“Not officially, but I’m here today,” the woman said. “I’m a floater. I like variety. One of the regular surgical nurses called in sick. I’m filling in for her.” She hesitated for a moment and pointed at an unmarked, slightly ajar door. “That’s the surgical conference room, and good luck with your residency. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” She then hurried on ahead to where the hallway opened up into an expansive but empty waiting room for one of the surgical clinics.
“Thank you,” Mitt called after her as he pushed the conference room’s door fully open. The room beyond was a moderate size with a spectacular view over the East River, with Brooklyn in the distance. To the left was a podium with an old-fashioned chalkboard behind it. To the right were several dozen modern student desk chairs with attached writing arms. Sitting in one of them in the first row was Andrea Intiso.
“Whoa! It’s about time,” Andrea called out with a tone that was humorous but tinged with a hint of relief. “I was beginning to worry I’d be facing the day on my own.” She sprang to her feet as she spoke and came toward Mitt, offering one cheek, then the other, in her inimitable style. Mitt pressed his cheeks alternately against hers while air-kissing as he’d learned to do. For him it was an unnatural gesture of affection since physical intimacy had not been part of his upbringing. Although there had been hugs here and there, more with his father than mother, there had never been much kissing or cheek pressing. But Andrea had been persistent from day one, and he’d learned to adapt. Now he appreciated the gesture.
“You’re cutting this pretty damn close,” she said, glancing at the time on her phone as she folded her five-foot-eleven frame back into the desk chair. “Five minutes isn’t much of a cushion. Hell, I’ve been here chewing my nails for a good half hour already.”
Andrea was slim and athletic with bobbed dark hair and very dark but bright eyes that appeared to be all pupils. She was also somewhat of a fashionista, particularly for a medical trainee. This morning, she was wearing a bright red dress that was quite striking under her white coat, especially compared with Mitt’s all-white outfit. She was a quintessential first-generation Italian American with an easy smile and olive skin. Both her parents had come to America for graduate school and ended up marrying and staying in academia as tenured professors right there in New York. Andrea grew up in the city and attended Columbia undergraduate and its medical school tuition-free thanks to her parents being on the faculty.
“I didn’t mean to cut it this close,” Mitt admitted as he sat in the chair next to hers. “On my way here, I stopped to stare at the old psychiatric hospital on the corner. It’s where one of my physician ancestors had his office. His name was Clarence Fuller.”
“I remember you telling me. It’s so cool you are following in your ancestors’ footsteps.”
“Some ways cool and some ways not so cool,” Mitt said. “I’m hoping the expectations of the powers that be of the residency program aren’t beyond my capabilities. Anyway, are you familiar with the building I’m talking about? It’s just down the block and part of the Bellevue complex.”
“Vaguely,” Andrea admitted. She shrugged. “I guess I passed it on my way in. Why do you ask?”
“The place intrigues me,” Mitt said. “It’s an enormous empty hulk except for a small portion of it down Thirtieth Street being used as a men’s homeless shelter.”
“Why does the rest of it being empty bother you?”
“It just seems odd to me that a building of that size with such an interesting and illustrious history would stay empty for almost forty years, especially since New York hasn’t been all that sensitive to its historical buildings — just look at the Penn Station debacle. But the psych building’s location alone makes it inordinately valuable, so it sitting unused here in the middle of hospital row is a gigantic waste. I mean, why hasn’t it been renovated or demolished and something built in its place? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“You might be right, Mitt, but facing our first day of surgical residency, we’ve got much more pressing concerns to think about.” Andrea rolled her eyes for emphasis. Worrying about an empty psychiatry building was the last thing on her mind.
“Yeah, you’re right, but I tell you, looking at the place gave me a weird feeling.” Mitt was tempted to explain the paresthesia he’d experienced, knowing that she would be familiar with the term from their medical school neurology rotation, but he hesitated. He’d never said anything to anyone about having such tactile sensations on a fairly regular basis, as it would necessitate trying to explain a personal phenomenon he didn’t truly understand himself. Besides, what about the similar tingling he’d felt while walking under the preserved granite archway as he’d entered the hospital proper? In many ways that episode was more curious, since the old psychiatric hospital seemed creepy enough to elicit some kind of a physical response in anyone.
“What do you mean, ‘weird feeling’?”
“Sort of a crawly skin sensation. The place looks kind of scary. Maybe it’s all the outdated architectural embellishments — concrete urns, entablatures, pediments. It’s got a ton of that kind of antiquated decorative stuff. What I recall is that the building was built in an Italian Renaissance style, sort of like a misplaced Medici palace.” Mitt laughed and nodded, pleased to make an indirect reference to Andrea’s Italian heritage.
“I do remember glancing at it briefly back when I came down here for my residency interview with one of the Bellevue attendings, and it didn’t remind me of a Medici palace in the slightest.” Andrea again rolled her eyes, clearly thinking the association totally ridiculous.
“Well, I agree it’s a stretch. I doubt it was supposed to look like a Medici palace. The idea just popped into my head. Anyway, the building is rather famous... or infamous. I suppose you know that a lot of celebrity types were inpatients, people like Norman Mailer and Sylvia Plath. When it was up and running, it had six hundred patient beds. That’s a lot of beds and a lot of mentally compromised people. Can you imagine some of the stories its patients could tell if they were still around?”
“If they could communicate at all,” Andrea said.
“Okay, I can tell you aren’t all that interested,” Mitt said, raising his hands in surrender and deciding to change the subject. “Tell me something else, then,” he continued in a more serious tone. “When you entered the hospital this morning from the lobby by passing through the architecturally preserved archway, did you feel anything creepy?”
“That is one very weird question. What’s going on with you? Are you trying to pull my chain? What on earth do you mean, ‘feel anything creepy’?”
“Just that. Really! Like pins and needles or the hairs standing up on the back of your neck?”
“Are you losing it? Come on! What’s gotten into you? Maybe I felt some anxiety to go along with the anxiety I felt the second I opened my eyes this morning, and the anxiety I feel right now. Is that what you mean?”
“No. Not at all. I’ll tell you why I’m asking. I felt a kind of prickling sensation the moment I passed under the archway, and I was wondering if you might have had some similar sensation. It was enough for me to stop walking. I thought maybe it could have been a draft or something, but there was nothing.”
Andrea eyed Mitt with a wry smile. “You are definitely starting to worry me. Are you all right?”
Mitt laughed and made a quick attitudinal about-face. “I’m fine. Truly. I’m just playing with you. I mean, we’re both hyped-up, since it is our first day.”
With apparent relief, Andrea followed his lead and chuckled nervously. “You are too much, but I have to admit, you did get to me. I thought you were being serious and losing it. I assure you, I haven’t felt any prickling sensations, but I’ve certainly had my share of nerves. I’m sure you have, too.”