Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
Ellie
“Here’s your chamomile tea, dear.” The barista sets a teacup and pot down at the table. “Let me know if I can get you anything
else.”
I smile up at her and nod. “Thanks.”
I take my first sip of tea, enjoying the warmth in my system just as an older woman walks up with a manila folder and a smile.
“Ellie?”
“Hi,” I say. “You must be Rachel.”
“I am; thank you for meeting me.” She sits, pushing the folder across the table. “This is all my friend could find. I’m not
sure if it’s what you’re looking for, but it’s something.”
“Thank you for meeting me—I appreciate it more than I can say.” I smile, then open the folder and find a single sheet of paper.
My mother’s discharge paperwork. I scan the information looking for any more details. No diagnosis, no list of medications,
no forwarding address. Suddenly all hope I had vanishes like sand between my fingers.
“Do you know who she was discharged to?”
Rachel leans over the table, eyes on the signature line at the bottom of the file. “You don’t recognize that signature?”
“No.” I shake my head, trying to make out the slashes and swoops.
“Me either.” She frowns. “I can’t even make out the name.”
“Probably on purpose,” I grumble.
Rachel nods. “Look there.”
She points to the last line of the document. I read it aloud. “Patient released into the custody of a private caregiver. All
records destroyed.” I meet Rachel’s gaze. “Why would they destroy all of her records?”
“I wish I knew, hon.” Rachel frowns. “She must have been released to someone important. Normally a doctor would need to sign
off on a care sheet for the next facility or caregiver—it’s an entire process.”
“Do you think . . .” I trail off, thoughts running away with me.
“Do I think what?” She smiles.
“I don’t know, I just . . . don’t understand what happened. The story I was told was that she died in your facility.”
Rachel shakes her head. “She was there for a while, but she didn’t die there. I hate to say this but there was a lot of upheaval
that year. The nursing strike, high turnover among doctors and nurses, and a revolving door of interns and patients . . .
I’m not surprised there are records missing. I only worked there for nine months but every day was a mess, and I don’t say
that lightly.”
Emotion starts to well in my eyes, but I shove it down. “I have so many questions.”
“I know, me too.” She pats my hand sympathetically. “I’m sorry this isn’t what you were expecting. Maybe whoever told you
that was mistaken.”
“Maybe.” Anxiety bubbles within me as awareness sinks in.
My mother didn’t die in a psychiatric facility.
She vanished.