by Cleo Coyle
“I mean, I have a memory-impairment issue. I’m not delusional. What’s with the extra from Cuckoo’s Nest?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand your question, though I like birds, too. Just don’t upset yourself, Ms. Cosi. We don’t want to see you upset—”
She crooked her finger and the ox with the tray moved toward us.
“Hold on! I’ll take your pills. I just have trouble swallowing, that’s all. I’ll need something to wash them down.” I pointed to the plastic pitcher I’d left on the wide windowsill. “May I have some water, please?”
“Oh, yes, of course!”
The nurse dismissed the ox and turned to fill a glass. That’s when I dumped the pills down my neckline. When the nurse approached, I mimed swallowing the cup’s contents and noisily drank the lukewarm water.
“Very good. Now, try to get some rest.” Flipping off the lights, she headed out the door, her singsong voice echoing into the hallway. “Things will look better in the morning!”
Not with decaf tea, they won’t.
After flushing the pills, I got back into bed, and punched my pillows. Then I turned my gaze from the darkened room to the lights of the city. One building was completely black, except for a single glowing window.
Was someone working late? Were they alone, like me?
Somewhere out there, beyond my hospital window, my family and friends were wondering about me. My daughter, Joy, was probably missing me. Madame, too. Maybe even those nice young baristas I met the morning I woke up on that bench—the ones who seemed so happy to see me walk into the Village Blend coffeehouse.
I closed my eyes. Somewhere out there, people cared about me, and a fresh hot pot of “stimulant” was brewing.
God, I’d give anything for a cup of it.
NINE
MADAME
IT was midnight at the Village Blend and the doors were locked for the evening, yet the lights and fireplace continued to blaze, the heat fogging the cold, rain-spattered windows.
A small group had gathered around a table near the brick hearth. In rapt silence, they sipped hot cups of coffee as they listened to Madame Blanche Allegro Dubois update them on Dr. Lorca’s plans for Clare.
“So,” Blanche said at the end of her talk. “What do you all think? Ideas?”
Blanche wasn’t surprised when her hotheaded son spoke up first.
“I say we break Clare out of the hospital. If Lorca doesn’t have her, he can’t experiment on her. Meanwhile, Quinn and his overpriced lawyers can fix things on the crawl, you know, through our slow-as-molasses legal system.”
Tucker Burton, the Village Blend’s assistant manager, tossed back his floppy hair and nodded enthusiastically. “Breaking Clare out will be easy! I’ll help!”
Tucker’s reaction didn’t surprise Blanche. As a passionate (albeit part-time) thespian, he always did prefer a bold production.
“Why do you think it would be easy?” Dante asked.
“Ever since that big charity Superhero Show, Punch and I have been hired to perform scaled-down versions for pediatric patients all over the city, and Clare’s hospital is used to seeing my comings and goings. Last week, I walked through its lobby in my Panther Man costume and no one blinked an eye.”
“But don’t you think ‘breaking Clare out’ is a little extreme?” Dante argued. “What if this treatment of Dr. Lorca’s is the right thing for her? Maybe Lorca is the Jonas Salk of head cases.”
“You’re a head case if you believe that,” Esther scoffed. “I saw Lorca on one of those laugh-it-up morning shows. He spouted a bunch of pill-pusher platitudes and talked up his own brand of supplements for ‘cognitive enhancement’—the man was so full of himself, his hubris added more pounds than the camera.”
Dante folded his arms. “So now you’re an expert in psychiatry?”
“No, tattoo boy, just full-frontal fakery.”
Blanche cleared her throat. “Esther may be unnecessarily blunt, but she is right.”
“About what exactly?” Dante said. “That I have tattoos? Or Lorca spouts pill-pusher platitudes?”
“Both,” Blanche replied. “Earlier this evening, I asked my Gotham Ladies group for some urgent help, and they came through. One put me in touch with a practicing psychiatrist and professor at Stanford University who’s had public disagreements with Lorca over his clinical work. Though Lorca’s credentials are solid, those ‘cognitive enhancement’ supplements he peddles, for example, are not recognized by the medical community as achieving what they claim. He’s made no effort to submit proper trials for peer review. What’s more, given the fact that Clare suffers from no injury, disease, deficiencies, or physical trauma, the Stanford professor suggested an alternative, drug-free therapy that could help Clare.”
Matt leaned forward. “Like what?”
“Like aides-mémoires.”
“What?” Dante asked, scratching his beard.
“An aid to the memory,” Matt supplied. “Such as?”
“First Clare must be made to feel safe and relaxed,” Blanche explained. “Then sensory prompts can be tried to stimulate her memories. These stimuli might be found in sounds, smells, tastes, or even feelings. If we find the right keys, Clare’s subconscious may release some or all of her imprisoned memories.”
“That’s the exact opposite of what Lorca is prescribing!” Matt threw up his hands. “How can Clare find this key when she’s isolated from everything she knows?”
“She can’t,” Blanche said. “I believe our Clare’s been misled and manipulated. I fear that smooth-talking doctor never mentioned any other type of therapy to her except his own. I would have to hear, from her own lips, that she doesn’t want to see me—or even try reconnecting to her daughter, her work, or the life she’s spent years building. But I can’t. Not if I’m not permitted to see her.”
“Someone’s got to speak with her,” Tucker urged.
“Please, let me break Clare out,” Matt begged.
“No.” Blanche was firm. “You cannot drag the woman, kicking and screaming, from her hospital room. Even if you could manage it, you’d be no better than a kidnapper.”
“Then we’re back to the slow boat of litigation,” Matt griped.
“Why can’t we just call her and talk to her?” Esther asked. “Get her to fire Dr. Quacker and walk out under her own steam?”
“Weren’t you listening?” Dante returned. “A phone call from us isn’t going to be allowed. Lorca has Clare isolated. He’s about to move her upstate. And if she changes her mind and objects, he’s ready to legally commit her.”
“Then I’m one hundred percent with Mr. Boss,” Esther said. “Why should we let Quacker get away with it?”
“Because we’ll land in hot water if we don’t.”
“Well, I for one don’t mind hot water.” Esther raised her demitasse of espresso. “We wouldn’t have a business without it.”
“Doesn’t bother me, either,” Tucker said, “especially when it comes to helping CC. Count me in for the breakout.”
“Slow down,” Blanche interrupted. “Your intentions are noble, but your plan won’t work. Not if Clare is convinced Lorca’s treatment is her only way back to us.”
Everyone fell silent a moment. Finally, Tucker spoke.
“Okay, people, how about this. Instead of breaking Clare out, we break Madame in.”
Esther began to clap. “That’s it!”
Dante nodded in agreement. Blanche praised Tucker for the idea. Only Matt stayed silent. After everyone settled down, he finally gave his caveat.
“I’m only in if we double our options.”
“What do you mean?” Tucker asked.
“We sneak my mother into Clare’s hospital room so she can have a talk. And if Clare decides to leave, we break her out, right then and there.”
Tucker no
dded. “A little costume change is all it would take to sneak her out of the building. No one pays attention if you’re wearing scrubs.”
“We should still plan a diversion,” Matt insisted, “something to lure the floor staff’s attention away from Clare’s room.”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Tucker waved his hand.
“What?”
“None of us may know the key to unlocking Clare’s memories, but I know nurses. The key to Clare’s escape is the Village Blend’s pastry case!”
TEN
TWO days later, Blanche was exiting the hospital’s elevator. Peeking around a corner, she peered down the long, antiseptic-scented hallway.
On this rainy afternoon, all seemed quiet on the floor. Several nurses occupied the station in the center of the corridor, and a bored janitor mopped the shiny waxed floor. There were no doctors present, and no visitors, save for a bald, hard-faced man with a mustache and a tweedy brown sport coat.
Blanche easily spotted Clare’s door halfway down the hall—it was the only one fully closed, and she prayed it wasn’t locked.
Beside her, Dante Silva tugged at his green hospital scrubs. To calm his obvious tension, Blanche patted the young barista’s tattooed arm. “I know you’re nervous, Dante, but we can do this!” she said, doing her best to impersonate an octogenarian cheerleader.
“I’m not nervous,” Dante informed her. “You forget, I’m wearing these so-called scrubs inside out, because the outside is covered with glue-on sequins.” He scratched again. “And those shiny little buggers are rubbing me in all the wrong places!”
Blanche sighed. “It was all Tucker could come up with on such short notice. He dug them out of his theatrical trunk. I believe they were used in a cabaret send-up of some soap opera.”
“Glittery Hospital,” Dante said. “Tuck already told me. Somehow that knowledge does not soothe the irritation.”
“Grin and bear it. We can’t have a medical doctor fiddling with his pants in public. And you had better pull down those sleeves, too.”
“Oh, right,” Dante said. “Esther warned me that she never met a doctor who had more skin art than a sailor with a drinking problem.”
“Well, don’t take her criticism to heart, dear boy. I find your tattoos fetching.”
Five minutes passed. This time it was Dante who peeked around the corner. “Where is our diversion?” he wondered. “Ah, there he is.”
On cue, Tucker emerged from a door at the far end of the corridor. Blanche and Dante watched him stroll up to the nurses’ station and make the big announcement.
“Good afternoon, everyone! We’ve laid out a delicious spread on this floor’s visitors’ lounge, so come and enjoy! It’s an array of goodies from the Village Blend menu.” Tuck offered the nurses a flirty wink. “Our way of thanking you fine medical professionals for the care you’ve been giving our manager.”
Tuck’s volume went up a notch, to catch the attention of any staff members still working the rooms.
“Come and eat. We’ve got fresh-baked Blueberry Shortbread, Glazed Strawberry Scones, and warm Pistachio Muffins. Plus a whole vacuum pot of our famous Kona Peaberry, straight from the Waipuna Estate in Hawaii!”
Like the Pied Piper of pastry, Tucker led the delighted nurses to the snacks. Esther waved at the janitor to join the culinary conga line, and he happily set aside his mop to do just that.
“Let’s give the staff a little time,” Blanche cautioned Dante.
“I know the plan. When they’re all busy noshing, we make our move.” He raised a blue clipboard thick with official-looking papers. “I’ve got my prop.”
Three minutes later, she nudged the young barista.
“It’s showtime.”
After warning Dante not to be nervous, Blanche suddenly felt butterflies in her own stomach. But there was no turning back. This was their last chance. Dr. Lorca was transferring Clare to his upstate facility in the morning.
So, side by side, Blanche and Dante walked around the corner, and literally crashed into a young nurse rushing out of a patient’s room.
“Oh, excuse me,” she cried, embarrassed. Then she noticed Dante’s scrubs. “Are you new here?”
Blanche panicked. Though she kept a smile plastered on her own face, she feared Dante wouldn’t be quick enough to think on his feet.
But Dante replied with an appropriate degree of hubris. “I’m Dr. Glitter . . . Kildare Glitter, Department of Psychiatry.”
Blanche wanted to smack her forehead—or Dante’s.
Fortunately, the nurse was too smitten to notice Dante’s stammer, or his absurd moniker. Instead, her gaze was appraising.
“You’re pretty young to be a psychiatrist,” she observed, more impressed than suspicious.
“Top of my class at Harvard,” Dante said, pouring it on a tad thick, in Blanche’s opinion.
Dante glanced at the nurse’s name tag. All charm, he offered her his hand.
“Nice to meet you . . . Nurse Fischer. I hope we meet again.”
“Me too. Hey, there are refreshments in the floor lounge. Would you like to join me?”
“I’ve got to check on a patient,” Dante replied, in a tone of genuine regret.
“Okay, I’ll see you around, Dr. Glitter.”
As the nurse departed, Dante smiled. “She’s cute.”
“And you’re never going to see her again. Focus, my boy. Focus.”
A moment later, they reached Clare’s door. With Dante standing guard, pretending to read his clipboard, Blanche gripped the door handle. For a panicked second, she feared it was locked. But (thank goodness) the latch clicked!
“Wish me luck. Here I go . . .”
ELEVEN
CLARE
PROPPED up on my hospital bed, I heard voices in the hallway but couldn’t tell what was being said.
With a yawn, I turned the page on the book in my hand. I’d had a restless night. No dreams that I could remember. Rumbling thunder woke me. With growing despair, I watched the raindrops trickle down the windows. Then breakfast arrived—rubbery eggs, half a grapefruit, a sad piece of toast, and a tepid cup of water with a packet of Sanka sitting beside it. My spirits sank even further because, for me, a day without coffee (real coffee) was . . . well, unthinkable.
There would be no TV, radio, magazines, or newspapers, either. Books were the only thing I was permitted to read. A member of the hospital staff brought me a small stack of “approved titles” to choose from. Every one predated the twentieth century.
“You know, I do still remember a few authors other than Dickens, Austen, and the Brontës.”
The young woman shrugged. “It’s all I’ve got for you. Do you want one or not?”
I picked up Jane Eyre and began reading when a new RN came by with a new paper cup of pills.
Like a replay of last night, I asked what I was being given, and when I tried to reject the “something to help your nerves,” I was again reminded that I had already agreed to the treatment in writing, and it was “Doctor’s orders.”
Once again, I played the diversion trick. But I knew, sooner or later, I would have to take the pills—or the injection.
I really wanted to believe the doctor knew best. The soothing way he described my treatment sounded safe and reasonable.
So why was I resisting?
Because, in the light of a new day, even a cloudy day like this one, I saw things in a new way. I was no longer shocked and confused by my situation. I wasn’t happy about my mental state, but I understood the reality of it.
I was suffering from some kind of memory loss or block. My brain and body showed no signs of injury. There was no tumor. No disease. No deficiencies. Yet, for some mysterious reason, I could not recall fifteen years of my life.
A few days ago, I was confused and upset.
Today, I was curio
us. All I had were questions and I wanted answers. I was dying for answers!
I also wanted out of this isolation tank. I wanted to be with those I loved—especially Madame and my Joy, of course, even though she was a grown woman now, one I’d have to get to know. And I wanted to know everything: what kind of person she’d become; how her childhood and school years went; and, most of all, if I’d done okay as her mom.
Were there things Joy regretted? Had I let her down? Failed her in any way? Or was she proud of the mom she had and the job I had done raising her? Were we still a team, mother and daughter against the world?
As for Matt . . . honestly, I could live without seeing him, ever again, but I did want to know about the other people in my new life, the ones who recognized me—
That young woman Esther with those tears in her eyes when she saw me standing in the coffeehouse. And the tattooed barista, the artist named Mr. Dante, who had hugged me with such enthusiasm.
Were there other friends I’d made who would miss me if I were to move upstate to a psychiatric facility?
What if I told Dr. Lorca that I had changed my mind about his treatment plan? Was it really my choice? Or was he only making me feel like it was? If I said no to Dr. Lorca and tried to leave the hospital, would I be—as indelicately as Matt might put it—“locked in a booby hatch” against my will?
Unsure what to do, I asked that little voice I’d spoken with last night.
Contact Madame, it whispered. Find a way to reach her, and talk things over with her.
Though she and I hadn’t seen each other much since my divorce from her son, my mother-in-law has never been anything but totally honest, loyal, and loving to me. I knew I could trust her to help me make the right decision. Couldn’t I?
I was about to give up on thinking and reading and just pull the covers over my head when I heard my hospital room door open and firmly shut again.
I turned, shocked to find my desperate wish had come true. The kind, familiar face that greeted me was like a shining sun parting the darkest clouds.
