Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
LENNON
The following night, I sit at the dinner table with two perfectly cooked medium-rare steaks on our plates and ask the husband blackmailing me into being here, “Where’s my proof that August is out of the mental hospital? Tomorrow’s Sunday, Jake.”
Jake’s face goes hard. Stern.
“Now, you listen. I’m the man of this house, and I told you to drop it. How is this you forgetting the man ever existed?”
In my head, there’s a horror-movie smash cut to me screaming alone in my car on the highway.
I jam the point of my steak knife into the table beside my plate.
“Jesus!” Jake jumps and shoves his chair back, eyes as big as saucers. “What the hell, Len? You just ruined the kitchen table!”
Exercising maximum self-control, I reach for the cloth napkin I ironed earlier and set beside my plate. I lift it and dab daintily at the steak sauce on the edges of my lips, then slowly and deliberately smooth it across my lap.
The knife is still comically vibrating, embedded in the wooden table through the placemat beside my plate.
I smile at my husband across the table.
“Church tomorrow, isn’t it, darling?”
His brow furrows in horrified confusion. “Yes. Today is Saturday.”
“I would just love for you to have your wife by your side, cowed and repentant. But how can I be there, supporting you the way we both want, if you haven’t held up your side of the bargain?”
I lift my eyebrows meaningfully and, still staring directly at him, pluck the knife from the table with a small tug. Then I resume eating my steak.
“Well, I can’t make them let him out of the crazy bin if he’s still acting crazy and attacking people!” Jake throws up his hands. “You expect me to walk through walls to get him out? The system works the way it does for a reason. I told you he was dangerous.”
I freeze midbite, then lower my fork and knife to my plate, dropping them with a loud clatter.
“What exactly happened when he…” I have to swallow back my true feelings as I repeat what I know is somehow a mischaracterization of the truth, even if I don’t yet know how. “Attacked the guards?”
“How should I know? Mom was there to sign him out, and he just went apeshit—”
My eyes close.
Then I forcefully snap them open again, furious all over.
“Your mother was there?”
Jake immediately becomes guarded. “Well…yeah. She’s his immediate family.”
My hand fists around the handle of my steak knife.
More internal screaming.
Then I lift my fork again. “That certainly creates a problem for you if you want me by your side at church tomorrow.”
Jake sputters, and I tune out his excuses while I chew the truly perfectly cooked steak.
Damn. I genuinely hate cooking, but I did get really damn good at it over the last nine years, didn’t I?
Only after I’ve finished my deeply satisfying bite and washed it down with a sip of red wine do I look at Jake again.
“Did you pay attention to anything I just said?” he asks in obvious exasperation.
“Have you come up with a way to solve the problem by tomorrow morning?” I ask pleasantly.
“I just told you that you’re asking for the impossible!”
He shoots out of his chair.
“Why are you being so emotional about this?”
I lift my eyebrows and calmly gesture with my fork at the lovely meal I’m having.
That’s when it finally sinks in for him that he’s the one who just dramatically leapt to his feet.
He grabs the back of his chair. I’m not sure whether he’s preparing to shove it in and stomp away or sit back down.
I calmly cut my next bite of steak.
“I might have a solution.”
He pauses, his grip on the back of the dining-room chair white-knuckled.
“Oh yeah?” he huffs. “What’s that?”
“Let me be the one to go get him. You can sit in the parking lot so you can feel comfortable that nothing is happening. And I’m technically family.”
“No way,” he says explosively. “That’s not part of the deal.”
I continue eating calmly. “Technically, the deal was that I would start being your dutiful wife again the moment he was released.”
I pop another bite of steak into my mouth and point my fork at Jake.
“Which hasn’t happened. So, technically, I can walk straight out that door again and never come back. I suggest you let me help you.”
As usual, I think but refrain from adding.
I smile as I finish my last bite.
“Shall we go to the hospital and see whether he’s been cleared? I’d hate for you to endure another Sunday of humiliation because you still haven’t managed to get your own wife home.”
I say it lightly as I scoot my chair back, once again dabbing daintily at my mouth while an infuriated noise rises from Jake’s throat.
“I haven’t finished my steak yet,” he finally manages.
“That’s fine,” I say sweetly. “I’ll wait in the car.”
And that’s exactly what I do.
I grab my purse and escape through the front door, my heartbeat thumping furiously.
I’ve never dared speak so defiantly to him before, even when the defiance was obscured by passive aggression. He seemed completely befuddled by what was happening.
An absurd giggle erupts from my throat. I slap my hand over my mouth and hurry toward the car.
Oh my God. Am I finally becoming a true Southern lady?
I’m literally on the fake-it-till-I-make-it path here.
I get into the driver’s seat and take several deep breaths.
And wait.
And wait.
Ten minutes pass.
Then fifteen.
And then I decide…why the fuck am I waiting for him, anyway?
I start pulling out of the driveway.
All of a sudden, Jake runs through the front door, waving his arms and looking at me as though I’m the crazy one.
I stop the car and put it in park, arranging my face into a placid Barbie-doll expression as he grabs the door handle.
Then he bangs on the window when he finds it locked.
The devil on my shoulder cackles.
I press the unlock button.
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” he demands, huffing from the short run.
“Oh, I did. I assumed you’d given up on coming along after so long. Buckle up.”
As soon as he closes the door, I resume backing out before he’s fully settled.
“Hey!”
I accelerate hard enough that he has to grab the dashboard.
The sign out front calls it a behavioral health hospital, which is a very polished way of describing a locked place where people get put after everyone else decides they’re too much trouble.
Inside, it’s worse than I expected but not as dramatic as I feared.
There are no screams echoing from behind locked rooms, and it isn’t quite Soviet-bloc-level depressing, but the dingy cream-colored walls and harsh fluorescent lighting aren’t exactly inspiring.
It feels like the kind of place where you get dumped when you don’t have anyone powerful enough to insist you deserve better.
At the front desk, a woman in navy scrubs asks for my name without looking as though anything could surprise her anymore.
“I’m here for August Gallagher,” I say. “I was told he might be cleared for discharge. I’m available to provide transportation, and I need to speak with whoever is coordinating his discharge plan.”
I Googled the language in the parking lot so I would sound like I knew what the hell I was doing.
The woman’s expression does not change.
“Do we have his authorization to speak with you?”
I pause, my fake confidence faltering. “I…don’t know.”
“Then I can’t confirm or deny whether anyone by that name is a patient here.”
I bite my bottom lip.
She returns her attention to her computer, completely dismissing me.
“Can you take him a message?” I ask. “Please tell August Gallagher that Lennon is in the lobby. Tell him I’m here to help with his discharge plan and provide transportation. If he wants to authorize the staff to speak with me, I’ll sign whatever I need to sign.”
I hesitate.
“And tell him I came inside alone.”
For the first time, her face softens by half an inch.
“I can pass along the message. I still can’t confirm whether he’s here.”
“Understood.”
She types rapidly for several seconds, then gestures toward the waiting area.
“Have a seat.”
It’s almost fifteen minutes later when the locked door buzzes open.
I stand so quickly that my purse slides off my shoulder.
August comes through the doorway beside a nurse in pale-blue scrubs. He’s wearing his own shirt and jeans, but his boots are unlaced. He holds a clear plastic bag containing his wallet, his phone, his belt, and both bootlaces coiled at the bottom like dead worms.
He looks too big and too pale beneath the fluorescent lights of the antiseptic hallway.
And too motionless, as though he knows every movement is still being judged.
His eyes find mine.
For one second, nothing in his face moves.
Then his lips part.
“Lennon?”
The nurse glances between us, professional enough to pretend she didn’t hear the break in his voice.
“August,” she says, “do I have your permission to discuss your discharge instructions and transportation plan with Lennon?”
His gaze never leaves mine.
“Yes.”
“The psychiatrist has entered your discharge order, and you’ve completed the necessary paperwork,” she tells him.
“Your safety plan and medication instructions are in this packet. The outpatient clinic has your referral and should call you Monday morning. If you haven’t heard from them by noon, call the number on the front of the packet.
No alcohol with the medication and no driving tonight. ”
“He won’t have to drive,” I say. “I’ve got it.”
August’s gaze sharpens.
The nurse looks at me. “Are you the person accompanying him?”
“Yes.”
My hand tightens around the strap of my purse.
Behind the glass doors, across the dark parking lot, Jake’s silhouette shifts inside the car.
August sees him.
Every bit of fragile color drains from his face.
The nurse notices. People in places like this must be trained to recognize the twitch that comes before an explosion.
“Mr. Gallagher,” she says evenly, her hand shifting toward the phone on the desk, “is that someone you feel safe leaving with?”
Across the parking lot, Jake opens the passenger door and steps out.
Dammit.