“Is she all right? Is there something wrong?”
“Your mother is fine,” he said, and Harriet’s heart rate returned to a more normal tempo. “I’ve got a new patient in. She has a fascinating history and considering your work on suicides in the past I thought you might be interested in meeting her.”
Heat crept up onto her face and Harriet ducked her head. “I don’t know. My work was more theoretical than anything else. I had no practical application and—”
“Nonsense,” Dr Connor said kindly. “You had more practical experience than most do. And while you’re not her attending physician it’s within my power to consult outside expertise if I deem it necessary.”
“I wouldn’t see her without her consent,” Harriet said, sliding her finger along the roughened edge of her briefcase handle.
Dr Connor pursed his lips. “Consent in this matter is a little tricky. The law has deemed her incapable of making decisions.”
“And you, what do you think?”
“I think I’m asking you because so far she has refused to speak with me and I believe you might have a better chance at getting her to open up.”
Harriet drew in a deep breath. There had been a time when all she had wanted to do was practice. To help those who couldn’t help themselves. She’d believed it would bring her the peace she craved considering her turbulent past. And then in the blink of an eye it had changed and suddenly the idea of being alone in a room with another human being whose mind was utterly and completely sealed off from everyone else—either through choice or trauma—filled her with dread.
“I don’t know. I—”
“Harriet, please…” Dr Connor wasn’t the kind of man to beg and while him asking politely wasn’t exactly begging it was as close to it as he was ever like to get.
“Fine. If you believe I can help her then I’ll try but I’m a little rusty, it’s been a while since I worked clinically.”
His face lit up. “I knew I could count on you.”
Harriet found herself wondering if perhaps she had been manoeuvered into the situation and the idea of it left a bitter taste in her mouth.
“Don’t get your hopes up about this,” she said, sounding a little sharper than she’d intended. “If she won’t talk to you then I don’t see why she would suddenly open up to me.”
Dr Connor shot her an indulgent smile. “She might not but I still believe it is at least worth a try. At this point, I can see that we have nothing to lose and potentially everything to gain.”
“When do you want me to see her?” Harriet asked, choosing to ignore the optimism in his voice.
“Well I was rather hoping you might speak to her now?”
“I was hoping to visit Allison,” Harriet said, glancing down at her watch. If she didn’t get in to see her mother soon she would have no choice but to leave without speaking to her.
“Your mother is attending a session I believe,” Dr Connor said, casting a quick glance in Clara’s direction.
“You’ve got a little time,” the receptionist said with a wide smile. “The sessions sometimes run a little over, especially if the patients are really into the experience.”
Harriet smiled, more a barring of her teeth than an actual gesture of pleasure. She was definitely getting the feeling that she was being somehow out manoeuvered by everyone present.
“I haven’t read any of the files,” she said and even she was forced to recognise the futility in her argument. The chances of this woman speaking to her were slim to none and reading the background notes created by the other physician’s she had seen over her time wasn’t going to change it.
“I think that works to our advantage,” Dr Connor said, he nodded in Clara’s direction and the door he’d exited through a few moments previously buzzed loudly allowing him to push the heavy metal door open. “I’d rather you had a clean and unbiased reaction to her, uncoloured by another’s opinion.”
“What, even your own?”
Dr Connor laughed, a warm sound that sent a familiar thrill racing through Harriet’s veins like the first blast of champagne bubbles over her tongue. There had been a time when she was younger where she had found herself attaching emotions to the good doctor. She’d never acted upon her feelings, at least she had managed to spare herself that embarrassment. And while time had tempered her attraction to the man directing her through the doors into a pristine and clinical hallway that led deeper into the hospital, Harriet still felt her heartbeat quicken as he placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her in the direction of the patient’s rooms.
“If you’ll leave your bag and coat here,” he said, indicating the wire grated hatch that sat just inside the door they’d stepped through.
Harriet moved over to the grate and slid her belongings in through the small hatch to the guard standing on the other side. This was the high-security side of the hospital and there was nothing she could bring into the patient’s wing.
The guard took her belongings and passed her a clipboard through the gap. Harriet quickly scrawled her name across the sheet before handing it back.
“All ready?” Dr Connor asked, giving her a broad smile.
Swallowing back her discomfort, Harriet nodded. She was here now and if she could help then she would. Not that she held much hope of doing anything. “I’m intrigued to know why you think my unbiased opinion is so important.”
He smiled and shook his head. “You always were the impatient type. As soon as you’ve met Emily and you and she have had an opportunity to get to know one another, I’ll explain everything to you.” There was something so familiar about the name Emily and it caused something in the back of Harriet’s mind to shift around a dim recollection of a past case but try as she might, she couldn’t bring the memory to the forefront.
“I’m sure you two will hit it off.”
Harriet picked up on the slight hitch in the doctor’s voice and rather than make her second guess her agreement she found herself growing more intrigued. What could possibly be so fascinating about the case to make him be so secretive?
The deeper they moved into the hospital the more uncomfortable Harriet felt. The last time she had been in this particular wing she had been only fifteen. A young and impressionable age and the trauma associated with that visit had well and truly left its mark on her.
Dr Connor came to a halt next to a large metal door painted a soft cream colour—the hospital’s attempt at trying to make the place seem less like a prison Harriet supposed. He pulled a keycard from inside his pocket, the long zip-cord keyring allowed him to reach the card reader on the wall without having to unpin it from his belt. Before he could buzz the door open, Harriet touched his arm.
“A clean slate might be best,” she said.
“I thought you wished me to ask if Emily consented to your presence?” He raised a quizzical eyebrow in her direction.
“I can ask her,” she said. It wasn’t strictly what they had agreed but she was here now. There was no point pretending that she was going to walk away not when her curiosity had been well and truly piqued.
Anyway, it wasn’t a lie to suggest a clean break for the woman she was about to meet. First impressions were everything most especially so to those whose minds had been fractured by trauma. And the patients who found themselves on this wing had certainly suffered a trauma of some kind or other, Harriet was in no doubt about that.
If the patient’s associations with Dr Connor were in anyways unpleasant—which seemed entirely possible considering the circumstances—then Harriet didn’t want for those same emotions to become attached to her, at least not if it could be avoided.
Dr Connor stood back and unclipped the keycard from his belt before he presented it to her like it was the key to the city and not to a locked room.
Sucking in a deep breath, Harriet took it from him and waited for him to step back before she pressed the white plastic to the card reader mounted on the wall. There was a low click and a small bu
zz emitted from the speaker.
The woman inside would know she was coming.
Harriet knew she could just tug the door open and step inside. There were those who wouldn’t have hesitated to do so but Harriet wasn’t them. It had been ingrained into her—by Dr Connor and others like him—that to forget basic human decency in here was akin to dismissing the human rights of the patients.
Instead, she rapped her knuckles against the painted metal door, satisfied that the sharp sound would penetrate to the room beyond.
There was no response—not that she truly expected one anyway—and she pulled the door open gently. The room beyond was painted the same pristine white as the hall, so that if the outer wall had been removed they would blend into one another seamlessly.
There was a bed pushed back into the far corner, the bolts holding it to the floor a tell-tale sign that the room was made for containment rather than comfort. Harriet’s gaze fell to the birdlike woman perched on the edge of the bare rubber mattress.
Harriet’s throat constricted as she noted the distinct lack of sheets or blankets on the bed and she made a mental note to ask why they hadn’t supplied her with the special bedding for those who were a suicide risk.
Harriet paused in the doorway and the woman on the bed stared unblinkingly at the wall, as though she could see straight through it to what lay beyond. Perhaps in her own way she could.
“Emily?” Harriet kept her voice level as hoovered at the threshold. “Emily, my name is Harriet. I was wondering if it would be all right for me to come in and have a short chat with you.”
Emily didn’t move and for a moment Harriet found herself studying the other woman to see if she was actually breathing. The slight rise and fall of her chest was the only indication that she was in fact alive and not the mannequin she appeared to be.
“May I come in?”
When Emily didn’t move or look in her direction, Harriet decided to take it as a sign of her ascent. When a patient didn’t want you in a room, they were usually pretty clear on the matter. She straightened her shoulders and resisting the urge to tuck her hair nervously behind one ear stepped into the room.
There wasn’t a flicker of movement from Emily and Harriet longed to ask Dr Connor if she was catatonic or if her lack of response stemmed from the medication they’d inevitably given to her.
Harriet moved over to the small chair that sat in the corner of the room. Like the bed it too was bolted to the floor and as she sat down, Harriet did her best to ignore the scratch marks visible around the tops of the bolts keeping it in place. There was no accounting for the desperate measures some patients took, and Harriet had seen her fair share of suicide attempts in places just like this.
“I was asked to come and speak to you, Emily. Is it all right if I call you Emily?”
No response.
It would have been easy to sit there in the silence Emily seemed to favour. But Harriet’s time was limited and building a rapport with the other woman was the only chance she had for reaching her. However, without having read her case file Harriet found herself floundering.
“I was actually here to see my mother,” Harriet said and for one split second she was certain there was a hint of flickering movement at the corner of Emily’s left eye.
Was it a flinch? Or was it an uncontrolled tic?
“She likes to paint,” Harriet continued. “That’s what she’s doing right now. Is there something you like to do? Perhaps I could speak to someone and you could join one of the activities they have here.”
Emily moved then and Harriet’s heart stalled out in her chest as she found herself pinned in place by the other woman’s arresting green-eyed gaze. There was no doubt in her mind as she stared into Emily’s bloodshot unfocussed eyes that Dr. O’Conner had her heavily medicated.
“Want to—” Emily’s words were slurred, as though her tongue was too dry and was stuck to the roof of her mouth. It was a nasty side-effect of some of the medications that Harriet had seen before.
“I can get you something to drink, Emily, if that would make you more comfortable?”
Emily’s eyes rolled in her head as her tongue darted out to moisten her lips before she attempted to speak again.
“Only want to die…” Despite the medication she was obviously on, there was no concealing the emotion her words were loaded with.
“Why do you want to die, Emily?” Harriet did her best to keep her voice neutral but there was a small sliver of ice that slid down her spine.
“I wanted to make it better—” Emily’s voice cracked as she started to rock slowly, backwards and forwards.
Harriet knew that if the woman was capable of crying she would have but just like dry mouth, drying of the tear-ducts was another common but painful symptom. She was on dangerous territory here but what other choice did she have but to ask the next logical question?
“Was there something you needed to make better?”
Emily shook her head. The sudden violence of her movements sent a jolt through Harriet but she steeled herself and remained seated.
“I didn’t want him to suffer…”
The pieces of the puzzle Harriet’s brain had been frantically trying to put together suddenly clicked into place. Shock and horror kept her silent as she watched Emily rock back and forth, her arms wrapped protectively around her body.
“Couldn’t bear for him to suffer. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear it—” Emily’s words broke down until the noises leaving her mouth no longer resembled words but more primal sounds.
The sounds only a grieving, heartbroken mother could make.
Emily’s hands shot to her face and she began to claw and gouge at herself as though attempting to dig the thoughts from her own brain.
Harriet was out of the chair faster than she thought herself capable of but not before Emily managed to rip a chunk of limp blonde hair from her own scalp. Harriet hit the alarm on the wall and crossed the floor to Emily’s side, only registering in the far recesses of her mind that she was only a visitor here and as such shouldn’t lay hands on the patients. But the sheer level of anguish shown by Emily wasn’t something she could ignore.
Despite the time that had passed since she’d last worked clinically, her body remembered the movements with a kind of muscle memory borne of practice.
In a matter of seconds, the room was full. Emily screamed, a long ragged guttural sound that tore at Harriet’s heart as well as her ears as the other woman kicked and lashed in the grip of those who had come to her aid. Dr Connor was there and from the corner of her eye, Harriet watched as he administered a shot to Emily’s exposed arm.
It took only seconds for the drugs to take effect.
Adrenaline buzzed in Harriet’s veins as she felt the woman quieten. The noises she was making softened as her limbs grew heavy and the light Harriet had witnessed in her eyes dulled.
Harriet stepped away and allowed the hospital staff to do their job as she smoothed down the front of her cream blouse and navy trousers. There was no point in getting in the way, not when they were the professionals.
“You got her talking,” Dr Connor said animatedly.
Harriet rounded on him. Her hands shook as she brushed her tousled hair back out of her eyes and tucked several stray strands behind her ears. It was a comforting gesture—one she’d developed from childhood and she hadn’t been able to shake free of it. She knew it only happened when she was particularly stressed or upset and as she’d stood in Emily Hawthorne’s room and watched her fall apart Harriet knew now was as good a time as any to be upset.
“You sent me in there blind,” she said and was pleasantly surprised to find her voice remained steady despite the adrenaline still pumping through her body. “You sent me in there and look what happened.”
“Yes, you got her talking. Nobody else has managed to do that yet.”
“She tried to gouge her own eyes out, Jonathan.” Harriet hardly ever used the doctor’s
first name. Ignoring the looks of surprise from the orderlies that her outburst had garnered, Harriet ploughed on. “You and I both know she’s not capable of talking about what happened. At least not yet, maybe not ever.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Dr Connor said, sounding more than a little irritated.
“We don’t know what’s she’s yet capable of. And anyway, what else are we supposed to do? I can’t just leave her in here to rot like the courts have.”
Harriet sucked in a deep breath. He meant well. But the road to Hell was paved with the best of intentions and sending her into the room with Emily Hawthorne without first tipping her off about potential landmines had been dangerous. As it was, Harriet could only hope her short conversation with the fragile woman hadn’t damaged her further.
“And I’m not saying you should leave her in here to rot. But you and I both know just how delicate her mind is right now. Anything that pushes her too far could mean the end to ever leading her back onto the path to recovery.”
“No one is ever too far gone, Harriet,” he said and she flinched under the severity in his voice.
“Some people don’t want to come back,” she said softly. “Sometimes it’s too painful to force them to remember and recovery—true recovery—demands that you remember.”
He sighed and pushed his hand back through his greying hair. His gaze looked past Harriet to the woman on the bed, his expression unreadable.
It wasn’t the first time she’d seen the look on his face, but it didn’t matter how often she was exposed to it, she had not yet mastered the art of reading him. At least not the way he could read her.
“Perhaps you are right,” he said. “But unlike you I find it too hard to just walk away and pretend that those who need my help are beyond it.”
Harriet took a step back, the sting of his words too much like a slap to the face. He’d asked her for her opinion and when she’d given it he’d tossed it back in her face.
“I’m going to go and see my mother now,” Harriet said, turning on her heel.
The Hanging Time Page 5