He pointed to Door A again. “No problems so far, knock wood, but I still find myself checking all the time to make sure she doesn’t hurt herself. She’s wearing the clothes she came in with but I took these and put them away because there’s nails in the heel.”
From a desk drawer he removed a pair of flat shoes, once black, now gray. “I’ll grant you one thing: The room’s pretty well designed for psych patients. Can’t spot any easy way to get into trouble. But still...”
“Thanks for trying to keep her safe.”
His smile returned. “You and I would say ‘safe,’ The Hyphen would probably say it’s optimal injury resistance. Anyway, so far, Ms. Chase has been easy.”
“Any symptoms I should know about?”
“Not unless you count nonstop sleep. Which happens with acutes, right? They put out all that energy then they need to hibernate. She was kind of agitated when the ambulance brought her in — fighting the restraints, grinding her teeth, so I was expecting the worst. But I talked softly to her and she calmed down and soon she was out like a light. It was like she just needed to hear a human voice.”
“What time did she arrive?”
“Around eight yesterday morning. The agency calls me at six, my wife, she’s also an RN, is leaving for her shift at Kaiser, it’s my turn to get our boy off to preschool and the agency’s like ‘Right now, Kevin.’ And I’m like you’ve got to be kidding. Then they told me what I’d be getting paid and I said, ‘Son, you’re off to preschool early.’ ”
“Generous compensation.”
“Three times the usual, plus a great food allowance. But I’m starting to feel like I’m the one who got committed. I mean, look at this — talk about solitary confinement. I’m glad you’re here to take charge.”
“That food allowance is for takeout?”
“You see a stove or even a microwave? The neighborhood’s pretty ethnic and The Hyphen has charge accounts everywhere, so that’s cool. I had Moroccan for lunch, Korean for dinner, fresh rolls from a bakery this morning. I ordered extra for Ms. Chase but she’s stayed asleep and I ended up tossing it because there’s no fridge, who needs food poisoning? She changes her mind, I’ll get her fresh. I did manage to get some water into her — dribbled it slowly through her lips. It took a while, you know how flaccid they can get, I had to make sure nothing ended up in her trachea.”
“She drank without resistance?”
“She moaned a little at first but I kept telling her she was okay and, again, it seemed to help. I figured hydrating her was the right thing to do.”
“Good call.”
He seemed relieved. “I mean at some point I have to make decisions and if she got dehydrated, the only alternative would be to I.V. her and who wants to do that? Plus, do you see an I.V. setup anywhere? On order, claims The Hyphen. Same for syringes, tubing, the fridge, everything else that would make this place real.”
I pointed to the red-crossed cabinet. “What’s in there?”
Kevin Bracht walked over and tapped the metal door. It swung open. Other than a box of bandages and a packet of rubber gloves, empty.
I said, “No meds in stock?”
“Not even aspirin. Everything needs to be ‘patient-specific,’ meaning an M.D. needs to order even OTC stuff. Fortunately, she came in medicated, EMTs gave me her pills, they’re in my desk.”
He walked to the opposite end, retrieved a vial.
Ativan, 3mg, twice daily.
Bracht said, “EMTs said the doc at Ravenswood suggesting kicking it up to three times if she gets agitated but I haven’t been comfortable with a secondhand verbal order.”
“That could add up to a large dose,” I said. “Even twice a day is serious. Five years ago she didn’t have much body weight. She any heavier now?”
“Nope, real skinny. Maybe that’s why she’s still out of it. So you want that off the table?”
“I’m the wrong kind of doctor to ask.”
I showed him my card.
He said, “Psycholo — child psychologist? The Hyphen knows that?”
“She sure does.”
“No offense, Doc, but why?”
“She needs to build up brownie points for the government by documenting treatment, got me here by claiming Ms. Chase asked for me. You hear anything like that?”
“Haven’t heard a syllable out of her. How’d she find you?”
“I evaluated Zelda’s son five years ago. He’s eleven years old and his mother’s locked up and The Hyphen claims there was no mention of him in the chart other than his name. That’s what motivated me to show up.”
“This is messed up.”
“Did the EMTs give you any sort of history when they brought her in?”
“Nope, just the meds.” He walked over to Door A, unlatched the wooden flap, peeked through a mesh window, crossed his fingers.
“Still sleeping.”
I went over and had a look for myself. The opening was small, affording an attenuated view, but wide enough to reveal a blanket-covered form on what looked like a conventional bed. Buttercup-yellow walls, natural light streaming from a high, stationary window.
Kevin Bracht said, “What now, Doc?”
“I’m going in.”
Chapter 7
Kevin Bracht unlocked the room and handed me the key. I shut the door quietly but failed to squelch the penitentiary clang that said serious hardware was in play.
The form on the bed faced the wall, obscured by the blanket but for errant strands of hair.
I said, “Zelda?”
No response. I tried again, a bit louder. Lifted the hair. Greasy, bristly. Her neck skin was warm and gave off a vinegar smell. I found a pulse. Slow, steady.
Stepping away, I examined the cell.
A chair was positioned at the side of the bed. Soft brown vinyl for the cushions, hard brown plastic for the frame. Low-watt LEDs on the ceiling provided soft light. The sun augmented, filtering through a high window. The view through the glass was sooty sky peppered with listless blue, creating the kind of blurry abstraction you see at amateur art fairs.
I walked around. The floor was plastic pretending to be oak parquet. The walls were covered in sheets of washable, pebbly stuff you find only in institutions. On the positive side, the hue was a cheerful buttercup yellow and the matching blanket appeared fluffy.
The bed was the big surprise: generous pillow-top mattress atop a box spring.
Bolted to the floor.
In the left-hand corner were a lidless toilet and a sink the size of a salad bowl, both stainless steel with rounded edges. Not a sharp surface anywhere but that didn’t matter. Given the right circumstances, the roll of toilet paper near the commode or the toothbrush on the sink could be used to self-destroy.
My eyes rose to a framed print high above the sink, unreachable unless you were a basketball center. Poorly painted landscape.
After meeting Kristin Doyle-Maslow, I was thankful it wasn’t Munch’s The Scream.
By hospital standards, a decent place but anywhere you can’t leave is prison and a day and a half after its debut, this place had acquired the reek of confinement.
I bent to take a closer look at the inaugural patient. The strands of hair were dishwater laced with gray. Thirty-five years old; I could only imagine what life had been like since she lost her job.
Where had she lived? How had she gotten by? Why had she repeated the trespassing that got her busted in Sunland? Had the Bel Air backyard belonged to another ex-lover? Or a man she imagined as such?