Come Closer
Copyright © Brenda Rothert 2017
Published by Silver Sky Publishing Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-9968498-8-3
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
Cover Designer and Photographer
Sara Eirew
www.saraeirew.com
Interior Design and Formatting
Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting
www.typeAformatting.com
Editor
Lisa Hollett, Silently Correcting Your Grammer
Copy Editor
Taylor Bellitto
Proofreader
Joanne Thompson
Contents
Come Closer
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
About the Author
Books by Brenda Rothert
Acknowledgements
I THINK IT’S THE SILENCE that wakes me up. After two weeks of sleeping in the forest, being lulled awake every morning by calling birds, running streams, and leaves dancing in the breeze, the quiet in my cabin doesn’t feel right.
It’s about time to get up anyway. I have to return to reality today. There were moments during the fourteen days I just spent in the Montana forest when I considered not returning. I had everything I needed to get by in a pack on my back. I considered building myself a small shelter and becoming a true mountain man. I’d spend my days fishing, hunting, and climbing. It would be a life without worry.
But my daydreams of escaping real life were interrupted every time by thoughts of my patients. I took an oath to do no harm, and I knew I couldn’t uphold it and willfully leave people with serious mental illnesses.
No, I’m not the only doctor who can treat them, but I’m one of the few willing to live in rural Montana and work at Hawthorne Hill Mental Hospital. Other than a small town a few miles away, this place is isolated from civilization.
Not that you’d know it when you’re on the property. Henry Hawthorne poured proceeds from his oil empire into this place back in the 1930s, and his estate provides for its upkeep.
Even the cabin I live in as a staffer at Hawthorne is nicer than any place I’ve lived before. I cook the fish I catch on weekends in a gourmet kitchen and write up patient reports on a leather sofa in front of a giant stone fireplace in the great room.
I walk into the bathroom and turn on the shower, then step in front of the sink while I wait for the water to get hot.
Damn. I look grizzly. The dark beard I grew while off work is almost an inch long, and my hair is wild and unwashed. I turn my face from side to side, considering keeping the beard. Maybe if it was trimmed and my hair was under control . . . ?
No. With my six-foot-five-inch height and wide frame, I already intimidate most new patients when they meet me. And the nurses like to call me Dr. Lumberjack—they’d have a field day with a beard.
I shave, shower, and dress in a flannel, jeans, and hiking boots, then make the quarter-mile walk uphill to the main Hawthorne building. I always walk to work unless there’s snow on the ground, and on those days, I take a snowmobile.
Hawthorne is an inpatient mental hospital, but it looks like a luxurious hunting lodge. It’s a massive log structure with private patient rooms, a library, and a two-story great room. It has thirty-eight patient rooms, which are always full. This is where the well off send their loved ones for mental help. Some patients are here short-term, and others live here for decades.
When I walk through the back entrance and go into my office, I’m surrounded by the cedar log smell of Hawthorne Hill. Written reports are stacked on my desk. I’ll go through them later. I’m anxious to round on patients now. I take my white coat from a hook by the door and put it on as I walk toward the medical wing.
“Dr. Delgado, you’re back.” The female voice is eager and breathy. It has to be Sara.
“I am,” I say, glancing over my shoulder.
“How was your vacation?”
“It was good.”
“We missed you.” She licks her lips and takes a step closer to me.
I don’t mix business and pleasure by dating my coworkers. But if I did, Sara would be all too willing to keep my bed warm. She makes no secret of it either.
“So what’s new here?” I ask. “How’s Leonard?”
Sara arches her brows and shrugs. “It’s hard to say. Dr. Tillman has him sedated.”
“Sedated? Why?”
“He scared the life out of the new girl in Housekeeping. Told her someone had opened fire in the dining room and killed everyone.”
“That’s Leonard, though. He says things like that all the time.”
“The new girl didn’t know that. She called 911 and was hiding in a broom closet with Leonard for almost an hour until the cops found them. We had to evacuate and everything.”
I sigh heavily. “I still don’t see why Tillman sedated Leonard over that. This is a mental hospital, for Christ’s sake.”
“He just restrained him at first, but Leonard was a wreck. He just sobbed nonstop.”
“He has a fear of being restrained. Didn’t anyone tell Tillman?”
Sara nods. “It didn’t help. You know how he is.”
“Shit.” I shake my head in disgust. “That wouldn’t have happened if I’d been here.”
“You can’t work three hundred sixty-five days a year, Dr. Delgado.” Sara gives me an admonishing look. “Oh, and we filled Nicole’s bed the day after she was discharged.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Sara and I walk toward the coffeemaker while talking, and I pour myself a cup.
“The new patient’s name is Allison. She’s been here for ten days and hasn’t said a word,” Sara says, pouring herself a cup of coffee, too.
“Catatonic?”
“No. She was strangled, so her vocal cords may have been damaged. Or it could be shock. She witnessed her sister’s murder.”
“Oh, shit. That’s terrible.”
Sara’s gaze is sympathetic. “Wait till you read her report.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll go read it before I round so I’m ready to see her. How’s she doing here so far?”
Sara shrugs. “Hard to say. Tillman has her sedated.”
I’m gritting my teeth so hard I feel them grinding. It’s all I can do to stay professional right now.
“Tell him to find me before he leaves, please,” I say to Sara.
“Yes, Dr. Delgado.”
There’s some stomp in my step as I
walk back to my office. This is why I was hesitant to take two weeks off—because putting the care of my patients in someone else’s hands is a hard thing to do. But it should have been safe to leave Brody Tillman in charge. He works under me three days a week and covers me on weekends and days off. He knows damn well how I want patients treated.
When I get to my office, I close the door and sink down into my leather desk chair. I know I need to listen to Tillman before jumping his ass, but it’ll be hard. And all I can do at this point is write him up and tell him I expect better next time.
Dwelling on things that can’t be undone is my Achilles’ heel. It’s how I got into such a bad place that I needed two weeks away from here. I was about to drown my pain in a bottle of Jack, and with me, it never stops at just one. I worked too hard for my sobriety to risk losing it, so I had to get my ass to a place where I could reset my mind.
The unfamiliar name on the file at the top of the pile on my desk catches my eye.
Allison Cole
I open the folder, put on my reading glasses and dig into the report on Hawthorne Hill’s newest patient.
Patient: Allison Cole
Age: 27
Sex: F
Residence: 427 Parkland Ave., Apt. 2, Chicago
Summary: Cole was admitted to Hawthorne Hill on 3/25/2016 by her aunt, Margaret Cole. Margaret Cole reports her niece was in good health physically and mentally before 3/16/2016, when she witnessed the death of her sister, Ava Cole.
According to police reports from the Chicago Police Department, Allison Cole was present at Ava Cole’s apartment when armed assailants bound and gagged both women and cut Ava Cole’s throat. Police have no suspects in the murder.
Neighbors of Ava Cole reported to police sounds of a struggle in her apartment. There was no sign of forced entry. Police discovered Ava Cole’s body upon their arrival. Allison Cole showed physical signs of strangulation. She was inconsolably upset but would not respond to police questioning. Margaret Cole reports she picked Allison up from the police station and took her back to her home in Manhattan, where they stayed for three days. When Allison still hadn’t spoken in that time, Margaret Cole took her to see her physician, Dr. Jill Warner, and psychiatrist, Dr. Li Ching. Warner and Ching advised Margaret Cole that her niece may need time to recover from the trauma she witnessed. Margaret Cole said she was worried her niece may harm herself, and she was unable to watch her around the clock. She requested a referral to an inpatient facility from Warner. Warner called Hawthorne Hill administration on 3/24/2016 and received approval for referral.
Hawthorne Hill staff assessed Allison Cole upon admission. She was physically well, though dehydrated. Dr. Brody Tillman prescribed IV hydration. Allison Cole pulled out her IV multiple times before being restrained.
Update: 3/27/2016—Hawthorne Hill psychiatrist Dr. Marcia Heaton held a session with patient Cole. Cole did not respond to questions by Heaton.
Update: 4/1/2016—Hawthorne Hill psychiatrist Dr. Marcia Heaton held a session with patient Cole. Cole did not respond to questions by Heaton.
Update: 4/2/2016—Hawthorne Hill psychiatrist Dr. Marcia Heaton held a session with patient Cole. Cole did not respond to questions by Heaton.
Update: 4/5/2016—Hawthorne Hill psychiatrist Dr. Marcia Heaton held a session with patient Cole. Cole did not respond to questions by Heaton.
I close the file and exhale deeply. Heaton thinks she has a soft touch, but not so much. She graduated at the top of her medical school class, but I think she chose the wrong specialty. She expects constant, measurable improvement from patients because it makes her feel like a success. But some people here will never recover to the point of returning to society. I don’t believe in pushing my patients. My job is to support them. They need a safe place, safe people to talk to if they want to, and control over as many things as we can safely give them control over.
Allison Cole’s story is still running through my mind on the walk to Leonard’s room. I don’t have a favorite patient, but if I did . . . what the hell, I do, and it’s Leonard. He’s a sixty-one-year-old black man with a gray beard and a head full of conspiracy theories. But he’s also sharp and observant—something many people don’t notice because of his paranoia.
When I see Leonard’s arms and feet restrained to the safety bars on his bed, I sigh softly. I’d go several rounds with Tillman right now if he weren’t such a pansy. The guy deserves to have the smug look wiped off his pretty face.
Leonard’s no threat to anyone. I walk out of his room and grab the chart hanging next to his door, noting my order for an immediate removal from sedation. I’ll come by and see him later, when he’s awake.
I look in on a few other patients before arriving at Allison Cole’s room. Like Leonard, she’s bound to the bed with restraints, and she appears to be sleeping.
She looks fragile. It’s not just her petite frame, but also the shadows under her eyes. Her dark brown hair hangs loosely over her shoulders, its shine telling me it was washed recently.
Our nursing aides are devoted to the patients. I noticed the difference in approach immediately when I came to Hawthorne Hill after only working at big, metropolitan hospitals. Not that the staff at large hospitals aren’t devoted, because they are. But at Hawthorne, we know the patients well. We see them for days, months, even years on end.
That may be why I have such a fondness for Leonard. I’ve been at Hawthorne for a little over a year, and he’s been here since before I started. For me, the place wouldn’t be the same without him.
I take a final look at Allison and almost remove her restraints. How many fucking times have I told Tillman that restraining a sedated patient is overkill?
But since I’m taking her off sedation and she’s pulled out her IV lines before, I leave her restrained. I mark her chart to stop administering the sedative, looking up from what I’m writing when I hear a howling sound.
We’re in rural Montana, but I know there’s not a wolf on the loose in Hawthorne. The howl came from the pediatric wing, and it sounded just like Billy McGrath. Billy has multiple personalities, and some of them aren’t human.
I tuck my pen into the pocket of my white coat and head toward the howl.
THE SCENT OF CEDAR IS lulling me to go somewhere. I follow the sweet, clean smell, trying to open my eyes so I can figure out where I’m going. My eyelids are so heavy, though.
I turn my head to the side, still trying to open my eyes. There’s something I don’t like about not being able to see what’s happening around me, but I can’t quite remember what it is. This sense of being underwater seems impossible to shake.
Might as well just sink back into the dark, murky depths of the ocean inside my head. It’s too hard to find the water’s surface.
“Allison?”
The sound of the deep, unfamiliar male voice forces me out of my slumber. When I open my eyes, there’s a tall man in a white coat standing several feet from me.
My heart flies into overdrive. I try to move away from him, but my hands hardly move. I’m tied to the sides of a bed.
It comes back in an instant. I’m at Hawthorne Hill, the mental hospital in Montana that Aunt Maggie dumped me off at. But who is the dark-haired man in my room?
“You’re safe, Allison,” he says, putting his hands out in front of his chest to show me they’re empty.
Like that helps. This guy could kill me with one of his bear-paw-sized hands wrapped behind his back. I jerk against the restraints, tears filling my eyes.
“I’m Daniel Delgado,” he says, pointing to the name stitched onto his white coat. “I’m a doctor.” He gives me a second to process that before continuing. “Listen, Allison. You were sedated, but we’re bringing you out of the sedation now. You probably feel groggy and confused, but that’s completely normal.”
I swallow and stop fighting against the restraints. Instead, I look over at one of my bound wrists and then up at the doctor.
“I’ll take them off if you p
romise me you won’t pull out your IV line.”
I meet his eyes, which are a warm, caramel shade. There’s no challenge in the way he holds my gaze, but I can tell he’s studying me. Assessing me. Trying to figure out if I’m crazy, just like everyone else here.
“Just give me a nod if we’ve got a deal,” he says.
It’s a tough call. I don’t want the IV line in my arm. I know why it’s there—to run fluids, nutrients, and medicine into my body. To keep me alive and healthy.
Alive and healthy are two things I don’t want to be anymore. The flashbacks are merciless, and they never stop, even when I’m asleep. I can’t escape my own head as long as I’m alive.
But being tied to this bed is unbearable. The terror I feel at being unable to escape is enough to choke me. I’d agree to anything right now to be freed.
I nod once, and Dr. Delgado leans down to unfasten the first restraint.
“I’m not a fan of restraints,” he says as he works. “I think they do more harm than good. But if you’re putting yourself in danger, we may not have a choice.”
As soon as he gets the first restraint off, he lifts my wrist to examine it. His hand is twice the size of mine, but he has a gentle touch.
There’s a little redness from my brief struggle against the restraints, but Dr. Delgado seems to dismiss it. He sets my arm back on the mattress and walks around to the other side of the bed to free my other hand.
“I’m the general practitioner here at Hawthorne,” he says. “I’ll come see you every day, prescribe meds when you need them, and treat any injuries or illnesses you may get. Dr. Heaton consults with me on her sessions with you, and we collaborate on any prescriptions or treatments for mental health.”
He seems more chill than Dr. Tillman, who got aggravated when I wouldn’t answer his questions. That son of a bitch threatened to have me sedated several times, and apparently, he went through with it.
“I see we’ve got a dry-erase board there for you,” Dr. Delgado says, nodding at my bedside table. “Anything you want to ask me or tell me?”
I shake my head. The second restraint is removed, and I rub my wrist.
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