18. Lincoln
Liland I both fell asleep on the couch last night, only to be woken up by a sleepy toddler crawling in between us for a morning cuddle. A few weeks ago, I would have never imagined this is how my weekends would be going now. I’d probably be waking up at the ass crack of dawn to get a workout in, only to come back and shower and spend another weekend in the office. If I were really lonely, I’d have tried to find someone to take home for the night. To blow off a few hours worth of steam and then send her on her way.
Lonely. Empty.
That’s how my weekends have been going. Not anymore, though. Now, I have Lillian back and her beautiful daughter, who is quickly becoming the favorite part of my day, too. Holding them this morning, just being together, was perfect.
That’s the only word for it.
Our morning started much like yesterday, with pancakes and laughter and the feeling of family. Only, someone is missing.
For the second time, I get sent straight to voicemail when trying to call Becca’s cellphone. Last night when Grace had been put to bed already, I tried to ring my sister. It had been a few days without contact, and a call was overdue.
With it being a Saturday night and all, I didn’t think much of her silence. But I saw Grace and Lillian off to Flagstaff just ten minutes ago, and Lil reminded me to try again today. It was the first thing I did when I got back up to the penthouse.
Worry starts to creep past all the logical reasons for her missing a call. I tap the callback button. One more time. I’ll try one more time before I ring the main office. They’re technically closed on Sundays, but the women in administration love me, so they gave me their cell numbers to call after hours if I had an emergency.
When the phone cuts off again, with not even a busy dial tone to be heard, I decide this is an emergency.
I pull up one of the three contacts I have in the administration office at the equine facility. Three rings later and a cheery voice picks up. “Lincoln! I was starting to think you forgot about me,” Rachel coos, laying the flirting on thick as usual. For a middle-aged divorcee, she really chases younger men with a single minded focus.
“Hey Rachel. How could I?” My words are obligatory niceties, but the strain in my voice has to be hard to miss.
A pleased noise hums through the line. One I skip right past.
“Listen, I’m actually calling because I’ve had a hard time getting a hold of Becca the past couple of days. Any chance you could get her to call me? Family…uh emergency.” I make something up on the spot because I know Rachel is about to ask, the nosey bitch. We’ve done this dance before. But really, who fucking cares why I need her. Get me my sister.
The beat of silence coming from her end is too long and too loud to be reassuring. “Oh… I thought you heard,” she answers with a nervous quiver to her voice.
“Heard what?” I grit out.
“Your sister was placed on an involuntary seventy-two hour psychiatric hold. She had an episode before dinner and attacked one of the nurses.” And I want to fucking strangle Rachel’s dumbass for the way she relays the message like it’s just a bit of juicy gossip and not my sister’s life we’re talking about.
“What kind of episode? And who the hell authorized the psychiatric hold?” The facility doesn’t have carte blanche to adjust my sister’s treatments or medicine, or admit her anywhere without consent.
Then, just as I ask her, it hits me. Of course it fucking does. I know who authorized it before Rachel even tells me.
“Your parents. Mr. and Mrs. Walton were informed of the incident and approved the treatment plan by our on-site psychologist.”
I take a deep breath as I try to push aside all the rage and focus on the facts. “You said she attacked one of the nurses?” My voice is deceptively calm, and it reassures Rachel enough to spill everything.
“Oh, yes. Typical bipolar stuff. She had a few really good days in a row. Then the nurse said something triggering, I suppose, and she hit her.”
Bull. Fucking. Shit.
Typical bipolar stuff?
It’s good Rachel is just the administration staff and not one of my sister’s doctors or psychologists because she sounds stupid as hell. There’s nothing typical about bipolar disorder. Everyone experiences it at different levels, and there is no one right prescription to treat it. I also know Becca, and I know she doesn’t get ‘triggered’ by someone”s words. It’s not some trauma response. Sure, she has good days and bad days, but she’s also not guaranteed to have a bad day because she went three days feeling good.
Typical.
I could reach through this phone and strangle her. But I need information first.
“When is the seventy-two hours up?” I grit out.
“Hmmm, well. Let’s see. She was admitted Thursday evening around five in the afternoon. So…” her voice is distant like she pulls the phone away from her ear, and I hear her mumbling as she counts out the days. Twenty-four, forty-eight, seventy-two. Then her voice is loud again, the phone back to her ear. “Should be tonight around five. Maybe–”
Before she can say anything else, I hang up the phone. The Equine Center is in San Diego—an almost six hour drive from me. It’s only noon now, Lillian and Grace left early so she could get Grace settled in before school tomorrow and a few things done around the house. So the rest of my day was free. Not anymore.
I rush around my apartment and put together a bag with a few days worth of clothes and my laptop to do work remotely. I’m going to be staying near Becca for the next few days in case anything else happens. I want to hear her side of this story, too. Something isn’t sitting right with me.
Even on Becca’s worst days, she’s never been violent toward other people. Sure, she has had thoughts of self-harm, but even that hasn’t been an issue since the first time when she was fourteen. It’s become much more manageable with all the therapy, group support, and education she has gotten the past four years. Some days, she talks about feeling like self-harming, but to my knowledge, there haven’t been any attempts since the first.
Which is why Rachel’s claim that Becca assaulted someone sounds like a load of fucking shit. I need to get Becca home with me sooner rather than later. But her birthday isn’t still for just under two more weeks.
Bag packed, I scoop up my phone and keys from the kitchen island, and jog to the elevator. This is about to be the longest fucking drive of my life.
As soon as I got on the road, I called Lillian to tell her what happened and that I’d be gone for at least a few days, possibly more depending on what I hear from my sister. The genuine worry in her voice, the acceptance, the way she told me to take as much time as I needed to make sure Becca was safe…it made me fall even deeper in love with her.
Five and a half hours later, I turn right into the therapy center. The driveway is about a mile of road lined with white horizontal slat fencing and trees. The grass beyond the fence is immaculate. You wouldn’t even realize they boarded horses here by the look of it. The front is definitely kept up for the aesthetics, to get as many people to bring their kids here as possible. The stables aren’t even kept close to the main property. It’s out back, miles from the public view, and they have to drive golf carts and gators to get back there.
The wrought iron gate comes into view, and I get as close to the intercom as I can so I’m not leaning halfway out my window.
A beep and then a dial tone rings out as I push the button to call up to security.
“Can I help you?” A man’s voice echoes through the staticky speaker.
“Lincoln Walton. I’m here to see my sister, Rebecca Walton.”
“Hold, please.” The speaker cuts off as the security guard goes to check Becca’s visitors list. A few seconds later, when he doesn’t come back right away, alarm bells ring off in my head. It’s never taken more than a two second glance for me to be buzzed in.
After about a minute, the man comes back. “I’m sorry, Mr. Walton. But you are no longer on Rebecca’s approved list of visitors. You’ll have to come back during visiting hours if you’d like to be admitted.”
My mind goes blank with rage. Jack and Gwen are behind this, too. I know it in my bones. “Yeah, I don’t fucking think so. The only person who is allowed to bar family entry is Becca, and I know for a fact she would never take my name off the list. You’re going to let me in to see my sister, or this fucking retreat is getting slapped with a lawsuit tomorrow morning,” I growl into the speaker.
I know it’s not this guy”s fault. He’s just doing his job, and my fucking parents are the ones I really need to be mad at. But they’re not here, and he is. I also know a place like this, that looks like a rehab center for the kids of billionaires, politicians, and world leaders, cares too much about its publicity to let the news of a lawsuit hit the papers.
The speaker goes quiet, and I sit there, happy to wait. Right about now, he’s calling his boss and telling him what I just said. Two minutes later, the speaker buzzes, and the gates start to slowly swing open.
“That’s what I thought,” I mutter under my breath, too low for the security guard to hear, and drive through.