“Hi,” I say. “You must be Rachel.”
“I am; thank you for meeting me.” She sits, pushing the folder across the table. “This is all my friend could find. I’m not sure if it’s what you’re looking for, but it’s something.”
“Thank you for meeting me—I appreciate it more than I can say.” I smile, then open the folder and find a single sheet of paper. My mother’s discharge paperwork. I scan the information looking for any more details. No diagnosis, no list of medications, no forwarding address. Suddenly all hope I had vanishes like sand between my fingers.
“Do you know who she was discharged to?”
Rachel leans over the table, eyes on the signature line at the bottom of the file. “You don’t recognize that signature?”
“No.” I shake my head, trying to make out the slashes and swoops.
“Me either.” She frowns. “I can’t even make out the name.”
“Probably on purpose,” I grumble.
Rachel nods. “Look there.”
She points to the last line of the document. I read it aloud. “Patient released into the custody of a private caregiver. All records destroyed.” I meet Rachel’s gaze. “Why would they destroy all of her records?”
“I wish I knew, hon.” Rachel frowns. “She must have been released to someone important. Normally a doctor would need to sign off on a care sheet for the next facility or caregiver—it’s an entire process.”
“Do you think...” I trail off, thoughts running away with me.
“Do I think what?” She smiles.
“I don’t know, I just... don’t understand what happened. The story I was told was that she died in your facility.”
Rachel shakes her head. “She was there for a while, but she didn’t die there. I hate to say this but there was a lot of upheaval that year. The nursing strike, high turnover among doctors and nurses, and a revolving door of interns and patients... I’m not surprised there are records missing. I only worked there for nine months but every day was a mess, and I don’t say that lightly.”
Emotion starts to well in my eyes, but I shove it down. “I have so many questions.”
“I know, me too.” She pats my hand sympathetically. “I’m sorry this isn’t what you were expecting. Maybe whoever told you that was mistaken.”
“Maybe.” Anxiety bubbles within me as awareness sinks in.
My mother didn’t die in a psychiatric facility.
She vanished.
Twenty-Five
Ellie
The cold wakes me.
At first, I don’t know where I am. My bare legs are stiff with chill, and the thin cotton of my nightgown does nothing against the bite of early morning air.
I blink against the darkness, my breath fogging in front of me. Tile under my skin. Railings. The city sprawled below, a grid of blurred, blinking lights.
I’m outside. On the balcony.
My body jerks, heart slamming against my ribs. I scramble upright too fast, the wrought iron rail digging into the small of my back. My feet are freezing against the tile. My hair is damp with sweat—or maybe dew.
I clutch my arms around myself, spinning in a slow, horrified circle.
How did I get out here?
The last thing I remember is brushing my teeth, climbing into bed, turning off the lamp. Jack was still working late in his home office, the low hum of his voice carrying down the hall from his endless phone calls.
