“My mother’s, actually.” Dr. Van Tassel’s eyebrows shoot up over her glasses frames, so I push forward. “I mean, she hasn’t been at Good Shepherd since I was born—at least I don’t think so—but Dad said you keep the old records around.”
This is sort of true, though he never meant to tell me. What he did was write a series of medical mysteries set in Violet Hill Hospital, described as a skyscraper of copper glass and bricks, surrounded by fat shrubbery. When Dad wrote A Time to Chill, he’d been away from Good Shepherd for only a year or two, and I’m pretty sure if I were a new writer making up a hospital, I’d use the one I knew by heart. And at Violet Hill Hospital, they moved the old records into the basement. So said handsome forensic pathologist Miles Faye, while investigating a mysterious violent death (spoiler alert: a sleepwalking man clubbed his father-in-law to death, then dumped the old guy in the Charles River when he woke and found a murder most foul). What Miles didn’t say was how long they kept the old records for.
“Imogene, that was a long time ago. If the file was around, you would have to go to the HIS department and get a Release of Information form. The hospital can’t release anything without it. After that, it would take two to four weeks for the health records manager to send them to you.”
Two to four weeks? My heart sinks into my stomach. Who can wait that long? “But I was hoping maybe you can help me. I mean, I don’t need them to send me the files. I can just look at them here. . . .”
Dr. Van Tassel presses her lips together. “If I could help, I would. But I have to tell you, honey, they might not want to release the records. Not if . . . your mother . . . didn’t leave you signed authorization. Maybe if you needed them for some reason, a medical concern?” She stares me down until I look away, toward the photos on the wall. “You know, I thought you might want to tell me how you’re doing. It can’t be easy for you, with your father—”
“I’m sad,” I cut in.
She nods. “I think that’s understandable. But Lindy says the police are doing everything they can.”
“No, I mean I’ve been sad. Lately. Like before my dad . . . went off.” In my lap where Dr. Van Tassel can’t see, I crack my knuckles. “I have trouble sleeping. I know my mom was . . . sad. Dad told me. So I thought if I could see her records? Maybe it would be helpful.”
Dr. Van Tassel’s eyes are big and moony. I get it; I sound pathetic. “Are you talking to someone, Imogene?”
“I’m . . . talking to Lindy about it.” Yeah, right.
She sighs. “I suppose her medical records might be around. We move the inactive patient’s records out after seven years. That’s the legal time limit, but we keep them for another decade or so until we shred them. There’s a possibility it’s here, but I can’t promise.”
“Okay, so where do you keep them?”
“Imogene. . .” She presses her lips together again, her nervous habit. “What you need to do is go to HIS on the second floor and get a form, explain things to them. I can walk you over, if you like.”
“No, that’s cool.” I stand. “I know you have to work. I can find it.”
She walks me to her office door anyway, and with the same googly look that makes me feel bad for lying—and hugely uncomfortable, besides—says, “Come and visit us, huh? Have dinner with us? Mike and I are visiting his parents tomorrow night, but maybe Monday?”
“Sure.” A quick wave and I duck out, resolutely not looking back, not down the hallway painted with colorful hot-air balloons, not when I reach the elevator, where I punch the down button and wait, though I imagine Dr. Van Tassel’s concerned stare drilling through me from behind. Not something I enjoy, but I think it was worth it. Now I know there’s a good chance my mom’s file is sitting down in the basement still, a toilet for mice and dust mites, and that I can likely get to it even if the HIS office won’t help me. And they probably won’t. I don’t have two to four weeks to burn.
There are two nurses in the elevator, heading for the lobby. I don’t want to press B until they get off, lest they think I’m going somewhere I shouldn’t. When the elevator pings open, there’s Jessa, hands in the pockets of her canary-yellow leather jacket, mouth twisting. “I was coming to find you. That took, like, forever. Can we go?”
A cluster of people are walking toward the elevator, so I make a fast, dumb decision. I reach out and pull Jessa into the elevator and punch the button for the basement and Close Doors, and we float downward.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she protests.
“Just, shh.”
When we get to the basement the elevator opens on empty white halls and low ceilings and fluorescent lights.
“We can’t be down here. This is where they keep bodies.”
“I know.” A good thing, because the morgue is in the basement of Violet Hill Hospital as well, and that means I’m on track. “Wait, how do you know?”
“My mom makes me volunteer here a bunch in the summer, remember? Candy-striping and filing and stuff.”
“So you’d know where the old records are?”