Track 4

“Sorrow”

Present Day

No one greets me when I enter the facility.

Which is fine, because the moment I set foot inside and look around, I’m awestruck. I stand in one spot and turn around.

It’s nothing like the austere exterior.

Yes, the structure fits in with the outside. All straight lines. No features like crown molding or warm, polished wood. The walls are white but tinged yellow, like the pages of an aging paperback.

The furnishings scream old-world luxury. Gilt-framed mirrors and faded landscape paintings. Elaborate chandeliers are dusty but still glittering. They catch every ray of light and throw rainbows onto the ceiling. Persian rugs are planted strategically over the utilitarian linoleum tiles. A lush carpet runner covers a wide terrazzo staircase with black metal banisters. It’s like someone tried their hardest to soften the Spartan architecture, but the effect is incongruous.

There’s nothing resembling a reception desk, nothing that indicates Eden is a place for the very sick. I don’t see workers in lab coats or scrubs wandering around, or hear any movement.

The fact that it’s like a decorated royal palace inside should bring me some comfort. But it doesn’t. The atmosphere is odd and stale, like nobody hangs around here much.

“Is anyone here?” My voice echoes. Then comes the sound of a door opening.

“Ah, you must be Miss Roekiem.”

I whirl around to face the person who pronounced my name perfectly. A tall man with silver hair and gaunt, wrinkled cheeks steps in from a room off the foyer. He peers at me with watery blue eyes framed by gold-rimmed glasses that don’t seem to fit his head. They keep sliding down his narrow nose. Pure white teeth gleam as he smiles. There’s something about that smile that puts me on edge right away. It’s too wide, too friendly. He straightens his white lab coat and holds out a meaty hand that’s covered with pigmentation spots.

“I’m Cassidy,” I say, nodding. His grip is so cold it sends a shiver down my back. “Dr. Davis” is monogrammed in blue above his coat pocket. “Thank you for letting me in. I’ve tried for a long time to even speak to my mother, so being able to see her now is awesome.”

“Yes,” he says before pressing his lips into a taut line.

Great. I can already sense that getting any information out of this doctor will be like trying to squeeze champagne from a potato.

“Is there a reason why I couldn’t see her before? Was she…” I force a lump of emotion down my throat. Images of old horror movies and patients languishing in straitjackets jump to mind. “Was she too sick to even pick up a phone? Shoot me a text?”

He’s silent for a moment, and the walls feel like they’re closing in on me. When he speaks, his words are slow, measured. “There were some issues that needed addressing.”

“Issues?” My chest squeezes. “What kind?”

Dr. Davis stares down at me with a faint air of disapproval. “We take patient confidentiality very seriously here, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”

“Even from family? I’m her daughter.”

“Even so.” He gestures for me to enter another room off the foyer. Worn red velvet sofas and armchairs are arranged around a coffee table. “So, Cassidy, I have heard a lot about you.”

“Oh, really?” A glimmer of hope sparks. If Mom has talked about me that means she’s been thinking of me, at least. I sit on an armchair. Its springs dig into my butt. The air in here is stale, too, as if the windows haven’t been opened in a while. “But why doesn’t she want to talk to me?”

“I know the months she has been working on herself here must feel like a lifetime to a young person.” That too-wide, too-white smile flashes for a split second. The man’s got to be in his seventies, but he moves like a lion prowling on the savanna. He sits on a sofa opposite me, and light from the closed windows behind him turns him into a silhouette. “But Nina isn’t ready for family therapy, so you and your father aren’t scheduled to see her for some time. Your father is aware of this, of course.”

My lips tighten. Yeah, Dad knows. He’s content to go along with the doctor’s “advice.” It’s a sticking point between us, but when it comes down to it, my parents are no longer married. He has no say in what happens with Mom anymore. Neither do I.

“I didn’t come here for therapy. I’m here to visit. Just to talk to her.” I can’t keep the edge out of my voice. I wanted to sound grown-up and controlled, but months of frustration have taken a toll, and this man’s attitude is stomping on my last nerve.

“Yes, but you must understand,” he says smoothly, “isolation is quite necessary for recovery in this case. Nina explained the visitation policy to you, yes?”

“She did,” I say, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. Mom had written a letter—a letter!—explaining that she needed time out from life, and that it was all in the name of recovering from her nervous breakdown. Her words didn’t comfort me. They only told me that I couldn’t be part of the solution to her problems. That hurt more than a karate-kick to the groin.

“I can see you’re upset with your mother about the policy,” Dr. Davis says.

Anyone in my situation would be angry. Doesn’t take a genius to realize that.

“I’m here now. I’d just like to see her,” I say, injecting steel into my tone, “if that’s okay with you, Doctor?”

He checks his watch. “It’s very short notice, and she has just received her medication.”

“What kind of medication?” My pulse rises at the thought of my mother needing to be drugged. She never took anything stronger than ibuprofen in the past, as far as I know.

“A mild sedative,” he says.

Wait. What? “Why does she need a sedative? Shouldn’t she be feeling much calmer now that she’s being treated properly?” The steel in my voice melts a little as an image of my anxiety-riddled mom haunts me.

“It’s part of her ongoing therapy. Many patients with her condition benefit from this particular drug. It’s perfectly safe.” Dr. Davis stands, his face no longer in the shadows. Overgrown gray brows lifted, he regards me like I’m the one who needs a sedative.

“If she’s…sedated, then it’s okay to see her, right? It’s not going to stress her out?” I lock my arms around my body as I stand.

He hesitates for a moment, the first time I’ve seen him appear unsure. That rattles what little confidence I have in this treatment facility. “She might be a little drowsy,” he says, “but yes, you can see her. Briefly.”

I breathe out six months’ worth of tension. “Great. Thank you.”

He crosses the room and I start to follow, but then he says over his shoulder, “Stay in the waiting room. I will bring her downstairs to you. It’s protocol. And you’ll both be more comfortable here.”

I don’t know about feeling comfortable in this stuffy room, but at this point, I can’t be too fussy. I’m finally getting to see my mother after all this time apart.

This waiting room doesn’t offer a single magazine or even a pamphlet to read. And with my phone getting zero bars, there’s nothing to help pass the time.

After a while, the faint sound of something tapping skates on my nerves. I search around for a clock, but there isn’t one. I head to a window and find it not only locked, but also free of nearby trees and branches that could be making the noise.

The door opens with a soft squeak. I’m so on edge that the sound makes me jump. I turn. A ghostly figure stands in the doorway.

My throat catches. “Mom?”

She looks scared, like a lost rabbit. Her blue eyes are wide and round. Instead of the colorful bohemian dresses she loves, she’s wearing a gray robe. Its belt encloses a waif-like waist. Her cheeks are sunken. Skin dull. All the vibrancy has been knocked out of her.

This is not my mother. Not the one I know anyway.

Dr. Davis nudges her from behind. “It’s okay, Nina.”

I rush across the room toward her, but then stop short when she seems to shrink back. “Mom? It’s me, Cassidy.”

“Cassidy… Cassidy…” She repeats my name as if sounding it out for the first time.

“That’s right. Your favorite daughter.” I try to keep my voice even and light, but inside I’m shaking. My own mother doesn’t recognize her only child. What kind of sedative are they giving her? I thought this place was supposed to help her get better. Instead, she looks worse than the day she checked herself in.

A few seconds pass, and then her expression clears. “Oh…baby.”

She takes a couple of steps and folds me into her arms, every bone in her rib cage pressing against me. Still, her touch calms me. I let out a sigh, grateful she knows who I am. I want to hug her even tighter, as if that would somehow transfer healing vibes to her. But I’m half afraid she’ll break.

“I’ll give you some privacy.” Dr. Davis offers a thin smile and reaches for the doorknob. “And I apologize for any construction noise you might hear. We’re currently refurbishing the estate from the inside out.”

Ah. One mystery solved.

As soon as he’s gone, I pull Mom down onto a sofa with me. “How are you doing? I’ve missed you so much!”

“I’m wonderful, baby. Really.” She sits back, eyes darting around like she’s not sure she’s allowed to get comfortable. I contemplate her response. She’s either lying or she’s forgotten what the word wonderful means. “I’ve missed you, too,” she says. “Why haven’t you come to see me before today?”

“Um, because you told us not to come,” I say, puzzled. And you said it like you meant it.

Mom’s smile drops. “Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.”

“I’m so glad I made it past the front gate. Through the front door, even.” I grab both of her hands. It’s hard to believe I’m actually touching her. “I hate being cut off from you, especially now when you’re in this weird…resort? What is this place, anyway?”

Mouth agape, she peers around the room as though she’s never seen it before. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yeah…it’s nice.” I suppose beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all that. “You’re comfortable? Eating enough? How are they treating you here?”

Her eyes shutter as if the barrage of questions is too much to handle. The purple shadows under her eyes look like bruises. “You should have listened when you were told not to visit.”

Pasting on a hopeful grin, I say, “But you’re thrilled to see me, right?”

Her silence exacerbates the emptiness of the place. Even the hammering has stopped. It’s like we’re in a vacuum.

“Yes,” she whispers after a long, excruciating time.

Her hesitation beckons tears to my eyes. The old Mom wouldn’t have left me hanging like that. Old Mom would’ve replied in a split second, “I’m beyond thrilled.”

I try again to inject brightness and sunshine into my words. “So, when can you come home?”

Another pause, then, “When I’m better.”

I bite my lip. “That seems kind of vague.”

“Mental health issues are challenging,” she says robotically, almost like she’d rehearsed it. There’s a stoniness in her gaze now that’s completely foreign to me.

I squeeze her bony hand. “I’m doing everything I can to get you out of this place.”

For a nanosecond, her rigid, masklike expression flickers. A light seems to shine from those blue eyes. She whispers, “Out?”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it? Your own bed, your own tiny house. Your own life? Even your career?” That brief light in her eyes extinguishes as soon as she hears my last word. I’ve blown it. “It’s okay, Mom. No one could blame you for feeling down.”

“There’s more to it than ‘feeling down.’” Her sharp tone cuts through the air like a blade. She twists away from me and walks to one of the windows.

“You’re right. That was…that was brainless of me. I’m sorry.” Damn, why do I keep saying the wrong thing? It used to be so easy to talk to my mother. Now I feel like we’re strangers to each other. “I was thinking maybe there’s a way I can help with your treatment.”

“I’m getting all the help I need, sweetie,” she says in a voice so soft I have to strain to hear it.

“I’m not talking medically. But…professionally?”

She faces me and squints. “What do you mean?”

I take a big breath. “I will solve the Jane Flanagan investigation you started, and that would bring you some closure, and you can start to heal. I have your laptop. I’m getting it fixed. I’ll continue where you left off. And I’ve already got a lead. Okay, you probably uncovered it already. But it’s a good idea to start from scratch, right? Get a new perspective?”

“Investigation.” Mom’s eyes glaze over. I’m talking way too fast. I know I am.

“Jane. Flanagan. You worked day and night on your book. Remember?”

How could she have forgotten the thing that put her in treatment in the first place? Are the sedatives that good?

Or conversely, are the sedatives that bad that entire chunks of her life have been wiped from her memory?

A spark of recognition finally crosses her features. “The president,” she whispers.

“Yes, the former president’s daughter. You were so pumped about that investigation when you started it.” I start pacing around her. “Then you said working that case was like going over an obstacle course, but I can start with a fresh angle—”

“No!” She jerks her head sharply, hands whipping through the air.

My jaw falls open. “Why not? It’s a great story. An untold story. I’m going to finish it for you.”

Giving her blond head a vigorous shake, Mom says, “It’s a terrible idea. Trust me.”

“But you used to say if the right people talked—”

“No! You won’t find anything! No one will talk,” she snaps in a totally non-Mom way. “It was a hopeless investigation from the start. Save yourself the heartache. Just…just go on with your life.”

She stares hard at me, her gaze no longer vague. It occurs to me then that maybe she wanted to finish the job herself when she gets out of this place. I shouldn’t have asked, knowing how protective she was of her work. However…

“Mom, please.” My voice cracks. I fight to sound a little tougher. “Solving this case doesn’t just help you or me.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, turning away. “I don’t want you to take on the investigation. Look where it got me—”

A hard knock at the door startles me.

Dr. Davis stalks back into the room. He flashes that too-white, too-wide, too-friendly grin on me. “Apologies for the interruption, Cassidy.”

I glare. He looks sorry-not-sorry. “Yes?”

“Nina, it’s time to resume your treatment.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Mom starts to move. I put my hand out to stop her, but she slips away from me to stand beside him. Two against one.

“Mom, wait.” I laugh awkwardly. “Let me visit you every week. Or every other weekend? It’d be great for both of us. Therapeutic, even.”

Mom shakes her head. “No, Cassidy. Please understand. There are good reasons for me to recover in private.”

“But… But I’m your daughter.”

“It’ll be okay, sweetie. Be patient.” Mom squares her posture.

My gaze slides to the doctor, who nods solemnly as if to say, “See? This is what she wants. No one’s forcing her.”

Dr. Davis’s hand moves to her shoulder, angling her toward the door. “Go on ahead to the treatment room, Nina. I’ll be right with you.”

“Wait!” I lunge for Mom, hugging her so hard she gasps. “I love you, Mom. Call me anytime. Or text, whatever.”

“I love you, too, Cassidy.” She pulls back and does that classic mom gesture of brushing hair out of my eyes. In that brief second, I see the old Nina Groen-Roekiem. “I’m getting help. Tell your dad everything’s fine.”

“One more thing—” I rush to my bag and pull out a package the size of a brick. “I almost forgot these. The food of our people.”

For a dessert-lover like me, growing up with a mom of Dutch descent and a first-generation Indonesian dad has its culinary advantages. Winters weren’t complete without spiced Dutch cookies and a glass of warm milk. Indonesian coconut and pandan jellies made with love by my great-aunt Carole often put me into food comas on the back porch during long, hot summers.

“Speculaas!” With trembling hands she brings the package to her nose. There’s no way she can smell the sweet cinnamon and nutmeg shortbread through the red foil.

“I found them at the Dutch deli,” I say, loving the light in her eyes. Sure, it might be a reflection of the cookie packet, but I choose to believe it’s something more. It gives me hope that she can find her way back.

“Thank you, sweetie.” Mom smiles tightly and blows me a kiss.

As she drifts down the hall without looking back, gray robe clinging to her bones, all I can think is that everything is not fine.

Dr. Davis clears his throat and steps toward me. I’m fairly tall, but he’s even taller, even with a bit of a hump in his back. “I hope you can see now that your mother’s wishes need to be respected. Remember, it was she who checked herself in.”

“Then she can check herself out, right?”

“When the time is right and when she meets certain criteria,” he says. “Emotionally, she’s in a very delicate place. She has deep-seated issues. It may take years to resolve them all. I have to insist that you don’t visit again until Nina says she’s ready.”

“You’re saying I could be out of college before I can see my own mother again?”

“It’s difficult to put a specific time frame on these things. The mind is rather complex. Often unpredictable. Like your mother said…be patient.” His tone is meant to be soothing, but I’m not soothed by it. At all.

I meet the doctor’s glacial blue eyes. There’s harshness in that gaze where there should be sympathy, understanding. He widens his stance, forming a sort of roadblock. A vein in my head throbs like a drum in response. In this moment I hate everything about this dusty, antiquated place, and he’s at the top of the list.

I’ve got to get Mom out of Eden. Pleading with her or getting past Dr. Davis isn’t going to work. The only way is to find Jane Flanagan, dead or alive.

Whatever it takes.