Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Ellie
As soon as I walk into the apartment I find my laptop and open an internet search engine. I type in “psychosis” and then “schizophrenia,”
and spend the next twenty minutes reading about the different symptoms of the disorders. I keep hearing Jack’s accusation
in my mind: you might be having a psychotic break. I don’t think I am, not based on the internet’s diagnosis anyway, but the disorders have a spectrum of symptoms and a few
of them match: difficulty sleeping, obviously, but also paranoia, mood swings, and withdrawing from social situations. I think
of mentioning it to my therapist, but I’ve cancelled the last few appointments because I’ve been so busy, and she took me
off her schedule, so I’m not even sure when I’ll see her again.
Then I type in the name of the facility my mother was admitted to and the year she died. I was only five and don’t know many
details—by the time I was old enough to ask questions, my father had moved on and never seemed to want to discuss it. He often
said that thinking about it was like rubbing salt in the wound, so he preferred to keep his head down and stay firmly rooted
in the present.
I scroll through the first few pages of results but I don’t find anything interesting. I move to the news tab in my browser window then, and I find an article about a nurse’s strike that happened in the month leading up to my mother’s
death. The writer interviewed one nurse in particular, Rachel Franklin. The interview is accompanied by a photo of a small
group of nurses holding signs outside the facility. While the other nurses standing with her are older, Rachel is young,
probably fresh out of nursing school, and she still might be alive. It’s been nearly twenty-five years since then, so she’s
probably around fifty now.
I open a new search window and type in her name along with the name of the facility. A LinkedIn page is the first result,
followed by one of her social media profiles. I click on both and confirm that it does seem to be the same woman. I spend
a few minutes lingering on her social media profile page—a photo of her sipping a cocktail on a warm beach somewhere stares
back at me. Before I can think twice, I click add friend and then wait patiently to see what happens.
I don’t have to wait long. Rachel Franklin confirms my request a few minutes later. It’s funny how this woman doesn’t even
know me, but she’s so quick to accept me into her life.
I jump over to the message button and then begin typing.
Hi, I know you don’t know me but my mother was admitted to Greystone Park Psychiatric when I was a little girl. I never saw
her again. She died there and I’ve never known exactly what happened to her. I think you might have been working there when
she was admitted, would you be willing to talk to me? I’ve always had a few questions.
I wait a few long moments and then am surprised to see three blinking dots pop up on the message screen that indicate that Rachel is replying.
I swallow the anxiety lodged in my throat when a message pops up.
Sure!
An alert rattles to life on my phone then. I’m receiving a call from Rachel via the messaging app. Holy shit.
I answer on the first ring.
“Hi! I thought it would be easier to call—so many weird things happened that year. It was my first job out of nursing school
and let’s just say that working at a psychiatric facility was not what I expected.”
“I bet,” I reply. “Thanks for being willing to talk to me.”
“Of course!” Her tone is bubbly, helpful. “What was your mom’s name?”
“Valeria Thomas.”
“Hm, beautiful name but I don’t remember her. What was she admitted for? I handled a lot of the new intakes and worked in
the records department most days. They don’t trust the newbies with the really insane cases.”
I nearly falter when she says insane. “She was having hallucinations . . . she . . . tried to burn down our house. With me in it.”
“Oh,” comes her reply. The line remains silent for a few long beats. “I’m afraid I don’t remember her, but let me call a friend.
She worked there for twenty years—she’s older now, but we still meet for lunch every few months. She has a good memory for
this stuff and a lot of great stories from back then. We get together and just talk and talk about those days. She saw a lot. I’ll give her a call and then call you back if she remembers anything; is that okay?”
“Yeah, that would be great. Thank you so much.”
“Sure, honey.” And just like that the line goes dead.
I sit down on a barstool, my mind falling back to Aubrey’s red lips and Jack’s drawn face. They had to have been meeting each
other there, right? There’s no way the three of us were all there by coincidence, like some twisted little love triangle.
My heart cleaves in my chest as I think about an affair happening between them right under my nose. When would they have met?
Is that why Aubrey moved into the apartment down the hallway? And why would they do this to me?
By the time Rachel calls me back thirty minutes later, I’ve come to the conclusion that the run-in at The Peninsula tonight
really was some weird coincidence. It is an iconic place, popular with businessmen, and it’s only a quick walk from Columbus
Circle.
“My friend remembers something interesting,” Rachel says, as soon as I’ve picked up the phone.
“Oh?” I dig my nails into my thigh as I wait for her to tell me more.
“I told you she has a memory like an elephant—that’s what they say, right? She says your mother didn’t die, at least not while
she was at the facility.”
“What?” I nearly choke on my tongue.
“Yeah, she was adamant about that. She doesn't know what happened, but she says there was no death. If there was, she would have processed the record—she remembers your mom specifically because she had one visitor who came every single week for visiting hours. A businessman who acted like he owned the place—she said he was so arrogant that all the nurses hated him.”
“Oh,” I say, my mind running away with the possibilities. “I . . . is she sure?”
“She’s positive. She said she still has discharge papers and death records from that time. When the facility closed for good,
they just left boxes of patient files in the records wing. She didn’t want them to fall into bad hands, so she brought them
all home. Most of them are still stored in her basement. She’s going to have a look for you and then get back to me. I’ll
give you a call if she comes up with anything.”
“Oh—okay,” is all I can manage to say. “Thank you so much.”
“Of course, hon. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I hope you find out what really happened.”
“Yeah, thank you. You’ve been so helpful.” I hang up, my mind filled with confusion.
If my mother didn’t die at the facility, what did happen?
And why did my dad lie to me all these years?
“El! You home?” Jack interrupts my thoughts.
“In here,” I reply from the kitchen.
“What are you up to?” He comes around the corner, pulls me into a half-hug, and then plants a kiss on the crown of my head.
I have to suppress a cringe. His overly affectionate actions feel forced, especially since we’ve barely been speaking since
our last fight. It’s like he feels guilty about something.
“Researching the facility my mom was at,” I reply.
“Oh.” He pulls away, eyes glancing to my screen and then across the kitchen. “Why?”
“Dad never shared much about what happened, and I’ve always wondered. I mean, how does someone die in a facility that’s meant to keep them safe from themselves and other people? Seems odd.”
“Does it?” He takes a glass down from the cupboard and fills it with filtered water from the fridge.
“You don’t think so?” I say, as he drinks the entire glass and then sets it in the sink.
He shrugs. “Not really.” His eyes cut across the room to me. “Find anything interesting?”
“Not yet.” I give him a sour smile. “Busy night?”
“Mhmm,” he says, averting his eyes. “Drinks with a client went late.”
He’s lying. I clear my throat, then say, “They always do.”
He arches one eyebrow but doesn’t reply.
“Thought you were off to Jersey last night?” I smile sweetly at my lying husband as I stand, pushing in the barstool at the
kitchen island and then tucking my laptop under my arm.
“Client cancelled,” comes his dry reply.
“Hm. Well, I’m off to bed.” I can’t even look him in the eye.
“I’ll be there soon.” He grunts softly.
“Oh, you don’t mind sleeping in the guest bedroom again, do you? I really liked having the bed to myself last night—I think
I sleep better. It’s nice to spread out. Plus, you snore.” Jack doesn’t snore. He’s as still and as quiet as a corpse when
he sleeps.
“Sure, if you think that’s best.”
“Thanks.” I smile, letting a thousand words unspoken hang between us. “Good night.”
“Sleep tight,” I hear him murmur at my back.
Thanks, asshole, is all I think as I walk away.