work, she did feel there was something more she was supposed to do with her life.
    “Aislen, you are intelligent, capable and insightful,” Troy had said. “I would hate to see you settle because you think this is the best you could do. Not that being a nurse isn’t a great or fulfilling profession. I just think you have so much more to offer.”
    Aislen had warmed under the compliment, flattered that he thought so highly of her; and although she’d never admit it, she was a little breathless listening to the praise he gave her with that... that look. But Aislen had quickly reminded herself that Troy seemed to engage like that with everybody, from aide, to nurse, to janitor, to the most delusional patient. It was just his manner; people shouldn’t take it personally. Aislen didn’t. Well, she tried not to. And besides, fraternization between co-workers, while not a violation of policy, was not professional. Troy was very mindful of that. Clear boundaries were important to him. Any kind of flirtation would have been out of character for him. He couldn’t help it if he was so freakin’ hot, Aislen thought.
    She had a lot of respect for Troy. While most of the therapists did the minimum, led their sessions, completed rounds, recommended blood work, or asked doctors to reevaluate medication, Troy was young and still enthusiastic about his work. He had no delusions about curing all the people hospitalized for their disorders and addictions, but he was optimistic and felt that a compassionate ear helped ease his patients’ burdens. He didn’t just facilitate sessions and run out the door. He hung around, actually talked to the patients and listened to them. He told Aislen that there was a healing property in the idea that you had been really “heard.”
    Aislen had rotated through the various wings of the hospital every few months; and she was currently rotating through the geriatric ward, caring for elderly patients suffering from dementia, Alzheimer’s, schizophrenia and other severe mental disorders. Many of Aislen’s patients had lived during a time when their illnesses were treated without their consent, with electroshock treatments and lobotomies that left them incapacitated for life. It wasn’t your everyday nursing home. These patients required more maintenance and structure than other facilities.
    Aislen pushed the med cart in front of her going door to door. It was like reverse trick or treating. The residents in her wing knew the drill. Their internal clocks clambered “med time” as if it were lunch and they were already standing at their room doors waiting for their little, white cups of calm. She double checked Rachel’s doses, dispensed them to the correct patient, and documented it in their chart.
    “Morning, Sigmund,” Aislen said to the elderly male sitting in his wheelchair outside room number 11.
    “Good morning, Astrid,” Sigmund replied, reaching up with his ancient, spindly fingers. He called every female in the facility Astrid. Whether Astrid was a long-lost love, a departed sister, or a daughter, no one knew. Sigmund Lange had been a resident at Chrysalis for many years and he never had any visitors named Astrid or otherwise.
    “No, Sigmund. It’s Aislen,” she said. It was important to be honest and try to remind the patients of reality, rather than support their delusions, although it wouldn’t do any good with Mr. Lange. Physically, he was actually holding up pretty well for an 86-year-old man, but his dementia was severe.
    Besides thinking everyone was some woman from his past, he rambled in a language of numbers. He would sit in his chair, stare out his bedroom window reciting strings of integers that only an MIT grad could decipher and tap his fingers together as if counting to infinity. He looked like a nutty professor—the palest of gray-blond hair, wispy, long and astray in every direction. His once clear blue eyes clouded