Where'd You Go, Bernadette

Authorization Request Submitted by Dr. Janelle Kurtz

REQUEST TO BILL FOR OFF-ISLAND APPOINTMENT

RE: BERNADETTE FOX/ELGIN BRANCH

Bernadette Fox was brought to my attention on December 12. Her husband, Elgin Branch, a friend of board member Hannah Dillard, wrote me a long-winded and highly emotional letter inquiring about involuntary commitment (Attachment #1).

Mr. Branch’s description of his wife suggested social anxiety, medication-seeking behavior, agoraphobia, poor impulse control, untreated postpartum depression, and possible mania. If I were to take him at his word, I’d posit a dual diagnosis of substance abuse and bipolar type two.

I wrote back to Mr. Branch, explained the law, and suggested his wife seek therapy (Attachment #2).

Yesterday I received a call from Mr. Branch requesting a face-to-face meeting. He spoke of new developments with his wife, including suicidal ideation.

I find Mr. Branch’s call curious, if not suspicious, for the following reasons.

1. TIMING: In my reply to Mr. Branch, I spelled out that in order to have his wife involuntarily committed, she would have to prove imminently harmful to herself or others. Within days, he claims to be in possession of such evidence.

2. RESISTANCE TO SEEK THERAPY: Mr. Branch seems fixated on having Ms. Fox committed at Madrona Hill. Why wouldn’t he first seek outpatient therapy for his wife?

3. SECRECY: Mr. Branch refuses to divulge specific information over the phone, instead insisting we meet in person.

4. URGENCY: On the phone today, Mr. Branch begged me to see him immediately, ideally at his office.

Taken together, I have reason to question Mr. Branch’s motives and credibility. However, I feel I must follow up. Madrona Hill has twice been notified of Ms. Fox’s behavior. Since suicide was explicitly mentioned, it is now a matter of liability. Further, Mr. Branch’s tenacity suggests he will not stop contacting me until we meet.

I will be in Seattle lecturing at the UW. I have arranged to meet Mr. Branch at his office this evening. I recognize that this is an unusual arrangement, but I am happy to make the extra effort for the friend of a board member. My hope is to convince Mr. Branch to look elsewhere for more appropriate treatment for his wife.

I told him my rate was $275/hr plus time and a half for travel. He understands that we do not bill insurance and that my trip to his office is most likely not covered.

From: Audrey Griffin

To: Soo-Lin Lee-Segal

Hey you! I got gingerbread houses to decorate after school. When will you be home? I want to know when to pop the roast in the oven.

From: Soo-Lin Lee-Segal

To: Audrey Griffin

As I said, I’m superbusy at work, so I won’t be back for dinner. But my mouth is watering just thinking about your famous roast!

From: Audrey Griffin

To: Soo-Lin Lee-Segal

Don’t think I can’t take a hint. How about I get in my car and deliver you a plate myself?

From: Soo-Lin Lee-Segal

To: Audrey Griffin

How about you don’t? Thanks, though!

That Tuesday, I was in my room doing homework when the phone rang twice, which meant someone was at the gate, and which also signaled dinner. I pushed *7 to open the gate, then went downstairs and met the courier. I was psyched to see he had bags from Tilth. I brought the food to the kitchen. Dad was standing there, grinding his jaw.

“I thought you were working,” I said. The last couple of nights he hadn’t come home, and I figured he was pulling all-nighters because of Antarctica.

“I want to see how you’re faring,” he said.

“Me?” I said. “I’m fine.”

Mom came in from the Petit Trianon and kicked off her rain boots. “Hey, look who’s home! I’m glad. I ordered too much food.”

“Hi, Bernadette.” Dad didn’t hug Mom.

I peeled back the edges of the take-out containers and set them in front of our chairs at the kitchen table.

“Let’s do plates tonight.” Mom got china from the pantry, and I slid the food onto the nice dishes.

But Dad just stood there, his parka zipped. “I have some news. Van is coming tomorrow.”

Uncle Van was my only uncle and therefore my favorite uncle. Mom had a nickname for him, which was Van “Are You Going to Eat the Rest of That?” Branch. He lives in Hawaii, in a caretaker’s cottage on a huge estate that belongs to a Hollywood movie producer. The Hollywood producer was hardly ever there, but he must have OCD because he pays Van to go to the house every day and flush the toilets. The Hollywood producer also has a house in Aspen, and one winter the pipes froze and the toilets overflowed and wrecked a bunch of antiques so he’s totally paranoid about it happening again, even though pipes can’t freeze in Hawaii. So, as Mom likes to point out, Van flushes toilets for a living. Once we went to Hawaii, and Van took me on a tour of the estate and let me flush the toilets, which was funny.

“What’s Van coming here for?” I asked.

“Good question.” Mom was now standing frozen, the same as Dad.

“A visit,” Dad said. “I thought he could dog-sit while we were away. Why, Bernadette? Do you have a problem with that?”

“Where’s he going to stay?” Mom asked.

“The Four Seasons. I’m going to pick him up at the airport tomorrow. Bee, I’d like you to come with me.”

“I can’t,” I said. “I’m going to see the Rockettes Christmas show with Youth Group.”

“His plane gets in at four,” Dad said. “I’ll pick you up at school.”

“Can Kennedy come?” I said, and added a big smile.

“No,” he said. “I don’t like being in the car with Kennedy. You know that.”

“You’re no fun.” I threw him my meanest Kubrick face and started eating.

Dad stomped into the living room, the door banging against the counter. A second later came a thud, followed by swearing. Mom and I ran in and turned on the lights. Dad had crashed into a ton of boxes and suitcases. “What the hell is all this crap?” he asked, jumping up.

“It’s for Antarctica,” I said.

UPS boxes had been arriving at a terrifying clip. Mom had three packing lists taped to the wall, one for each of us. All the boxes were half-opened and spilling with parkas, boots, gloves, and snow pants, in various stages of unwrap, hanging out like tongues.

“We’ve pretty much got everything.” Mom stepped expertly among the boxes. “I’m waiting on zinc oxide for you.” She pointed her foot in the direction of one huge black duffel. “I’m trying to find Bee one of those face masks in a color she likes—”

“I see my suitcase,” Dad said. “I see Bee’s suitcase. Where’s your suitcase, Bernadette?”

“It’s right there,” Mom said.

Dad walked over and picked it up. It just hung there like a deflated balloon. “Why isn’t there anything in it?” he asked.

“What are you even doing here?” Mom said.

“What am I even doing here?”

“We were about to have dinner,” she said. “You didn’t sit down. You didn’t take off your coat.”

“I have an appointment back at the office. I’m not staying for dinner.”

“Let me get you some fresh clothes, at least.”

“I have clothes at the office.”

“Why did you drive all the way home?” she said. “Just to tell us about Van?”

“Sometimes it’s nice to do things in person.”

“So stay for dinner,” Mom said. “I’m not understanding this.”

“Me neither,” I said.

“I’ll do things my way,” Dad said. “You do things your way.” He walked out the front door.

Mom and I stood there, waiting for him to come back in, all embarrassed. Instead, we heard his Prius glide over the gravel and onto the street.

“I guess he really did just come home to tell us about Van,” I said.

“Weird,” said Mom.