Read Online Eyes Wide Open by Andrew Gross - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Andrew Gross
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baggage .
What had happened to the restrictive facility they had promised Charlie and Gabriella? Where their son would receive monitoring and attention? They were right—everything just fell between the cracks because no one felt they mattered.
“Can I have a copy of this?” I asked, handing Anna back the forms.
She shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
“Look,” I said, “I don’t know how we’re going to handle this . . . But would you go on the record on any of this? What you just told us. To the head of the hospital, or even to an attorney? It would be helpful if we could count on your support.”
“I’ve been on record on this for years,” Anna Aquino replied. “Just look at the people who are here. They’re not threats to anyone . . . Look at our staff. We couldn’t even restrain someone like your son. It’s almost criminal . . .”
Yes, it was. It was almost criminal!
She turned to Gabriella and, almost with tears in her eyes, said, “I’m so sorry . . . I thought I was doing the right thing . . .”
Charlie looked at me as if to be saying, Now you see, you see what it’s like to be poor. You see what it’s like to be in a place where no one cares . . .
I checked my watch. It was four now. No one from the hospital had called me.
But at this point, I was no longer giving a shit about procedures.
Chapter Thirteen
C harlie and Gabriella had mentioned a local television station where they had first seen the story of the Morro Bay jumper, then a John Doe, three days before.
“You’ve got to be careful, Jay,” Charlie said, cautioning me. For twenty years they had lived under the radar, afraid that the state would cut them back. “You can’t just stir up trouble for us here. It’s not like with you. We live off the state. We can’t make waves.”
“Sometimes you have to make waves!” Gabby said. “This about our son, Charlie. We need to do this.”
I looked up the number for KSLN and asked for the news department. For the reporter who had handled the segment on the Morro Bay jumper. I gave my name, identifying myself as an uncle of the dead boy.
It took a couple of minutes, but finally a woman came back on. “This is Katie Kershaw. I’m an assistant producer in the newsroom.”
“Katie, hi. My name is Jay Erlich. I’m a doctor from back in New York, and I’m the uncle of Evan Erlich. Your station did a story on him.”
“Yes, of course. That was terrible.” She knew who he was immediately. “We would have followed up, but it’s a policy here, for family reasons, we generally don’t report on suicides.”
“I guess I can understand that,” I said. “But listen, Ms. Kershaw . . . I think your station is missing the real story behind what happened with Evan.”
T wo hours later a reporter named Rosalyn Rodriguez and a colleague with a handheld camera knocked on Charlie and Gabby’s door.
Gabby seemed lifted. She had changed, washed her face, and applied a little makeup for the first time since I’d been there. Finally someone was going to take their side.
Charlie seemed a bit edgy. “Are you sure this is the right thing?”
“You always want to do nothing,” she said to him. “You’re always afraid the state will find us. They’ll discover your brother is helping us with the rent. Our disability will be cut. Yes, I want to do this. It’s for our son, Charlie! ”
When the reporter arrived, we all sat in the small living room. Her questions closely followed the narrative I had given their producer on the phone.
How did you first find out what happened to your son? What do you feel about what happened? Do you think the doctors at the hospital bore any responsibility? Do you think your son belonged in a more restrictive facility?
“That’s what they promised us.” Gabby nodded. “Yes.”
Charlie just sat there, not saying much.
Gabby started with Evan’s being released from the county psychiatric ward after just three days. Three
What had happened to the restrictive facility they had promised Charlie and Gabriella? Where their son would receive monitoring and attention? They were right—everything just fell between the cracks because no one felt they mattered.
“Can I have a copy of this?” I asked, handing Anna back the forms.
She shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
“Look,” I said, “I don’t know how we’re going to handle this . . . But would you go on the record on any of this? What you just told us. To the head of the hospital, or even to an attorney? It would be helpful if we could count on your support.”
“I’ve been on record on this for years,” Anna Aquino replied. “Just look at the people who are here. They’re not threats to anyone . . . Look at our staff. We couldn’t even restrain someone like your son. It’s almost criminal . . .”
Yes, it was. It was almost criminal!
She turned to Gabriella and, almost with tears in her eyes, said, “I’m so sorry . . . I thought I was doing the right thing . . .”
Charlie looked at me as if to be saying, Now you see, you see what it’s like to be poor. You see what it’s like to be in a place where no one cares . . .
I checked my watch. It was four now. No one from the hospital had called me.
But at this point, I was no longer giving a shit about procedures.
Chapter Thirteen
C harlie and Gabriella had mentioned a local television station where they had first seen the story of the Morro Bay jumper, then a John Doe, three days before.
“You’ve got to be careful, Jay,” Charlie said, cautioning me. For twenty years they had lived under the radar, afraid that the state would cut them back. “You can’t just stir up trouble for us here. It’s not like with you. We live off the state. We can’t make waves.”
“Sometimes you have to make waves!” Gabby said. “This about our son, Charlie. We need to do this.”
I looked up the number for KSLN and asked for the news department. For the reporter who had handled the segment on the Morro Bay jumper. I gave my name, identifying myself as an uncle of the dead boy.
It took a couple of minutes, but finally a woman came back on. “This is Katie Kershaw. I’m an assistant producer in the newsroom.”
“Katie, hi. My name is Jay Erlich. I’m a doctor from back in New York, and I’m the uncle of Evan Erlich. Your station did a story on him.”
“Yes, of course. That was terrible.” She knew who he was immediately. “We would have followed up, but it’s a policy here, for family reasons, we generally don’t report on suicides.”
“I guess I can understand that,” I said. “But listen, Ms. Kershaw . . . I think your station is missing the real story behind what happened with Evan.”
T wo hours later a reporter named Rosalyn Rodriguez and a colleague with a handheld camera knocked on Charlie and Gabby’s door.
Gabby seemed lifted. She had changed, washed her face, and applied a little makeup for the first time since I’d been there. Finally someone was going to take their side.
Charlie seemed a bit edgy. “Are you sure this is the right thing?”
“You always want to do nothing,” she said to him. “You’re always afraid the state will find us. They’ll discover your brother is helping us with the rent. Our disability will be cut. Yes, I want to do this. It’s for our son, Charlie! ”
When the reporter arrived, we all sat in the small living room. Her questions closely followed the narrative I had given their producer on the phone.
How did you first find out what happened to your son? What do you feel about what happened? Do you think the doctors at the hospital bore any responsibility? Do you think your son belonged in a more restrictive facility?
“That’s what they promised us.” Gabby nodded. “Yes.”
Charlie just sat there, not saying much.
Gabby started with Evan’s being released from the county psychiatric ward after just three days. Three
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