Somebody shouted, “Get your hands off me, you stinky motherfucker!”
Kate glanced up. Several dozen people were waiting to be evaluated, and she knew most of them from a brief stint of training on the adult ward. She suspected from the way they angled their baseball caps at the security camera that two men she hadn’t seen before were drug addicts faking symptoms in order to get a shot of Demerol. There were also a couple of mood disorders; an anorexic; a young mother with postpartum depression; an elderly male who kept cleaning his hands with alcohol wipes; and a pre-teen girl she didn’t know sitting prim and apart from the others.
Kate honed in on the central conflict—a cadaverous male schizophrenic who’d veered off his meds was yelling at an elderly female depressive, shouting obscenities at her, and waving his skinny arms. The woman sat twisted in her seat like a wet washcloth, her rheumy eyes full of doubt, as the man loomed over her—if a stick could loom.
An orderly with his keys jangling from his belt loop hurried over and tended to the dispute. Clive Block was famous for his negotiating skills. He got things calmed down and separated the two quickly. Nobody messed with Clive. The nurses didn’t even bother calling security. Scuffles were commonplace in the Psych Unit. At all hours of the day or night, you could hear doors slamming and voices raised in anger.
Now Kate turned her attention to the pre-teen in the corner. The girl had a pale blond ponytail, sleepy green eyes, and a calm, relaxed demeanor. For an instant, Kate was reminded of Savannah. The similarity was striking. She wore neatly pressed denim jeans and a pink blouse buttoned all the way up to her throat. Her goose-down parka was folded in half and placed carefully beside her. There was a primness about her, a guarded stiffness. Kate guessed she was around twelve, and she appeared to be alone in the waiting room. Where were her parents?
Kate wasn’t able to “spot the crazy,” as some of her friends indelicately put it, until she focused on the child’s jewelry. Draped around her neck were dozens of silver crosses on slender silver chains, and beaded rosaries were wrapped around both wrists. Kate got an impression of a child who’d been isolated from the world—there was a striking sadness about her. A heart-sinking loneliness. Kate’s young patients typically would slouch in their chairs, lean against walls, or curl their shoulders forward in a permanent shrug. But this child sat with practiced poise. She seemed to contain a perfect solitude within her small body. She exhibited an elegant self-discipline that was highly unusual for somebody that age. But again—where were the parents? Perhaps her mother had gone to use the restroom?
Kate was just about to go find out when Yvette Rosales came breezing into the unit, apologizing to everyone within earshot. “Sorry! Sorry! My stupid bus was late again.”
Tamara planted her hands on her hips. “Your bus was late? Or you were late?”
“I waited and waited and waited.”
“Yeah, sure. But you had time to get your Dunkin’s, I see.”
“Are you kidding me? I can’t start my day without coffee and a doughnut.”
“We have coffee here.”
“That crap? No way.” Yvette had dark pink lips and a bad frost job. There was always a pencil or an unlit cigarette stuck in her mouth, and she would rush outside for a smoke during her break. “What are you all of a sudden? My mother?”
“That’s right,” Tamara said sarcastically. “I’m spying on you.”
“Feels like I’m being watched. Like the walls are breathing.”
“Did you just say the walls are watching you?”
“Can you prove they aren’t?”
Tamara burst out laughing. All was forgiven. “Anyway. Doc’s over there waiting for you.”
“Who?” Yvette spun around. “Oh hi, Dr. Wolfe. My goodness. Nikki McCormack. Bless her poor soul.”
“I’m still in shock,” Kate admitted, coming over.
“Such a sad day.”
“Can we talk for a minute? I have a few questions about her admission.”
“Of course. Let me take off my coat, and I’ll be right with you.”
Kate leaned against the admitting desk, while Yvette stashed her belongings away. “Who’s the girl in the corner?” she asked.
Yvette glanced over. “I don’t know. Tamara?”
“Hm? Oh. Her mother brought her in.” Tamara shrugged. “She was here a minute ago.”
“I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes, and I haven’t seen anyone.”
“Maybe one of the other staff knows? I’ll go find out.” Tamara disappeared into the nurses’ coffee room.
The elevator dinged just then and the doors whooshed open, and James strode into Psych Admissions, all business. He took Kate aside. “We’re going to see that attorney Ira recommended,” he said. “I made an appointment for eleven-thirty. Let’s go.”
“Wait.” Kate balked. “There’s no need to overreact.”
“I’m not overreacting. I just want to make sure nobody messes with you.”
“Nobody’s going to mess with me,” she said, scowling.
“I’m just looking out for you, sweetie. Let’s go. I don’t want to be late.”
5
ON THE RIDE INTO Boston, Kate tried to suppress the panicky, floppy little breaths that threatened to grow into something worse. The snow-laced city blurred past the windshield like a scratchy black-and-white movie. She’d done her very best to present herself professionally to the world this morning—her greasy hair was pulled into a chignon and her makeup had been carefully applied—but her nerves were raw and ugly. She felt frazzled and exhausted.
They took the GPS-prescribed route to the law firm, situated on the top floor of a monolithic high-rise in the heart of downtown Boston. They pulled into the underground garage and let the valet park their car. Kate couldn’t stop shivering as they waited for the elevators.
James squeezed her hand. “You okay?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“I’m going to help you through this, every step of the way,” he reassured her.
They took the elevator up to the twenty-fourth floor. The law firm’s lobby was a fortress of rose marble. The walls were covered with expensive artwork that echoed the corporate logo. The receptionist wore Dolce & Gabbana. “Good morning. Can I help you?”
“We’re here to see Russell Cooper,” Kate said.
“One moment please.” The receptionist picked up the phone and punched in a number. “Russ? Your eleven-thirty’s here.” She placed the receiver down. “Go right in. It’s the last door on your left.”
Russell Cooper was a middle-aged man with studious gray eyes behind a pair of wire-rim glasses. He wore a conservative suit and a blue silk tie. “Call me Russell. Have a seat.” He gestured toward the pair of overstuffed leather chairs facing his desk.
Kate took a moment to admire the panoramic view of downtown. She could see the Prudential from here, glimmering in the distance, brilliant sunshine bouncing off its highly reflective surfaces.
“James gave me the broad strokes over the phone,” Russell told Kate. “Why don’t you tell me what happened in your own words?”
She cleared her throat and smoothed her skirt across her knees. “Nikki was admitted to Child Psych about eight months ago. She was suicidal. She was on drugs. She was acting out. She met the nine criteria for a major depressive episode. She stayed with us for four weeks, before being discharged and scheduled for outpatient treatment. Since that time, I’ve been seeing her once a week for behavioral therapy. We also meet with her family periodically. We’ve adjusted her meds several times, and the latest dosage appeared to be working. We were making good progress when… when it happened.”
“All right. I have a few questions.” He glanced down at the checklist on his desk. “Did you explain the potential side effects of her meds to Nikki and her parents?”
“Yes.”
“Ignore any pleas for help?”
“No. Well, there is one thing…”
He glanced up. “Yes?”
“I was about to go on vacation for two weeks, which seemed to upset her.”
“Did she threaten to kill herself if you left?”
“No.”