Chapter 29
29
On the way to the nursing home, my mind rattles back and forth, attempting to push through the mud of Chloe’s secrets. How did the Van Huusens end up in the facility? Were they in an accident? And how did no one find out about it? For someone who credits herself as being open and honest with her audience, Chloe was hiding more than she was letting on. Was anything about her even real?
To cope from the questions throttling my mind, I turn to my phone and review the comments left on my newest video, hoping to find a treasure trove of compassion. The majority of my audience is empathetic; however, a very small but vocal minority disavows me, shaming my sponsored grief. Gritting my teeth, I delete those comments and report the users for bullying and harassment.
YouTube is not providing me with the relief I desire, so I scroll through my Instagram DMs, fielding sympathetic messages from different influencers who wish me health and pray for my loss. Iz, sweet as ever, messaged: Text me your address, and I’ll send my famous peach cobbler. It’ll make you forget everything for a few moments. I hope you’re healing well. xoxo.
I reply: You’re my angel.
She reacts to the message with a heart emoji.
Bella Marie uploaded an Instagram story linking to my video with the text: I applaud @Chloe_Van_H for her radical honesty and encourage everyone to watch her incredibly vulnerable video. It is not easy baring your heart to the public like this, especially on issues as stigmatized as addiction and mental health. My mother has struggled with addiction, and I know firsthand how difficult it is to navigate the path forward. I want to gently remind everyone to be kind and compassionate. You never know what someone is going through. x Bella Marie
The next slide reads: If you have the resources and means, please join me in giving. The link leads to the donation page of an addiction research center.
My eyes well up, overwhelmed by appreciation as I click the link. An anonymous party listed only as “B” has made a donation of ten thousand dollars. It must be Bella Marie. Only she could be so generous.
I’m about to send her a thank-you when my phone dings with a new message from the Belladonna group chat. It’s from Bella Marie.
Darlings, with spring around the corner, I invite you to check your front door for a surprise. Also, please welcome our newest sister, Isla Harris!! She is such an inspiration and I know she will be the perfect addition to our little family. Yours, Bella
A surprise? I wonder what it could be. Her clothing line? Flowers? A lock of her fine blond hair?
Belladonnas reply in bursts.
Ana: Welcome Isla! Looking forward to the surprise
Lily: It was so nice meeting you Isla, I’m glad you are with us.
Angelique: If you ever have questions about the industry, let us know. I don’t know what I would have done without this group. We have your back.
Maya: We are always here for you! We are family!
Emmeline: Hi!
Iz replies: Wow, thank you for the warm welcome! I can’t wait to see the surprise. I’m itching to get home, but right now I’m at a pole class. She attaches a video of her twirling on the pole.
Kelly: OMG HOT HOT HOT!!!
Sophia: Please teach me!
Lily: I’ve always wanted to do pole!
Angelique: Girl? Your body? TO DIE FOR.
I’m about to reply when the Uber driver asks, “Is it okay if I stop across the street?”
I glance out the window. Kennedy Nursing Home is a refurbished mansion estate in Old Westbury that could be mistaken for the set of a historical film. A small brass sign affixed to the tall gates distinguishes the facility from neighboring country clubs and mansions.
“It’s fine. Thanks.” I stuff my phone into my purse and walk across the street. The gate is locked. There’s a camera near the entrance, its black eye staring at me. A metal plate reads: Dial 1029 for assistance . I dial the number on the keypad. An automated voice comes on the speaker: “Please look directly into the camera.”
Mildly amused, I follow the instructions, positioning myself in front of the lens. A green light scans my face. A beep. The sound of gears turning, and the gate swings open to the brick path.
“Damn,” I whisper under my breath, impressed, as I walk toward the nursing home, glancing at the immaculately tended lawn. It’s winter, but the grass is somehow still green, so pristine and sumptuous it almost looks fake. I want to roll atop it like a happy Labrador.
When I reach the entrance, the tall black door opens to reveal a pretty brunette employee wearing a cream button-down shirt and gray dress pants. She grins, gesturing for me to enter. “Welcome back, Miss Van Huusen.”
Once inside, I begin to understand the value behind the obscene invoices. This isn’t your typical government-funded nursing home. There’s no smell of medicine or disinfectants. No sterile blue overhead lights and humming radiators. No overworked nurses running around with black under-eye bags and messy hair. I’d almost believe I’ve entered some sophisticated golf club or hotel lobby—with its limestone floors and runner rugs, fiddle-leaf figs stretching into the lofty ceilings—rather than a facility for the elderly.
The employee hands me a tablet. “If you could take a few seconds to sign in for us.”
I take the tablet and work through the rudimentary questions, confirming I haven’t been exposed to any illnesses in the past two weeks, and that I consent to be recorded by the surveillance cameras set up for security and quality-monitoring purposes. The last page is labeled: NONDISCLOSURE AGREEMENT . The bolded text makes me nervous, but I twist my lips into a smile since the employee is still hovering over me. I skim the hefty chunk of text. The agreement forbids me from releasing anything I may learn on Kennedy Nursing Home grounds, including information about the residents and staff members (among other scary stipulations buried in paragraphs of legalese). This place has some serious security. But it honestly feels a bit overboard. Who are they housing? The president?
After agreeing to everything, I hand the tablet back to the lady, who passes me on to a stout man with inky hair. “This way, Miss Van Huusen.” He guides me out of the entrance building and into a large outdoor area at a brisk pace, short legs swishing back and forth, only slowing when we pass a resident, to whom he smiles and nods.
After clearing a line of hedges, we come to a courtyard, where some staff and seniors are gathered. I notice that the workers are mostly Hispanic or Asian, pushing around grouchy white people in shiny wheelchairs with breathing tubes stuffed up their noses, blankets and wool hats protecting them from the cold. It’s disheartening to see their transparent, veiny skin and dried, puckered lips. Their eyes have sunk heavily into their sockets like they’ve been forcefully pushed in. Some are parked near a rotunda to sunbathe, mumbling to themselves. As I pass by, they trace my movement with milky irises.
One man in a wool coat catches my attention. I slow my speed, taking in his sloping features, heavily creased eyes, and silver hair, trying to understand the familiarity unspooling in my memory. And then it clicks. He’s an actor—a famous one at that. Former action star in the aughts turned writer-director. He couldn’t have been older than seventy, but he looks closer to triple digits. I guess the Hollywood machine really chews through people. But who knew he was here? Last I heard, he was in the middle of writing a new screenplay.
“Is that—” I start.
But the employee I’m following gestures toward the path. “Right this way.” I realize he’s less a guide, more a security guard whose job is to keep me from wandering.
Zipping my mouth shut, I follow him through the courtyard, glancing over my shoulder one last time at the actor. I can understand the NDA now. The residents here are more high profile than I thought.
“Here we are.” He stops in front of a building numbered 4C.
Reading it makes me wince. I guess white people don’t believe in four being a bad number. All I can think of is death.
He opens the door for me.
“Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” He shuts the door behind me.
Building 4C is less swanky than the main entrance, but it still has classy details. Dark wood banisters, warm lamps, tasteful landscape paintings adorning the walls. Soft spa music plays overhead and the air smells vaguely sweet. Two ladies wearing dark green scrubs sit behind the nurses’ station, clacking at keyboards. They glance and smile at me before returning to their work with studious expressions.
The third room down the wide hall is labeled VAN HUUSEN. I open the heavy wooden door and step inside. The couple are lying in two separate hospital beds, each hooked up to a million beeping machines. Sterile air, a waft of metal and stale breath.
They look barely alive.
Dread calcifies in my chest as I slink closer to them. Their eyes are at half-mast, barren of soul. They have respirator masks on, mouths open with shallow breaths, red tongues dried to a dot. Their graying skin is dry and flaky like raised fish scales.
“Hello?” No reaction.
The air thins, a veneer of panic coating me. I wave a hand in front of Mr. Van Huusen. He doesn’t react. I go to Mrs. Van Huusen. Wave. Nothing.
They can’t see or hear me.
They’re vegetables.
Their motionless bodies remind me of Chloe’s corpse. I stumble away from their beds, hand cupping my mouth, pulse leaping. My teeth chatter as I slide against the wall. Every beep of their heart monitors sends needles of panic into my blood. I’m folding over myself when I remember there might be security cameras. Jolting straight, I smooth my sweaty palms against my coat and try to affect an air of normalcy. I don’t want to alert any of the watchful staff with weird behavior. Glancing up at the ceiling, I spot three cameras with blinking red lights, and then I look back at the Van Huusens.
They must have been involved in a severe accident together. It’s the only way I can rationalize how two able-bodied individuals have regressed to such a point within months. Being with their withering bodies disconcerts me, but I have a feeling something in this room will give me clues as to what happened to them. I can’t leave before knowing, not when I came all this way.
I know I could ask the nurses out front, but I don’t want to encourage suspicion with my questions. Searching the desks and cabinets, I attempt to locate a patient file or any source of information. After a few minutes, I find a tablet attached to Mr. Van Huusen’s bedside. The only app on the home screen is branded by the nursing home. The app scans my face. An automated voice plays from the speakers over drone footage of the facility grounds, followed by an ensemble of colorful seniors in cardigans waving to the camera. “Welcome to Kennedy Nursing Home, where care is transparent and compassionate. Thank you, Chloe Van Huusen, for trusting us with your loved ones.” Slightly unnerved by how the program says my name, I breathe a sigh of relief as the Van Huusens’ patient files populate on the portal.
I click on the file labeled CHARLES VAN HUUSEN . There are several tabs, including notes on food and medication, treatment plans, patient room footage, and vital records, which are measured every hour. I navigate to Patient History first, scrolling down to the earliest date.
My lips part with shock as I read the cause of their coma. Patient was involved in a hit-and-run while walking with his wife in Bridgehampton. Despite immediate recovery by emergency services, accident resulted in serious bodily injuries, including complete paralysis below the hip and permanent brain damage. The rest of the file contains notes in complicated medical vernacular and surgery results. Margaret’s patient history shows a similar story.
The medical files don’t reveal what happened to the offender, so I google it, plugging in the location and date of the accident. The only report I can find is from a local newspaper, which anonymized the victims as “longtime residents” and mentioned “the driver remains unapprehended.”
I can barely believe what I’m reading. A car accident, just like our birth parents. What are the chances? And I’m surprised at how little coverage there is considering Chloe’s fame.
Nevertheless, I can understand why this incident would change my twin. It might have triggered unresolved traumas from our childhood. Sympathy flows through me, warming my chest. I hold Mr. Van Huusen’s dry hand, hoping that even in his comatose state, he’ll think his adoptive daughter is here to visit. Remembering that music helps stimulate the brain, I play some Wagner from my phone since the Van Huusens look like the type to enjoy classics. I return to the tablet, reading over the treatment logs. The nurses and physicians are incredibly thorough. Money really does buy the best care. Though perhaps the security cameras keep them on their toes. Since guardians have unrestricted access to footage, you wouldn’t want to be caught slipping up.
Out of curiosity, I click into the recordings. The screen refreshes to live CCTV of the room. Seeing myself in an omniscient viewpoint is a bit off-putting, so I swipe to previous days’ footage without delay. The app records every time someone enters the room, noting their name and title. I choose clips at random and watch nurses inject things into IV bags and measure vitals. After swiping around a bit, I see a category labeled Guest: CHLOE VAN HUUSEN.
Prior to this month, she dropped by weekly. Reviewing her footage is like watching another one of her vlogs. She often sat by the Van Huusens’ bedside, gingerly applying salve to their dry skin. After a few clips, I realize I can unmute the videos. The tablet hums with music. Chloe played classics for her parents, just like I did. This small action lodges a seed of affection within me, and I feel more connected to my twin than I ever had before.
I continue watching her clips, scrolling down through the months, until I reach August, when the Van Huusens were first admitted. Chloe acts more frantic during this period, possibly since the accident was still fresh. She paces around a lot, her shiny black ponytail swishing behind her small head, or curls up on the sofa, her face tucked into her knees, softly crying. I can barely watch these displays of vulnerability without wincing, suddenly guilty for prying, for sitting on a sofa that she had wept on before.
Soon, I’m on the oldest video, dated the same week the Van Huusens were admitted. She enters the room slowly, hesitant, staring at the Van Huusens’ bodies for five minutes, frozen. And then she breaks, crumpling onto the floor with sobs so torrential that I turn down the volume, the razor-sharp wails harassing my ears as she stutters, “My fault, my fault. It’s all my fault!”
What the hell?
I power off the tablet and rise from the couch, glancing at the comatose couple, my pulse throbbing with unease. Why did she think this was her fault? The first time she called, she’d said something similar. Mistake, mistake . Is this what she was talking about? Was she somehow involved in the hit-and-run?
The room spins, the walls closing in as my breaths grow shallow. I can’t think about this here, not next to the Van Huusens’ waxy bodies, their stale, salty aroma marinating in my nose, clogging my lungs. I need to get out. Now .
I rush out the door, avoiding eye contact with the nurses, and I feel thankful for all the NDAs they probably had to sign. I’m out of there quick, sprinting past the employee at the front, who asks me to sign out. I can’t stay here another second.
When I’m a block away, I stop to catch my breath. The freezing air chills my throat and burns my cheeks.
Why would Chloe hide this? What happened in the car crash? Why was it her fault? Every little secret and lie is mounting inside me—her prescriptions, history of tantrums, and eventual overdose—a physical fortress that cannot be conquered. Is it all connected?
I fall onto the pavement, the cement cold against my jeans.
All I wanted was a new life as an influencer. And now… god, what did I get myself into?