Twenty minutes later, they were in the cafeteria seated at a table for two with breakfasts in front of them. Although Andrea had the works — scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast — Mitt was content with juice, cold cereal, and skim milk.
“Okay, enough of the suspense,” Andrea said. “Out with it! How on earth did you learn such specific details about your relatives in the middle of the night?”
“What happened was... I was introduced to a trove of old Bellevue Hospital records going back several hundred years. It’s somewhat of a long story that happened by a strange sequence of events. I’ll try to explain it all provided I can count on your strict confidence.”
“Of course,” Andrea said. “Don’t be silly. That’s a given.”
“I don’t know exactly how many records are involved, but it’s a lot. I’m guessing in the hundreds. They’d been collected by my great-grandfather Clarence Fuller, the psychiatrist, and hidden away out of circulation back in 1975 by a hospital administrator after Clarence retired. Although I’ve only had a chance to quickly skim two of them so far, I understand most, if not all, of them are records of patients treated by my relatives. The key thing is that they are not flattering, to say the very least.”
Andrea, who had been eating with gusto, stopped and put down her flatware. Leaning forward, she stared at Mitt with unblinking eyes. “Wait a second! Are you suggesting that these records have never seen the light of day?”
“That’s exactly what I am saying.”
“I’m fascinated. And they go back to the nineteenth century?”
“Early nineteenth century.”
“Okay,” Andrea remarked mostly to herself, ostensibly to reorient her brain. She took a deep breath, leaned back in her chair, then looked directly at Mitt. “Out with it! Let me hear this long story.”
Mitt proceeded to tell her about his sudden unexpected hunger after Ortiz’s thyroid storm, his chance meeting with Lashonda Scott in the cafeteria, her telling him about the records hidden by her mother in the basement of the now-deserted psychiatric building, and what the records represented.
“Okay,” Andrea suddenly repeated, interrupting Mitt’s monologue. “Hold up for a freaking second! Are you suggesting that this supposed night-shift housekeeping supervisor just offered all this to you essentially out of the blue?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. She’d seen me earlier after Suárez’s death and was aware of my family’s association with Bellevue because her family has an even closer association with the institution. She thought that I should know about the records.” Mitt didn’t tell Andrea anything about Lashonda and him being portals.
“Wow!” Andrea commented, rolling her eyes as she was wont to do. “This is one strange story.”
“I agree,” Mitt said. “And it gets stranger. What she had told me had certainly fanned my curiosity. I felt I had to see these records, and she offered to take me to see them. Well, maybe I asked. Anyway, that’s what we ended up doing around four a.m. Since her mother and she had worked in the building back when it was a functioning psychiatric hospital, she still has the key. Luckily she also had a key for a padlock on the outer gate.”
“You guys went into the deserted psychiatric building last night?” Andrea asked incredulously.
“We did. With flashlights, and it wasn’t for very long, mind you, but long enough for me to scan the two records.”
“What’s the place like after being closed up for decades?”
“It’s pretty weird,” Mitt said, knowing that was a gross understatement. “Even after all this time, it’s not completely cleaned out. I saw some old furniture in a couple of the first-floor offices as if people expected to return. But what really caught my attention was that the interior has weirdly decorative architectural details, reminiscent of its exterior and certainly unlike any hospital I’ve ever been in.” In his mind’s eye he could again see the unique yellow barrel vaulting in the first-floor hallways.
“What an absolutely crazy night for you,” Andrea commented. She rolled her eyes yet again. “No wonder you looked as frazzled as you did when I woke you.”
“It was one of the worst and weirdest nights in my life,” Mitt admitted. “But, again, all this is for your ears only. Okay?”
“Yeah, sure, okay,” Andrea responded.
“And there is a reason I’m particularly interested in telling you all this,” Mitt continued. “I’d like to get your opinion and even your reassurance about something I plan to do.”
“Oh?” Andrea questioned.
“Yes. I feel compelled to read more of these records but not while I’m standing up in the dark with a flashlight. It doesn’t do them justice. The problem is that they’re all located in the back closet of a distant storeroom down in the building’s basement, and there’s no electricity. My plan is to somehow find a way back into the building on my own this afternoon, which shouldn’t be that difficult, and bring a box or two of the records back to my apartment. They’re all stored in a half dozen or so cardboard bankers boxes. When I’m finished going over them properly, maybe even photographing a few, I will return them and possibly exchange them for more. I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”
“How are you going to get into the building?”
“That I don’t know yet, but I can’t imagine it will be too difficult. A very small section involving a couple of floors of one wing along Thirtieth Street down near the East River is being used as a homeless shelter. It has its own entrance from Thirtieth. I’ll check that out first. I’d be surprised if there wasn’t a way to get into the building proper through there since it’s all the same building.”
“Why not just borrow the keys from Lashonda and go in the same way you did last night?”
“That would be the easiest,” Mitt admitted. “But there’s a rub. When Lashonda’s mother was originally tasked to hide the records, she made a binding promise that she would not give the records to anyone, and she in turn made Lashonda agree to the same, and this is a family that takes such promises to heart. To obviate making Lashonda feel like she’s violated her vow, I’ve decided not to tell her my plans. But I feel a little guilty since I truly respect her and am genuinely thankful for her efforts on my behalf. What’s your take?”
“I see your point, but if you are just borrowing some of the records for a few hours and will return them, it seems okay to me, particularly since your interest is personal, and she already showed you the files.”
“Thank you,” Mitt said. “That’s what I thought, but it’s nice to have reassurance.” He finished the last spoonful of cereal, then lifted the bowl to drink the remaining milk. Replacing the bowl, he stood. “And now I have to get home and clock some serious shut-eye. Thanks for listening to me, and I hope your day and evening aren’t too bad.”
“I hope so, too,” Andrea said. “Good luck this afternoon.”
“Thank you. I’ll give you a call later and let you know how I’ve made out if you’d like.” He picked up his tray.
“I’d definitely like,” Andrea said. “I’ll be wondering what’s up with you all day!”
“Okay, I’ll keep you informed of my progress. I promise.”
“What about those three patients you have been assigned for surgery tomorrow? Do you want me to do the admission histories and physicals?”
“Oh damn, I forgot all about them, but thanks for reminding me,” Mitt said. He put his tray back down to think for a moment, recognizing it would be best not to be associated with any patients for their own safety, at least until he decided what he was going to do vis-à-vis the residency. “You know, under the circumstances, I would really appreciate if you do them provided you are not too busy. One way or the other, let’s be sure to talk as the day progresses.”