Biedermann returned shortly after breakfast. “Doctor Kaminski will see you now.”
Riley plucked at the paper hospital gown. “Can I have my clothes back? Just so my ass isn’t hanging out?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said, then disappeared down the hall for a moment before returning with a thin robe. “This is all that’s allowed.”
Five minutes later she was standing in Kaminski’s office, while Biedermann took her usual place by the window.
“Please sit,” he said, indicating the chair at the other side of his desk.
“No thanks,” she said, determined not to risk giving him a peek at the good china.
“Riley, you need to understand that this isn’t a zero-sum game. We had no reports of violence or suicide attempts overnight, but a brief absence of unhealthy behavior doesn’t provide evidence of healthy behavior. If you want to get out of there, we need to see real signs of progress.”
“Like what?”
“Anything that shows forward momentum. It doesn’t have to be big or difficult. It can be something simple, that any sensible person would be willing to do.”
He leaned forward, enjoying the moment. “You could, for instance, apologize for attacking me in this office.”
“Even if I don’t mean it?”
“That’s between you and your conscience. I just want to hear you say the words.”
She thought about it for a tenth of a second before saying, “No,” a pause born not out of doubt but from debating between no and fuck no.
“Then that will be all,” he said to Biedermann, his voice frosty. “Please escort the patient back to the observation room.”
A minute later, Riley was back in the elevator as Biedermann pushed the button for the third floor.
Halfway up, she pushed Stop.
Riley looked from the controls to Biedermann. “Umm . . . why are we stopping?”
Biedermann hesitated, as if coming to an inner decision, then said, “Several weeks ago, Nurse Sanchez told me what you said when you thanked her for lowering the dose.”
Riley stiffened. Is she really going to use Sanchez against me?
“She didn’t know what you were talking about, because she wasn’t the one adjusting the medication levels.”
Riley was about to ask, Then who was it? when she caught the inflection behind she.
Holy shit!
“That was you?”
“The doctors have their purview, and I have mine. I comply with their instructions to the extent that they will not lead to infractions that can harm me or my career. I moderated the dosage and made the appropriate notations in the medications log to ensure that we stayed within AMA, APA, and FDA guidelines for extended haloperidol usage.”
“But . . . didn’t Kaminski see the entries?”
“The doctors never check the logs, because they believe their word is final. Even if he did check, I was on the right side of the regulations concerning the administration of medication, and there’s nothing he could do that wouldn’t draw attention to his agenda. I also made it a point to intrude when I saw him enter your room and close the door, because anything that happens on my floor while I am on duty is my responsibility.”
“So why are you telling me this now?”
Biedermann waited.
Riley sighed. Are we still doing this? “Why are you telling me this now, Nurse Biedermann?”
“This deal is getting worse by the minute.”
What the fuck? Riley thought, then suddenly it hit. “Lando Calrissian—Star Wars.”
“Yes.”
“Julian!”
“Doctor Munroe, yes. Whatever you may think of me, Ms. Diaz, I took this position because I genuinely believed I could do some good. Lately, as I began to see where things were going with the ARC program, I asked Dr. Munroe if I could be assigned back to the regular ward. He declined, saying he needed me on this side of the hospital to keep an eye on things. He mentioned you in particular,” she said, with just a flicker of resentment in her voice.
Stay close to Biedermann, Julian had told her. Now it made sense!
“I’m telling you this because there’s only so much I can do while you’re under observation. Every time you refuse to cooperate, you get farther from whatever safe harbor I can discreetly provide. So the next time he asks if you’re sorry for attacking him, just say yes, don’t give him an excuse to take this to the next level.”
“Can’t do it.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not sorry!” Riley said, her frustration finally boiling over. “Because I’d do it again if I had the chance! Because when I say no, I’m in control, not him! Look at me! No is all I have left! Take that away and you might as well leave me in here forever! Can I win in the long run? Don’t know, don’t care. All I know is that he loses every time I say no.”
“Ms. Diaz, if putting you on suicide watch doesn’t achieve the desired effect, and if Dr. Kaminski can document a continued predilection toward violence and disruption, that leaves ECT as the only remaining therapeutic.”
“ECT?”
“Electroconvulsive therapy.”
“You’re just trying to scare me. Nobody does shock therapy anymore.”
“Actually, it’s still quite common. The voltage is lower than it was in the past, the patient is anesthetized, and we take every precaution against seizures, but yes, ECT is still practiced for violent patients, which is how you’ve been categorized. And while it’s not as bad as it used to be, nobody comes out the other side of it the same as they went in, because that’s the whole point of ECT.”
“Shit.”
Pause.
“Shit, Nurse Biedermann. Seriously, what’s his deal with me? I mean, beyond the fact that I punched him in the dick?”
“He doesn’t like the effect you have on the other patients. He had them more or less where he wanted them until you showed up. From what I’ve gathered from his conversations with Mr. McGann, demonstrating that their methods reduce opposition and instill complacency are crucial to achieving the long-term goals of the ARC program.”
“What long-term goals?”
“I don’t know. All I do know is that you are in a very precarious position. By now I know that I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, so you can refuse to follow my advice. But if you’re half as smart as Dr. Munroe thinks you are, then you’ll know when to pick your battles. Saying yes when Kaminski asks if you’re sorry won’t kill you, and it could save you a lot of trouble.”
But Biedermann’s expression, however, showed that she knew exactly what Riley was going to say even before she said it.
“No,” came the reply, firmly, defiantly, and with finality. “No.”
Biedermann pushed the button, and the elevator continued its upward trajectory.
“So now that Dr. Munroe is gone, will you be staying or leaving?” Riley asked.
The elevator reached the third floor and the doors opened.
“This is where you get off,” Biedermann said.
Day Two. Saturday.
Biedermann waited silently before the window as Riley stood before Kaminski.
“No.”
Day Three. Sunday.
“No.”
Day Four. Monday.
Riley was in anguish as Biedermann led her down the hall to Kaminski’s office. This was the day Steve said he would be checking out of the hospital, and with him would go her last chance to get word out, call for help, or at least find out the reason behind the call he’d received.
A moment later, she was standing before Kaminski. “Do you acknowledge your inappropriate behavior, and apologize for your violent outburst?”
Just say yes, a part of her brain insisted. You don’t have to mean it. Just say yes. Three letters, one word. How hard can that be?
Stop it, she fired back. Doesn’t matter what he says or does, we will not feed his ego or say that what he did to me or Lauren was right. If I do it, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
“No.”
Only after Bidermann had escorted Riley back to her room and closed the door did she allow the tears to come. It was the right choice, she told herself. It was the only choice.
Yes, her brain thought back at her. But what did it cost us?
Day Five. Tuesday.
Riley took her usual place in front of Kaminski.
“No,” she said, before the question could even be asked. It’s too late now anyway. What difference does it make?
Kaminski didn’t bother looking up from his paperwork. “Take her back to the room.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Dr. Kaminski.”
They both looked at her, as startled by what Biedermann had said as by the mere fact that she had spoken at all.
Kaminski’s face flushed angrily. “Excuse me?”
“Under the most recent guidelines provided by the Washington State Medical Commission, inpatient residents can only be held in suicide watch for five days. If no further attempts at self-harm have been observed, the patient must be returned to the common ward.”
“Nonetheless, it is my diagnosis that she remains suicidal.”
“I understand that is your opinion,” Biedermannn said, hands folded primly in front of her, “but more than that is required at the five-day mark. I must insist upon this because, while your position is secure, my license as head nurse is at risk if I continue this level of suicide watch without sufficient legal and medical grounds. If you can provide any evidence from the logs, recordings, or examinations that support your conclusion—any evidence at all—I will be more than happy to escort the patient to her secure room and continue the enforced isolation.”
Lips thinned, Kaminski flipped through the observation reports on his desk, so furious that he barely registered anything he was looking at. “I don’t have time to read all this right now.”
“Then when you have had sufficient time to review the material, please forward any specific information I can use to reinstitute the psychiatric hold and I will do so at once.”
“Fine. Get her out, then.”
Riley waited until the elevator doors closed, then said, “Thank you for what you did back there.”
“As I said, I can’t afford to lose my license. I didn’t do it for you, I did it for myself.” But behind her eyes there was a glimmer of strength and resolve that hadn’t been there before.
A little revolution is good for the soul, isn’t it, Nurse Biedermann?
Just before the doors opened again, she turned to Riley and said with more than a hint of pride, “To answer your question: I’m staying. Someone has to bear witness. Just . . . please try to avoid making my task more difficult than it needs to be.”
* * *
When Riley returned to the ARC ward, wearing the same clothes she’d been wearing when she was put on suicide watch, the others came out of their rooms to celebrate her return.
“Sonofabitch didn’t know who he was fucking with, did he?” Danny said, then gave her a bear hug so tight she thought he’d break a rib.
As the hugs continued, she glanced down the hall in case Steve might have delayed his departure to wait for her.
“Sorry, he’s gone,” Callie said when Riley asked. “He shook everyone’s hand, told me to say goodbye to you for him, then hit the road. Honestly, he couldn’t get out of here quick enough.”
“Yeah,” Hector said. “He was moving so fast you couldn’t even see him, just kinda heard him zoom as he went past.”
When the impromptu party subsided, Riley returned to her room and found a Snickers bar on the bed beside a note from Henry: Welcome Home.
Yeah, maybe it is, she thought, at least for the foreseeables, as Mom used to say.
* * *
The celebration picked up again over lunch as Riley made up for five days of finger food and egg salad sandwiches by practically diving headfirst into the trays of tamales, guacamole, Spanish rice, carnitas, warm tortillas and green salad with apples, cranberries, and pepitas set out at the food counter. She didn’t care that most of it had come out of cans; at that moment, it was the best meal ever.
“Enjoy the hot food while you can,” one of the servers said as he dished out another helping of refried beans. “The Beast is acting up again—pilot lights keep going on and off. Got a guy coming in soon to scope it out for problems with the gas line, soap it up, crank it up, and see what bubbles out. They say it shouldn’t take more than a couple of days, but we’ll see. Sometimes you need a hunting dog and a Ouija board to find these leaks.”
As Riley returned to sit with the others, she looked to Steve’s usual seat, keenly feeling his absence. I can’t blame him for wanting to get out of here as fast as he could. For all he knew, I might have been in there for weeks. He was right to leave as soon as the door opened.
But he wasn’t the only one absent from the cafeteria.
“Where’s Frankenstein?”
“Occupying the solarium,” Jim said. “He’s been there from doors-open to lights-out for days, just staring out the window. Wouldn’t even come down for meals. Anytime one of us went in, he made it really fucking clear he didn’t want us there.”
“I’ve never actually been snarled at by someone before,” Angela said. “Now that I know what it’s like, I don’t think I’ll be doing that again, thankyouverymuch.”
“I guess someone must have complained about him,” Rebecca said, “because some of the orderlies went in to try and encourage him to leave. Came out looking like they’d just seen their own deaths.”
* * *
After finishing lunch, Riley grabbed a packet of grapes and made her way to the solarium. She found him standing with his head pressed against the big window that looked out at the street. He didn’t react as she came in, and for a moment she thought he might have fallen asleep standing up.
His eyes were the first to move, slowly turning in her direction and locking on. Then, as if the rest of his body had been given permission, he leaned away from the glass and turned toward her.
“Hi,” she said. “Miss me?”
At first he didn’t respond. Then a half smile curled his lips, and he loped across the room to her in a way that reminded her of videos she’d seen of massive dogs tackling their owners after they returned from duty overseas. He grabbed her around the shoulders and jumped up and down, making little sounds of happiness, like he wanted to laugh but had forgotten how.
How long has it been since he’s laughed? she wondered. Since he’s had a reason to laugh? Her eyes went moist at the thought, and when she looked up, saw the same tears in his as well.
“They say you haven’t been eating,” she said, “so I brought you some grapes.”
His eyes stayed soft as he leveraged the gift into the oversized pocket of his shirt. Then tears surrendered to joy as he took her hand, looked outside to make sure no one was around, and pulled her out of the room and down the hall.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
He held his hand up in front of his face, fingers spread. Don’t ask, don’t make noise, just follow.
Halfway down the hall, they arrived at a locked storeroom door. After making sure no one was watching, he took the doorknob in both hands, pulling up and to the left, revealing that the hinges alongside the door were slightly off-kilter. Then there was an audible click as the lock popped free.
He opened the door and nodded for her to go inside.
She dashed past him, and he followed her into the room, reversing the process to ensure that the door was locked on the outside.
In the dim light that spilled in beneath the door, Riley saw stacks of boxes and suitcases along with clothes stuffed into bags, hung on racks, or stacked on shelves. This must be where they keep the personal belongings of all the patients.
He led her to the far end of the room, then pulled at a tall rack choked with clothes, shoes, and boxes to reveal a hidden space behind it, barely three feet across. She couldn’t see his face but imagined him smiling a crooked grin as he waved her inside.
Well, at least now we know where his hidey-hole is, she thought. Crouching low, she picked her way through piles of clothing and boxes into the narrow space.
He pulled the rack back into place so they couldn’t be seen from the other side, then slid to the floor beside her. Someone would have to poke through the rack of clothes with a stick to find the space behind, and she knew he would never react no matter how hard he got poked.
Something else we have in common, she decided.
He fumbled on the floor for a moment, then she heard another click as he switched on a flashlight.
Her heart rose in pain and beauty at what it revealed.
Small toys, most likely liberated from the closed pediatric ward, were scattered across the floor: horses and soldiers and clowns and dogs and figures of girls and boys at play. There were balls and alphabet blocks and a tiny baby stroller and action figures and a white duck on wheels and a toy xylophone.
Grinning broadly, he picked up the toys one at a time to show her his prized possessions, growing happier as she oohed and aahed and nodded her approval at each of them. Unguarded. Open. Not dangerous at all.
This is the child he never had a chance to be, and the toys he never had a chance to play with, she thought, but fought down her sadness so he wouldn’t think she disapproved of whatever he was showing her next.
Then she remembered something Julian had said about his childhood. He used to hide in a corner of the basement that was his special place, where he thought they could never find him or hurt him.
As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she noticed pictures taped to the wall behind her. Scooting around for a better look, her gaze fell on the nearest one: a magazine ad showing a picture-perfect family seated around a Thanksgiving table.
Seeing where she was looking, he tapped the picture excitedly, then tapped his chest.
Ohmygod, she thought, and again fought back tears. “Is this your family?” she asked, her voice soft in the darkness.
He nodded eagerly, then pointed to an image from another magazine ad that showed an African American family at the beach. He tapped it the same way.
“Your family?” she asked again.
He nodded even more excitedly.
He did this for five photos of five perfect families pulled from magazines, lovingly trimmed, and displayed on the wall.
The family he never had.
Taped to the wall beside the family pictures were ads and photos torn from articles about theme parks, vacation spots, cruises, beachfronts, and parks, where people playfully chased each other across the sand, threw snowballs, pulled big fish out of pristine lakes, went to prom, and—
The life he never had.
The tears came despite her resolve not to disappoint him, but he must have understood that she understood, because his fingertips grazed her face with surprising gentleness. Then the moment passed, and with sudden excitement he began searching the floor again. Whatever he was looking for, it wasn’t where he thought he’d left it, and there was a moment of panic as he thrashed around, tossing the toys and figures until he pushed aside a shirt sleeve sticking out from the rack that had been covering the target of his search.
Riley’s heart jumped when she saw what it was.
Steve’s phone.
He held it out and nodded for her to take it. She flipped it over to the front, where Steve had left a Post-it note: Going to try giving this to your pal. Hope he doesn’t eat it. Or me. Don’t say I never gave you anything. Just don’t get me in trouble, okay? 317943.
She toggled the power switch—not knowing how long she’d be gone, Steve had turned it off to conserve power rather than leave it on standby—and when the lock screen appeared, she typed in the code and was rewarded with the home screen, which showed a selfie of Steve in the woods, looking happier than she’d ever seen him before.
She checked the power level: 32 percent.
“Did he give you a charger?” she asked.
His smile diminished at her tone. Was something wrong? Had he done something to upset her?
“No, everything’s fine. Everything’s perfect, thank you, thank you so much . . . What I was asking is . . . Did he give you a thing that plugs into the wall?”
He cocked his head at her. Aroo?
“Never mind, it’s okay. It’s all great.”
All right, she thought, I have thirty-two percent—whoops, thirty-one percent—so I better figure out how to get the most out of this because I don’t think I can ask Henry to let me borrow his charger without raising a whole lot of questions. So no voice or video calls, at least not for now. Chews up too much power. Stick with texts then sign off ASAP.
The last incoming message on the encryption app, dated the previous Thursday, read, “Where’s R? Need to connect.”
She opened up a text screen.
Five minutes passed. She was about to turn off the phone to save power when a reply lit up the screen.
She glanced up at Frankenstein, sitting cross-legged in front of her, eating grapes, happy just to be there with her. He’d be content to sit here forever.