this.”
“It’s better than prison.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” answered Lydia.
An elderly woman in a pink smock holding on to a walker with one hand pounded on a door at the end of the hall. “Let me in!” she yelled, frantically looking around her with eyes wild and red-rimmed at her invisible pursuers. “Let me in!” An attendant in green scrubs ran over to her and gently ushered her down the hall, whispering to her. A crowd of patients, all wearing the same pink smocks, crowded around a window where a nurse was handing out tiny paper cups filled with pills.
Looking around her, Lydia felt some combination of pity and dread. She couldn’t imagine a more grim place in which to find yourself. She felt the fear and suffering radiating off the walls andwondered what it would be like to wake up and go to sleep in this place haunted by the delusions of your own mind, searching for the road back to sanity.
“How long have you been Julian’s doctor?” asked Lydia.
“I’ve seen Julian on and off for about the last eight years,” she said. “Until about a year ago.”
“What happened then?”
“She came to her appointment and told me she would no longer be continuing our sessions.”
“Did she say why?”
“She said something very odd. That she’d realized that ninety percent of her problems were due to the fact that she hadn’t been true to herself. That she’d decided to surrender.”
“Surrender?”
“That was the word she used. She wouldn’t expound. Just thanked me, wrote me a check, and left. I didn’t see her again until she was admitted here.”
Lydia turned the connotations of the word over in her mind. Surrender … to give up, to admit defeat. What within herself had she been fighting?
“Her mother told us that she’s suffered with depression. Any indication that there might be something more seriously wrong with her? Did she ever discuss with you the murder of her first husband?”
This time Dr. Barnes didn’t bother to hide her annoyance.
“Naturally,”
she said officiously, “I am not at liberty to discuss my patient’s condition or the things we discussed with you. But if you’re asking me if I had any indication that she might be a threat to herself or to others, the answer is no.”
“Did she mention to you at any time that she was afraid of someone, that she had any enemies who might wish to harm her or her family?”
The doctor didn’t answer Lydia. She pulled her mouth into atight grimace as if she were physically trying to prevent words from flying out.
Lydia stopped walking and the doctor turned to face her. “Look, Doctor. I’m not trying to infringe upon your professional ethics. But a man is dead and your patient is the prime suspect—the only suspect. We’re trying to help her. Maybe you can do the same.”
“I can’t help you. And the only way I can help Julian is by treating her illness and protecting her patient-doctor privilege.”
Case closed. Dr. Barnes was a tough nut and Lydia could see that they’d gotten as far with her as they would today.
After a number of twists and turns down long gray hallways, they reached another metal door and were buzzed through into yet another hallway that had six closed doors on each side and ended in a large, barred window. Sunlight streamed in through the grating and a uniformed police officer sat in a green metal chair reading a copy of the
New York Post
outside the last door.
“This is the wing for patients who are not stable enough to mix with the others. Ms. Ross is being kept here for obvious reasons,” said Dr. Barnes.
The cop at the door checked his list for Lydia and Jeffrey’s names and found them. He stood up and stepped aside as the three of them entered Julian Ross’s room.
Julian Ross was a ghost of the woman Lydia had seen in the photograph back at the gallery. She sat on the small twin bed in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall, hugging her knees to her
“It’s better than prison.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” answered Lydia.
An elderly woman in a pink smock holding on to a walker with one hand pounded on a door at the end of the hall. “Let me in!” she yelled, frantically looking around her with eyes wild and red-rimmed at her invisible pursuers. “Let me in!” An attendant in green scrubs ran over to her and gently ushered her down the hall, whispering to her. A crowd of patients, all wearing the same pink smocks, crowded around a window where a nurse was handing out tiny paper cups filled with pills.
Looking around her, Lydia felt some combination of pity and dread. She couldn’t imagine a more grim place in which to find yourself. She felt the fear and suffering radiating off the walls andwondered what it would be like to wake up and go to sleep in this place haunted by the delusions of your own mind, searching for the road back to sanity.
“How long have you been Julian’s doctor?” asked Lydia.
“I’ve seen Julian on and off for about the last eight years,” she said. “Until about a year ago.”
“What happened then?”
“She came to her appointment and told me she would no longer be continuing our sessions.”
“Did she say why?”
“She said something very odd. That she’d realized that ninety percent of her problems were due to the fact that she hadn’t been true to herself. That she’d decided to surrender.”
“Surrender?”
“That was the word she used. She wouldn’t expound. Just thanked me, wrote me a check, and left. I didn’t see her again until she was admitted here.”
Lydia turned the connotations of the word over in her mind. Surrender … to give up, to admit defeat. What within herself had she been fighting?
“Her mother told us that she’s suffered with depression. Any indication that there might be something more seriously wrong with her? Did she ever discuss with you the murder of her first husband?”
This time Dr. Barnes didn’t bother to hide her annoyance.
“Naturally,”
she said officiously, “I am not at liberty to discuss my patient’s condition or the things we discussed with you. But if you’re asking me if I had any indication that she might be a threat to herself or to others, the answer is no.”
“Did she mention to you at any time that she was afraid of someone, that she had any enemies who might wish to harm her or her family?”
The doctor didn’t answer Lydia. She pulled her mouth into atight grimace as if she were physically trying to prevent words from flying out.
Lydia stopped walking and the doctor turned to face her. “Look, Doctor. I’m not trying to infringe upon your professional ethics. But a man is dead and your patient is the prime suspect—the only suspect. We’re trying to help her. Maybe you can do the same.”
“I can’t help you. And the only way I can help Julian is by treating her illness and protecting her patient-doctor privilege.”
Case closed. Dr. Barnes was a tough nut and Lydia could see that they’d gotten as far with her as they would today.
After a number of twists and turns down long gray hallways, they reached another metal door and were buzzed through into yet another hallway that had six closed doors on each side and ended in a large, barred window. Sunlight streamed in through the grating and a uniformed police officer sat in a green metal chair reading a copy of the
New York Post
outside the last door.
“This is the wing for patients who are not stable enough to mix with the others. Ms. Ross is being kept here for obvious reasons,” said Dr. Barnes.
The cop at the door checked his list for Lydia and Jeffrey’s names and found them. He stood up and stepped aside as the three of them entered Julian Ross’s room.
Julian Ross was a ghost of the woman Lydia had seen in the photograph back at the gallery. She sat on the small twin bed in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall, hugging her knees to her
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