The Sad Man and the Smiling Girl

### Rebecca Phaser, Morgan Evans, & John Smith

I was 8 the first time my mom took me to visit the sad man. It was sort of an accident. My dad was supposed to be looking after me, but something came up, and she had to take me for the day. She told me he was sick and didn’t always live in reality. The building was different than any hospital I had ever been in, and now I know that it wasn’t a hospital at all, but rather a high security psychiatric ward. I remember going through a lot of locked doors before getting to a room with a large window. I didn’t ask my mom why, because even then, I knew she wouldn’t give me straight forward answers.

On the other side of the door sat a man. He had long unkempt hair and a face covered in scars. There was only one chair in the room my mom and I were in, so I sat in her lap. I wasn’t scared of the man, but rather felt sorry for him. And being a child, I asked my mom “why does the man look so sad?”.

I hadn’t realized at the time that the wall between us had microphones built in. My mom’s answer was “because e is in pain.” I learned later that it was not physical pain that she was talking about, but instead an emotional and mental pain.

My mom then turned to the man and said “this is my daughter”. I smiled at him. An extra big smile because I figured that since I had so much extra happiness, I should share it. At 8, it was hard to read his expressions, and honestly it still is today.

He responded with “your daughter?” in either surprise or confusion. I guess I should mention, I do not look like my mom. I was born in Haiti and my parents adopted me when I was 1, but I think it wasn’t just that I look different, it was the fact that my mom had a daughter. My mom does not talk about her work at home at all, and from what I can tell with the few co-workers of hers I have met, does not talk about her home or family at work. I don’t know where my mom knows this man from. I’ve tried asking her a few times, but have always gotten a vague partial answer.

“How are you doing,” my mom asked him.

“Well, I’m stuck in a blank room with nothing to do, so still bored out of my mind, but that’s nothing new. What’s going on outside?”

My child-like brain was having a hard time figuring out what was going on. This man did not look sick and he was having a normal conversation with my mom. My mom was telling him about life beyond the walls of this building, like politics and other boring things I didn’t really have any interest in listening to. I squirmed while sitting on her lap.

My mom stopped talking and looked at me. “Why don’t you tell him a story?” she asked. I grinned. I loved, and still do, telling stories. “You can even tell it in French if you want, he understands it, *mais son accent est terrible*.” The man gave a small laugh “*c’est vrai.”*

I laughed too. His accent isn’t actually that bad, but I think it was a long-standing joke between them.

I started my story the best way I knew how: “once upon a time, in a far away land…” I don’t know how long I talked for, but by the end, I thought he looked a little less sad. I didn’t want to leave. He was a nice man, even if a little sad, but he laughed at all the right places and asked just the right questions to make a story fun to tell.

“It was nice to meet you, pup.” I gave him a big smile and waved as we left. The name pup confused me though, I could only remember one other person that have ever called me pup, and it was my mom’s coworker, Grey.

“When can we visit again?” I asked as soon as we left the building. I think my mom was hoping that this would be a one time thing, and that I would quickly forget about him, but that was not the case. I pestered my mom about going to see “the sad man” again almost every day for the next couple weeks. I asked my dad too, but he didn’t know the sad man. He and my mom must have talked about it somewhat, because he never asked questions, though thinking about it now, that’s not necessarily a guarantee. My parents are a bit odd about telling each over stuff. I’ve heard them tell each other “some believable excuse” instead of actually coming up with something on multiple occasions.

About a month later, my mom finally said we could go visit him again. This time there were two chairs in the room. The man looked just as sad as the first time. I gave him an extra big smile and pulled my chair right up to the window.

“Well, if it isn’t the little smiling girl,” he said, “have you brought another story with you?”

I hadn’t noticed this at the time, but he and my mom didn’t exchange any words, and barely even a glance.

I launched into another story. This one about a warrior princess and her pet cat Once again, the man was a perfect audience. My mom was sitting in the other chair, further to the back of the room, and letting me focus my whole attention on my listener, but I had no doubt that she was listening to every word I said.

“And then she shot the arrow, and the day was saved!” I finished with a big flourish of my hands.

“Wonderful story,” he said, a small smile gracing his face, “now perhaps you would let me have a turn telling a story?” Even though he was asking me, the question was directed at my mom. We both looked at her, and she nodded briefly.

“Once upon a time, in a far away land, there lived a young coyote. Now this coyote wasn’t a normal coyote, she was not only smart and …, she was a fighter.”

I was completely captivated by his story. The coyote had to embark on a dangerous adventure to save her friends.

“The forest was dark, and the coyote knew what -” he stopped. I was quickly jerked out of the story. My mom stood up, saying that it was time to go.

“But I want to hear the rest of the story.” My protest was cut off by a scream. It was the most heart-wrenching scream I had ever heard. I stared at the man in shock. One minute he had been calmly telling a story, and the next he was thrashing around, screaming with tears streaming down his face.

My mom didn’t seem particularly phased by the screams. She grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the room. Even after we had gone through multiple doors, I could hear the echoes of those screams.

We didn’t return straight home, instead we stopped at a park. Neither of us had said anything in the car. I was trying to process what had happened. We sat down at a picnic table.

“Is he okay?” I finally asked. My mom smiled sadly.

“Morgan, do you remember when I told you he was sick?”

I nodded.

“Well, that means sometimes he gets nightmares while he is awake.”

“Is that why he is so sad?”

My mom nodded.

I sat there deep in thought. I wanted to help him, to make him feel happier for even just a little bit. I had an idea.

“I’m going to visit him and tell him stories. That way he can forget about the nightmares for a bit.” I declared, determined.

I don’t know what my mom thought at the time of my plan, but when I asked her more recently, she said she knew that if she tried to prevent me, I would find my own way there. Determination runs in the family.

We started to visit him every couple of weeks. My mom would sit in the back, while the sad man and I would tell each other stories. We took turns telling stories, in both English and French. It was nice to have someone other than my mom and dad to speak French with. My stories where often about princess or fairies or based on whatever book I had recently read. A lot of his were about the coyote, but he did also include adventures of other animals.

Many days, he would descend into his nightmares before the story was finished. We never discussed it, and instead, whoever had been telling a story, picked up where they had left off the last time.

It wasn’t until I was 12 that I realized that I didn’t know his name. I always referred to him as “the sad man”, and he always called me “the smiling girl” or “pup”.

When I asked my mom about it, she said that names don’t really matter. I now know that that is true, but at the time, I was determined. I didn’t ask the sad man, because we barely said anything that was not part of a story, and I also was aware enough to realize that asking a personal question might ruin our relationship. I couldn’t ask the staff at the building, because my mom was with me and also, I figured it would be awkward after having visited him for 5 years to suddenly be like “by the way, what is the name of the man I am visiting.” So I began to do some sleuthing. I listened carefully to my mom talking with the staff. No names were mentioned. Looking back now, the staff must have known my mom well, because they never seemed surprised to see us and always knew who we were visiting.

I tried looking at the papers on the desks and at the door plates. No luck. Because we only went to visit him every couple of weeks, the investigation took a while. I wasn’t obsessed with figuring out his name. It was just whenever we were walking into the building. When I started talking with him, I forgot all about it, and lost myself in the stories.

It was only by chance that I did figure it out.

When the sad man’s nightmares start, he doesn’t always scream. Sometimes, he cries, sometimes he begs, sometimes he mumbles, and sometimes, in my opinion, the scariest, he says nothing, but the pain is so clear on his face. Each time that he left reality, my mom hurried me out of the room, but I did catch bits of his speech. I didn’t talk about what he said with him nor with my mom. Since she wouldn’t even tell me his name, I doubted that she would tell me anything else about him.

He would often beg whoever he was talking to in his mind not to kill ‘her’ or ‘them’. He would call out to ‘Janie’ or blame them for her death. The bits I heard all seemed to be connected somehow, though I’ve never really tried to figure it out.

About 4 months after I began my mission to figure out the sad man’s name, I overheard my mom on the phone. Usually, when my mom is talking to someone on the phone, she doesn’t speak in English. She is a translator, and always seems to be talking in a different language. Nobody knows how many languages she can speak, not even my dad. The only people I’ve heard her talking to in English are my aunts and uncles. I was planning to go over to my cousin Maya’s house that evening, and I assumed that she was talking to my Aunt Carmen, so I stopped to eavesdrop. It had never really been a big deal in my house, because, like I said, very little was in English, or even French.

“Yes, he is doing okay.” There was a pause. “I saw him last week.” There was something about her voice that made me realize that it was not a family member that she was talking to.

There were a couple of yes’s and no’s, then “no, mostly Janie.”

The name Janie sounded familiar, but it took a moment to place. ‘Last week’ didn’t make sense, though, it had been at least 2 weeks since we had been.

“That’s a bad idea.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It’s your choice.”

“Yes, in Manhattan.”

I couldn’t really follow with only one side of the conversation, but then came the answer I had been looking for.

“Under the name John Smith.”

It seemed too good to be true.

Her conversation ended quickly after that, with a last word of caution, and I had to disappear. Luckily at that moment, our dog, Chief, deicide that now was a great time to want back in, which meant my mom went over to the door, instead of where I was lurking, and gave me a chance to escape.

Now that I had finally figured out his name, I wasn’t sure what to do. I was still planning to call him ‘the sad man’ both outloud and in my mind. I guess I had just wanted a bit of mystery like in the stories he always told me.

As I got older, both the stories I told and the stories the sad man told became more serious. They were still adventures, but instead being a fun adventure where you know the dragon will be defeated in the end, they became stories of struggle and survival. They included loss and pain, as well as joy and friendship.

My mom still sat at the back of the room each time. She would bring her laptop or file folder along and work on that as we shared stories. The only time I would notice her listening was when the sad man would start telling a story about the brave little coyote. They never talked to each, and sometimes wouldn’t even acknowledge each other. I didn’t really notice. As soon as I saw the sad man, I forgot all else, except trying to shine some happiness into his life.

The haunted look in his eyes grew worse as the years went on. I don’t know how much of a given day he lives in his nightmares. I can’t imagine what he is going through. He is one of the strongest men I know.

When I was 15, I visited him by myself for the first time. While we didn’t have a schedule, my mom and I tended to visit him every 2 -3 weeks. We were nearing the end of the second week, when my mom was called away for work. When my mom gets called away for work, it can be anywhere from 2 days to 3 weeks. She usually knows around how long it will be, but sometimes it changes at the last minute. One week later, I was getting restless. The last time I had visited the sad man, his story had been left on a cliffhanger.

When my mom phoned that evening, I asked her if I could go visit him. Her immediate response was no. I then tried asking if my dad could take me. She still said no, saying we would go when she got back. I hadn’t really ever realized that my dad had never met the sad man. When I would get home, I would tell him all about the stories we shared, but he would never ask about the sad man himself. I had always assumed that was because he had his own share of horrors from his time as a soldier and didn’t need anyone else’s.

The next day after school, my mom phoned again. This was odd, because she usually only phoned every couple of days when she was working.

She said if I wanted to, I could go visit him this afternoon. I don’t know what changed her mind, but I was grateful for the chance to go see him again.

Before I could go, she had a list of rules to go over:

Only to talk to the security guards and staff that I recognized

Not to stay more than an hour

If the sad man started going into a nightmare, to leave immediately - this one she repeated a number of times, which was probably a good thing, because there was a possibility I would let my curiosity get the best of me.

While the staff were not surprised that I was by myself, the sad man was.

“Your mother let you come by yourself, pup?” he asked.

I nodded, grinning.

“She’s busy, and I wanted to see you.”

He then said something that shocked me.

“When I stop being present, you need to leave right away, okay?”

This was the first time in all 7 years he mentioned what happens to him.

I nodded mutely.

“Good, then, where were we?” His tone switched quickly from serious to storyteller, and his voice filled the room with images.

From that day on, my mom never came with me again. I don’t know if she still visits him, but I have a feeling she does, and did even when we went together, to keep him updated on the outside world.

I still had to check with her before going, and I found out why a few months later. I was coming home from a friend’s house, and realized that I was near the building. It had been a couple weeks, and I thought I would stop by.

“What are you doing here?” the security guard asked as I went up to the building. I had never been asked this before, but instead had always just been ushered in. At least I knew the name of the sad man, so I said,

“I’m here to see Mr. Smith.”

“I’m afraid he is not able to have visitors right now,” he responded apologetically.

“Are there certain visiting hours?” I asked, confused. Never before had I not been allowed in.

“He is not doing well, currently.” I must have still looked confused, because he added, “you can phone ahead next time, just to make sure he is able to have visitors.”

I thanked him, and went home.

It was then I figured out that my mom has contacts at the building. She already knew that I had been there before I got home. She explained to me that the sad man can’t have visitors when he is within a nightmare. She also gave the contact information for someone I could call ahead of time to make sure he was lucid. Though one thing my mom didn’t mention was his name. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that she knew I had overheard her. Hiding anything from her is near impossible.

My visits with the sad man have varied in frequency over the years. There are times I will go over a month before going to see him, just as life gets busy, and there are other times where I will go multiple times in a week just so that I can have someone to talk to. He got a word processor a while ago, and often when I go to visit him, he is typing away at a story. He says that one day he will let me read it, but not yet. The stories we share aren’t all fantasy adventures anymore. Sometimes I will tell him about my day in talking animal metaphors, or try to work through possible solutions to everyday problems through a fairytale with a princess and prince. I don’t think all of his stories are completely fictional either. I don’t know if they are based on his youth or experiences, or if they are just the child-friendly versions of his nightmares with happy endings. Either way, I made a promise to myself when I was 8 to make sure this sad man would get to have at least a bit of happiness in his life, and I am happy to say I succeeded. We have both gotten the chance to escape from this world, which has been filled with so much pain and heartache, to a place where we can feel free.