The developers put up the mental health unit across the street because they couldn’t stand a piece of land empty as their hearts. (That it’s for profit is a given.) To ensure uniformity, they built the structure as an exact replica of our house. So we have twin facades whose windows engage in a staredown 24/7. The patients always greet us with beatific faces but never venture from their lawn to cross the street. Angels in their immaculate white gowns, their eyes glow and their lips break into tender smiles as they wave. If by some miracle the santos in our house grow life-sized, come to life and saunter outside, we won’t be able to distinguish ours from them. (Once, we argued over dinner on whether they are naturally predisposed to smile that way or it’s because of medication.)
Their presence strikes a balance between neurodivergence (theirs) and normalcy (ours). It’s true that on our side of the road, the parents scream and slap each other once in a while in fits of jealousy, but no party has ever pulled the trigger. Never goes beyond shoving the barrel down the mouth of one’s better half. Also true that the siblings have been aroused to the border of incest but no one has attempted to cross the line that can’t be crossed back. And the father has been holding his ground. So far, all threats are empty as the developers’ hearts. We are so normal it hurts.
The only thing I admire about the developers is they speak truth in advertising in the same way that they carry out their threats – unlike the people on our side of the road. If they say they’ll mow down trees, they will. The same goes if they threaten to lay off their long-time loyal workers. They also announced that their new business would be a mental health treatment facility for the wealthy, and now they profit from it. The new building stands alone with its uninterrupted power and water supply in the whole neighborhood.
I believed their claim that the patients on the other side of the asphalt river that we don’t dare swim across are harmless to themselves and others. When they guaranteed that “sharp objects like shaving razors are banned inside,” I took their word for it like a cultist. (Besides, if our new neighbors dare attack us with knives, we can finally unload our pieces until they’re empty as the developers’ hearts.) They also promised that things that can be used to strangle like “shoelaces and hoodie strings are not allowed.” All objects that are forbidden inside the unit are the same as those typically barred from any psychiatric ward. And I am reminded that I only wore sandals on my feet and held plastic sporks in my hand back then.