by Ted Dekker
“Yes, but I must have taken a wrong turn and wandered into the ward. She’s probably in the main hospital. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”
“No, I’m sure you didn’t. Strange how easy it is to miss the right door.” The man’s smile said he was congenial but the circumstances weren’t adding up. Fisher must know that Austin had overheard part of their conversation. And yet he seemed unworried, which could only mean that what Austin had overheard presented no problem for Fisher.
He shrugged. “True. I should be going,” he said, and as he spoke, he glanced past the man. A white porcelain sink with exposed plumbing was bolted to the wall. A wooden stand in the corner next to it. A bar of soap, a glass with a toothbrush sticking out. A six-inch handheld mirror, resting against the corner.
In the mirror: An image of girl with brown eyes and dirty blond hair sitting on what appeared to be a gurney, staring directly at the mirror, seemingly unconcerned.
There was gray duct tape over her mouth.
Austin’s eyes flickered back to the director of admissions, who’d turned his head and was looking at the same mirror.
Fisher faced him, one eyebrow cocked. For a moment, they stood still. Then the man took one step toward the sink, retrieved the mirror, and returned. He lifted it and looked at his own image. Stroked his chin as if checking his shave.
“Interesting things, mirrors,” he said. “You see something that isn’t real. It’s only reflective glass, and yet it reveals something entirely new.”
Austin was telling himself that he should run, but the man was so calm—so precise and reasoned in his demeanor—that Austin found himself caught off guard.
Fisher flipped the mirror around so that it faced Austin. “What do you see?”
All he could think was: I just saw a girl with duct tape on her face. I’ve just stumbled into something horrific and I don’t know what to do.
“Hmm? Your face, right? But the mind easily deceives itself.” He set the mirror on top of a cardboard box to his right, lifted his hand, and motioned come to his right without removing his eyes from Austin.
“You think you saw something in the mirror that took the red out of your face,” Fisher said, still relaxed.
The girl stepped into view and stood beside Fisher. Maybe seventeen or eighteen. There was no duct tape on her face.
“And yet the tape was there, just a few seconds ago.” He looked down at the girl and smiled kindly. “Wasn’t it, Alice?”
She kept her eyes on Austin and slowly nodded. No expression.
A wadded up ball of tape slipped from her fingers and plopped on the floor. She’d taken the tape off herself.
“Go sit down, Alice,” Fisher said.
She turned and retraced her steps.
“You see, Mr. Hartt, we employ some rather unusual therapies at Saint Matthew’s. Very effective, I might add. We take some of the hardest cases and produce results other facilities only dream of.”
“I can see that.”
“Can you?”
“Sure.” Half of him couldn’t, but the other side knew that science had few limitations, if any.
“Then feel free to see yourself out. The stairs are just down the hall. If you run into any trouble just follow the exit signs. They’ll lead you out to the main hospital.”
His mind still trying to makes sense of what he’d seen, Austin gave the man a short nod, backed up a step, and turned toward the door.
By the time Austin saw the man’s sudden move in his peripheral vision, it was too late to avoid him. A fist crashed against the side of his head with the force of a sledgehammer.
Austin’s head snapped sideways, and his legs collapsed beneath him. He crumpled to the ground. Thick shadows swirled and crowded the edge of his sight.
He felt a sharp kick in his side. The force rolled him flat on his back.
Austin’s eyes fluttered as Fisher stood over him, then the world grew dim as he felt himself being dragged across the floor.
The girl said something but her voice faded, replaced by a high-pitched ringing that he was sure would kill him.
Austin felt a sharp sting in the crook of his arm and a warm sensation rushed through his body.
His eyes drifted closed, and he surrendered to the darkness.
THE LOUNGE they’d led Christy to while they cleared up the confusion was located near the administrator’s office. It was a typical waiting room with two groupings of blue cushioned folding chairs set around oak coffee tables, several large ficus plants, magazines, and a counter that offered coffee and water.
The round white clock on the wall had clicked off forty-three painful minutes, and still, no one had come for her. Why everything concerning doctors took so long, she would never understand.
One of two doors led into the administrator’s reception room, where Christy had met Beverly, Kern Lawson’s secretary. The other led into what appeared to be a larger patient lounge or recreation room.
She knew this because she’d opened it, poked her head through the door, and looked around the room for a full minute before retreating to the relative security of the lounge.
There had been about a dozen patients in the room, half gathered around a television, the rest either sitting at one of the tables playing games, or seated alone, some still, some repeating obsessive behavior. All wore blue smocks.
She’d watched Linda, the nurse who’d found her, talking quietly to a woman seated cross-legged on the floor, hands shaking incessantly. The patient’s abject fear reached Christy like a wave of unseen energy that seeped into her bones. She’d withdrawn and closed the door softly.
Her own problems seemed absurd next to what some people faced. She should be grateful for her life. Sure, she had her issues, but she wasn’t destitute or homeless. It was all a matter of perspective. After this, a calm settled over her for a while, but her anxiousness slowly returned as the minutes stretched.
She consoled herself with the confidence that Austin would eventually track her down, and they would laugh about being in such an unlikely mess. All because of a cheap locket from Target.
The door suddenly opened, and Christy unfolded her legs. Beverly faced her, unconcerned. Just another day at the office.
“You can come back now, honey.”
Christy stood and crossed the room. “It’s all good?”
“It is.” She smiled. “Kern just wants a word.”
She stepped into the reception room, waited for the secretary to close the door, and followed her to the administrator’s office, where Beverly turned.
“Anything I can get for you? Some water?”
“No thanks.”
“All right.” She ushered Christy through and shut her in.
Kern Lawson removed his feet from his desk and tossed a toothpick in the waste bin. He’d loosened his tie and rolled his sleeves up. The day was getting on.
“Have a seat. Just going over what we have here. You need anything? Water?”
“She already asked. I’m fine, thank you.”
“Good. I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but as you can imagine, taking inventory when the patients are up and around isn’t as simple as when they’re asleep. You caught us during a shift change to boot.”
“But all’s good, right? I really need to get back home.”
“You’re at 456 Blanard Drive, right? Yes, we checked on that too. Rented by one Christy Ray Snow, just like you said.”
“Just like I said.”
He clicked his mouse, eyes on the monitor. “You understand why we check these things. Not that we really need to—anyone who knows where Christy Snow lives could claim to be her. But we like to cover all of our bases. Lawsuits these days can be a real pain.”
Something about his demeanor triggered her concern.
“It’s fine. As long as it’s all cleared up, I’m fine.”
Lawson’s eyes peered over his reading glasses at her. He took them off and set them down.
“Well, that’s the problem we’re having. Everything’s not quite fine. We’ve confirmed that we have a patient missing. Until we find her, we’re prohibited by hospital rules from releasing anyone from the wing.”
Christy sat up, alarmed. “That’s ridiculous!”
“My words exactly. I ordered a second count. We have one patient unaccounted for.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m her. Give me a break. It’s obvious I don’t belong here!”
“I understand. But protocol is protocol. What really concerns me is this other bit.”
“What other bit?”
“They searched the basement, like you suggested. Problem is, we found no cell phone.”
Christy felt the blood drain from her face. “They checked the door behind the drums?”
“They did.” He picked up his glasses and wiped the lenses with a Kleenex. “I didn’t know the door was there. This place was once a hotel during Prohibition. Moonshine runners. Crazy thing.”
“And you’re saying they couldn’t find my phone? Tell them to search again!”
“There’s no sign the door was breached. Certainly no cell phone. If you came in that way, you did one heck of a job covering your tracks. But it’s the no-cell-phone thing that doesn’t add up. So you see how this is looking—”
“This is crazy!” Christy blurted, jumping to her feet. She knew that she was losing it, but she made no attempt to calm herself. “They’re lying. I was there!”
“Sit down, Christy.”
She remained standing, beside herself with frustration.
“Or should I call you Alice?”
“Alice?”
“Alice Ringwald. The name of the girl who’s missing. The new arrival. You can see how easy it is for me to conclude that you tried to escape through an old crawlspace in the basement, found a dead end, and then came up with a clever story using the name of a girl you knew from the outside.”
She did follow his logic, which only made things worse.
“Please sit down,” he said, this time with less patience.
She sat. “I don’t know what’s happening or who took my phone, but my name is Christy, not Alice.” The name echoed in her ears. “Alice Ringwald?”
“Alice Ringwald.”
“I saw her in the hall! Blond, right? She was with a doctor, I saw her! You’re saying she’s missing.”
“Seems so.”
“And you really think I’m her?”
“I’m not saying that. She came to us this morning. I’ll know more when they bring me her file. The director of admissions is processing it now. Should be here shortly, but I didn’t want to keep you hanging. In the meantime, I would like to know more about you. Just a few questions. Sound fair enough?”
Christy felt trapped. Not by Lawson, but by what was clearly a series of tragic errors compounded by the fact that someone had found her phone but didn’t report it. Why would anyone do that? For a two-hundred-dollar phone?
Stay calm, Christy. It’ll all work out. Just do what they say and this will all work out.
“This isn’t right,” she said. “What about my locket? Did you search the storage room?”
“No locket, I’m afraid, though it’s clear someone’s been in there. Unfortunately, this isn’t exactly the safest neighborhood.”
She could think of nothing more to say.
“Fine. Ask your questions. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Good.” He pressed his intercom button. “Beverly, can you come in?”
The door opened a few seconds later.
“Please take our guest to Dr. Wilkins. She’s waiting in room 2.”
Receiving parting assurance from Lawson that this wouldn’t take long, Christy followed Beverly yet again, this time to a room two doors down the main hall on the left. The sign on the door identified it as a counseling room.
Christy was ushered in and introduced to a young woman, maybe in her late twenties—a professional type wearing heels and a skirt with a white satin blouse. She wore her dark hair up and studied Christy through wire-frame glasses.
“Have a seat.” She glanced at an open folder on her side of a table. “Christy. Christy Snow, correct?”
“Yes.”
The room was plain, with white walls, a darkened window that Christy thought might be one-way glass—maybe for observation in the event a patient got violent? One six-foot table with four simple chairs.
“Nancy Wilkins.” She extended a hand that Christy took. “Please sit.”
Christy sat opposite the woman. “The administrator said you need to ask me some questions. What kind?”
“Just a standard profile. Apparently there’s been some kind of mix-up. I’m sure you’re eager to get this all cleared up.”
“Dr. Wilkins—”
“Call me Nancy,” Wilkins said with a genuine smile. “I’m not your doctor.”
Christy settled, warmed by Nancy’s casual tone and demeanor.
“You know about the mix-up then?”
“No. I’ve only been asked to run a standard profile on you. Just a few questions. It’s nothing, really.”
Christy nodded.
“I can see that you’re tense, but I’m only doing what I do. I could be a waitress for all you care. I just get to know you a bit. That’s all.”
“All right.”
“Truth is, most people don’t really know who they are. And I think that includes me. We do the best we can, more often than not stumbling along in the dark. And that’s okay.”
The gentle words came to Christy like a soothing balm. The events of the morning flashed through her mind. Being trapped in the crawlspace, being mistaken for a missing patient… It was all a tragic comedy of errors. She really had no reason to be so uptight.
She felt herself relax.
Nancy smiled, eyes warm and inviting. “That’s better. Let’s get you out of here, shall we?”
Christy gave up a shy smile. “No argument from me.”
“So let’s start with the basics.”
Nancy went through a series of innocuous questions about Christy’s current living situation, her education, work experience—the typical kind of questions that might fill out a résumé. It was more like a conversation than an interview, and Nancy offered up some interesting facts about her own life in the mix.
She once thought she would be a professional dancer before an injury ended the dream. She’d become so distraught about having her dream yanked out from under her that she’d fallen into a deep depression. Her interest in psychiatry began then. Seven years later, she became a professional with a doctorate, albeit one who consumed shows like So You Think You Can Dance as if they were crack.
Like Christy, Nancy had no boyfriend. She too lived alone and was a little surprised that Christy was so independent and well adjusted for being only seventeen. Nancy was thirty-two.
They both had cats. They both listened to Coldplay and Mumford & Sons. They both were neat freaks. They both dreamed of having children one day. They both wanted to fall in love. Today if possible, and that made them both laugh.
Nancy’s occasional glance at her watch brought Christy back to the fact that she was in a pysch ward, possibly mistaken for a girl named Alice, but talking with Nancy rooted her in more important things that mattered outside these walls.
Twenty minutes became thirty and then forty, and still no one came for her, probably because the interview wasn’t finished. But the urgency she felt earlier had dissolved.
She found herself wondering if becoming a therapist might be a good career path. She could tell the story one day of how losing her locket and crawling into a basement set her on the path to a whole new life.
She said as much to Nancy, who tilted her head back and laughed.
“So this all began with a missing locket?”
Christy told her the story in short summary.
“No wonder you were so anxious when you came in,” Nancy said. She made a note in her folder. �
�Tell me about this locket, Christy. Why is it so important to you?”
She explained and the tone of the conversation turned more somber.
“So your locket really represents a missing childhood,” Nance ventured. “A part of you is missing. You’re searching for yourself.”
The room grew very quiet.
“I guess so.”
“I can understand that.” Nancy leaned back and folded one leg over the other. “I’m going to ask a few questions and make some observations that might trigger some feelings in you, is that okay?”
She shrugged. “I guess.”
“When you look in the mirror, what do you see?”
“Me.”
“And do you like what you see?”
A pause.
“No.”
“No? What don’t you like about what you see?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged again, feeling suddenly awkward. “I could lose some weight.”
“What else?”
“Specifically?”
“Specifically.”
“Well… My neck is too fat. I have a stubby nose. Ten pounds could come off my stomach.”
“What else?”
“My fingers could be longer. My hair gets too frizzy.”
“Do you hate the way you look?”
“Sometimes.”
“More often than you like it?”
Much more, she thought. “I guess.”
“Do you feel misunderstood by society?”
“I guess.”
“Don’t guess, Christy. Just say the first thing that feels true.”
“Yes.”
“Of course you do. We all do at times.” She smiled. “What kind of dreams do you have?”
Christy blinked. A slight chill washed down her back. “Not so good ones.”
“Nightmares?”
“I think so. I can’t remember them, but I wake up sweating and I don’t sleep very well.”
“Considering your history, it’s no wonder. Such large-scale memory suppression can only be triggered by intense trauma. Usually severe prolonged distress.”
The chill down her spine doubled back, now laced with anxiety. She found she couldn’t address that last statement.
