by C. L. Bevill
“I looked at the missing persons list,” Lareina said after a lengthy pause. “Every girl on there. I even looked at the ones much older and younger than you. Especially since that girl was freed in California after, what, eighteen years. I couldn’t match anyone to you.” She lifted a hand toward Jane’s head. Bracelets jingled loudly. Jane resisted the instinctive flinch at the gesture. “Not with that dark hair and those eyes. You don’t see that color much. And you’re a pretty girl, too. People will recall that. Not that you’ll be pretty for long if you continue down that sorry road you’re on.”
Jane didn’t say anything. She’d looked in the mirror. The face was unfamiliar to her. Her own reflection was that of a stranger. She supposed she was attractive in an anorexic, model way. Her cheekbones were chiseled. Her lips were full but chapped. Possibly she would clean up very well, but she couldn’t bring herself to care much about that.
Thinking about the note under her pillow, she set her mouth in a grim line. “Maybe they haven’t missed me yet. Maybe they don’t know I’m gone.”
Another click of the tongue. Jane repressed the urge to yank out the older woman’s tongue. Jane was never going to click her tongue again.
“Maybe, maybe, maybe,” Lareina said. “Maybe I’ll win the Lotto tomorrow and bring 50 Cent home all wrapped up in a pink ribbon, too. My husband won’t like that but who cares?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Jane said quietly.
“Do you know what your name is?”
“No.” The answer was simple, and Jane didn’t qualify it with a long rejoinder. She didn’t know, and as much as she might rack her brains, she couldn’t remember anything that helped her.
She had been somewhere, held by the bald man. There had been flashes of pain and suffering. Her pain and her suffering. Something had chased her through a shadow-drenched bayou. Then she was in the back of the car in heavy traffic. There was a scene where she’d made herself vomit up the pills he’d given her. It had been the first opportunity she’d had to do so. When the break came, she’d taken it. A little boy stared at her wide-eyed from a minivan. Then running, running, running. Finally bright, oversized headlights and the sound of screeching brakes.
The social worker stared at her. Her expression transformed from world-weary skepticism to curious disbelief to wonder. “Do you know how rare real amnesia is?” Lareina asked, after another prolonged gap.
“I’m guessing it isn’t common,” Jane said wryly.
“Typically, amnesia occurs after some traumatic event, like a car accident, where the person is injured in a region of the brain. Their type is usually brief and contained to the time shortly before and during the traumatic event. People will wake up in the hospital and have no idea how they got there. They don’t remember the accident they were in at all and sometimes up to a few days before that. The other types include anterograde amnesia, which is an inability to retain new information. Then there’s retrograde amnesia, which pertains to abilities to recall past events and previously familiar information and skills.” Lareina sighed loudly. “Finally, there’s the cherry on top. Maybe the doctor talked to you about it. Dissociative amnesia or psychogenic amnesia is characterized by extreme memory loss and cannot be accredited to any neurological event.”
“I bet you thought you forgot all of your psychology classes,” Jane said blandly.
“Oh, I looked it up when I got your case, honey,” Lareina said with a smile. “And it was abnormal psych, by the by.”
“So if I was kidnapped by a nutjob and held captive, that might be the psychologically disturbing event that precipitated the amnesia,” Jane mused.
“I’m rethinking your mental capacities,” Lareina said. “You’re using some very large words for a junkie just off the streets. Although junkies do come from all walks of life.”
“If you’ll give me a card, I’ll call you in a few days if I remember something,” Jane said, tired of the same old insinuations. “Maybe I can find out by myself.”
“What if your man finds you?” the social worker asked. “What did you say? A bald man with a tattoo? I would think vice would have an easy time of finding him. Probably know exactly who it is, too.”
“I’ll scream,” Jane said. And maybe kick him in a region that will make him squeal like a little girl. Then I’ll work on him until he tells me what I need to know. When I’m done with him, I’ll call the police to come get what’s left over.
Chapter 4
It is folly to fear what one cannot avoid.
– Danish proverb
Jane washed up after the social worker left. The woman had left her card along with some other papers, and Jane stuck them in the bag with the clothes. She took the bag in the bathroom and changed into the clothing. The material felt stiff and new. She yanked the tags off with her hands, leaving the plastic that attached the tags on because she didn’t have scissors. The t-shirt was too big. The panties were baggy and meant for little old ladies. The jeans were long enough in the legs, but the waist was loose. The shoes didn’t fit either.
So who am I going to complain to?
She studied her hands. The fingers and palms were calloused. That means I do things with my hands. She looked over her body, lifting the t-shirt to see, trying to get a glimpse of her back in the mirror. It was difficult to see everything with the minimal mirror. She couldn’t see any tattoos, although she could feel some raised marks on the back of her neck. Scars were minimal except the ones around her wrists and one jagged scar on the underside of her right forearm. The marks on the back of her neck could be scars she supposed, but they felt old and healed.
She had freckles on the upper parts of her arms and a slight tan that corresponded with wearing short-sleeved shirts. Her feet were small. She took the shoes off and stared at her toes, wishing for an answer to pop into her head.
If toes could talk…
Jane slid the canvas shoes back on. She almost felt normal. The pounding in her head declined rapidly with the day. The stitches only pulled if she made an extreme face, so she avoided that. The aches in her body felt more like she had exerted herself unduly rather than being hit by a car.
Blue Jeep. Little boy watching me with big eyes. Bald man with a tattoo. Images fluttered unwanted through her head. Another one flashed. Another man, so different from the first. He was taller than she was, and his face was gentle as he came closer to her, so close his lips were about to brush across her mouth. The vision vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving a misty feeling of longing. Who is he?
Jane went back out into the hospital room, and the hours dragged by. The same young orderly came by with lunch, and she picked at it, not particularly hungry. There was a rising sense of anticipation, as if she knew deep inside her something was coming for her. Something not good.
Sometime after that, a nurse rattled in and took Jane’s vital signs, noting the change in attire with approval. “Good,” the nurse said. She was short and blonde with intuitive brown eyes. She smiled encouragingly at her patient. “Doctor’s discharging you this afternoon. I hope the social worker set you up with a shelter for tonight.”
“Sure,” Jane said. She’d gotten a typewritten list of local shelters along with Lareina Rule’s business card. She was going to have to walk to them because she didn’t have a solitary thin dime to her name.
“Great,” the nurse said, and as if she had read Jane’s mind, she added, “We took up a collection for you.” She handed Jane a stuffed envelope.
Jane blinked and stared at the envelope. “You didn’t have to do that.”
The nurse sighed. A nametag on her uniform said “Picou.” “No, we didn’t have to do that. But I’ll tell you straight. The detectives came in and acted like you were nothing but dirt to them. They probably didn’t waste a bit of time looking into who you are before they threw your file in the trashcan on the way out of the hospital. Anyone can tell you aren’t what they think. I saw the clothes you were wearing. Barely mo
re than rags. All them bruises on you, weren’t all from the car hitting you. Maybe you do you know who you are, but you’ve got a damn good reason for hiding your name.”
She waved the envelope under Jane’s nose. “Take it. You’re going to need it. It’s only a couple hundred dollars. You can pay it forward one day when you’ve a mind.”
Jane took the envelope and her fingers shook. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Nurse Picou muttered something unintelligible and then added, “If those homeless shelters are too god-awful to stay in, then you might go to the Women’s Shelter. With all the bruises, you can say you were battered. Who knows? You might very well be telling the truth. They’ll keep you for weeks, if need be. They’ve got a very nice system for getting you going again. They work with you to make a plan, find ways of funding yourself, set you up with free legal help if you need it, help with getting a restraining order out on the man who beat you. Counseling, too. Fine people down there.”
She winked at Jane. “I ought to know. Been there. Done that. Have the t-shirt and scars to prove it.”
Jane was speechless.
The nurse shrugged. “When a person needs help, they need help. Don’t have to be ashamed about it.”
“Thank you,” Jane said again. The words caught in her throat.
“You’re welcome,” the nurse said and left the room. Unexpectedly, she stuck her head back in and added, “That reporter’s due to come a little later, so I’ll round up a comb and some make-up for you, okay?” She disappeared without waiting for an answer.
Jane was left staring at the envelope. Finally, she put it in the bag with the business card and the list of shelters. Then she took it out, folded it, and put it in her jeans pocket. The nurse was right; she was going to need it. Every penny and then some.
Looking around the meager hospital room, Jane didn’t see anything that would help her. She would have to help herself. A reporter would talk to her, write a story about her circumstances, and take her photograph. It would appear in the paper, perhaps online on the paper’s website. People would see it.
The wrong people will see it. It was the masculine voice again. The tone was warning and gloomy. They’ll come after you. That thing will come for you. In the night.
“Dammit,” Jane muttered. The voice in her head vanished. I am nuts.
She cast an eye on the window. The blinds were open, and the sky was blue and clear. But there was a pall upon it. The sun was beginning its descent into the west. It wouldn’t be long before the shadows began to elongate into inky distended fingers.
Finally, Jane left the room, wandering the halls. She took the doctor’s advice and made idle conversation with other patients. The nurses disregarded her presence. Undoubtedly they were used to people of all sorts coming and going.
In a waiting room two floors down, she had a long chat with a man who’d been bitten by a Cottonmouth snake. His thumb was completely black where the snake had nailed him, and he was wondering if he was going to lose it. He was happy to talk about himself with only a solitary question of why Jane was lingering around one of the hospital’s many waiting rooms. When he finally wound down, she’d told him she hoped for the best for him and excused herself.
Jane couldn’t help a nervous glance at the windows she passed. The sun was dropping fast, and it made her insides tighten with an uncomfortable expectation. She made her way toward her floor and her room. She reached the corner just before the nurse’s station, and a loud voice announced, “Her name is Margot Alder, and you already know she’s been off her medications for too long.”
Jane stopped cold.
The doctor who’d been in Jane’s room earlier said, “I’ve had a really long day. I’ve been here twelve hours and counting, and I’ve already told you she doesn’t remember anything. Especially about handcuffs.” The last word was drenched with sarcasm.
“Obviously we don’t know how Ms. Alder came to be in the company of an individual who put restraints on her,” the voice said.
Jane retreated behind an EKG machine and tried to make herself inconspicuous. They’re talking about me. My name is Margot Alder? Margot Alder? Really?
“So this Margot escaped from your facility in…” there was a pause as papers rattled and the doctor finished with “…Lafayette?”
“Ms. Alder is a paranoid schizophrenic with dangerous characteristics,” the first voice said. “She is potentially a threat to anyone she meets.”
I don’t think I like that person. A man. A doctor? A shrink who came looking for me, and how do you suppose he was able to find me? He just happened to be checking for Jane Does in hospitals within a hundred fifty miles of Lafayette? Why come in person? Why not send the local police?
Jane inched forward and peeked around the corner. Several people stood at the nurse’s station. There was Dr. Mayhew, looking tired and ready to go sit on a La-Z-Boy recliner in a dark den with a big-screen television and a beer. Nurse Picou hovered nearby with a distinctly suspicious expression on her pretty face. Finally there was another man standing a few feet away from them, his back to Jane. He was about six feet tall and was not bald. Furthermore, a tattoo was not to be seen on the back of his neck.
Not that I can see his neck. He’s wearing a suit, a white collared shirt and probably a tie, too. His suit looks expensive to me.
The man’s hair was gray, and he ran his fingers through it as though he was exasperated. “Of course, we’re worried about Ms. Alder. She’s been missing for a full week. I’ve had people checking hospitals, police stations, and morgues all over the state. We’re also worried about the people she might injure in her psychotic state.”
“A week,” the doctor repeated doubtfully. Jane could plainly see Dr. Mayhew’s face. Aggravation, fatigue, and concern all battled for dominance there. “Do you typically use restraints at your facility?” He shuffled the papers in his hand again and looked down. “The Redfield Psychiatric Institute? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s privately funded by a generous donor,” the man said smoothly. “We take on unique and predominantly hard cases, such as this specific patient. I’ve had high hopes that we could help Ms. Alder. She’s responded positively to various therapy treatments.”
Jane could see Dr. Mayhew’s face. He didn’t look happy. He said, “You mean antipsychotic medications? Risperidone? Clozapine?”
“And other treatments,” the man said, nodding.
“Jane’s blood work didn’t show any evidence of those drugs,” Dr. Mayhew said thoughtfully. “And she’s had little signs of withdrawal from the heavy hitters. Clozapine is usually a drug of last resort when the other antipsychotics don’t work, am I right, Dr. Millet? Side effects are particularly vexatious from the clinical studies I’ve read.”
“It’s pronounced the French way,” Dr. Millet said. “Mill-lay.”
“Sure,” Dr. Mayhew said. “Aren’t those drugs cumulative-effect drugs that cause all kinds of side effects when withdrawal is immediate?”
Dr. Millet didn’t say anything.
“I’m asking about the restraints because her wrists show older scarring. Whatever was used there caused cuts that were allowed to heal, long before she came on this floor wearing handcuffs,” Dr. Mayhew said and carefully put the paperwork on the counter like the act of holding the papers bothered him.
Nurse Picou didn’t say anything. She stared at Dr. Millet with one eyebrow lifted challengingly.
Dr. Mayhew went on, “Handcuffs that were removed by a locksmith, I might add, because police keys didn’t work on them. And shall we talk about the needle marks on her arms? Some are old. Some are half healed. Do you inject your patients at the institute?”
I’m sure Margot Alder is a very nice name, Jane thought. But it’s not my name. I know it’s not my name, and Dr. Mayhew’s got a point. Several points.
Dr. Millet’s back straightened, and he glanced over his shoulder. Jane saw his face fully in the strong fluorescent light of the hallways.
It was a strong face with dramatic features. His cheekbones sliced down to a full mouth. His blue eyes exhibited annoyance. He was a man in his forties and used to being in charge. She had an idea that he didn’t like a mere hospital doctor questioning his abilities and methods.
“Jane doesn’t act like a paranoid schizophrenic,” Nurse Picou said, throwing a little gasoline on the fire. “I spent three years working in the psychiatric ward and I should know.”
“Who knows how brain injuries impact patients of this type?” Dr. Millet said patronizingly. “And trauma could have an impact as well. I know Ms. Alder very well. She needs regular medication and structured therapy. She needs to return to the institute’s environment.” He sighed heavily. “I believe she began to skip her medications before she escaped the facility. It would explain the lack of chemical makeup in her blood work. Unfortunately, we cannot lock every patient in chains and force-feed them their meds. Ms. Alder has rejected her medications before and been forced to take them via injection. It’s not an uncommon practice with difficult subjects. I thought she was doing better, but I was clearly wrong.”
The three fell into an uncomfortable silence.
“I’ll need to check your credentials,” Dr. Mayhew finally said. It was clear he didn’t like having to say the words. “This judgment against Miss Alder will be verified before she’s released into your care.”
“Of course,” Dr. Millet said. “Check whatever you’d like. I have orderlies from my facility here, and we’re prepared to take Ms. Alder by ambulance back to Lafayette as soon as you’re done ascertaining the paperwork is in order.”
Jane shivered. The man calling himself a doctor was too certain of himself. If she presented herself to the doctors at that moment, she would be going with them…to Lafayette? To more needles and a hospital where people watched you every waking moment?
Her eyes studied the doctor. He had a slightly impatient stance, as if he wanted to glance at his watch for the time. He looked around without actually seeing anything. Scanning for something? Looking for someone to come after him because he isn’t quite what he presents himself to be? I don’t trust him.
