Electric Blue

by Nancy Bush

  So, I was driving down the freeway, attempting to shrug off a sense of dissatisfaction, of a job left half-finished. Maybe I would learn something from River Shores, maybe not. Either way I was doing something, and it felt good. I could never work in an office all day. And I could really never be able to do those jobs like casino work where you’re stuck inside in an artificially bright room, and there’s no telling whether it’s day or night, or winter or summer, or if we’re even still on planet Earth. Though driving can often be a pain in the ass, if the traffic’s okay it can be therapeutic, too. I drove down to Salem in forty-five minutes, and I was at the gates of the sanitarium in another ten.

  And gates they were. I looked through my windshield at ten-foot-high wrought spikes, the kind with fancy little arrowheads across the top. Gazing down the fence line, I could see it turn into an equally high chainlink. And yes, a strand of razor wire could not be discreetly hidden behind the laurel hedges, though River Shores sure gave it a hell of a try. Once you were admitted there might not be any easy way of getting out.

  What fun.

  There was a kiosk at the gate with an attendant wearing a sage green uniform. I hadn’t expected to encounter this first line of defense and it must have showed on my face because he said, “You’re here for the birthday party.” He was already pushing a button as I offered him a grateful smile.

  “I was worried I wasn’t going to be admitted.”

  “No problem, ma’am.”

  It occurred to me that if I were in my jeans and T-shirt, I might have been questioned more thoroughly.

  Note to self: proper camouflage is important in the animal kingdom.

  The hospital drive was a ribbon of asphalt. It swept around in a large horseshoe, like the Purcells’ entrance and exit lanes, but here you could see both ends across an expanse of lush, carefully tended grass. Zinnias and chrysanthemums bobbed heavy heads at me in oranges, yellows and purple. They looked about to fall over from their own weight, but they were cheery. The building itself was a massive brick monster. It looked nearly a century old, though I learned later that this was not the truth. Most of the sanitarium was newer, spoking back from this imposing facade, long halls of concrete that connected mazelike around several inner courtyards.

  I parked in a visitor lot on the side painted with fresh white lines. There were half a dozen cars taking up space, and two spots over stood a van with its cargo doors open. It was filled with a variety of party supplies: helium balloons, pink tablecloths and napkins, gaily wrapped presents, noisemakers—the kind that every parent wants to rip from the lips of their kids—several sprays of flowers studded with pink carnations, and a banner that I couldn’t make out beyond “–ppy birthd–.” A family had already tumbled from the van: dad, mom, three children of varying ages, maybe an aunt and uncle or two. As I watched the little boy blew a noisemaker at his older sisters, who turned toward their parents with that long-suffering “Could you make him stop, please?” look. Junior took this as an invitation to blow the damn thing harder, over and over again. I was glad when dad jerked it from his mouth because I might have stepped in myself and screamed STOP IT in the kid’s ear. Dad’s actions caused Junior to squawk about how unfair it all was and he didn’t want to see great-grandma anyway because she smelled. This earned Junior a whack on the butt as mom swooped in with a rolled-up magazine of some kind. I passed by close enough to see it was a brochure extolling the wonderful amenities offered here at River Shores Sanitarium.

  Junior held one of the Mylar helium balloons aloft. Both sides depicted a big pink cake groaning beneath candles stacked upon candles. The caption read: MORE CANDLES MEANS MORE FUN!

  Junior bitched and whined and dragged his feet as mom pulled him by his arm to the front doors. Oldest sister used the time to gaily trip along beside dad, slipping her hand within his, a little goody-two-shoes I would have liked to whack as well. Middle sister stolidly walked behind them. She cast a look back at aunt and uncle who seemed to lag behind on purpose.

  I didn’t get the feeling this birthday was going to be loads of fun, but as they were my ticket inside, I kept just a couple of steps behind the reluctant couple. The middle girl eyed me with a grave, unabashed stare. I stared right back. If it was a silent game of who’s gonna flinch first, I was taking her down.

  I don’t think I have the right attitude for motherhood myself. Children annoy me and I worry I might not feel any differently about my own.

  Except I do have a serious soft spot for my dog.

  We all entered the reception area together. I’d passed the lagging couple by this time, and I held the door for them. They smiled at me and I smiled back. One big happy family.

  It was 2:30 PM by the clock behind the crabby-looking receptionist. She had a permanent frown line dug between her brows. I didn’t want to gaze at her too directly, inviting questions, so I pretended to wait while Mom and Dad checked in with her, my attention on the reception area. The place was done in tones of yellow and chocolate with a highly polished dark wooden floor expanding from one end to the other. An ecru lisle carpet delineated a square in the center around which were grouped boxy chairs and a dull, brick-red leather couch. All very welcoming. But my nose detected a faint antiseptic scent. I’m not a huge fan of hospitals of any kind. Putting lipstick on this pig didn’t make it anything but what it was.

  The fifty-something receptionist behind the counter now turned her smile, if you could call it that, my way. There was something about her attitude that sent warning signals along my nerves. I leaned down to the middle girl as if we were the best of friends. Her serious gray eyes widened slightly.

  “Think Great-Grandma will remember me?” I asked. “I haven’t seen her in so long. I’ll bet she’ll remember you, though.”

  “Which courtyard is it?” Mom asked. She already seemed frazzled.

  The receptionist was diverted. “Just past the orange wing. Go straight back, past the double doors. Take the first left. That’ll take you to Blue, and you’ll see the double glass doors. You know the code to get out?”

  “1 2 3 4,” Dad said. “I think I can remember.” He and oldest daughter shared a smile and a laugh.

  And I thought my code was bad.

  “1 2 3 4, opens up the door!” Junior sang. “1 2 3 4, opens up the door!”

  We all trundled through to the orange wing. Aunt and uncle were falling farther and farther behind. I swear one of them, or both, smelled of gin. Junior kept right on singing and by the time we made it to the double glass doors, I was close to asking them if they’d brought the bottle with them.

  The family seemed to accept me without question. They were wrapped up in their own dynamics, too busy and distracted to care who the hell I was. We pushed through the glass doors to five concrete steps and a wheelchair accessible ramp that led to a back patio area. Great-Grandma had been wheeled to a spot of honor at the edge of the patio. She’d been turned to face the group, of which there were maybe thirty to forty people. Another helium balloon said, “Ninety-nine years young!”

  Junior and company were lining up to wish her well and I tagged along. What I really wanted to do was dig through administrative files and learn about past patients, but I was at a loss on how to accomplish this task. It would be just lovely if I could ask somebody for Lily Purcell’s records and have them hand them over to me, but people in the health care profession are notoriously loath to impart personal information about patients to complete strangers, more’s the pity. Several days earlier I’d refilled a prescription for some allergy medicine that keeps me from serious pollen attacks and I’d had to stand ten spaces back at the pharmacy, behind a line of blue tape stuck to the floor, so I supposedly couldn’t hear or see what was happening to the man at the counter. Of course he was deaf as a post and shouting everything anyway. Also, he dropped his vial of pills and couldn’t reach them, so I’d leaned down to pick them up for him. He’d taken the opportunity to give me the once-over. “For the old ticker,” he said, leer
ing. “Don’t need no Viagra, though. You wanna find out?”

  “Sure thing,” I answered. “Let me pick up my genital wart medicine, and I’ll meet you outside.”

  He blinked a couple of times. “You’re a funny lady.” But he didn’t stick around to see if I was putting him on.

  Now, a table on wheels was rolled over in front of Great-Grandma. It held a huge sheet cake smothered in white frosting and red and pink confectionary roses with green leaves and stems. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GERALDINE was laid out in lovely gold script. Little clusters of candles were tucked all over its face. There actually could have been ninety-nine. About six dozen cupcakes, all with candles, were nestled in groupings around the cake.

  The courtyard opened to a large expanse of grass that ran from the back of the main complex and disappeared over a slight hillock. Apart from the razor-wired fence, out of sight from where we were, it was a decidedly pastoral view. Shafts of sunlight drove like beams from heaven through a gray cloud cover, glittering the placid surface of the Willamette River about a quarter mile away. Serenity abounded. But I tried to imagine a sixteen-year-old managing in this setting, no matter what her problems were, and failed.

  Everyone was in party attire, though jackets and sweaters had been broken out against the cold bursts of wind that would suddenly whistle around the corners of the buildings. The women were hugging themselves tightly and the men had their hands in their pockets. The kids ran around chasing each other.

  Geraldine was swathed in layers of sweaters and blankets. She had the shrunken, creased look of old age, and her skin was a mottled design in differing tones of brown and beige. Her hands and neck were wrinkled into knots of flesh. People were leaning close to her and wishing her well. A man in front of me, not of my little “family,” said, “Hi, I’m Jim Paine. Are you with the Kirkendahls?”

  “Mmmmmm,” I said. “Doesn’t she look great?”

  “Fantastic,” he agreed enthusiastically. “Who knew she’d last this long? With that asthma? I thought she’d die long before Uncle Ralph.”

  “We all had bets on it,” I improvised.

  “No kidding. What’s your name? I’m sorry I can’t remember.”

  “I’m Jane. It’s hard to remember everybody, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He was relieved I felt the same.

  We moved up to Geraldine and Jim had to break off from me to greet her. He leaned down and said a few words, then moved to one side, waiting. I could see he was going to be a problem. I had plans to break away and do some exploring of my own and I didn’t want company. Maybe this wasn’t the fortress the razor-wire would lead one to believe. It’s not like this was a home for the criminally insane. It was merely a place to improve mental health.

  I leaned down to Geraldine. “Congratulations. Ninety-nine. Wow.”

  “How old are you?” she asked in a thin, raspy voice. It was the first time I’d seen her speak to anyone, and it kinda took me aback.

  “Thirty.”

  “You’re not getting any younger, are you?”

  I squinted at her. Well, now that was kind of calling the kettle black. “I guess not.”

  “Better find yourself a husband before it’s late.”

  “Before what’s too late?”

  “The end of your looks, honey. And don’t give the milk away before he buys the cow.”

  I moved away from Geraldine to make room for the next well-wisher. Okay, she was an inmate at River Shores. Was I really supposed to listen to her?

  Jim hovered by me. “That’s her favorite line. She says it to all the women, even the married ones.”

  “Hmmm…” I hadn’t seen her dispensing it to anyone else. I glanced around for escape. Someone had propped open the door to the main building.

  One of the party guests was cutting thick slices of cake with a wicked looking knife. Junior was jostling older sister for position in front of the food line. Older sister stomped on his foot and he screwed up his face, turned it toward the heavens and screeched like a banshee.

  I made a bathroom excuse and headed back inside, walking up the handicapped ramp as birthday party guests had taken over the stairs. I wondered vaguely if I should shut the facility’s doors, but nobody seemed to care. Glancing back, I saw Jim watching me and I sketched him a wave before disappearing inside.

  The hallways were covered in commercial carpet, and as I was in the Blue Wing, everything was blue. There were signs on the doors with the patients’ names. Some of the doors were ajar, and I glanced in to see elderly men and women watching television from chairs and beds. They didn’t notice me.

  The employees all wore sage green short-sleeve shirts and pants with name tags. They smiled at me as I cruised the halls, clearly unconcerned to have me around.

  In my wanderings I found a set of locked doors. I punched in the code and was admitted to the Alzheimer’s wing. The color here was yellow. A number of patients sat in chairs in the hallway. Others wandered restlessly, talking to themselves, sometimes almost marching. Hands reached out and touched the fabric of my skirt as I passed. “Nice,” one woman said. A male patient continually rattled the handles to the door at the end of the hall that led outside. Staring out the window, he said, “She went there. She went there. She went there…”

  I left quickly, returning to the main facility through the same door I’d entered after punching in 1,2,3,4 again. I looked around, making sure nobody walked out with me, then I headed toward the main part of the building, following a sign on the wall that pointed to reception and administration. Administration, okay, but I sure as hell didn’t want to leave the inner sanctum and face the pinch-faced receptionist again. As I headed toward the front of the building, I found the jog in the hallway that led to the administrative offices.

  I hesitated a moment, wondering what story I could cook up. As I stood there, a man came around the corner, nearly running into me. “Whoa,” he said, holding out a hand to keep from barreling into me.

  “Hi.” I kind of laughed.

  “Sorry,” he apologized. “Are you lost? Reception’s back that way.” He hooked a thumb toward the front of the building. He was sandy-haired, a tad pudgy, sporting a nice smile. His tag read Dr. Cal Bergin, and his eyes lingered on me as he added, “Unless…I can help you?”

  A godsend. I gave him my best smile. “I was just wanting to talk about River Shores. Do you mind? Are you busy?”

  He glanced at his watch, but it was all for show. “Come on in.”

  He led me into a rabbit warren of offices, walking briskly as if he didn’t want any of the administrative staff, mostly young women, asking him any questions. I took note of the partitioned areas. Computer monitors sat on almost every desk, whether they were manned or not. I wish I were better with electronics in general, computers in particular. I’d love to be an ace hacker. The information available at the press of a few buttons is mind-boggling. What I did know was human nature, and I would bet money that, if given fifteen minutes alone at one of those cubicles, I would be able to find the passwords and/or User IDs needed to access the system. I’d learned from someone I knew in the medical field that many hospitals, clinics and institutions make their personnel change their passwords every six months for security reasons. And you aren’t allowed to use any password you’ve used before. This being the case, those passwords cannot be committed to memory. They’re scratched down on a piece of paper somewhere, or hidden in a book, or taped to the inside of a drawer, but they’re just waiting for someone to discover them.

  “What can I help you with Ms…?”

  “Kellogg,” I said, reaching a hand across his desk. We shook hands and I smoothed my skirt and sat down. “Call me Veronica. Actually, call me Ronnie.”

  “I’m Cal,” he said.

  “I know the Purcell family,” I said, trying out the name on him. It didn’t immediately click, which was a plus in my mind. Around Portland you can practically assume everyone’s heard of the Purcells, but start heading toward th
e suburbs and beyond, and they’re not as well known. “They’ve spoken highly of River Shores. I believe it was called Haven of Rest once?”

  “Oh, way back. It was changed over thirty years ago.”

  “That’s about right, then. One of the Purcell daughters was a patient here for a few years when she was in her teens.”

  “Our facility’s known for its young adult treatment. We also handle alcohol-and drug-related problems, which, unfortunately, are a major part of the teen culture.”

  “But also, more serious ailments…?” I was groping, struggling to find a way to ask for the information I sought. “Schizophrenia?”

  “Yes.” He looked properly sober. “Schizophrenia often manifests itself at the young adult stage.”

  “Actually, I believe Lily’s problems were depression related.” More utter bullshit. I was running blind. “My own sister suffers from depression as well. I was wondering, do you still have the records for Lily Purcell? I’m not asking to see them,” I said hurriedly. “I’m just feeling my way here, trying to determine if River Shores is the best facility for her.”

  “Oh, I’m certain you’ll find River Shores one of the best institutions in the state. I’ve been here for five years.”

  “Is it possible for you to check the files on Lily?” I gestured toward the computer.

  “That long ago, her records wouldn’t be on computer. They’d be stored in our records room.”

  “Records room,” I repeated.

  “All the old files are in the basement. Some newer ones, as well. I could go down and check your friend’s file, but I wouldn’t be able to give any information to you. It would have to be a member of the family.” He gazed at me a little uncertainly.

  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” I gushed. “My friends just didn’t seem to have saved any of the records, and since I was in the area I thought I’d drop in and check out things for myself. If I need more information, I’ll ask them to contact River Shores. Should I have them ask for you?”