Night Film

15

“We don’t think of our guests as patients,” Elizabeth Poole told me as we strolled down the sidewalk. “They’re part of the Briarwood family for life. Now, tell me more about your daughter, Lisa.” She glanced back at Nora — known for the time being as Lisa—who’d fallen twenty paces behind us. “What year is she?”

“She was a college freshman,” I said. “But she dropped out.”

She waited for me to elaborate, but I only smiled and tried to look uncomfortable, which was easy.

Elizabeth Poole was a short, plump woman in her fifties with such a sour expression I initially assumed she was sucking on some type of hard candy, only to realize as the minutes ticked by that expression showed no sign of subsiding. She wore high-waisted mom jeans, her thin brown hair slicked into a ponytail.

Nora and I had left Hopper passed out in my backseat and found Poole’s office on the ground floor of Dycon, a redbrick building that housed Briarwood’s administration, which didn’t so much sit on the pristine hill as nail it down with long boxy annexes and gray tendrils of sidewalks. I’d taken just one look at Poole — then, as it jingled out from behind her desk, her snow-white, pink-barretted Maltese, Sweetie, who glided around her office like a tiny Thanksgiving Day parade float — and immediately wanted to call off our ruse.

Making matters considerably worse was Nora’s acting ability — or alarming lack thereof.

As we’d sat down, I’d explained that my daughter, Lisa, had disciplinary issues. Nora had grimaced and stared at the floor. I was sure the many hard, knowing looks Poole shot me were not compassionate but coolly accusatory, as if she knew my daughter was a sham. Just when I was certain she was going to order us off the premises, however, Poole — and panting, tingling Sweetie — had kick-started the tour, leading us out of Dycon and across Briarwood’s sprawling grounds.

“What sort of security do you have in place?” I asked her now.

Poole slowed to consider Nora again, who was glowering at the sidewalk (a look Sue Ellen gave Miss Ellie throughout season twelve of Dallas).

“I’ll go over the specifics with you in private,” Poole said. “But in a nutshell, every patient is assigned a level of surveillance, which ranges from general observation, when the patient is checked by staff every thirty minutes throughout the day and night, to constant observation, when the patient must remain within arm’s length of a trained technician at all times and may use only a spoon at mealtimes. When she arrives, Lisa will be evaluated and assigned the appropriate level.”

“Have there been any recent incidents of escape?” I asked.

The question caught her by surprise. “Escape?”

“Sorry. Don’t mean to make it sound like Alcatraz. It’s just, if Lisa sees an opportunity, she’ll make a run for it.”

Poole nodded. If she was reminded of Ashley Cordova’s breakout, she gave no indication.

“We have forty-six acres,” she said. “The perimeter is fenced in and secured with video surveillance. A twenty-four-hour detail at the gatehouse entrance monitors every vehicle entering or exiting.” She smiled thinly. “Patient safety is our biggest priority.”

So that was the official statement on Ashley’s escape: It never happened.

“The funny thing is,” she continued, “once people settle in it’s harder to get them to leave than stay. Briarwood is a sanctuary. It’s the real world that’s brutal.”

“I can see that. This is a beautiful place.”

“Isn’t it?”

I smiled in agreement. As beautiful as an injection of morphine.

A vast, immaculate lawn spanned out on either side of us, smooth, flat, and ruthlessly green. Far off to our right stood a massive oak tree, an empty black bench beneath it. It looked like the front of a condolence card. The grounds were eerily deserted, except for an occasional smiling nurse striding past us in purple pants with a matching festively patterned shirt—to distract you, no doubt, as she fed you your meds. Farther off, a bald man hurried purposefully between brick buildings.

Though Poole had explained that at this hour everyone in the clinic—clinic seemed to be code for psych ward—was in a behavior therapy session, the place had a creepy, muzzled feel. Any second now, I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear a man’s gut-wrenching scream pierce the chirping birds and the breeze. Or to see one of those doors fly open — a door to one of the buildings Poole had expressly skipped on our tour; “Just another dormitory,” she’d said when I’d inquired what it was — and some patient in white pajamas come out, trying to make a run for it before he was tackled by a male nurse and hauled off to his electroconvulsive therapy session, leaving the landscape stiffly serene.

“How many patients do you have?” I asked, glancing back at Nora.

She was lagging even farther behind.

“One hundred and nineteen adults between our mental health and substance abuse programs. That doesn’t include outpatients.”

“And psychologists work closely with each person?”

“Oh, yes.” She stopped walking to bend down and brush off a brown leaf that was stuck in Sweetie’s fur. “Upon admission, each resident is assigned a personal health-care team. That includes a physician, a pharmacologist, and a psychologist.”

“And how often do they meet?”

“It depends. Often daily. Sometimes twice daily.”

“Where?”

“In Straffen.” She pointed to our left at a redbrick building half concealed by pine trees. “We’ll head over there in a minute. First, we’ll take a look at Buford.”

We veered off the path, heading toward a gray stone building, Sweetie trotting along right by my feet.

“This is where residents dine and meet for extracurricular activities.” Poole moved up the steps, opening the wooden door ahead of me. “Three times a week we have professors from SUNY Purchase give talks in the auditorium on everything from global warming to endangered species to World War One. Part of our philosophy for healing is giving our patients a global perspective and a sense of history.”

I nodded and smiled, looking over my shoulder to see where the hell Nora was. She’d stopped following us, standing back at the center of the lawn. She was shading her eyes, surveying something behind her.

“I can see your trouble with her,” Poole said, following my gaze. “Girls can have a tough time at her age. Where’s Mrs. Dean in all of this, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“She’s out of the picture.”

Poole nodded. Nora looked like she was debating making a run for it. But then she shuffled toward us with slumpy posture, stopping to give Poole a Dr. Evil look before skipping up the steps. Poole led us through the foyer, which smelled strongly of disinfectant, and into the dining hall. It was a large, sunlit room with round wooden tables, arched windows. A handful of female staff were busy arranging place settings.

“This is where residents take all meals,” said Poole. “Obviously we promote physical health as well as mental, so the menu has a low-fat option, also vegetarian, vegan, and kosher. Our head chef used to work at a Michelin-star restaurant in Sacramento.”

“When do I get to meet the people who live here so I know they’re not all psychotic?” asked Nora.

Poole blinked in shock, glanced at me — I stared back sheepishly — and then, recovering, she smiled.

“You won’t be meeting anyone today,” she said diplomatically, holding out an arm to usher us down the hall, as Sweetie floated along beside her, nails clacking on the floor. “But if you come, you’ll find the people here are as diverse as the people anywhere.”

Poole stopped abruptly beside a dark alcove and, after a pause, switched on an overhead light. The walls were covered in bulletin boards decked with sign-up sheets and photos of activities at Briarwood.

“As you can see,” Poole said, gesturing inside, “people are really quite happy. We keep everyone busy, physically and mentally.”

Scowling, Nora stepped inside. “When were these pictures taken?” she asked.

“The last few months,” said Poole.

Nora glared skeptically, then inspected the pictures, her arms crossed over her stomach. I figured she’d really lost it, decided to do an imitation of Angie in Girl, Interrupted, when I realized what she was doing.

She was looking for Ashley.

It wasn’t a bad idea. I moved past Poole to take a look. The photos were of patients involved in relay races, nature hikes. A few looked legitimately happy, though most appeared too thin and fatigued. Ashley would be obvious, wouldn’t she? The dark-haired girl a little bit alone, with a challenging gaze. I scanned photos of a music recital, but seated at the piano was a man with dreadlocks. There were quite a few shots of a summer barbecue on the main lawn, patients crowded around picnic tables, eating burgers — no sign of Ashley anywhere.

I glanced back at the doorway and realized Poole was looking at us, faintly alarmed. We must have been inspecting a little too intently.

“Everyone looks so happy,” I said.

She coolly stared back. “Why don’t we move along?”

I stepped out of the alcove, that little doily of a dog twirling in circles as it stared up at me, panting as if I had beef jerky in my pocket. Nora was flipping through the pages of a sign-up sheet for Briarwood Book Club, noticeably reading all the names.

“Lisa,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Poole led us back outside, across the lawn to Straffen Hall, where we headed straight to the second floor — devoted to music, painting, and yoga. It was clear from Poole’s clipped descriptions and tightened tone that she really didn’t care for me or my huffy daughter. I tried to fawn over the facilities, but she only smiled stiffly.

As we passed the reflection room — candles, photos of meadows and sky — a two-note chime sounded over a loudspeaker. It was shrill and reverberating, the musical equivalent of a stubbed toe.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Nora announced petulantly.

“Certainly,” said Poole, stopping beside a water fountain, pointing at the door marked WOMEN in the middle of the corridor. “We’ll wait for you here.”

Nora rolled her eyes and took off. The corridor walls were bright, painted half white, half kitten-nose pink, but the place felt clinical and claustrophobic, like a train compartment. The Disoriented Express headed toward Crazytown. All aboard.

Patients started to flood out of classrooms. They wore jeans and baggy cotton shirts—no belts or shoelaces, I noticed — a surprisingly wide range of ages. One guy with spiky gray hair staggered out of an art room — he looked about eighty. Most avoided eye contact as they walked past me. Various eggheads and shrinks milled about, too, conferring, nodding, looking constructive. They were easy to spot because they were all dressed in L.L.Bean fleeces and barn jackets, wool sweaters in earth tones—probably so patients would mistake the place for Vail.

Poole was fussing with the barrette in Sweetie’s hair.

“I’ve heard very good things about Dr. Annika Angley,” I said.

She stood up, holding the dog in her arms.

Annika Angley was the psychologist who’d completed Ashley’s new-patient assessment, which had been included in the NYPD file.

“A friend of mine recommended her,” I went on. “She’s apparently very good with young women who have depressive disorders. Is there any way I could speak to her?”

“Her office is on the third floor. That area isn’t open to visitors. And discussion of Dr. Angley or any physician at this stage is premature. If Lisa comes, she’ll be assigned a team of health professionals that suits her needs. Which reminds me. I’m going to go check on her.”

She put Sweetie down, smiling at me, the implication of which was Don’t you dare move, and marched down the hall, her black orthopedic shoes squishing on the linoleum.

When she appeared a minute later, her face was beet red.

“She’s not in there,” she announced.

I blankly stared back.

“Lisa is missing. Did you see her?”

“No.”

Poole spun on her heel and stomped down the hallway.

“She must have exited the other end.”

Sweetie and I — mutually stunned by this recent development — took off after her, though as I passed the ladies’ room I couldn’t help but open the door and call out: “Lisa? Honey?”

Poole shot me a look over her shoulder. “She’s not there. Really.”

She barged past patients, thrusting open the door at the end and storming into the stairwell. I followed close behind. She paused, squinting up at the next flight — sectioned off by a metal gate and a sign that read AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY — then turned, stomping down the stairs. We blasted out onto the ground floor, jostling a man carrying a stack of folders, Sweetie’s paws skidding on the slick wood floors as she rounded the sharp turn. We followed Poole into an office marked DRUG AND ALCOHOL EXTENSION PROGRAM.

“Beth, did you see a five-forty-six wandering around? Skinny blonde? Micro-mini? Hair in Heidi braids?” She eyed me icily. “Feathers?”

“No, Liz.”

Poole, muttering to herself, marched back down the hall.

“What’s a five-forty-six?” I asked.

“A prospective. I’ll have to review the security monitors. She likes to run away, does she? Any idea where she might go?”

“If she makes it to the main road she might try to hitchhike.”

“Unless she has wings and can fly over a thirty-foot electrified fence, that girl’s not going anywhere.”

“I’m terribly sorry about this.”

We exited through the glass doors. Outside, across the lawn, patients — quite a few escorted by nurses — streamed down the sidewalks, heading to lunch. There was no sign of Nora anywhere. With the getup she was wearing, she’d be easy to spot. I had no idea where she was; this wasn’t part of the orders I’d given her. She’d gone rogue.

A minute later, Poole deposited me on the floral couch in her office.

“You wait here,” she said. “I’ll be right back with your daughter.”

“Thank you.”

She only glared at me and slammed the door behind her.