"So, you are our new patient." Helen reviewed her chart. "Kellie Mead."
Rachel stared silently at the floor.
"I’ll get to you in a moment." Her white, rubber-soled shoes squeaked as she crossed the room, picked up a clear plastic cup and handed it to April, who obediently swallowed the pills, washing them down with water. The nurse turned her back and made notations in her chart. Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel caught April surreptitiously spitting pills into her hand and stuffing them under her pillow.
"Your mother is visiting this afternoon, April," Helen informed her. "I’ll expect you to be dressed and ready to meet with her by 4:00 p.m."
The girl nodded meekly.
"Now, Ms. Mead, before we can prescribe medications and begin your treatment, you must go through an extensive physical and mental evaluation. Examinations for new patients are every Tuesday and Thursday, so you will be scheduled for your exam tomorrow morning. You will meet your case worker and be put on a rehabilitative program at that time."
She moved across the room and ripped open the small curtain over the window.
"Since this is your first day at the Institute, April will show you around and explain the procedures. You will have a briefing tomorrow after your examinations which should explain what is expected of you at the Bexley Institute and what you can expect from your treatment. We have several therapy sessions available throughout the week, some you will be required to attend. You will not be given medication until prescribed by the doctor unless you become unruly or belligerent. Do you understand?"
She avoided eye contact and nodded.
"Show Kellie to the cafeteria for breakfast, April," the nurse instructed as she snapped her clipboard shut and padded out of the room.
#
Rachel assumed the food would taste bad, but she hadn’t quite prepared herself for the truly disgusting fodder that passed for breakfast. The online brochure depicted a colorful plate piled high with steaming scrambled eggs, crispy strips of bacon, hash browns, buttered toast and a muffin bursting with ripe blueberries. Reality was thick oatmeal, a burnt bran muffin and a banana that had been ripe sometime last month. She had a hard time believing the same kitchen that prepared four-course gourmet meals for the wealthy patients produced this food.
Picking up a plastic spoon, she tested the lumpy oatmeal and winced. It could pass for glue. Dropping the spoon to the dull gray tray, she tried the orange juice. Her lips puckered.
She would definitely lose weight during her stay.
Forgoing the meal, she instead observed the people wandering through the line. Most resembled zombies, their expressions never changing. It was an interesting mix of humanity. Patients who had not yet undergone psychiatric evaluations or ones who were completely out of it wore blue gowns or scrubs and slippers like her current attire. People considered in need of long-term treatment but reasonably functional were allowed to wear their own clothes. Several of both groups floated around the second floor, some in wheelchairs, some helped along by attendants, the others meandering on their own.
Following April’s lead, she emptied her tray and proceeded to the common area. The Price is Right blared from the television. One woman yelled out numbers eerily close to the correct ones and then became angry when the contestants didn’t take her advice. Rachel squinted. She appeared to be dressed like Little Bo Peep.
A few tables were occupied with card games or people reading magazines. One man worked on a puzzle, not even trying to fit the pieces together correctly. Some patients stared out the windows and one woman rocked in a chair that wasn’t a rocking chair.
As April described the features of the facility, Rachel couldn’t help but notice that she acted different when no one else was around. If a nurse or orderly walked by, April slipped into her meek, mild persona. But when it was just the two of them, she appeared lighthearted and completely sane. She chuckled as April described several of the patients.
"See that man over there?" She pointed to a forty-something man wearing a powder-blue leisure suit with a green and yellow striped tie and white shoes. Rachel cringed at his fashion sense.
"His closet is packed full of identical suits. He wears the same outfit every single day," April reported.
"No way." She grinned.
Her eyes swept the room. "What’s her story?" She indicated the woman currently gesturing at the TV.
"Oh, that’s Alice." April lowered her voice. "Rumor has it that she was a contestant on some game show back in the seventies…Let’s Deal, or something like that."
"Let’s Make a Deal, the show where everyone in the audience wore crazy outfits hoping to get picked as a contestant?"
"That’s the one," she confirmed.
"That explains the Bo Peep get-up."
April nodded. "She wore that and her husband dressed like a wolf. They were picked to play and had the choice of keeping a dining room set or taking what was behind a curtain. She wanted to keep the furniture but her husband picked curtain number two. They ended up with a donkey and a bale of hay."
Rachel clapped a hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh out loud. "That’s sad."
"No, the sad thing is that Alice lost it and started beating her husband over the head with her shepherd hook. Then she went after the host. The story I heard was that she got it around his neck and he almost choked. They finally wrestled it away from her but she’s been here ever since. All she does now is watch game shows all day long dressed like that."
Rachel processed that, wondering about the wiring of the human mind. At what point did the cables snap, sending the person into mental oblivion? Did everyone have a threshold or were some people better equipped to handle trauma?
Pushing those thoughts aside, she scanned the assortment of patients, hoping to spot the sardonic smile of her friend Molly. She felt comfortable with April and really liked the girl. She wanted to trust her, but it was too soon. She would find a way to ask about Molly without giving herself away, but not out in the open where anyone could overhear. She would wait until they were behind the closed door of their room.
April continued her tour. "Oh, and before I forget, the walls have eyes and ears," she whispered.
Rachel stopped, forcing April to stop, too. "Are you saying the rooms are bugged?"
"Shh," April admonished, her eyes darting around the area. Tugging Rachel to a large window, she pretended to point at something outside. "All of the halls have video cameras and recording devices, but there are several places where we can talk without being overheard."
Rachel followed April’s lead, nodding at the imaginary object. "Can I ask you a question, April?" When April nodded, she said, "You really don’t seem like you belong here."
April opened her mouth to respond when a man approached, a large crucifix extended in front of his body.
"Ugh, Gary," April whispered behind her hand. "He’s creepy. We’ll talk later."
Rachel nodded and focused on the man as he ventured closer. His lips moved as he mumbled softly. His dark eyes locked on Rachel and all the hairs on the back of her neck stood.
"Beware of the bogeyman."
Rachel stepped back, bumping into April. She muttered an apology but kept her gaze on the strange man in front of them.
"Beware of the bogeyman," he repeated.
"The bogeyman?"
Gary nodded, his eyes wild and unfocused. "I’ve seen the bogeyman. He’s here, he’s here."
"Come-on Kellie, let’s go."
April guided her down the hall. Rachel couldn’t take her eyes off the man. His gaze held hers, surprisingly direct. "Beware the bogeyman," he whispered one last time before she rounded a corner. Rachel shuddered.
April pointed out the music room and the art room. "There's a drawing class in twenty minutes," she said, studying a schedule posted on the wall. "Do you want to take it with me?"
Rachel really wanted to keep looking for signs of Molly. The sooner she uncovered what happened to her friend, the
sooner she would be able to get out of this place. She glanced down into a huge pair of green eyes…eyes that were wide and hopeful and so very sad. Rachel wanted to know how April ended up in this place.
Torn between searching for Molly or pleasing her new roommate, the decision was surprisingly easy. "Sure, let’s take the art class."
April’s eyes sparkled with pleasure and she spun around to scribble their names on a sign-up sheet attached to the door. "It will be so much fun."
The sound of footsteps in the hall drew their attention. A small, wiry man with square black glasses and a red goatee carrying a portfolio ventured closer.
"Hello, Mr. Brand," April said in a monotone to the man who stopped in front of the art room and unlocked the door.
"Hello, April. How are you today?"
They exchanged meaningless chatter but Rachel paid no attention. She couldn’t shake the strange sensation that settled in the pit of her stomach ever since she spotted Gary.
Crazy or not, he believed what he said.
#
April stared at her flawlessly put-together mother with her perfectly coifed hair, expensive clothes, fragrant perfume and tasteful jewelry and wanted to cry. Why wouldn’t she listen? April tried to tell her that she was getting better, that she didn’t need to be here, but her mom refused to believe her.
"I want to come home," she pleaded, tears roughening her voice.
"Oh honey, I want that too," Blanche Sloane sniffed. "But Daddy knows what he is doing. He said the treatment you are going through takes many years and the doctors don’t think you are ready yet."
"Don’t you miss me?" she asked in a small voice.
"Of course I do." Blanche pulled her into a brief impersonal hug. Ever since April had been admitted to Bexley, her mother treated her as if she carried a communicable disease, not a mental illness. April couldn’t remember the last time her mother truly embraced her.
"We just have to trust what Daddy says. After all, he is the expert." She reached into her purse and extracted a glossy magazine. Flashing it proudly, she stated, "This will cheer you up." Her mother held out the book. "This is your copy. Look, Daddy’s picture is on the cover."
April shuddered, refusing to look. She hated when her mother referred to Harmon Sloane as "daddy". He wasn’t her dad, far from it.
"April, didn’t you hear me?"
Her mother tapped the magazine with a French-manicured nail, forcing her to view the book in her hand. Reluctantly, her gaze drifted to the splashy picture of the man she hated more with every breath she took. He was solely responsible for locking her up, drugging her into submission, away from her mother, her house, her life. He’d effectively stolen three years from her, years she would never get back.
That wasn’t completely accurate. She couldn’t put sole culpability on him. Her mother deserved half the blame. Blanche never spoke out against Harmon. Like a puppet, she allowed him to manipulate all the strings. She hadn’t even fought to keep her only daughter home. When April needed her most, her mother walked away.
She glanced at her mom, barely recognizing the woman who’d given birth to her. They had been happy once, back when her real father had been alive. April remembered camping trips and playing in the yard and baking cookies. Her mother used to wear T-shirts and jeans and no make-up. She would pull her hair in a haphazard ponytail and fix April’s the same way. There had been laughter. Lots and lots of laughter.
Now her mom resembled the perfect cultured, upper-class wife. Every hair remained firmly in place. A wrinkle wouldn’t dare mar her stylish clothes—or her face. April wondered if she was happier with this life than the one they used to share.
All before Harmon Sloane stepped in and took everything that mattered from April.
Disgusted, she tried to shove the book away but Blanche pushed it right back into her hands. "I told you, that’s your copy," her mother said as if she were six years old. "Keep it in your room and show Daddy you have it next time he visits. It will make him happy."
She could care less if he was happy and she certainly didn’t want any reminders of the man. She wanted her old life back. She wanted to go home to her bedroom with her dolls and her clothes and her pretty pink canopy. She wanted things the way they were before Harmon Sloane waltzed in and ruined their lives…well, her life anyway. Blanche adjusted the sparkling diamond chandelier she called a necklace around her throat.
No, her mother hadn’t suffered at all.
Sometimes she wondered if her mother truly missed her or if she just dropped by to ease her guilty conscience. Her visits were less and less frequent, each more painful than the last.
"April, the magazine," her mother demanded impatiently.
She wanted to refuse. She wanted to grab the book with both hands, rip it into shreds, shove it down the toilet or set it on fire, anything to wipe the smug grin off that evil face.
In the end, she did none of those things. Instead, tucking the magazine under her arm, she bid her mother goodbye and obediently carried it to her room.
#
Rachel tried not to stare at April sitting at a table by the window with her mother. She recognized all the signs of wealth: expensive clothes, designer shoes, trendy handbag, diamonds galore and a chic hairstyle that probably set the woman back at least two hundred dollars, pre-tip.
April’s mother seemed genuinely happy, animatedly chatting with her daughter. But there was no mistaking the misery on April’s face. She perched on the edge of her chair with her hands tucked primly in her lap, and looked on the verge of tears.
Rachel dropped her gaze to the picture in her lap and a lump rose in her throat. The art class April talked her into turned out to be each person’s self-portrait, an interpretation of how they saw themselves. April painted a small figure with a half round, half square head, large, sad eyes flowing with black drops. She wondered what had happened in April’s life to land her here. She longed to talk to the girl, help her heal the pain.
She flipped to her own portrait and winced. As an art history major, painting had always been her passion. As soon as she stepped into the room, the scent of fresh paint, newly-stretched canvas and tangy turpentine assailed her senses, wrapping comforting arms around her. Once she dipped a brush into the acrylic, she forgot about Molly, the part she played, the institution. She brushed sweeping strokes across the paper and felt like she had come home.
Until that moment, she didn’t realize how much she missed painting. Her mother subtlety discouraged her from pursuing her talent, instead striving to mold her into her image: the perfect society wife. She never argued.
When the art teacher wandered by, she noticed his sharp stare and followed his gaze, seeing her picture through his eyes. Her mouth rounded in horror. Not only was her painting good, she had used yellow for her hair instead of black and drawn it straight instead of curly. Panicked, she fumbled with the brush and purposely blurred lines. The result was a self-portrait that looked like something Pablo Picasso might have painted in the crib. The teacher tsked and moved on to the next student. Her knees nearly collapsed in relief.
Turning away from the depressing reunion of her roommate and her mother, she scanned the area. How many people here knew Molly and could she get them to talk to her? She spotted Carl, the attendant who manhandled her when she checked in, and quickly looked away. He was chatting with a well-dressed man she had not seen before. Thankfully he didn’t notice her before they disappeared down the hall.
Her gaze landed on a painfully thin young blonde girl brushing the hair on a porcelain doll, sitting next to a hard-looking person in black leather. She couldn’t tell if the individual sporting a purple Mohawk, colorful tattoos and several body piercings was male or female.
Shrugging, she stood. She had to start digging somewhere.
"Hi, I’m Kellie."
The leather-clad being looked up from a magazine—Biker World, she noticed—gave her a quick once over and promptly resumed reading. Rachel felt dismis
sed. She turned to speak to the blonde but purple Mohawk snarled, "Heather, but don’t ever call me that."
A woman. Interesting.
"Okay, so what do I call you?"
"Harley."
Harley. It figured. "What’s your name?" she asked the other girl.
Harley answered instead, never taking her eyes from the magazine. "That’s Elizabeth, but she goes by Lizzy. I call her Thin Lizzy, or TL for short, don’t I, TL?" Harley hooted.
Lizzy continued to brush her doll’s hair.
Harley flipped a page. "On top of all her other neuroses, Thin Lizzy’s anorexic, aren’t you, TL?"
Rachel winced at the callous proclamation. She squatted in front of the young girl. "She’s very pretty, Lizzy."
Pale lashes lifted to reveal the biggest, bluest eyes Rachel had ever seen, but Lizzy’s gaze was dull and vacant. "Her name’s Virginia."
"That’s a very nice name."
Lizzy smiled sadly. "Do you want to see her?" She thrust the doll at Rachel.
"Sure."
"My mother gave her to me," she stated proudly.
Rachel blinked away a wave of sadness. Worn and faded, bald spots dotted the scalp from repeated brushing. "She is very beautiful."
Lizzy smiled as she gathered in her doll and hugged it to her chest. "My mother is coming to see me today," she announced excitedly.
"That’s great. Do you get to see her often?"
Lizzy’s delicate brows pulled together. She picked up the brush, her hand moving faster, almost frantic. When she looked up, her face was contorted in pain. "I-I don’t remember. I get confused," she whispered.
"Your mother’s dead, TL," Harley reminded her heartlessly, still scanning the pages of her magazine. She nudged Rachel with her foot and laughed conspiratorially. "Her dad’s girlfriend killed her and she saw the whole thing. Didn’t you, Thin Lizzy. You saw her battered, bloodied body, lying there dead as a doorknob—"
"Stop," Rachel ordered harshly, appalled at Harley’s insensitivity. Big fat tears spilled down Lizzy’s cheeks. With a strangled cry, she bolted from the couch. Rachel’s mouth dropped open in disgust. She spun to Harley, her hands balling info fists at her sides. The woman sat there chuckling as if nothing happened. Her heartbeat pounded with rage. "That was completely uncalled for," she chastised between clenched teeth.
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