They want what’s best for his presidential campaign.
I shuffle in my seat and face Monica square on. “For God’s sake, you said it yourself, Monica – she’d only been home for about a week before those bastards kidnapped her, degraded her, abused her – on national television -- and worse. She was party to a murder in front of an audience of millions. We damn near lost her. Give her time to heal. At home,” I say pointedly.
“I told you we shouldn’t have him here,” Monica says, not even bothering to lower her voice.
“So I was the savior a few days ago and now I’m a gadfly?”
“You’ve always been a gadfly, Drew,” she responds flatly.
“You’re looking for any excuse to send her back. You can’t, you know.”
“If she’s not competent, we’re her next of kin. We absolutely can.”
I look at Dr. Belzan. “Is she incompetent?”
She shakes her head. “I see no signs of legal incompetence. She’s capable of self care. She’s just choosing not to speak.”
“That’s a sign of mental illness in and of itself. Who would choose not to talk when they can?” Monica insists.
“Someone who is extremely traumatized.”
“If she’s that traumatized, she needs intensive psychiatric help! The kind we can’t give her!”
“You mean the kind you won’t give her, because you’ve placed Harry’s ambitions above your own daughter’s well being,” I snap.
I expect to be slapped. Maybe I deserve it. Instead, Monica stands and walks out of the room. She looks back at Harry. It’s clear she expects him to follow.
He doesn’t.
She slams the door as she exits.
“You’re right, Drew, but do you have to be so damn blunt about it? She’s a grieving mother,” Harry grouses. His normally commanding presence is being ground down by exhaustion.
And probably by spending so much time with Monica.
“Grieving? Is that the term your PR folks have decided polls best?”
His look hardens.
But he doesn’t argue.
Throughout the exchanges, the doctors stay quiet. They’re clearly uncomfortable.
I’m done with feeling anything.
I’m done with allowing Lindsay to be treated like a thing. A pawn. They’d be horrified by the analogy, but what Monica and Harry are doing is no different than what Nolan Corning did.
The degree of abusiveness is the only difference. It’s a big one, sure.
The general principle is the same: they’re all using Lindsay without any regard for her wishes.
I am the keeper of her volition.
If she has any.
I’m assuming she still does, no matter how buried it is.
I’d better be right.
My entire life hangs on the assumption that I’m right.
Which means I’m damn invested.
“Drew, we’re all on the same side,” Harry says with a sigh.
“I don’t think that’s true. I’m on Lindsay’s side and you’re on the Oval Office’s side.”
“I’m not having this argument with you.” The look he gives me adds the word again, though he won’t say it in front of the doctors. “We’re her parents. We’re her next of kin.” He looks at Higgs, then Belzan. “At what point do we determine our next step?”
“She’ll be healed enough to go home in three days or so. I’d say a psych eval in two days, and we go from there,” Dr. Higgs replies. “If she does need long-term inpatient psych care, they need to have physical therapy and occupational therapy rehab facilities.”
Harry gives him a sour look. “Lindsay will have everything she needs.”
“We’re not there yet,” Dr. Belzan objects. “She’s getting better day by day.”
“But still not speaking. Not engaging in direct eye contact,” Harry confirms.
“No.” Dr. Belzan’s shoulders drop as she says the word.
Harry stands. “Right.” He gives me a firm glare. “For now, you can have access to her. Don’t engage Monica again on this, Drew. It’s not black and white.”
I bite my tongue. I’ve said what I need to say. My jaw feels like I’m biting a piece of coal hard enough to form a diamond.
I jolt.
Diamond.
I give him a conciliatory smile, relief flooding through me. “Right. You’re right, Harry. It’s not black and white, and I promise to be more tactful with Monica.”
Surprise spreads through his features, his body language suddenly friendlier. “Glad you’re coming around to see that. We all want what’s best for Lindsay.”
A memory from four years ago, one I’ve tucked away in a locked box for too long, surfaces. My coat that night, left in my car as we went to the party.
The tiny velvet box in my breast pocket.
My sister, giving me that box when I was discharged from the hospital. Calling Harry to find out Lindsay had been shipped off to the Island while I had been hospitalized.
Funny.
The color of the velvet is gray.
A plan forms, the pieces falling into place like teeth on a series of gears, lining up perfectly. “Right, Harry. There’s always room for shades of gray,” I declare with a smile.
We thank the doctors and walk out together, Harry splitting off before I go in to see Lindsay. As I watch his form swallowed by an elevator, I press my back against the painted cinderblock wall, breathing slowly, letting memory be my mistress for a few fabulous moments. Playful and sweet, I can become a different me when memory takes over.
Lindsay doesn’t know this.
That night four years ago, I was weeks away from graduating from West Point. I was also hours away from proposing to her.
The stakes are higher now.
All my reasons for proposing are still there. If anything, I have more now. The young girl I knew then, nineteen and sheltered, has emerged a fierce woman, headstrong and brave. I’ll be honored if she’ll have me.
Before I ask, I have to see how close she is. I can’t bridge the gap between us, but if she needs an outstretched hand, I am here.
I’ve always been here.
And if she’ll have me, I always will.
Lindsay
I know they’re talking about me.