The Missing Year (6 page)

Ross checked into the Peak View Motor Inn, carrying his single suitcase and the charts Guy had given him the afternoon off to review. While Lila was his primary patient, Guy felt he should be familiar with the others in her group. Ross took the key from the motel’s manager and headed toward Room 6, working out his emotions on the way. On the one hand, he wanted to help Guy save Lakeside from closing its doors. On the other, it would have been enough to know he needed the help. The fact that he had gone to Dan, bargained for Ross’s job in exchange for six weeks leave, and that it seemed if Ross didn’t do what Guy wanted, he would find himself unemployed in Chicago, had him feeling strong-armed.

Nothing was ever what it seemed.

Ross turned the key in the door and second-guessed his choice in accommodations.

The cramped, wood-paneled efficiency smelled of artificial pine coming from a wall-mounted air freshener going off on a timer. The kitchenette with the avocado-colored appliances reminded Ross of his childhood home. He opened the outdated refrigerator, thankful it was at least cold.

His per diem afforded him a much nicer room, but none were as close to Lakeside and the other hotels were too close to a past he wasn’t yet ready to face.

He closed the hunter green curtains and turned on the desk lamp. The yellow glow across the glass-covered oak illuminated sparse fingerprints and the faint tan ring of the previous tenant’s coffee mug. Ross changed into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and washed up before settling in to see the range of patients he’d be dealing with.

Eighteen-year-old Sophie Park’s chart topped the stack.

Ross flipped open the cover and looked at the admission photo, taken for medical insurance fraud and identity theft purposes. A copy of her driver’s license was also on file, the two pictures not dramatically different from one another. Sophie’s paper white complexion, obsidian hair, and vibrant blue eyes stood out against the plain white background. She wore a high-collared lace shirt reminiscent of the Victorian Era and vintage jewelry. Diagnosed as Bipolar I with a history of multiple suicide attempts, including a failed hanging, Ross wondered what kind of scar the shirt might have been hiding. Her most recent attempt, a multi-drug overdose, had her admitted to Lakeside, though she was slated for release within the next couple of weeks.

Elijah Moss’s license showed a neatly groomed, late-twenties man with a button-down shirt and wire rimmed glasses. Ross almost couldn’t look at his admission photo. Elijah’s face was bright red, burned, the flaking skin bearing the telltale signs of chemical-induced peeling. Elijah was listed as a twenty-seven-year-old agoraphobic with OCD who had been referred for stabilization following an extreme allergic reaction to a bleach bath he said was to “kill all the germs.” Ross had heard of the bleaching trend amongst germaphobes, but had never seen such a severe reaction to it.

Twenty-five-year-old Joshua Hammond, pictured as a sloppy, somewhat juvenile-appearing man wearing a superhero t-shirt, had the empty look in his eyes of someone deeply troubled. A schizophrenic suffering from auditory hallucinations and perception issues, Joshua’s was most like the cases Ross had been handling in Chicago. According to Joshua’s chart, Air Marshalls had removed him from an airplane after he claimed it was a UFO. He apparently also believed he was Jesus at some point, nearly drowning himself by trying to walk across the deep end of a neighbor’s pool. Turns out, he didn’t know how to swim.

Kendra Ballard, a nineteen-year-old former street kid on her own since she was sixteen, had apparently taken to promiscuity as a means of acceptance. Diagnosed with multi-substance abuse-induced depression and a borderline personality, she, like other runaways Ross had seen in the past, had dabbled in prostitution. The chemical dependency would be easy enough to address in therapy. The reason she had run away from home in the first place, likely, much harder.

The last chart belonged to Lila Wheeler, diagnosed with major depression, adjustment disorder, and suicidal tendencies. Her driver’s license photo showed a confident-appearing woman with a vibrant smile, black hair, and jewel-like turquoise eyes. Her admission photo made Ross’s heart hurt. Her smile was gone, her face noticeably thinner, and her pale eyes stared off in the distance as though what had been photographed was not her body, but her devastated soul. Her chart was easily twice the size of the others.

Ross skimmed the records of the events leading up to Lila’s transfer, beginning with the report of her attempted carbon monoxide poisoning the day of her husband’s funeral. While newer model cars had catalytic converters to mitigate carbon monoxide emissions, pre-1970s cars didn’t. From the report, Lila had used a collector’s car—a 1960s Corvette—to do the deed. Either she was a car aficionado or she had done her homework. Lila had no prior personal or family history of mental illness, leading Ross to believe the attempt was situational—a knee jerk reaction to losing her husband who, by all accounts, was the love of her life. Reading the circumstances of Lila’s near-death affected Ross more than he expected. Sarah’s funeral had been the ultimate low point in his life and as much as he wanted to believe Lila’s was a case of mental illness—something he could fix with therapy and pills—he understood the inclination not to want to face the grief.

Nothing Ross read implicated Lila in wrongdoing.

He supposed had there been anything, Guy wouldn’t have needed his services.

The crisp morning had Ross bundled in a down-filled coat and scarf, his nose running from the cold. Leaves covered the walk path as he headed into Lakeside, as prepared as he could be to meet Lila. The fact that her situation so closely mirrored his own had him worried what might resurface within himself.

“Good morning, Dr. Reeves.” Mark met him at the reception desk, pad and pen in one hand, lab coat in the other. “Dr. Oliver guessed your size.”

Ross set down his things, unzipped his jacket, and tried on its replacement. “It fits.”

“I’ll have Judy order two more.” Mark handed Ross a scrap of sticky paper with a temporary password written on it. “There’s a laptop set up in your office. That password will get you on the first time, but you’ll have to change it when you log in.”

“Where’s Dr. Oliver?”

“He had to run out to a meeting. He asked me to give you the tour.”

Ross picked up the files, his bag, and coat. “Can we start in my office? I’d like to drop off my things.”

“Of course.”

Ross led the way. He hung his jacket on a wall-mounted hook and took stock of the supplies on his freshly dusted desktop: in/out bins, a pen cup, a tape dispenser, and a stapler. A box, wrapped in blue paper with a white ribbon, sat in the center of his desk calendar.

“What’s this?”

“A welcome gift?” Mark was obviously guessing.

“What is it?”

“I’m curious about that myself. Open it.”

Ross opened the card first. “Listen to the tree. It tells you where it wants to go. –John Naka.” Ross peeled the wrapping paper from the bonsai tree gift kit he supposed was a metaphor for Lila. “Interesting.”

“Are you into gardening?”

“Not so much.” Ross set the box on the desk, shaking his head.

“Any guesses what it means?”

“I have an idea.”

Ross had spent the previous night thinking about his no-win situation, about the patient he hadn’t yet met, and his career, which hung in the balance. He had decided, even before Guy’s metaphorical tree, that his only option was to make the best of the situation it seemed Mark knew little about.

“Well, if you hate it, you can always donate it to the greenhouse,” Mark said. “You ready to meet the group?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Ross grabbed his keys and followed Mark to an antiquated Otis elevator.

Mark retracted the metal accordion gate with a series of loud
thuds
and stepped inside. A single bulb fixture illuminated the small space, casting a sickly pale glow like something out of a horror movie.

Ross reluctantly entered, holding his breath as the car ascended to the second floor.

If Mark noticed his panic, he didn’t let on.

“Patients are generally allowed to be where they want to be during the day, outside of group and individual therapy sessions,” Mark said, stopping at the first doorway past the elevator and standing back for Ross to have a look inside. “This is the library. You’re welcome to borrow anything you want, but the selection’s limited. Across the hall is the game room.” Stacks of board games and boxes of cards filled an oversized shelving unit. Two foosball tables and air hockey covered much of the floor space. “Patients don’t normally play in there, though some of them take games here.” Mark led Ross to a common area surrounded by windows. “This is the community room where everyone hangs out.”

Unlike at the hospital, Lakeside’s patients wore their own clothes instead of scrubs or pajamas.

Elijah Moss, easily recognized from his file photo, sat playing checkers with one of the staff. Elijah was pink as a newborn mouse, the skin on his neck and face flaking onto his polo shirt.

The staff member, a man whose nametag read “Eddie,” stood.

“Dr. Reeves, meet Eddie Gill, one of our patient care assistants,” Mark said. “Eddie, this is Dr. Ross Reeves.”

Eddie Gill appeared to be young-forties, his skin fair, hair red, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He wore dark-rimmed, hipster glasses and spoke with a hint of a Long Island accent. “Dr. Oliver mentioned a new psychiatrist joining us. Welcome.”

“Thanks,” Ross said.

A pale girl with dyed black hair who had been reading a book in the chair furthest from the group regarded Ross with quiet suspicion. The strangulation scar peeking out from the collar of her shirt was unmistakable Sophie Park.

A disheveled man who could only be Joshua Hammond sat parked in front of a television broadcasting a sit-com Ross didn’t recognize.

“Newspapers and news are prohibited and television channels are controlled by staff,” Mark said. “Visitors are discouraged, other than for family therapy sessions. The patients respond better without outside stress being brought in.”

“Bugs. Bugggss. Bugggsss.” Joshua scratched inside his ear, mumbling something under his breath.

“Joshua, are you all right?” Eddie shifted his focus from the double-jump on the checker board to the agitated man who was quickly becoming the center of attention.

“The bugs are in my ear,” Joshua said, his finger knuckle-deep.

A buxom redhead wearing a low-cut v-neck and a flirty grin set her magazine down on the couch next to her. “Are you sure it’s a bug? What if it’s an implant left by the aliens?”

“Kendra, that’s enough,” Mark said.

Kendra snickered and rolled her eyes.

“Let me have a look.” Eddie placated Joshua by shining a light in his ear. “There’s nothing,” he said, though even at a distance Ross could see Joshua’s ear was bright red. “I’ll have Dr. Oliver check again after group, okay?”

Joshua nodded and went back to watching his program.

“He’s easily satisfied,” Mark said.

Ross grimaced. “Not for nothing, but his ear really does look swollen.”

“He’s at it constantly. Everything he can get his hands on goes in there. Dr. Oliver really will look at it and if Joshua’s put something in there again, he’ll get it out. Come on. There’s someone you’re supposed to meet.” Mark waved for Ross to follow him.

A tragically thin, mid-thirties woman with tangled black hair and a distant gaze stared out the window from a wooden rocking chair in the corner. A crocheted blanket—frayed from age and use—spilled over her bony knees and half-covered her weathered hands, her fingers working their way through the tiny holes between the stitching.

Mark set his hand on the back of the rocking chair, steadying the back and forth motion.

“Lila,” he said. “There’s someone here to see you.” Lila didn’t even flinch. “Dr. Reeves, meet Lila Wheeler.”

Ross angled for a better look at the emaciated woman whose sad eyes and willowy limbs reminded him too much of Sarah.

Ross stood outside Guy’s office, waiting to be invited in. Guy seemed preoccupied, his eyes moving back and forth across a piece of paper.

Ross cleared his throat and said, “Can we talk?”

Guy smoothed his hand over what was left of his gray hair. “Come in and close the door behind you.”

Ross took a seat, feeling a bit unsettled.

“Are you all right?” Guy said.

“I’m sure I will be.”

Guy forced a smile. “I’m sorry for how things went yesterday. I should have told you—”

“That you set me up? Yes. You should have.”

“I didn’t mean for us to get off on the wrong foot. There’s a lot riding on this case—for everyone, not just me. Mark can’t afford his tuition, fifty plus people would be out of work, and these patients come here to find their center. What will happen to them if we’re not here?”

“You could have told me that and I’d have tried to help.”

“I’m telling you now,” Guy said, “and giving you the opportunity to back out. I understand if you don’t want to stay. I’ll call and make things as right as I can with Dan. You can go back to Chicago and pretend none of this happened.”

Ross shook his head. “I can’t do that, not after meeting Lila.”

“Selfishly, I’m glad to hear that. Did you have a chance to read through her chart?”

“I did. I know the records say food is an issue, but she’s so thin. Her medication log shows all the first and second line treatments for depression, which should’ve helped with appetite.”

“She refuses to eat no matter which medication we put her on.”

“What about a feeding tube?” Ross said.

“I can’t get the authorization.”

“It’s a minor procedure.”

“It’s still surgery and a no-go without consent. We need to get through to her before she starves herself.”

Ross leaned forward in his chair. “What do you know about Lila’s husband, what was his name? Blake?”

Guy nodded. “I only know what I read in the papers. He was a well-respected surgeon who had put himself in harm’s way to save a young family and he was very close to his mother, Ruth.”

“What about his father?”

“I believe he is deceased.”

“How did he die?”

“I’m not sure. It’s not the kind of thing you try to get Ruth to talk about.”

Ross made a mental note. “What about Lila? Did you try asking her?”

“I’ve tried asking her a lot of things. Conversations with Lila are only ever one-way.”

“You’ve ruled out DNS?”

Delayed Neurologica Sequelae (DNS), a potential side effect of carbon monoxide exposure, included, among other things, mutism—an inability to speak.

“That was my first thought.”

“And?”

“EMS treated Lila with oxygen through a nonrebreather mask within minutes of her being found. She was inside of a hyperbaric oxygen chamber within six hours. Her COHb was normal.” COHb, or carboxyhemoglobin level in the blood, was routinely tested following carbon monoxide exposure.

“Hyperbaric oxygen isn’t a guarantee,” Ross said. “There’s a twenty-five percent chance of DNS following carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“
Poisoning.
That’s the key word. Take another look at her levels, Ross. They were never toxic.”

“Maybe she was tested after they normalized.”

“You know that wouldn’t be the case if the doctors followed protocol, but let’s say, for argument sake, that the tests were wrong or administered incorrectly. The first word in DNS is ‘delayed.’ Mutism from DNS would have taken a month to manifest. Lila refused to talk from the beginning. I believe she can speak. She just doesn’t want to.”