My Lost Daughter (32 page)

When it came to money, Lily was one of those people who cried poverty when they had a fortune tucked away somewhere in a bank account. She might have taken a modest hit when the stock market crashed, but she knew her mother hadn't lost that much because she was too conservative when it came to her finances.

Shana sank to the bottom of her chair, consumed with self-pity. She fantasized that Brett would come bursting through the doors and the patients and staff would snap to attention. He would bring her clothes to wear and makeup. He might even bring a hairdresser with him, or send one over before he arrived so he wouldn't have to see her looking like a bag lady. Brett loved to spend money.

She imagined the look on her mother's face when she found out that she'd not only been paying for her education but for Brett's, someone she had never even met.

But it wasn't as if Shana had intentionally taken advantage of Lily. Brett came from a wealthy family and would pay her back as soon as his parents sold their three-million-dollar home in San Francisco. Unlike Lily, Brett's family had lost almost everything they owned in the stock market. He was a good student and wanted
desperately to get his law degree. One of the reasons they'd broken up was her constantly nagging him to pay her back.

Shana knew it was wrong to make her mother pay for Brett's tuition, so in that respect, her punishment was well deserved. She also knew that asking for extra money all the time had given Lily good reason to believe she was abusing drugs. Nothing, however, could justify her mother having her committed to a place like Whitehall. Shana had been convicted before she'd been found guilty, treatment she wouldn't expect from a superior court judge.

As she watched, a whole gang of people appeared for Alex. Instead of walking out with them, he returned and took Shana's hand.

“Since your family isn't here, why don't you share mine? Come on, I'll introduce you.”

“No,” Shana told him, embarrassed by the hideous green pajamas and her disheveled appearance. She felt the back of her head. Her hair was so matted, it felt like a bird's nest. “I'll be fine, but thanks for the offer.”

“I insist,” he said, giving her the stern look he'd used in the cafeteria.

He gave a forceful pull to Shana's hand and yanked her to her feet. Before she had a chance to protest, she found herself following Alex out the double doors to the courtyard. It was twilight and the air was crisp and chilly. She wrapped her arms around herself to stay warm.

Alex's family was assembled in a circle of lawn chairs. “This is my father, William; my sister, Gwen; my brother, Raymond; and of course, my mother, Nadine. Everyone, this is Shana.”

Something was very strange here. Shana picked up on it instantly. It might be due to her drug-induced hypersensitivity, but regardless, it concerned her. She felt as if she were surrounded by a cast of actors. Everyone exchanged pleasantries and smiled, yet there was an undercurrent of tension and subterfuge.

Alex's father was a distinguished-looking man with dark hair and a spattering of gray at the temples. He was dressed in an expensive pin-striped suit and a white shirt and tie. Raymond had
lighter hair, more in the brown tones. He was attractive and neatly attired. Gwen resembled Raymond with slightly more elongated features. Nadine also appeared as if she'd just left work. Her clothes were stylishly tailored and she was wearing nylons and heels.

Alex's father, brother, and sister easily broke into a fast-paced banter and the atmosphere was relaxed and friendly. Not so with Alex's mother. Nadine blatantly stared at her, to the point that Shana felt as if she was being examined under a microscope. Nadine was trying to make her uncomfortable so that she would leave. Leaving would be awkward, though, and she wanted to find out more about Alex.

Alex held court in the center of the group, tilting his chair back on its hind legs. Shana couldn't imagine sitting around and chatting with her mother, nor could she fathom why Alex was still speaking to his parents if they were responsible for his hospitalization. Then she reminded herself that Alex had been suicidal. There had to be more than that, she told herself. He must have tried to kill himself and something went wrong.

Shana tried to follow the conversations, several going on simultaneously, but Alex's snooty mother kept asking her questions.

“So, are you from California?”

Shana overheard a few words exchanged between Alex and his father, something about their recent acquisition of a printing company. “I don't know if we're going to make a profit on this one, Alex.”

“Are you kidding?” his son told him. “The Komori five-color Lithrone SX29 printers are worth more than we paid for the entire company. They remind me of the press I built five years ago. We blew it when we didn't get a patent on it.”

Shana turned back to Nadine. “I live on the outskirts of Los Angeles, Ventura to be precise.”

“Then how did you end up here?”

“I'm in my last year at Stanford Law.” Shana knew Nadine was fishing for a diagnosis but she didn't know what to tell her. Helping a serious student finish his education wasn't an illness.

“That's a long way from your family. Couldn't you have found a school closer to home?”

“Stanford is an excellent law school.”

Nadine's eyes drifted over to her son. “Alex lived with us until he was twenty-six. Or was it twenty-five, darling? Sometimes my memory fails me. We've been overwhelmed with business matters lately. You know, it's difficult when Alex isn't with us. He's our mastermind. Last year, he invented a new medical laser. We're having trouble keeping up with the demand for it.”

Alex and Gwen were discussing a spreadsheet on another company they'd recently acquired. She handed him some papers to sign.

“Alex is an entrepreneur as well as an inventor,” Nadine told her. “He didn't have time to move into his own place. He wanted to become a physicist when he was younger, but he couldn't stop inventing new machines. He's also a brilliant businessman.”

“Impressive,” Shana said, adjusting her position in the chair. “Your son is an industrious man, Nadine. I'm sure you're very proud of him.”

Alex smiled smugly, appearing pleased that his mother had boasted about his accomplishments. “Tell my mother what you need, Shana. She'll pick it up for you tomorrow.”

“I-I . . . I don't need anything,” Shana stammered, desperate for something to wear so she could rid herself of the stigma of the green pajamas. Nadine was glaring at Alex, though, and she didn't feel comfortable asking favors from strangers. “Your offer is very gracious, but I'm doing fine with what I have.”

“Wrong,” Alex said, pulling out a cigarette. “You need some clothes, makeup, some toilet articles. Those are the primary items I've heard you mention. You might want an iPod and some music to listen to when you're in your room. Tell Nadine what type of music you like and she'll take care of it.”

Shana opened her mouth to protest, but Alex spoke directly to his mother in a flat, authoritative voice. “When you come tomorrow, bring Shana a few pairs of jeans and some sweaters. She gets chilled from the air conditioner. Also, buy the kind of things women
need. You know, a brush, shampoo, lipstick, cologne, maybe some makeup. Size four on the clothes. The sweaters should be white.”

Nadine didn't answer. She shifted nervously in her seat, never taking her eyes off her son. Shana felt her face flushing as the air filled with tension.

Alex suddenly stood and within seconds, they were all standing. “I want that other matter dealt with by this time tomorrow. I expected it to be taken care of by now.” He moved until he was only a few inches from his father's face. “Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

His father merely nodded and then let his gaze drop to the ground. Alex made a gesture with his hand as if he were dismissing a board meeting. Everyone but his sister walked off. Gwen turned to Shana. “It was nice to meet you. I guess we'll see you tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Shana said, hoping Whitehall would be history by then.

Alex took her hand and led her back to the great room. Life in the funny farm, she thought, was not always fun. Had Alex really been a boy genius, or were his family members merely giving in to his delusions? He was lucid and he was here—more than she could say for her mother or Brett. Another reason Alex was looming pretty large on the horizon was that he had arranged for her to get some clothes. If she had to spend one more day in the green pajamas, she might be tempted to tie them around her neck and hang herself.

She chastised herself for not asking Alex's sister if she could borrow her cell phone. Admitting her circumstances would have been too embarrassing, though. How could she tell someone that her own mother had dumped her at Whitehall as if she was an out-of-control child that she could no longer deal with?

Something came to mind and she turned to Alex. “Karen told me about what happened to Jimmy. What was he like?”

“Hopelessly insane,” Alex told her, his brows furrowed. “What else did she tell you?”

“That someone killed him a few days after he was released. If he was so ill, why did the hospital release him?”

“He cancelled his insurance.”

Okay, Shana thought, wishing she could do the same. But her mother took care of her health insurance. She doubted if the insurance company would allow her to cancel without her mother's consent, which would never happen.

In this environment, it was easy to grow close to people. She could tell by the expression on Alex's face that he would prefer not to discuss Jimmy's death. Had Alex taken Jimmy under his wing the way he had her, or was there something deeper?

 

She was over six feet tall and looked as if she could play football for the Dallas Cowboys. Although her size was intimidating, her face appeared pliable and kind. Shana rushed to the counter, seizing a possible opportunity. The woman was wearing a pink knit sweater and the name tag pinned on her chest read Betsy Campbell.

“Excuse me,” Shana said in an intentionally nonchalant tone. “I need to speak with the patients' rights advocate. Could you please put in a call to this person?” She looked at Betsy and smiled pleasantly. “I love pink, don't you?”

“That would be Linda Allen,” Betsy said, reading the name off a list in front of her. “I'll put a call in to her, but I can't promise when she'll call you back. And your name?”

“Shana Forrester. Will you call her now, please? I'll wait.”

Betsy looked around the room and then turned back to Shana. “I just started here yesterday. I'm not sure what the procedure is regarding the patients' rights advocate. I should probably leave a note for the day shift. They might not take too kindly to me calling folks at home at night.”

The woman's self-confidence fell short of her size. “Please,” Shana pleaded. “I'm sure you'll only reach her answering machine. This person isn't a doctor so the number you have is more than likely her office. The day shift is always so busy. If you don't handle this for me, they may think you're lazy.”

Betsy's hand reached for the phone. Shana hoped against reason that the number was Linda Allen's home and she would answer.
Leaning over the counter, she was ready to snatch the phone and plead her case.

“It's a recording,” Betsy said, holding the phone away from her ear.

“Leave a message . . . quick . . . tell her to contact me as soon as possible.” When Betsy just stared, frightened by Shana's intensity, Shana grabbed the phone out of the woman's hand and began speaking. “This is Shana Forrester at Whitehall. I need to speak to you right away. I'm formally rescinding my voluntary commitment. If you're listening to this message, you're legally obligated to contact me or you'll be named in a lawsuit.”

Betsy straightened to her full six feet, easily retrieving the phone from Shana's hand. “I should have known not to listen to you. You'll get me fired. Now you get along, you hear me?” The phone back in the cradle, Betsy started waving her hands as if she were shooing Shana away.

Shana realized she still didn't know her room number. “I don't know where I'm supposed to be sleeping. You'll have to find out for me.”

Betsy gave her a wary look and then rummaged through some papers. “Room sixteen.”

Shana headed off in the direction of the room, only two doors away from Alex's and directly across from the smokers' table. The room was dark so she assumed her roommate was asleep. When she stepped inside, she saw a large, shadowy image rocking back and forth on the bed, and heard a wheezy sound that she assumed was the woman breathing. A pungent odor assaulted her nostrils. She assumed it was body odor but it smelled like rotting flesh. Shana began back-stepping to the door.

God, she thought, who was this creature and how could she possibly sleep in the same room with her? According to Karen, Michaela believed she was an angel. For all Shana knew, the woman was a homicidal maniac. Nonetheless, her name did refer to the archangel Michael, one of the few named angels in the Bible. Catholics prayed to Saint Michael in conjunction with the rosary. She remembered her
grandmother teaching her the prayer as a child and how frightened she had been. She hadn't said the prayer for a long time, but she would never forget it. “Saint Michael, Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray. And do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host, by the power of God, thrust into Hell Satan and all the other evil spirits who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.”

No wonder Catholic kids were so tough, Shana thought. They went to bed with visions of Satan and evil spirits trying to destroy them. Thinking the Devil was out to get you was a Hell of a lot worse than imagining a nondescript monster was hiding under your bed. The name Michaela must be the female version of Michael, although the Vatican would never give power to a woman, even an archangel.