overcooked vegetables and gravy and cleaning products, and reminded me of every institution I’d ever been in. It was like something from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest . The patients were being supervised by two orderlies, a black guy and a white woman who both looked bored to death. They were at a table near the door, killing time until their shift ended.
Sarah Flight’s chair was positioned in front of one of the bay windows and she was staring blankly out at the grounds. Her hair had grown back. It was shiny and healthy and neatly styled, and it had been brushed recently, probably by her mother as part of their morning routine. There was no way the orderlies would have taken the time to do it. Sarah was dressed in loose, baggy clothes. Easy to get on, easy to get off. A hundred and twenty pounds of dead weight was hard to manage, and the orderlies would be looking to make their lives as easy as possible. A trickle of drool escaped from the corner of Sarah’s mouth and dripped down the side of her chin.
‘Have you got any tissues?’ I asked Templeton.
Templeton fished a clean tissue from a pocket and I gently wiped the drool away. It was a small gesture, one that would go unnoticed, but Sarah deserved some dignity even if she wasn’t aware of it.
My first thought when I saw Patricia Maynard yesterday was that she’d be better off dead, and I was thinking the same thing now. That’s not a conclusion I’d come to lightly. Alive is always better than dead because any sort of life has to be better than a cold, lonely grave. If you’re alive, it doesn’t matter what horrors have been inflicted on you, there’s a chance you can be fixed.
That said, not everyone can be fixed. I know that from bitter experience. My mother had never been physically abused by my father, but the psychological scars ran deep, and they ultimately killed her. There will always be a few survivors who turn to drink or drugs to numb the memories, and in the more extreme cases, things will become so intolerable they kill themselves. Most manage to pull together something that resembles a functioning life, though.
Alive is always better than dead.
I looked at Sarah Flight sat there staring into nothing through dead eyes, and wondered if this was the exception to that rule. Sarah would never be fixed. For her, this was as good as it got.
I positioned a chair alongside Sarah’s, unzipped my sheepskin jacket, then pulled the hood of my top up and for a while just sat there sharing her view. Thoughts of the case tumbled randomly through my head and I did my best to ignore them. I wanted a few moments when my mind was as white and blank as the landscape on the other side of the glass. My biggest failing is getting too close, too involved. I want to solve the case so badly that the trees blur into one great big forest.
The winter sun made everything look sharper and more real, more defined. It reflected off the snow-covered lawn, dazzlingly bright, and the trees and bushes resembled white minimalist sculptures. The whole scene looked like a Christmas card. It depressed me that Sarah would never really see this.
For a split second my perspective shifted. The grounds blurred into the background and the window became a dull mirror that threw back a reflection of Sarah and myself. Because of the angle and the light and the lack of a reflective surface on the back of the glass, it was like the whole world had shrunk down until it was just the two of us.
And then my vision readjusted and I was back in the day room again. Templeton was standing behind me in a state of agitation. I could see her reflection in the window. She glanced at her watch, glanced at her cell, glanced over her shoulder at the patients. She sighed a couple of times, bit her lip. She was a woman with places to go and people to see.
I gave her another minute, a minute that was more like forty-five seconds. She crouched down and leant in close enough for me to get the full
Sarah Flight’s chair was positioned in front of one of the bay windows and she was staring blankly out at the grounds. Her hair had grown back. It was shiny and healthy and neatly styled, and it had been brushed recently, probably by her mother as part of their morning routine. There was no way the orderlies would have taken the time to do it. Sarah was dressed in loose, baggy clothes. Easy to get on, easy to get off. A hundred and twenty pounds of dead weight was hard to manage, and the orderlies would be looking to make their lives as easy as possible. A trickle of drool escaped from the corner of Sarah’s mouth and dripped down the side of her chin.
‘Have you got any tissues?’ I asked Templeton.
Templeton fished a clean tissue from a pocket and I gently wiped the drool away. It was a small gesture, one that would go unnoticed, but Sarah deserved some dignity even if she wasn’t aware of it.
My first thought when I saw Patricia Maynard yesterday was that she’d be better off dead, and I was thinking the same thing now. That’s not a conclusion I’d come to lightly. Alive is always better than dead because any sort of life has to be better than a cold, lonely grave. If you’re alive, it doesn’t matter what horrors have been inflicted on you, there’s a chance you can be fixed.
That said, not everyone can be fixed. I know that from bitter experience. My mother had never been physically abused by my father, but the psychological scars ran deep, and they ultimately killed her. There will always be a few survivors who turn to drink or drugs to numb the memories, and in the more extreme cases, things will become so intolerable they kill themselves. Most manage to pull together something that resembles a functioning life, though.
Alive is always better than dead.
I looked at Sarah Flight sat there staring into nothing through dead eyes, and wondered if this was the exception to that rule. Sarah would never be fixed. For her, this was as good as it got.
I positioned a chair alongside Sarah’s, unzipped my sheepskin jacket, then pulled the hood of my top up and for a while just sat there sharing her view. Thoughts of the case tumbled randomly through my head and I did my best to ignore them. I wanted a few moments when my mind was as white and blank as the landscape on the other side of the glass. My biggest failing is getting too close, too involved. I want to solve the case so badly that the trees blur into one great big forest.
The winter sun made everything look sharper and more real, more defined. It reflected off the snow-covered lawn, dazzlingly bright, and the trees and bushes resembled white minimalist sculptures. The whole scene looked like a Christmas card. It depressed me that Sarah would never really see this.
For a split second my perspective shifted. The grounds blurred into the background and the window became a dull mirror that threw back a reflection of Sarah and myself. Because of the angle and the light and the lack of a reflective surface on the back of the glass, it was like the whole world had shrunk down until it was just the two of us.
And then my vision readjusted and I was back in the day room again. Templeton was standing behind me in a state of agitation. I could see her reflection in the window. She glanced at her watch, glanced at her cell, glanced over her shoulder at the patients. She sighed a couple of times, bit her lip. She was a woman with places to go and people to see.
I gave her another minute, a minute that was more like forty-five seconds. She crouched down and leant in close enough for me to get the full
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