by Jodi McIsaac
I punched the code into the keypad so fast I got the numbers wrong and had to do it again. I took a deep breath in an attempt to calm myself, but adrenaline had taken over. Rob had warned me that the hospital was busier than usual, and it was, but that didn’t explain what I’d seen. Something was very, very wrong here.
“I need to see my brother,” I said, breathless, to the first person I saw. “Where is he?”
The startled orderly pointed me to yet another nurses’ station. This section of the hospital seemed less chaotic than the psych ward, thank God, but there was still something . . . off. A single nurse sat behind the counter, her fingers flying over a keyboard. Several others buzzed in and out of rooms like angry bees. The nurse behind the counter glanced away after noticing me, as though hoping I’d disappear. She slipped out from behind the nurses’ station and tried to walk around me, but I stepped firmly in front of her.
“I’m here to see my brother. They told me he was moved here. Wes Campbell.”
“If you’ll just wait over—”
“I can’t wait! Is he okay? Did something happen to him? I don’t even know why he was moved. No one would tell me.”
“Your name?”
“Clare Campbell.”
“Have a seat, Clare, and someone will be with you shortly.” Her tone brooked no argument, so I sat in one of the chairs lining a small nook near the nurses’ desk. The plastic squeaked uncomfortably beneath me. My insides twisted as I imagined all the possible scenarios.
I watched the nurses, their eyes shadowed and rimmed red. There was no idle chitchat or discussions about grandchildren or summer vacations. There were two other occupants of our tiny waiting room, but both were staring at their phones and avoiding eye contact.
Finally a nurse stopped in front of my chair. Her navy scrubs had gray and white kittens gamboling across them. “Clare Campbell?”
“That’s me.” I peeled myself off the plastic chair.
“This way.” She walked briskly down the hallway, more drill sergeant than nurse. She opened the door to a small office, and I stepped inside after her, expecting to see Wes. But no one else was there. My heart jolted.
“I understand you’re concerned about your brother,” she said, closing the door behind us.
“Is he okay?”
She smiled tightly, deepening the wrinkles in her cheeks. “Yes. There’s nothing to worry about.”
I relaxed. So he wasn’t mortally injured, and he hadn’t tried to kill anyone—himself included.
“So where is he?”
“You can see him in a minute; don’t worry. I just wanted to touch base with you first, since I understand you’re his guardian now. Is that right?”
“Yes. Can you tell me what happened? Why did he get moved?”
She waved a wrinkled hand through the air. “Nothing happened. We just wanted to run a few more tests on him before he was released, make sure everything was okay.”
That’s what Rob had told me, but they hadn’t explained it to him either. “Why? He was supposed to be released yesterday. Wouldn’t any tests have been done before then?”
The nurse’s smile faltered, then recovered. “Well, I don’t know all the details, only that his physician ordered the tests. But I assure you it’s nothing to worry about; all perfectly standard.”
“What were they for?”
Her hand fluttered again, dismissing my concerns. “Basic blood work, the usual. Seeing how he’s reacting to his new medication.”
“Yeah, but why move him over here? Couldn’t you do that on the psych ward?”
She put her arm around my shoulders—I flinched—and opened the door. “I understand you’ve having the family meeting this afternoon. I’m sure all of your questions will be answered then.”
“So is Wes free to go?” I wanted my questions answered now, not later.
“We’re still waiting for the results, so it could be as late as tomorrow. But again, they’ll have more information for you in the meeting. Now if you’ll just follow me, Wes is in a room right around the corner.”
I followed her down the hallway until she stopped in front of a white door marked 416B. She reached inside one of her kitten-festooned pockets and withdrew a small gold key on a white plastic keychain. I frowned. I didn’t know hospital doors had locks on them. But knowing my brother, maybe it was a sensible precaution. She turned the key in the lock, then rapped on the door before entering.
“Your sister is here, Wes.”
Before I could say anything, I was engulfed in a ferocious hug. I returned the embrace as best I could, ignoring the chains and piercings pressing uncomfortably against me. Then we stepped apart, and I got a good look at my big brother.
He’d gained a little weight since the last time I’d seen him. His round, still-boyish face was marked with tattoos on both sides of his temples and cheeks—crosses on one side, tribal markings on the other. His first tattoo had been a black spider on the side of his skull. He’d attempted to do one on the other side himself; I still couldn’t tell what it was supposed to be. He must have been fifteen at the time, and our parents had nearly lost it. But they soon got used to it, as one tattoo followed another—some professional, some not so much. I’d rather buy tattoos than food, he used to say. But it didn’t look like he was starving, at any rate.
He was attempting a Mohawk with what was left of his hair, thinned by years of drug use, malnourishment, and now medication. He’d gained some new piercings since my last visit: the other eyebrow, and the space beneath his bottom lip. His tangled beard, naturally blond but dyed orange to match the fauxhawk, almost hid the tattoo that read “Tracey” across his neck. Years after her death, Wes had become convinced she was communicating with him from the spirit world. I wondered if he still believed that.
“Hey, sis,” he said, showing black and yellow teeth.
“Hey. How are you?”
He shrugged. “I’m a fucking guinea pig, and Mom and Dad are dead. How do you think I am?”
I glanced nervously at the nurse, who had pursed her lips.
“I’ll leave you two alone for a minute,” she said. Then she pointed at what looked like a doorbell on the wall. “If you need anything, just ring this.”
“Yeah, right,” Wes muttered as the nurse left, leaving the door ajar.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked. “All they told me was that they needed to do some more routine tests before you could leave.
“Routine, my ass. They didn’t do this any of the other times I was discharged.”
“Well, maybe that’s because this time you’re getting out of here for good,” I suggested hopefully.
“That’s for sure. I’m never coming back to this hellhole.”
I sat down in a chair beside the bed, but Wes stayed standing. It seemed to be a rather nice hospital room, with a single bed, two chairs, and a bevy of tubes and equipment hanging from the walls. There was even a window looking out on the parking lot below. But why the lock on the door? Maybe they all had locks on them and I’d never noticed.
“How are you feeling about . . . Mom and Dad?” I asked tentatively.
He responded by baring his teeth and growling. “Let’s just say that the motherfucker who shot them is lucky he killed himself. Otherwise he’d have me to deal with.”
I shot a nervous glance toward the hallway. “You can’t say things like that. That’s how you got yourself here in the first place, remember?”
His face darkened even more, and I flinched. Wrong thing to say.
He stomped over to the window. “So when are you getting me out?”
“I don’t know exactly. I have to meet with your social worker and psychiatrist first. The meeting’s this afternoon, though, so hopefully you can leave later today. But the nurse said we had to wait for the test results, so you might have to stay here one more night.”
“Fuck that. Let’s just go right now.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”<
br />
He huffed. “Still following the rules, eh? How long are you home for?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” I said, caught off guard. “I haven’t booked my return flight yet.”
“You staying with Uncle Rob?”
“I did last night. I don’t know where I’ll stay tonight. Maybe I’ll go home.”
He nodded approvingly. “That’s where I want to go. If they’d stop doing experiments on me, that is.”
“They’re not experiments. They’re just tests to make sure you’re healthy,” I pointed out.
He snorted. “Whatever. I know what’s really going on.”
I was about to ask him what was really going on but caught myself in time. I didn’t want to get into it. We’d have plenty of time for conspiracy theories later.
He slammed his hand against the window, making me jump, then pressed his forehead to the glass. A foggy patch appeared near his mouth.
I glanced back toward the open door. The kitten nurse was headed toward us.
“How are we doing in here?” she asked.
“Fine,” I said. Wes just glared. “Um, I’m going to get myself a coffee. Do you want anything?”
“Yeah. Coffee. Black,” he said.
“Is that all right?” I asked the nurse. “Can I get some food and bring it in here?”
She nodded. “That’s fine, but Wes needs to stay here.”
“I’ll be right back,” I told him. He had already turned back to the window, both hands pressed against the glass as though in surrender. I stepped into the hallway and waited while the nurse locked the door.
“Why are you locking it?” I asked, pitching my voice low so he wouldn’t be able to hear me.
“We don’t normally have psychiatric patients on this side,” she explained. “It’s just a precaution.”
“Has he tried to get out?”
“Twice today,” she said, giving me a significant look. “I left the door open while you were in there because I thought it might make you more comfortable, but I had a security officer keep an eye on it.”
“Sorry about the trouble,” I muttered. “Can I get you anything from the cafeteria?”
She raised an eyebrow and shook her head. “Just come back to the desk when you’re ready to see him again.”
I took the elevator down to the main level, my head swimming. This was already more complicated than I’d anticipated. Jet lag and stress and grief pulled on my nerves. I wondered if it was too early for a martini. Later, I told myself.
My phone buzzed in my purse, and I pulled it out. It was Latasha.
“Hey,” I answered.
“How is it going?” she asked. “I’ve been worried about you.”
“Thanks. It’s okay.” I told her about the chaos at the hospital and Wes’s unexpected tests.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “Did your brother seem . . . okay?”
“As okay as he ever does. Oh, shit.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I’m fine. Everything is fine. I just . . . have to go.”
Kenneth Chu was walking toward me.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Clare.” His body was rigid. He wore a white lab coat and held a tablet tight in one hand. A stethoscope hung from his neck.
I tried to smile, but my face was stiff and uncooperative, even as my stomach churned and my heart rattled against my rib cage. Latasha had warned me, but I hadn’t really thought I’d see him. The years had been kind: he’d lost some of his college roundness; his body was lean and his high cheekbones more pronounced. His dark hair was brushed back off his forehead. His eyes were the same—soft, warm . . . and piercing.
“Hi,” I said.
“I heard about your parents. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“I wondered if you would come back.”
Ouch. I looked away.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said quickly. “It’s just—”
“It’s okay. How are you?”
“Fine. Busy.”
“Latasha told me you’d moved back home.”
He nodded. “How’s Latasha?”
I managed a small smile this time. “She’s great. Soaring career and all.”
“Great.”
We stood awkwardly for a few seconds. I gestured toward the cafeteria. “Well, I was just going to get a coffee. I should—”
“Yeah. Fine.”
I took a step away, then stopped and forced myself to look at him. “I know this is several years too late. But . . . I’m sorry. About what happened. I’ve regretted it.”
He pressed his lips together. “Which part?”
I looked at the floor, unsure of what to say.
“Never mind,” he said. “It doesn’t matter.” The shadow of a smile flitted across his face. “It was a long time ago, Clare. We’ve both moved on. At least, I know I have.”
“Of course you have,” I stammered. “I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think I’d pine after you forever?” His laugh was forced. “I did, for a while. Too long, maybe. But I’m over it now. What’s it been, nine years?”
“Something like that.”
“Long enough. So why are you here? In the hospital, that is?”
“Oh. Wes. My brother. He’s being released today.”
Kenneth raised a dark eyebrow. “I didn’t know he was here. Is he injured?”
“No, he’s been in the psych ward . . . for a while.”
“Ah. I see. Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Fine. Great. Sorry. So many meaningless words. What happened to the two of us?
You know exactly what happened, my bitchy inner voice told me. But despite the way we’d parted, it felt good to see an old friend right now. “Do you want to join me?” I asked, gesturing toward the cafeteria.
He looked at his watch. “I could probably spare a few minutes. The coffee here isn’t great, but at least it’s caffeine.”
“That’s all I need. Jet lag is not my friend.” We ordered our coffees and sat down in a couple of gray metal chairs around a small table.
He was right; the coffee was pretty bad. I made a mental note to get a fresh cup for Wes before I went back up, and to add plenty of sugar.
“How long have you been back?” he asked.
“Just a day,” I said. “Got in last night.”
“It’s a horrible reason to come back home. I can’t imagine how you must be feeling.”
“Not great,” I muttered.
“And Wes being released . . . was that supposed to happen before . . .”
“Yeah. They were going to pick him up. But I’m his new guardian now, so they have to do the family meeting with me before they can let him out, and they did some extra tests, and it’s all a little . . . overwhelming.”
“I can imagine,” he said. “And it’s been really . . . busy here lately, so things are probably taking longer than usual.”
“Why is it so busy?” I asked. “I especially noticed it over in the psych ward. I’ve never seen the hospital like this. It’s frightening.”
He frowned into his coffee cup. “There’s been a rise in . . . erratic behavior, for lack of a better term. Remember how I have an aunt with schizophrenia? And there’s your brother, of course. It reminds me of that, in a way—as if there’s been an increase in schizophrenia, but that doesn’t make sense. This past week in particular has been intense. A colleague told me that they called in the CDC a few days ago to help figure out what’s happening here.”
“The Centers for Disease Control? That seems a bit over the top, doesn’t it?”
He shrugged. “It’s their job to step in when the state health department feels overwhelmed or out of its league. There’s a staff meeting later today, so hopefully we’ll get an update.”
“What are the symptoms like? You said erratic behavior; what do you mean?”
He hesitated. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but when I heard about your p
arents . . . well, you deserve to know. Some of the people who’ve been admitted in the past few days are completely withdrawn. Talking to themselves or to people who aren’t there; unable to remember loved ones. Typical symptoms of dementia, except these patients aren’t old. But most of the patients are more like . . .”
“Like Wes.”
“Like Wes at his unmedicated worst,” he admitted.
“So you think the man who killed my parents . . .”
“I can’t say for certain, of course, but it fits the pattern.”
I must have looked stricken, because Kenneth leaned in and said, “Hey, you’ve got enough to worry about. You just focus on taking care of yourself.”
We avoided each other’s gaze for a few seconds. Then he said, “I know this is the last place you want to be.” There was bitterness in his voice, but it was soft, like an echo. “But . . . it’s good to see you again. I just wish it were under better circumstances.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“How are you really?” he asked. “Before all this, I mean. Were you happy?”
I remembered Rob asking me the same thing as we drove from the airport. “I was,” I answered, truthfully. “I don’t know how I’m going to feel . . . going forward.” A sense of unease hovered in my chest. “And you? Are you happy?”
“As happy as a recently divorced single father can be, I suppose.” His eyes crinkled when he smiled.
I flushed. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It was my fault. Workaholics don’t make good husbands, or so I’m told. It’s part of the reason I moved back here with Maisie. She’s five. My mother helps look after her. And I’m trying to be around more. This current . . . whatever it is, it isn’t making that easier. Do you have kids?”
“Me? God, no. I can barely keep houseplants alive.”
He smiled. “I remember that. I bought you a cactus for Christmas one year, and you managed to kill it.”
I stood up. “I should go. I told Wes I’d bring him a coffee.”
