41

Sylvia

That Saturday I drove out to Hattie’s. It had snowed the night before; the ground was coated in a thick white layer as creamy and rich as vanilla frosting, so we spent all day huddled inside Hattie’s kitchen, sitting around her enamel-topped table drinking coffee and trying to figure out what to do about Delia.

We knew we wouldn’t have her forever. Our unit was a temporary one, a place to move on from.

“Let’s wait and see about Dr. Marshall’s diagnosis,” Hattie said, clinking a tiny silver spoon against the inside of her coffee mug as she stirred in more cream. “He’s going to evaluate her Monday morning.”

We knew that based on his evaluation, Delia would be transferred soon, to the state hospital in Rusk or, if her case was less severe, she would be sent back to family, if they could find any, and seen on an outpatient basis.

We both fretted over either possibility. Nowhere seemed safe for Delia, unless she was with us. We talked about me taking her home and hiding her there; I was certainly willing to do it.

“Isn’t it time we go to the police, tell them what we know?” I asked.

“Mmm … no, I don’t think so, not yet.” Hattie shook her head. “They’ll just wanna know if she’s crazy or not, so we have to wait for Dr. Marshall.”

I knew she was right.

I didn’t want to leave Hattie’s, but outside the sky was turning a deep purple and snow flurries began skipping through the air, so I gathered my heavy winter coat and said goodbye.

That Monday I went into the hospital during the daytime, just before lunch, and requested a meeting with Dr. Marshall. He was in his office, hunched over paperwork, a pen jammed in his fat hand. He barely looked up when I walked in and motioned for me to take a seat.

“I want to talk to you about Delia,” I said, my voice suddenly teetering.

“Yes, what about?” he said, the overhead fluorescents bouncing off his waxy, bald head.

I felt my throat harden—Delia had confided in me and Hattie, but I had to tell him what I knew. I didn’t go into too much detail, but I told him that Delia believed her life to be in great peril, that she had managed to escape from a sex ring led by the Starrville sheriff.

He held my gaze for a moment, but then looked bored and continued filling out paperwork.

“The girl is not in her right mind,” he said, licking the tip of his stubby index finger and flipping through paperwork. “I did a full evaluation this morning, and she’s displaying all the symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia—”

I opened my mouth to speak but he waved his hand, dismissing me.

“And I’m going to recommend that she be transferred to the state as soon as possible.”

“But she’s not crazy!” I said. My hands were shaking. “Her story is real, and it’s our opinion—”

“Our?” Dr. Marshall asked with a nasty smirk on his face.

“Nurse Banks and I believe that she’s a victim and yes, she may be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, but she’s definitely in her right mind. We need to be going to the police, we need to keep her safe, we need—”

Dr. Marshall was up out of his chair, hands on the desk, lunging toward me. One thin strip of black, greasy hair ran over the crown of his head. “She’s delusional!” he was practically shouting at me. “That’s my diagnosis and it sticks! No more of this nonsense!” he said, waving me out of his office.

“But I’m willing to take her home! She can come and live with me,” I said.

“Look, I don’t know what is going on between you and this girl,” he said, a distasteful look spreading across his face, “but you need to let this go.”

That night and for the rest of the time Delia was with us, I stopped giving her the meds. It occurred to me later that of course Delia might’ve acted out more in front of Dr. Marshall, wanting him to believe she was truly insane so she could stay in hiding, but I wanted her to be as lucid as possible, to get as many facts for the police as I possibly could before she was transferred.

Her shots, though, were carefully measured out and recorded—controlled substances are monitored under a tight watch—but I would turn and empty the syringe into a wadded up towel on top of the laundry bin. One night, as I turned to do it, the door was still open and Laverne, another nurse, walked by and a look passed between us.