Chapter 10
10
The next day, walking from the subway to the hospital under yet another gray-swirled sky, I received a link from Amani: Missing Actress Catherine O’Brien in a NY Loony Bin!
The subtitle: Has the former child star flown over the cuckoo’s nest?
With a sinking feeling in my gut, I scrolled down the neon-lettered gossip site. Catherine O’Brien, best known for her role in My New Family , is currently being held in the observation unit, according to an unnamed source. Catherine disappeared from the public eye three years ago.
I rubbed my forehead, willing away the headache from last night’s wine. Well, that hadn’t taken long to come out. I felt a lump of guilt, as if I’d unmasked her to the public myself.
In the lobby, our receptionist Hazel was arguing with someone.
“But I’m her therapist,” he was saying, his vowels rounded by an Australian accent. “All I ask is that you give her my new number. I need her to be able to reach me.” His hand extended over the desk.
“Sir, I cannot divulge any information about our patients.” Hazel spoke slowly and loudly. She’d worked on the unit for many years, and I’d always been impressed by her unwillingness to bend to those demanding to talk to patients—including, a few times, the police.
“I’m not asking you to.” He noticed me pulling my key card out of my purse.
“Miss, do you work here?” He took a step towards me, his dark eyes pleading underneath a knit cap. He was my height, athletic-looking, his chin clefted like a Disney prince’s. “Would you be able to pass along my number to Catherine O’Brien? I’m her former therapist; I just want to make sure she has my information.”
“Can’t she look you up if she needs to?” I asked, feeling a zing of uncertainty.
He shook his head. “I stopped seeing clients last year.”
For all I knew, this guy could be a TMZ reporter, trying to talk his way in.
“We stopped therapy a year ago,” he went on. “I was living in LA at the time. I’m here doing research now.” He held out a slip of paper. “Can I just give this to you?”
Hazel was watching us, but then the phone rang and she picked it up. In that moment, I took the paper.
His eyes flashed with gratitude. “Thank you.”
As I entered the ward, I considered the exchange. Typically, therapists weren’t allowed to breach confidentiality, which meant they couldn’t tell anyone who their clients were. But not all therapists followed the rules, and maybe he’d thought this emergency situation merited it.
The small, boxlike letters spelled out DR. CLINT . The phone number had a 323 area code.
I paused in the hall and googled it. Okay. Downtown LA.
Catherine was still in the med unit, but news about her celebrity had gotten out. When I started my rounds I passed by the security guard Frank telling a nurse about it. Lydia hovered nearby, clearly straining to hear every word.
I stopped in front of her. “Ready for art therapy today?”
Lydia rolled her eyes. “Your twinsie started to self-destruct, huh? Maybe she’s a—what are those called—fembot.”
“Those are just in the movies.” I tried to sound kind. Diane always encouraged us to reality-test with patients.
“Lighten up, Red.” Lydia stared at me. “It’s a joke.”
“Gotcha. I’ll see you later.” Frank and the nurse had already moved away.
“You know,” Lydia called after me, “maybe you fucked up. Maybe you blew up her spot.”
I slowed to respond, annoyed, but Diane called from down the hall, beckoning me.
“She’s awake and talking,” Diane said when I reached her. She started striding down the hall, towards the medical wing, and I hurried to keep up.
“Oh my god,” I couldn’t help but blurt out. “Is she okay?”
“Well, she’s lucid. And no longer psychotic. She was still agitated and aggressive when she woke up yesterday; the nurses had to restrain her. They finally did the CT scan; no cranial bleeding, thank God. We’re bringing her back to the unit today, but I thought you could connect with her now if you have time.” Diane gave me one of her dissection-level stares. “Are you comfortable with that? I know she…”
“Oh yeah, totally.” I nodded frantically, even though my knees were still sore with bruising. “It’s fine. As you said, she was in a psychotic state.”
“Try to see if you can get more information from her.” Diane checked her phone. “So far she’s refused to call anyone. But she’ll probably want to be moved somewhere else.”
“Somewhere else?” I echoed.
“Unless she wants to stay here.” Diane raised an eyebrow and the implication was clear. It was unlikely that a celebrity would choose to stay in our public psychiatric unit, not when there were private, spa-like treatment centers to recuperate in.
A heavy sadness filled my stomach. After having been reunited with my thirteen-year-old celebrity twin, I felt a bit despondent that she’d now exit my life so swiftly.
We entered the wing and approached a hallway filled with beds cordoned off by teal curtains. My pulse quickened.
Diane pointed to the last bed on the left. “I have a call. You good?”
“Yep.” I steeled myself as I approached, a patient to my right coughing while another to the left hissed angry words into her phone. There: a flash of Catherine’s russet hair through the gap in the curtains. Time to put on my competent social worker face.
“Knock, knock.” I stepped inside. Was that too corny? “Hi, Catherine.”
She was awake in all senses of the word: sitting up in her green hospital gown, eyes wide and clear. A bandage encircled her forehead, and her face was slightly swollen.
She looked me up and down. “Hi.” That familiar husky voice again.
“How are you feeling?” I stood there awkwardly.
“Fine.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” I sat on the plastic chair next to the bed. “How’s your head?”
“It’s…” She touched the side of her head and flinched. “The nurse said that I fell?”
“Yes.”
She rubbed a wrist. “I was, like, tied up when I woke up.”
Four-point restraints were sometimes necessary for agitated patients—psychiatric or otherwise.
“That must’ve been confusing,” I said.
Her leaf-green eyes flicked back to me. “Sorry… who are you?”
“Oh! I’m sorry.” I chuckled. “I’m Thea. I’m a social worker. I’ve been working with you in the psychiatric unit.”
“Oh.” She squinted. “Were you the one I pushed?”
“Push”: now, that was a nice euphemism. “Yes.”
“Oh.” She swallowed. “I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s okay. You were…”
“Acting insane.” She dropped her head back against the pillows.
“Upset,” I supplied.
She was quiet for a minute, staring at the ceiling. I felt a flash of unreality: Was this truly happening? Was I really here, sitting across from Catherine O’Brien?
“How long can I stay here?” she asked.
The question surprised me. “You mean… in this unit? Or…”
“Anywhere. People can’t see me unless I agree to it, right?”
“Right.” I thought of Diane’s words. “Are there people you’d like us to contact?”
“No.” She said it stonily.
“All right.” I took a beat. “Do you remember coming here?”
“I don’t remember anything.” Now she looked anguished, her eyes turning glassy with tears.
“That’s okay,” I said. “You were in a catatonic state.”
“They told me. I didn’t know that actually happened to people.”
I took a breath. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
She closed her eyes. “I’m not sure. It all feels blurry.”
“Okay.” Better not to push. Even though Catherine had to remember something to make her not want anyone to visit her here.
We were quiet for a minute.
“Can you talk to me?” she asked in a small voice. “Like, I don’t know… maybe tell me about yourself?” Her eyes were still closed.
“Sure.” The request jolted me. “What would you like to know?”
“Anything.” She lifted a hand. “Where are you from?”
Casual dinner party convo. I hid a smile. “I’m from upstate New York. A town you’ve probably never heard of.”
“Are you Irish?” Her eyes opened into slits.
“Oh, the red hair?” I tucked a strand behind my ear. “Yeah, my mom’s side. What about you?”
“Dad’s side.” Her lips curled. “So it’s real. You don’t dye it.”
“Nope.” There were fewer of us than you’d think.
“Me either.” She studied me, her gaze so intense it felt like a touch. “We look alike.”
“Oh yeah?” My chest swelled. My thirteen-year-old self would die .
“How old are you?” she asked.
I paused at the unexpected question. You were only supposed to disclose personal information if you could make a case for it being beneficial for the patient.
But wasn’t this a clear example? Catherine was alone and afraid. She was trying to connect with me.
“Thirty-three,” I said evenly.
She blinked. “Me too. What’s your birthday?”
“Um…” Giving the exact date—even if it matched hers—felt like going too far.
“Late October?” she asked.
I didn’t answer, just stared at her dumbly, but her creased forehead smoothed out. She nodded, a satisfied smile spreading across her face.
Why was she assuming that just because we looked similar and were the same age, we’d have the same birthday? I didn’t quite understand what was going on, but I was sure Diane wouldn’t find any of this professional. I cleared my throat, aware that other patients could be overhearing our conversation.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” I asked to change the subject.
“When will I see you again?”
“You’ve been through testing and observation, so you’ll probably come back to our unit soon.” I cleared my throat. “We can help you figure out next steps. Like where you’d like to be transferred.” I hated bringing it up, but Catherine clearly needed support.
“Great.”
I slipped my hand in my pocket for my phone and my fingers brushed crinkled paper. “Hey, did you have a therapist in LA?”
Her eyes remained blank.
“Dr….” I pulled out the note. “… Clint?”
Her eyes widened in recognition. “Clint. Yeah.”
“Great.” I couldn’t read her expression. “I can give you his number if you’d like to coordinate with him.”
“Sure.”
I handed her the paper, suddenly certain this man hadn’t been her therapist. Her fingers were cold and they closed tight around the scrap. I’d taken a picture of the number before coming upstairs. I wasn’t sure why, but I’d wanted to have it.
“Anything else you’d like to talk about?” I asked.
“No. See you later, Thea.” She closed her eyes, and I left the space feeling strangely giddy. Catherine O’Brien knew my name.
And more than that—she’d commented on our likeness and our birthdays. It felt strangely validating to my thirteen-year-old self. Even if she’d soon be whisked out of here, back to California. Even if I never saw her again.