A LARGE GERMANIC nurse with steel wool hair and forearms like bratwurst answers a door marked LAVATORY. “She’s late,” she complains to Lester, then turns to me. “Come.”
“See you around, darlin’,” Lester whispers, and hands me off.
The lavatory is immense and institutional, long on tiled walls, short on privacy. We pass by doorless toilet stalls, then a row of sinks—and I spot another patient out of the corner of my eye. She’s twitchy and disheveled, cagey eyes darting around six ways from Sunday, cuts and bruises on her cheeks. When I turn toward her, she turns—
And I realize I’m looking at myself in a metal mirror bolted to the wall. I’m in my early twenties, with long brownish-red hair that’s half fallen out of a barrette. Big hazel eyes, full lips, a few freckles scattered across my cheekbones. Me. Whoever the hell that is.
“Over here,” Germanic says, and I join her in a changing area outfitted with benches covered with piles of newly admitted patients’ clothes. The squirrelly brunette with the chirpy voice from the bus is at the end of a line of now-naked women snaking through a steamy doorway into what I’m guessing is the shower room beyond.
“Everything off. Leave it all on the bench,” Germanic barks, then disappears into the shower room.
As I kick off my shoes, my eyes roam the room, scoping for possible escape options. A band of windows runs above the benches. Could they be stacked? Nope, bolted to the floor.
I shed the ID tag, socks, and sweater, then unzip the dress. When it’s off, I discover, hanging from my neck, a silver medal flanked by a half dozen small wooden beads. Engraved on its front are the words GEORGETOWN COUNTRY DAY LATIN AWARD. And on its back, Memento Audere Semper. Roughly translated: “Remember to always dare.”
So I know Latin. Not the most useful of clues, but it’s something.
I tug my meringue-like petticoat to the floor and step out of the frothy heap, then turn away from the women to slip off my bra and underwear. The move feels a bit rote, like I’m going through the motions of modesty. Am I demure?
Doubtful.
I am cold though. The room’s frigid, and goose bumps are spreading over my body as I pile my clothes, hair barrette, and manila ID tag on the bench. I’m about to join the brunette at the end of the line when I spy that thin, pink incision on my wrist.
Just how much have I forgotten?
And what other clues about me lie in plain sight? I start the premortem at my feet: dirty toenails but otherwise unremarkable. Traveling up my right leg, I find nothing. But the left’s a different story. A long scar snakes up the thigh, bent halfway like a broken branch. Nearby it are two small, round deformations. I find a third on my upper arm. Unlike my wrist, these scars are old. Puncture wounds? Burns?
What kind of a person amasses this kind of damage? I run my finger over one, and a scene flashes through my mind:
The round scar’s now a freshly healed wound, still deep pink—and a man’s fingers pass over it before coming to rest on my shoulder. He’s standing right behind me, his tan, muscular leg alongside mine, its blond hairs lit by a sun low in the sky.
Soon I feel his kisses, light and stealthy on my shoulder. When his lips skip over the strap of my swimsuit and begin working their way toward my neck, I pull his hand to my lips, kiss the quarter-moon scar on the center of his palm.
That’s when I first hear it.
Laughter. A boy’s weightless, joyful laughter nearby. And it’s in this moment, amid the man’s kisses and the boy’s mirth, that I’m filled with so much love it feels like my heart will burst.
Then the man’s kisses reach the nape of my neck, and I feel something new, a need, unruly and raw, building inside me.
He gently tugs my earlobe, and I turn to face him—
But as quick as it appeared in my mind’s eye, the scene cuts out, and no amount of racking my brain will bring more.
That intense feeling of love I just experienced in its recollection makes me know with absolute certainty that the man, his kisses, and quarter-moon scar, the boy’s laughter—it all happened.
My first real memory of life before waking on that bus. But who—and where—is that man? Is he searching for me?
Does he even know I’m lost?
A couple of my fellow passengers return from the showers, shivering, wet, and clutching their small white towels. They look like they’ve been through the ringer.
The squirrely brunette has now reached the doorway, and when I fall in line behind her, she turns. “Hi, I’m Betsy,” she says, in her high-pitched voice, idly spooling her hair around a finger. I nod, having no name to offer in return.
Just ahead of Betsy is a woman I don’t remember from the bus. She’s fortyish, with gray-flecked hair and suspicious eyes that circle the room, looking for threats. A kindred spirit.
“Did you know there’s a transmitter in my head?” Betsy asks me, pointing to her temple. “It’s true. My brother put it there … to keep an eye on me.” Betsy’s crazy talk draws the attention of the gray-haired woman ahead of her, and her vigilant eyes briefly land on the two of us before moving on.
Soon the line advances and we enter the shower room. Along one wall are a half dozen stalls. Standing across from the nearest one is a tall, cage-like structure studded with nozzles controlled by a nurse inside it. She sprays the patient currently cowering in front of her with a sulfurous yellow fluid that quickly inundates her.
Germanic’s in charge of wrangling patients into the line of fire. “Next,” she barks at the twitchy gray-haired woman ahead of us, but she refuses to advance. “We don’t have all day. Step to the wall for the insecticidal.” She pronounces it inzectizidal. Yeah.
When Germanic starts to drag the woman toward it, I step out of line. “Is that really necessary?” I ask, and the two turn around. “She’s clearly clean enough for this place.”
But Germanic’s not listening—she’s spotted my Latin medal. “Give me the necklace.”
My hand instinctively wraps around this lone tangible connection I have to my real self. But short of escalation, there’s little choice, and I take it off, drop it into Germanic’s chapped hand. The nurse slips it in her pocket then pulls the twitchy gray-haired woman to the wall.
As Betsy and I watch the woman being sprayed, she chirps, “Her name’s Mary Droesch. I’d be careful of her. Overheard the nurses say Mary attacked her boss ’cause she was in love with him and couldn’t understand why he didn’t love her back. Put the guy in the hospital. Her sister and some doctors decided she was insane, and a judge sent her here. A local sheriff’s deputy brought her in just an hour ago.”
The same one who chased me down, Officer Worthy. The Lone Ranger. So Mary Droesch was the woman he was delivering to the nurse.
When I’m done with the delousing, I take a scratchy towel and head back to the changing room. My pile of belongings on the bench is smaller now—the petticoat’s gone. It must’ve been deemed too buoyant for Hanover. I pull my damp hair into the barrette, then begin to put my clothes and ID tag back on.
Soon Betsy and the others finish dressing and exit, leaving just Mary Droesch and me. She turns around, sharp eyes fixed on mine. “You shouldn’t have done that. Defend me.”
“Yeah,” I say to the ungrateful lunatic, “from what I hear, you’re more than capable of fighting your own battles.”
Mary smiles. It’s a thin smile, like a grim Cheshire cat’s. “My crime of passion. Good story, isn’t it? Full of unrequited love, vengeance, violence. It certainly served its purpose.”
“Purpose?” I ask.
“No one’s going to listen to a jealous madwoman,” she says, pulling on a pilly old blue cardigan someone knit long ago. “They needed a crime that wouldn’t attract attention, get the wrong people asking the right questions. Something small … domestic. So they could lock me away in here.”
Wow. Even more of a loon than Betsy. But I must admit I’m intrigued. “Who’s this ‘they’ you’re talking about?” I ask as I pull on my own sweater.
But before she can answer, Germanic enters. “You two, time’s up. Come,” she says, clapping, and we follow her out into the hallway and join the last few women still in line at a half-open Dutch door labeled INTAKE. A pretty nurse with big doe eyes is manning its window. She briefly looks up, surveying those of us still in line, before returning to whatever it is she’s doing.
I repeat my question to Mary. “So, who’s ‘they’?”
Mary Droesch’s eyes flick around, checking for any fellow loons listening in, before answering. “The ones who don’t want you to know the truth,” she whispers.
Okaaaay, should never have pressed the unhinged woman to elaborate. That’s my fault.
I nod politely and the two of us wait in silence till it’s Mary Droesch’s turn. She steps up to intake’s half door, and the doe-eyed nurse gently asks, “Mary, can you give me your wrist?” The paranoid woman reluctantly holds out her arm and Doe-Eyes secures an ID band on it, then directs her to stand with the others gathered by Gus, the large attendant I dodged by the bus earlier.
When I advance to the window, the nurse smiles timidly at me. Her name tag says EVELYN GIBBS, R.N. “Dorothy Frasier,” Nurse Gibbs says, reading the manila ID tag. “I’ve got something for you,” she says, and holds out her hand. In it is the Latin medal. “Just keep it tucked under your dress, out of sight.”
The kind gesture in the middle of this callous place catches me off guard, and just like when the janitor gave me his handkerchief, my eyes are inconveniently filling with tears. I try but fail to stop them, and in moments one is sliding down my cheek.
Crying’ll get you killed.
I ignore the voice’s creepy warning. Turn away from the nurse to wipe my eyes and put the necklace back on. When I’m done, Nurse Gibbs says softly, “Can you give me your right hand, honey?” I hold it out, and she slips a plastic-coated band around my wrist and locks it on by tightening its metal cleat with a small tool. It reads: PATIENT W8209. DOROTHY FRASIER. SUICIDE RISK. EVAL. My new and improved ID, just as Sherman promised.
“You came on a good day at least,” Gibbs says brightly. “Tonight’s Thanksgiving here at Hanover.”
“But today’s the twelfth.”
“It does sound odd, doesn’t it? Hanover celebrates it early, so staff can be here with you … and also be with their families for the actual holiday.” Gibbs leans in close. “I saw you from the front steps earlier.” So Gibbs was the nurse the deputy was handing Mary Droesch over to. “The way you fought, it was amazing,” she gushes. “Where’d you ever learn to do that?”
I have no answer for her.
“Gosh, right, your memory,” she says. “Sorry, sometimes I can be a real dunce—”
“Still here, Miss Gibbs?” It’s Nurse Wallace approaching, clipboard in hand. She doesn’t look happy, though that might be on account of her eye, now swollen partially shut. I quietly slip into the crowd of Mary, Betsy, and the others gathered by Gus.
“Let’s get you on your way, shall we?” Wallace says to Gibbs, as she consults her clipboard. “Mary Droesch and Betsy Apel, you’re to go with Miss Gibbs to the Unit.”
The Unit. Sounds ominous. Mary must share my sentiment ’cause her eyes are darting double-time as she joins Betsy and Miss Gibbs. The three soon disappear around the corner.
“Stein, Alemi, Flores, Young, and Frasier—you all come with me,” Gus says to us in his slow drawl.
“Not Frasier,” Wallace says, sounding a little ticked. “Dr. Sherman’s made a change in her orders. She’ll be joining Kasten and Delucia in A-Ward for evaluation.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Gus says, and leads his charges away.
“Come, ladies,” Wallace says to the three of us remaining, and we follow her down the long hall.
We’re passing a door marked SECLUSION when we hear almost animalistic cries coming from its other side, followed by a THUMP.
What the hell?
Wallace peers through the door’s porthole window, then quickly unlocks it, and we follow her down a short corridor lined with a half dozen padded cells, each with a small window in its door. Halfway down it a wild-eyed, shrieking patient in a straitjacket is kicking an attendant she’s somehow managed to knock to the ground.
Wallace plants us near the end of the hall, in front of a vacant cell. “Don’t move,” she says to us, then goes to help the downed attendant. While we wait, I check out the lock on the open cell door behind us and see it’s a Wilcox double cylinder, keyed entry on both sides. The Wilcox is a shitty pin-and-tumbler lock, easily picked. Interesting.
As we wait for them to wrangle the patient, something bright red in the window of the cell door at the end of the hall catches my eye. I slip away from the others, peer through the glass window, and find not a cell but a tree. Bright crimson, its leaves lit by the sun finally breaking through the clouds.
But enough about the tree. The point is, I’m not standing in front of a cell door but an outside exit—one that bypasses all hallways, security gates, and creepy staff. Examining its lock, I can’t believe my further luck: also a crappy Wilcox double cylinder.
This is going to be easier than I thought. I close my eyes and picture the Wilcox’s pins and tumblers—and what it’ll take to overcome them. I’ll need something that can act as a tension wrench. The metal clasp of my barrette should work. And the pick? A piece of metal thin enough to get in there but with enough flex to push the pins—
“Dorothy!” I look up, see Wallace standing by the other two patients, arms crossed. When I rejoin them, she says, “I fear you’ve somehow gotten the wrong impression of me, so let’s start over, shall we? I’m Miss Wallace, matron of this section and all the wards within it.”
I get it, lady, you are all-powerful.
“As matron,” Wallace continues, “I can determine just how agreeable your life at Hanover will be. Whether you get privileges, whether you get a toothbrush, whether you get toothpaste for that toothbrush. If you act out like you’ve done today or again disrespect my or any member of my staff’s authority, you’ll be in a restraint and locked in one of these cells so fast it’ll make your head spin. So remember, I’m watching you.”
I’m assuming with the good eye …
Maybe I deserve the nurse’s venom. Whoever I am, I’m kind of a bitch.