A Cure for Madness by Jodi McIsaac

the lock, then rapped on the door before entering.
    “Your sister is here, Wes.”
    Before I could say anything, I was engulfed in a ferocious hug. I returned the embrace as best I could, ignoring the chains and piercings pressing uncomfortably against me. Then we stepped apart, and I got a good look at my big brother.
    He’d gained a little weight since the last time I’d seen him. His round, still-boyish face was marked with tattoos on both sides of his temples and cheeks—crosses on one side, tribal markings on the other. His first tattoo had been a black spider on the side of his skull. He’d attempted to do one on the other side himself; I still couldn’t tell what it was supposed to be. He must have been fifteen at the time, and our parents had nearly lost it. But they soon got used to it, as one tattoo followed another—some professional, some not so much. I’d rather buy tattoos than food , he used to say. But it didn’t look like he was starving, at any rate.
    He was attempting a Mohawk with what was left of his hair, thinned by years of drug use, malnourishment, and now medication. He’d gained some new piercings since my last visit: the other eyebrow, and the space beneath his bottom lip. His tangled beard, naturally blond but dyed orange to match the fauxhawk, almost hid the tattoo that read “Tracey” across his neck. Years after her death, Wes had become convinced she was communicating with him from the spirit world. I wondered if he still believed that.
    “Hey, sis,” he said, showing black and yellow teeth.
    “Hey. How are you?”
    He shrugged. “I’m a fucking guinea pig, and Mom and Dad are dead. How do you think I am?”
    I glanced nervously at the nurse, who had pursed her lips.
    “I’ll leave you two alone for a minute,” she said. Then she pointed at what looked like a doorbell on the wall. “If you need anything, just ring this.”
    “Yeah, right,” Wes muttered as the nurse left, leaving the door ajar.
    “Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked. “All they told me was that they needed to do some more routine tests before you could leave.
    “Routine, my ass. They didn’t do this any of the other times I was discharged.”
    “Well, maybe that’s because this time you’re getting out of here for good,” I suggested hopefully.
    “That’s for sure. I’m never coming back to this hellhole.”
    I sat down in a chair beside the bed, but Wes stayed standing. It seemed to be a rather nice hospital room, with a single bed, two chairs, and a bevy of tubes and equipment hanging from the walls. There was even a window looking out on the parking lot below. But why the lock on the door? Maybe they all had locks on them and I’d never noticed.
    “How are you feeling about . . . Mom and Dad?” I asked tentatively.
    He responded by baring his teeth and growling. “Let’s just say that the motherfucker who shot them is lucky he killed himself. Otherwise he’d have me to deal with.”
    I shot a nervous glance toward the hallway. “You can’t say things like that. That’s how you got yourself here in the first place, remember?”
    His face darkened even more, and I flinched. Wrong thing to say.
    He stomped over to the window. “So when are you getting me out?”
    “I don’t know exactly. I have to meet with your social worker and psychiatrist first. The meeting’s this afternoon, though, so hopefully you can leave later today. But the nurse said we had to wait for the test results, so you might have to stay here one more night.”
    “Fuck that. Let’s just go right now.”
    “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
    He huffed. “Still following the rules, eh? How long are you home for?”
    “I . . . I don’t know,” I said, caught off guard. “I haven’t booked my return flight yet.”
    “You staying with Uncle Rob?”
    “I did last night. I don’t know where I’ll stay tonight. Maybe I’ll go home.”
    He nodded approvingly. “That’s where I want to go.