13

THE INSOMNIAC

The dean can’t sleep.

She’s been tossing and turning for the past hour, running the day over in her head, looking for mistakes, issues, pitfalls. She has a staff meeting tomorrow with all the teachers to address any concerns that have arisen, and she’s not looking forward to it. It’s always the same, every year, teachers immediately singling out the students who need extra help, who are being disruptive, who are not fitting in, too sad, or too stupid, to cut it. All that negativity is such a downer. She’s not had to intervene in any disciplinary actions so far, which is good—maybe she’s worrying for nothing. Maybe tomorrow’s meeting will be smooth sailing.

She has Ash Carlisle on her mind—not surprising, after her tearful breakdown over Muriel’s unfortunate incident. If Ford’s being honest with herself, though, she’s been thinking about the girl for weeks, ever since the news of her parents’ passing, so unexpected, so lurid. When Ash appeared in the doorway to Ford’s office—thin, tall, haunted—Ford was torn between offering a hug and sending her back to England.

Something about Ash bothers her. She doesn’t have the whole story of the girl’s past, this much is clear. The shadows in her pretty blue eyes aren’t something brought about by a loving, stable life. With her parents’ deaths... Yes, that’s all. The shadows are grief. Grief explains everything—the weight loss, the soft voice. How the girl seems to scurry. A broken heart. Shadows. So many shadows.

Ford hadn’t noticed when she interviewed her. The computer’s camera wasn’t great; the room Ash had been in was dark and gloomy, lit only by the natural light from the window. They lived in an estate in Oxfordshire, Ash explained, on a vast expanse of land. Ford had looked up the house itself during the background check—harled stone, three stories, covered in ivy, elegant grounds. Quintessentially British. The parents were the right sort. Ash herself was the right sort. Some spots on the academic record, to be sure, but so often the children of these kinds of people lash out until they find themselves.

Discipline. Focus. Identity. That’s what Ford offered here at Goode, in addition to being a ticket to ride.

The Ash she’d talked to was gregarious, insouciant, brilliant. Not mousy. Not hunched in on herself. Not stricken with fear at every question.

What’s happened to her since her father’s death, her mother’s death? Has Ford made a mistake allowing her to come?

Considering the rumblings...

According to Erin Asolo, Becca and Ash had clashed. Becca had said something wildly inappropriate and was scolded. Erin explained the tiff at the first-night-of-term cocktail party, an annual tradition for the Goode faculty and staff. They all got tipsy and divvied up the chaperone schedule, from dorm duty to offsite dances with the local boys’ schools.

Ash managed to secure the attention of Becca almost immediately, and who knows where this will lead. To be honest, Ash managed to secure Ford’s attention, too. Perhaps she is that kind of girl, one so unforgettable obsessions are born.

Ford knows this is a situation worth watching. Time will tell. She also knows that sometimes, with teenagers, things sort themselves.

Becca can go either way—wonderful, loving friend or cold, heartless bitch. She’s off-the-charts intelligent, absolutely. But there is a coldness in her, deep down in her core. Ford can easily imagine her as a little girl, that direct, unblinking gaze as she pulled the wings off a butterfly in her mother’s garden.

This event is in the psychological profile on Becca Curtis. Her mother, Senator Ellen Curtis, mailed it to Ford two weeks ago. A disturbing report from a psychiatrist in McLean, Virginia, who stated her concerns for Becca’s welfare in plain language.

Summary: Patient lacks empathy. Knows right from wrong, but isn’t concerned with following rules. Lies about inconsequential things, evades my questions. Reckless behavior noted by mother—disobeying curfew, drinking, drugs. Patient shows contempt for her mother and authority figures in general, including myself. Possible borderline personality disorder, possible bipolar disorder, possible depressive disorder. Or possibly a teenager trying to get attention from an absent parent. Recommend therapy three days a week and a course of medication.

Along with the psychiatrist’s findings, there was a typed letter.

Dear Dean Westhaven... This was crossed out with a flourish and Ford written in blue-black ink, a heavy blot on the bottom of the d. Ford knows it was written with a fountain pen, which is meant to impress, and also knows the senator’s aide typed the letter and shoved it in front of her boss’s face to be signed and personalized. A DC special.

Dear Dean Westhaven Ford,

Becca has been having some issues. We had a clinical assessment (attached) and she’s been diagnosed with some sort of depression. She will be returning to school with a prescription for Zoloft.

I know you will keep an eye on her. She’s been improving rapidly since the medication kicked in and seems quite excited to return to school. Please keep me abreast of her progress. You may email me anytime at senator@ellen.curtis.senator.gov.

Yours,

Senator Ellen Curtis

Ford read this and thought, Her public email address, too. My God, Ellen Curtis is a heartless bitch. No wonder Becca is acting out at home.

And the diagnosis could hardly be called some sort of depression.

But Ford dutifully updated the senator on her observations with an email earlier this evening.

Titles. People do love their titles.

Ford doesn’t see the same girl the doctor does, which is worrisome. Becca has never struck her as deliberately cruel, but perhaps Ford only wants to see the best in her girls. And she understands the desire to get attention from an absent mother, even if it’s negative attention. Ford was—is still—known to disregard her mother’s advice in favor of making some colossal mistakes of her own. Her mother made the worst one, and now Ford is shackled to Goode, for better or for worse, forced to read something much too personal about one of her students. Penance.

Yes, Becca needs some extra attention this year. She will be graduating in the spring, already has an early acceptance to Harvard. She might start slacking off, and Ford can’t let that happen. Perhaps Ford will offer a tutorial. Becca has shown a propensity for short stories. She’ll challenge her to write a small collection, with Ford editing. With the right topics and guidance, perhaps she can even submit to magazines at the end of the semester.

That’s Becca sorted.

So what else is bothering her?

Ford finally throws back the covers and goes to the kitchen. Makes a cup of tea, chamomile, and adds a few drops of CBD oil. She needs her rest.

She sits at her desk, sipping, allowing herself a few moments to worry. A good exercise, this. When her mind is cluttered, she indulges it for ten minutes. Then she puts it aside. She sets the timer and lets her thoughts tumble.

She is interrupted by the phone, an unrecognized number. She answers.

“Dean Westhaven? This is Dr. Aquinas, I’m at County General. I’ve been treating your Dr. Grassley.”

“Oh, yes. Is she all right?”

“I’m so sorry to have to share this, Dean, but you are Dr. Grassley’s primary emergency contact. She didn’t respond well to the epinephrine—I see in her chart that she’s had several incidents in the past year. Sometimes the body simply can’t get out of reactive mode and the flare-ups are too much for the heart to handle. These long-term anaphylaxis cases are so difficult—”

“Excuse me, what are you saying, exactly?”

“I’m sorry, Dean. Dr. Grassley passed away an hour ago.”