Ten
From Brigit’s Journal:
Sometimes my room gets so cold at night that it feels as though my hands are going to freeze. I talked to the Missus about it; she said she’ll see what she can do. The family had a shouting match over breakfast, with Miss Irena screaming at her brother, and their father yelling at both of them. As usual, the Missus slipped out for a drink.
I found her in the laundry room with a bottle of sherry. She let me help her up to her room for a nap. Sometimes she can be so sweet—it gives me hope that maybe things will work out. If only she wasn’t so afraid. Mr. Edward has a temper, though I’ve seldom seen him strike her.
I checked on the price of passage to Ireland. I have almost enough saved up to pay for it, should circumstance make it necessary. I told Maggie I might be leaving. She doesn’t know why and thinks I should stick it out. If she only knew the truth …
A JUNCTURE BETWEEN never-never land and the twilight zone, Fairhaven Psychiatric Hospital seemed poised on the crux of a vortex of energies, partially created from—I suspected—the neuroses and instabilities of those making their home there. It was as if a large dragon coiled overhead, brooding as it spied on the complex. Whether poised to pounce or to protect, I wasn’t sure.
Murray glanced over at me. “Can you feel it?” she asked. “As if something stopped time here.”
When I thought about it, I saw she was right. People came to the institution to mark time—whether to rest and recuperate from some devastating breakdown, or just to wait it out. To wait for death, wait for life, wait in limbo. I nodded, shivering.
“Yeah, I can feel it. Creepy and yet, incredibly sad.” We followed the road toward the main building. Fairhaven was comprised of four buildings. The main structure housed the administrative offices, dining hall, classrooms, the infirmary, and several meeting halls. Two of the other buildings were the dormitories, segregated by sex. And the fourth was, according to the brochure the guard had given us, restricted to authorized personnel. Apparently, violent cases were treated and housed there.
A circular drive in front of the buildings spun off several smaller roads—one to a parking lot for visitors, a second to a staff parking lot, and a third to an undisclosed location. Murray parked in the nearest open space for visitors. There weren’t many people here today, I noticed as I climbed out of her truck and smoothed my skirt.
I took a deep breath and looked around. The lawns were perfectly manicured—a state my own would never see. A few people crossed from one building to another under the covered walkways, but most looked like staff. Only once on our way to administration did we see someone that I assumed to be a patient, led by a rather hassled-looking nurse wearing a pale blue pantsuit.
As we entered the main building, a hush descended, and I felt like a child entering a library, although there were no Quiet Please signs hanging in the hallway. A locked door prevented us from going any farther, and a cubicle to the left housed a guard behind a bulletproof pane of glass.
“The nature of your business, please?”
“Police business,” Murray said, and held up her badge as she leaned close enough for him to scan the pass she wore around her neck with a handheld scanner.
“I’m with her,” I said and moved forward to allow him access to my pass. He flickered the gun-shaped object over the bar code on my pass and nodded.
“If you have weapons, you’ll have to check them here. No weapons allowed in the main facility. And I need to glance through your handbags, please.”
Murray reluctantly surrendered her gun, getting a receipt for it. I had nothing to declare, but when the guard peeked in my purse, he pursed his lips.
“How about this?” he said, pointing to the little switchblade that Jimbo had given me.
I blushed. “Oops, sorry. I forgot I had it with me.”
Unsmiling, he wrote out a receipt and handed it to me. After a second, he glanced at Murray and then motioned me close. He whispered, “Ma’am, I hope you know that switchblades are illegal to carry in Washington State. I’m not a police officer like your friend there—she would know better than I—but next time, I’d leave this little beauty at home.”
I noticed Murray was trying hard to avoid listening, but a faint grin played across her lips as she studiously pretended not to hear our exchange. I thanked him for the advice. He punched a button and the heavy double doors clicked. Mur pushed them open and I followed her inside.
As we passed into the facility, Murray murmured to me, “Remind me to have a talk with Jimmy about what kind of gifts he’s handing out to our friends. The guard’s right—you shouldn’t be carrying that around in your purse.”
I cleared my throat. “What about a pocketknife?”
“No problem as long as it doesn’t open automatically. If the blade doesn’t exceed about three to three-and-one-half inches, you should be—” She stopped abruptly. “My God, it’s ugly in here.”
The walls were pale blue, the furniture cream and brown, and everything was covered in a wash of antiseptic sterility, worse than most hospitals and clinics. Cinder blocks formed the walls, big rectangular stones, and the floor had been polished until the linoleum shone, a mottled blue and peach pattern. The place was totally devoid of character or personality.
The receptionist’s desk sat in the middle of a four-way juncture. An older woman in a white pantsuit sat behind the desk. She was stout, with her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a bun, and she wore rectangular wire-framed glasses that were about a decade out of date. She beamed as though we were exactly the people she’d been waiting to see. For the first time since we’d entered the grounds of the institution, I felt like there was a human being attached to it.
“I’m Nurse Martin. May I help you?” she asked. Her tone immediately put me at ease; she sounded sincere instead of just mouthing a rote response, the perfect choice to meet and greet family members.
Murray must have sensed the same thing I did because her demeanor softened and she gave the woman a gentle smile. “Thank you. Is Dr. Ziegler here? He assured me it would be all right to drop in. We need to talk to him. I’m Detective Anna Murray and this is Emerald O’Brien.”
When Mur pulled out her badge most people flinched or looked a little intimidated. Not this woman. She eyed it carefully, gave a respectful nod, and picked up the phone. After paging the doctor, she pointed to a row of uncomfortable-looking chairs.
“If you’ll wait over there, Dr. Ziegler will be here in a few moments. I’m sorry the chairs aren’t softer, but if you girls would like some coffee or tea, I’d be happy to get you a cup.”
We declined graciously, and took our seats. Nurse Martin went back to her work, fluttering over the desk. We had been waiting about five minutes when a man of around sixty strode into the waiting room. The doctor was swathed in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck, so tall that he towered over Mur by a good six inches.
She held out her hand. “You said we could come by and talk to Brent Brunswick?”
“You caught him on a good day. He’s actually having one of his lucid moments. If you’ll follow me.” We swung in behind him and headed down the hall. “I had him brought to the main facility. He usually spends most of his time in his room except for meals,” Ziegler continued. “I need you to understand that Mr. Brunswick has been with us for fifty years. He’s going on seventy-one, and while he’s capable of functioning on his own to the degree that he can dress himself and feed himself, he doesn’t speak often. When he does, he doesn’t always make sense.” He stepped along so briskly and was so tall that I had trouble keeping up.
“What exactly is wrong with him?” Mur asked.
“Schizophrenia. The condition developed when Brent was twenty years old. His records indicate that he was always a moody boy, but one day something snapped and he made the break from reality. He lived for years in a fugue, and then slowly began pulling out of it for short periods of time. Back when he was first diagnosed, we didn’t ha
ve the treatments we do today. At this point, the illness has a firm hold on him; stronger than anything we can offer to treat him with.”
“There’s no hope he’ll ever get better?” I asked.
The doctor glanced back at me. “Ms. O’Brien, Brent is seventy years old. Even when young, he was a hypochondriac, with an overactive imagination that seemed to take on a life of its own. I gather he claimed to hear voices when he was in his early teens, but his family overlooked it because it never seemed particularly dangerous.”
“Does he have a family history of schizophrenia?” I asked. The condition was often passed down through heredity.
“Apparently, he had a grandfather with the disoder. I take it this is germane to your case?”
Murray nodded. “As I said, we’ve made a discovery in the lot where the house that he grew up in stood—a skeleton. Perhaps from the time when he was around nineteen or twenty. We need to question Mr. Brunswick. We’re not labeling the find a homicide yet, but that could change, depending on the results of our investigation.”
Dr. Ziegler gave her a long look. “Do you think Brent may have had a hand in this? Something like that could easily cause that final break in his psyche.”
Murray shrugged. “Right now, we just want to find out if he can tell us anything about the skeleton.”
“I see,” he said, stopping to glance through the thick file he carried. “I can tell you this: It’s a matter of public record that Mr. Brunswick’s grandmother committed suicide when she was around thirty-five. The story was in the papers, even though the family tried to have it covered up. She probably suffered from some sort of mental disorder, though there’s no way to prove it. And one of his uncles ended up being treated for alcoholism after he was arrested for raping a young woman.”
He thumbed through the file. “Again, our records indicate that the family tried to hush it up, but Mrs. Brunswick said that the authorities wouldn’t let it go and the story apparently hit the papers and was the catalyst that forced Mr. Brunswick and his wife to move away from Seattle to Chiqetaw.”
“So Brent’s probably going to be here for rest of his life?” Murray asked.
“Brent Brunswick has spent five decades in this facility, first in the old building, then this one when it was built. I sincerely doubt that he’ll ever walk the streets on his own again. He’s …” He paused, looking around as if trying to find the right words.
“Waiting to die,” I said, staring at the doctor. If he wouldn’t say it, I would. Murray sucked in a breath but the doctor nodded very slowly.
“Actually, yes. I do honestly believe he’s looking forward to the end. During his lucid moments, he often asks how long he has left.”
Dr. Ziegler stopped in front of a door and unclipped the ring of keys from his belt. He pressed the intercom button beside the door. “Ziegler here. I’m bringing in two guests to see Brent.” He tapped in a code on the security panel, then when a click sounded, he unlocked the door and we followed him in.
The walls were the same icy blue as the rest of the complex, but the room felt close and heavy, as if swathed in cotton.
Two attendants stood by another door that led out the other side. In the center, a Formica-clad table held a single cup of coffee. Four plastic chairs surrounded the table and, in one of those chairs, sat an older gentleman. He was wearing a business suit thirty years out of date, and a blue plastic bracelet encircled his wrist—a hospital bracelet impervious to tearing. He looked up at us and a flicker in his eyes told me he was aware of our presence.
Murray took a step forward. As I stared at Brent Brunswick, my stomach knotted. The doctor was right—he wasn’t all there, even though he looked perfectly normal. It was obvious in his feel, in his aura, in his eyes. I gave Murray a nudge and she nodded ever so slightly as we sat down at the table across from him.
“Brent, I want you to meet two ladies who’ve come to talk to you,” Dr. Ziegler said. “This is Detective Anna Murray, and her friend, Emerald O’Brien.”
Brent ignored Murray but he turned to me and, with what felt like a spark of recognition, whispered, “You know her.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Her, you know her,” Brent said, leaning forward.
Taken aback, I swallowed. Dr. Ziegler sighed and joined us at the table. “Sometimes he talks about a mysterious woman, but I haven’t the faintest idea of who she’s supposed to be. He’s never mentioned a name, and his sister’s never given us any clue as to who she might be. A dream, perhaps.”
Murray leaned forward. “Brent … Mr. Brunswick? I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I could.”
Again, he ignored her, this time directly focusing on me. “You want something, don’t you?”
His gaze fastened on mine, and the age slid away from his shoulders. For a moment, it was almost as if I could see him when he was still young and tall and handsome. His face was that of a poet’s, with a delicate bone structure, despite his wide shoulders, and a spark flickered in his eyes, swimming in the depths, dancing, waiting—orange in an ocean of blue, almost drowning. The spark of a life unlived, of an active and brilliant mind caught in the trap of mental illness.
And then, the flare faded and once again, I found myself staring into the age-worn face of a man who had lived far too many years in the fog. Weathered like the mountains, Brent had fought all of his storms on the inside. I stared at him, gauging what I could get away with asking.
Murray slid a piece of paper my way and I glanced at it. She’d written, “He seems to respond to you, go ahead and ask about the lot.”
I sucked in a deep breath and said, “Brent, do you remember the house where you grew up?”
He did not blink, did not move, did not flinch, but I knew I’d caught his attention. After a moment he whispered. “Yes. Hyacinth Street. I lived on Hyacinth Street.”
I nodded. “That’s right. Do you remember who lived there with you?”
Again, an interminable pause. Then, “Mother … Father. My sister.” A wounded expression spread over his face. I felt like I was watching someone on a cliff, teetering on to the edge.
I let out a long breath. “Do you remember someone named Brigit?”
He shifted and looked away. After a moment, he whispered, “I want my paints.”
I glanced at the doctor. “Paints?”
Ziegler smiled. “Mr. Brunswick is quite the painter. He loves to paint castles and trees and cats.”
“What kind of cats?” I asked.
“Calicos, mostly.” The doctor looked over at Brent, who was staring off into space. “He’s at his happiest when he’s got a brush in hand.”
Murray cleared her throat. “Can we see some of his paintings?”
“I’d like to oblige you,” the doctor said, “but as soon as he finishes them, he tears them up. We figure it’s a harmless diversion, and it keeps him content, and that’s the best we can hope for.”
Brent drifted back out of his fugue. He blinked and pointed at me. “You want to ask me something about the house and the land, don’t you?”
I was willing to wager Brent had more than a smattering of psychic awareness. It might have driven him over the edge, considering the atmosphere he’d grown up in. Or maybe something more sinister had been at play. I thought about Dr. Ziegler’s comment to Murray. Could Brent have killed Brigit and then lost grasp of reality?
I glanced at the doctor, who nodded. “Brent, my boyfriend and I want to buy the lot where your house stood. We need your permission, along with Irena’s.” I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I might as well give it a try.
“I don’t care,” he said, sounding surprisingly clear. He shrugged and, for the first time, glanced up at the doctor. “I should sign something?”
Dr. Ziegler stepped forward. “Brent, do you understand what she’s saying?”
“She wants to buy the land. I said I don’t care.”
The doctor looked at me. “You can have him sign something, but I don’t
know if it would hold up in court, should his sister object.”
I sighed, wondering vaguely if I might be taking advantage of Brent, but I couldn’t let Joe down. He wanted the land, and Brent would never use it again. I pulled out the form I’d typed up in advance and put it down on the table.
“Do you understand what it says?” the doctor asked Brent, reading it to him.
Brent nodded and held out his hand for a pen. He signed, and I folded the paper and put it back in my purse. Whether it would help or not, I didn’t know, but it was worth the chance.
After I had tucked the paper away, I decided to try one last time. “Brent,” I said softly, leaning forward to stare in the eyes of a young man trapped in a body which had gone on blithely through the years without him.
“Brent, do you remember who Brigit was?”
This time, he began to shake. His eyes grew wide and he stumbled to his feet, breathing rapidly. “Brigit! Oh Brigit, God forgive me, I’m sorry. Brigit, please forgive me—don’t hate me, please don’t hate me. I’m so sorry, so sorry!”
The attendants leapt to his side, taking gentle hold of his arms. Dr. Ziegler stepped forward. “Brent, calm down or we’ll have to sedate you.”
Appalled, I watched as the older man shrank away, twisting against their grips. He was clearly terrified, but the attendants held fast rather than trying to calm him down.
“Brigit! Please—don’t hate me! Don’t hate me!” And then the doctor injected something into Brent’s arm and he went slack in their arms. As they led him away, Ziegler turned back to us.
“That’s the most lucid I’ve seen him in months,” he said.
“Was that little display necessary?” Murray said, and I could tell she was as revolted by their strong-armed tactics as I was.
Dr. Ziegler sighed. “Ladies, have you forgotten that you’re in an institution for seriously dysfunctional people? Brent could have hurt himself if we’d let him go. What else are we supposed to do? Soft words and a gentle hand don’t always do the trick.”
Yasmine Galenorn - Chintz 'n' China 04 Page 15
