Misfortune

by Nancy Geary

  They followed signs to the main administration building. An attendant under the carport directed them to an appropriate parking space to the left of the entrance.

  The reception area was a large, circular room with butter-colored walls, thick carpeting of green and gold, and overstuffed chairs arranged in squares. In the center of the room, a uniformed nurse sat at a small leather-topped secretary. An armed guard stood behind her.

  “May I help you?” the nurse asked as Meaty and Frances walked toward her.

  “We’re here to see Dr. Hamilton. Detective Robert Burke and Ms. Frances Pratt.” Meaty flashed his badge.

  She pushed some buttons on an elaborate panel, then announced Dr. Hamilton’s visitors to what Frances assumed was the director’s assistant. “He’ll be right there,” a woman’s voice replied through the speaker.

  The nurse-receptionist looked up at her audience and smiled. “He’ll be right with you if you would care to take a seat,” she said as if they hadn’t heard.

  Frances and Meaty settled themselves, and Frances picked up a glossy brochure. The distinctive architecture covered the front page. Renaissance Commons. A place you can trust with your loved ones, it said in gold lettering. Inside there was a picture of Dr. Pierce W. Hamilton III, a graduate of Yale College and Harvard Medical School, a prize-winning psychiatrist. The list of his credentials, medical affiliations, and publications filled nearly the entire page.

  Frances continued to read. Dr. Hamilton had built the facility in 1979 in response to the massive deinstitutionalization of mentally ill patients from state hospitals. The professional caregivers at Renaissance Commons are committed to providing a therapeutic and comfortable environment and quality, individualized care, while allowing our residents to maintain their personal dignity. The brochure continued with glossy photographs, attractive nurses administering medication and meals, group therapy, arts and crafts, an exercise class in an indoor swimming pool, and several pictures of the different types of accommodations, from a private room to a small apartment complete with kitchenette.

  “Detective Burke. Nice to see you again.” Dr. Hamilton, a tall man with square shoulders and graying temples, extended his hand. “Ms. Pratt, I presume. Please accept my condolences on your mother’s passing.”

  Frances stood up and shook hands. She inadvertently dropped the brochure, which Dr. Hamilton stooped to retrieve. He handed it back to her with a smile.

  “Frances here was Clio Pratt’s stepdaughter, actually,” Meaty corrected him.

  Dr. Hamilton pursed his lips and nodded. “My apologies on the error,” he said. “But my condolences nonetheless.” His voice was deep and soothing. Frances wondered if he did hypnosis.

  “Please,” he said, indicating with a gesture of his hand. “Follow me.”

  Dr. Hamilton led them into a spacious office and beckoned toward two leather armchairs. His walls were covered with diplomas and certificates, most of which Frances couldn’t read from where she sat. Behind the doctor’s desk, floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves were filled with tomes, medical periodicals, and an eight-by-ten studio portrait of a handsome blond woman and three dark-haired teenagers. To her left, through the picture window, Frances could see a young man being led across the lawn by a woman in a white uniform.

  “I didn’t know this place was here,” she said.

  “Few do. We like it that way.” Dr. Hamilton smiled. He rested his interlaced fingers on his desk and leaned forward. “What can I do for you today?” His tone made clear he hadn’t been thrilled by Meaty’s earlier visit.

  “We need to ask you a couple more questions about Mrs. Henshaw’s daughter, Clio Pratt.”

  Dr. Hamilton sighed and glanced out the window. “Without Clio, this place might never have been built,” he said, more to the glass than to the two people across his desk. “Clio recognized early on the need for top-quality psychiatric care in a private setting. There isn’t a great deal of it in this country, largely because insurers won’t pay, but there are wealthy individuals whose principal concern is not money, but the care of their seriously ill loved ones.”

  “How did you meet her?”

  “We met in Manhattan, just after she and your father married. I was giving a lecture at New York University Medical Center on the impact of mental illness on families. People suffering with serious mental illness simply cannot survive in the outside world. They may have moments of relative normalcy, but nothing sustainable. That’s what people don’t appreciate. It isn’t within their control. Coming to understand that, and cope with that, can be extremely difficult on the people who love them, or must care for them. But I’m rambling,” he remarked, turning his attention to Frances.

  “Clio came to your lecture?”

  “Yes. She seemed very interested in my work. Came up afterward to introduce herself. She asked lots of questions. Several days later she sent me a very kind, complimentary note and invited me to lunch with Richard. She and I continued to correspond intermittently over the years, and to see each other socially every so often. Then, when I decided to try to put this place together, she was enormously helpful. Pratt Capital provided the money I needed. But the odd part was that all during those initial years, and then during the discussions and negotiations over Renaissance Commons, she never let on that she intended to place her mother here. I appreciated her tremendous support, but I had no idea that her mother was ill.”

  “When did you learn about Mrs. Henshaw?” Frances asked. She looked over at Meaty, who seemed uncharacteristically quiet.

  “About two or three months after the main facility was completed, Clio called me and said she wanted to move her mother here. I believe Mrs. Henshaw had been in Syracuse somewhere, but I can’t recall the specifics. In any event, the place probably doesn’t exist any longer. We made the transfer arrangements, and Mrs. Henshaw moved in. She’s been with us ever since.”

  “Why did you think Clio didn’t tell you earlier?”

  Dr. Hamilton sat back against his leather chair and folded his hands in his lap. “Ms. Pratt, mental illness is still a strange thing to most people. They don’t understand it. Clio loved her mother very much, but family members often suffer feelings of shame. It’s very difficult to admit.”

  Shame, the emotion her father mentioned.

  “Did Clio ever ask you to keep her identity secret?” Frances asked.

  “Not in so many words, but Clio was a very private person. She knew confidentiality is taken very seriously here. I understood that she might be concerned about what impact her mother’s situation might have on her husband’s business, on her reputation in the social community. Such feelings are normal. We try our best to respect that.”

  “Were you aware that Clio was seeing a psychiatrist herself?”

  Dr. Hamilton was silent. Frances watched his Adam’s apple move along his throat as he swallowed hard. “I had no idea.”

  “She saw a Dr. Fritz Prescott at Columbia Presbyterian.”

  “I know of him. He has quite a reputation as an expert in grief counseling.”

  “She had been taking Nardil for approximately six months before she died,” Frances continued.

  “She never mentioned any of that to me.”

  “Is there any reason to think that Mrs. Henshaw’s mental illness has a genetic component, that it could have been passed on to Clio?”

  “It’s possible. There is certainly ample support in the medical literature for the notion that depression and other types of mood disorders are genetically linked. It’s not uncommon for mental illness to run in families, especially in women. Nardil isn’t prescribed much anymore, but it is given for certain types of severe anxiety disorders, including hypochondria. There could be a connection, but, as I said, I was not privy to any of Clio’s medical information, and I really can’t comment responsibly.” Dr. Hamilton rotated his watch on his wrist.

  “Would you consider Clio suicidal?” Frances asked.

  “Again, I can’t begin to
answer that. All I can tell you is that suicide is extremely difficult to predict. We see people who threaten suicide all the time, who are obsessed with death, who exhibit the classic symptoms, but who, I firmly believe, would never do it even if no one reacted to their threats. Others, who appear to respond to therapy or medication, then quietly and efficiently kill themselves and you wonder why.”

  “Does Katherine Henshaw know that Clio is dead?”

  “Yes. I told her myself.”

  “How did she take the news?” Frances asked.

  “I wasn’t able to get her to discuss it with me. According to the nurses, she didn’t say a word for hours. Although she doesn’t communicate well, she often makes noises, guttural sounds, or she hums to herself. Apparently, she just rocked back and forth in a special chair that she loves. It’s one that Clio gave her several years ago.”

  Even though she had never met this woman, Frances felt a strange sadness wash over her. She pictured a small, hairless woman rocking in agony, unable to express the extent of her pain. It was hard enough to articulate emotions without debilitating mental illness to stand in the way.

  “Can we see her?” Meaty asked.

  “I’ll allow you to visit, if you’ll promise to be brief. She doesn’t like strangers, and I don’t want her pushed.”

  Meaty and Frances walked several paces behind Dr. Hamilton. Frances watched his long arms swing and the double vent of his tweed blazer flap in back. His strides seemed to cascade him swiftly down the corridor to where a large arrangement of silk flowers set on a marble pedestal marked the entrance to a common room. The double doors were open, and Frances could see wicker furniture and pillows in bold colors. Floor-to-ceiling windows along two walls and bird chirps wafting in through the open screens gave the sense of the outdoors. A stone fireplace at the far end held two shiny bronze decorative logs. The space felt decidedly unlike a hospital.

  Dr. Hamilton directed them to the far corner, where a woman sat in a rocking chair with a yellow cotton blanket draped over her thin shoulders. She stared blankly ahead of her.

  As they approached, Frances could see that Katherine Henshaw’s head was shaved. Her scalp was covered with scars, as well as several crimson scabs. Despite the hospital’s efforts to eliminate any hair to pull, she apparently still pried at the follicles. Nonetheless, her facial resemblance to Clio was striking, the same smooth skin, azure eyes, and chiseled features.

  “Katherine,” Dr. Hamilton said softly as they approached. “Katherine,” he repeated. He introduced Frances and Meaty. Katherine Henshaw made no indication that she heard anything or realized he stood beside her.

  “Clio told you about Frances, didn’t she? Richard’s daughter,” Dr. Hamilton coaxed. Katherine rolled her eyes.

  “Mrs. Henshaw…” Frances stepped forward.“I know this must be a very difficult time for you. It is for my father as well. He loved her very much.” She knelt down to try to catch Katherine’s gaze. Katherine began to hum and rocked slightly.

  “Would it be all right if I asked you a couple of questions about your daughter? We’re trying to figure out why she died.”

  Katherine Henshaw began to rock faster.

  “Did Clio ever tell you she was afraid of anyone? Did she ever say that she felt threatened?” Even as she asked them, Frances realized the absurdity of her questions. That Clio would share any of her own troubles, no matter how serious, with this frail, disturbed woman was improbable, if not impossible. She wouldn’t have burdened her mother any further. Out of necessity, Clio had been the parent, not the other way around.

  Katherine’s humming grew louder. She closed her eyes.

  “I don’t think this is possible,” Dr. Hamilton said in a quiet, firm tone.

  Frances kept her eyes on Katherine, watching her lips start to form around amorphous words. “We’re going, we’re going,” Katherine repeated.

  “You and Clio?” Frances asked.

  “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.” Dr. Hamilton stepped between Frances and Katherine.

  “It’s nothing,” Frances said, realizing that whatever plans Clio might have had for her mother were useless now. Presumably Katherine Henshaw would reside at Renaissance Commons until the day she died. Richard would see to that.

  As Frances stood up, she could see tears rolling down Katherine’s pale cheeks. “I’m so sorry,” Frances heard herself say, although her voice felt strangely disconnected from her body.

  Katherine covered her ears with her bony hands and started to scream, a raspy gasp of noise. Dr. Hamilton indicated they should leave. As they did, he bent over Katherine and surrounded her frail frame with a tight embrace, forming a human barricade between her and the rest of the world.

  Frances and Meaty sat in silence as Meaty steered the Crown Victoria through the gates of Renaissance Commons. Just outside the entrance, he pulled over and idled the engine. “I’m not the kind of person who’s particularly self-analytical,” Meaty began, “but that woman really makes you wonder. What happens to people?”

  “Who knows.” Frances sighed.

  “Must’ve been awful watching a mother like that. What would you do?”

  “What she did, I guess. Get her set up somewhere comfortable and safe. Then visit regularly.” Frances thought of her own weekly visits to her father over the course of the last year.

  “Sure makes you wonder about suicide.”

  “You wouldn’t have done it.”

  “I can’t say. It’s one thing to put yourself in someone else’s shoes and say you’d do things differently. It’s another to actually be in those shoes. I don’t know what I would’ve done under those circumstances.”

  They sat in silence until Meaty cleared his throat. “Where to?” he said. His voice sounded animated.

  “Can you drop me at my mother’s house?” Frances asked.

  Meaty gave her a quizzical look but said nothing. He flipped the Crown Victoria into gear and headed in the direction of Southampton.

  As they approached Aurelia’s residence on Halsey Neck Lane, a navy blue four-door Audi sedan turned left out of her driveway and sped past Frances and Meaty. Despite the tinted window and the large aviator sunglasses that covered his eyes, the driver’s square jaw was unmistakable. Frances turned to look at Meaty, wondering whether he had noticed. Without turning his gaze from the road, Meaty smiled. “Wonder what brought Malcolm Morris out to these parts on a Saturday,” he mused.

  Frances asked Meaty to pull over. She assured him that she wanted to be alone and that she could get herself home. He seemed reluctant to leave, most likely intrigued by the prospect of a discussion of Malcolm’s visit, but Frances deprived him of the opportunity. She shut the door quickly behind her.

  As she walked up the driveway, her feet crunching the pinkish gravel, she could see her mother on the porch, holding on to the balustrade at the top of the steps. Aurelia wore a wide-brimmed straw hat with a pale blue scarf tied around it, a peach sundress that hugged the rounded curves of her full figure, and a white cardigan. Her hands were buried in its large pockets. She rubbed one of her bare feet along the calf of the other leg.

  “Mum?” Frances called out, reluctant to interrupt her mother’s obvious reverie.

  Aurelia smiled, a flash of white teeth under her hat. She took one step down the stairs toward her daughter and extended her arms. “What a pleasant surprise on an already perfect day.” Her voice was high and airy.

  “Are you all right?” Frances asked.

  “Of course, why?” she said, laughing slightly. “Don’t I seem all right?” She tilted her head coyly and tucked her chin down toward her chest.

  “Did I interrupt something?”

  Aurelia paused for a moment. “No. Come in.”

  Frances followed her mother through the front door and entrance foyer into the kitchen. Ordinarily filled with papers, cut flowers, oil paints, canvas, and brushes, the room now was a culinary shambles, with an omelet pan, an orange squeezer, a mixing bowl
and pieces of a Cuisinart piled high in the sink, dishes stacked on the sideboard, and an empty Champagne bottle on the table along with two soiled napkins.

  “How was your brunch?” Frances asked.

  Aurelia’s face showed her surprise. Then, realizing the evidence was apparent from the state of her kitchen, she laughed again. “My daughter the detective.”

  “Prosecutor,” Frances corrected her. “But it doesn’t matter anyway. I left.”

  Aurelia said nothing. She opened the cupboard, removed two tall glasses, and filled them from a pitcher wet with condensation. She handed Frances a glass. “It’s lemonade.”

  “We passed Malcolm on the way in.”

  “We?” Aurelia asked.

  “A friend drove me over. No one you know. Or should I say no one I think you know. I’ve underestimated your ability to get around.”

  Frances had meant to tease her mother with a playful reference to her apparent relationship with Malcolm, but Aurelia ignored the remark. She sat at the table and indicated for Frances to do the same.

  “I hope it’s what you wanted,” she said. “Quitting, I mean.”

  Quitting. Aurelia’s emphasis made the word resonate. That hadn’t been Frances’s characterization. In her own mind, she had spared herself the judgmental overtones of leaving the district attorney’s office, but now she felt her mother’s disappointment.

  “I’m not exactly sure what I want these days….” She paused.

  Aurelia seemed to stare at the lemon pulp floating on the surface of her glass.

  “So what’s going on between you and Malcolm?”

  Aurelia took a sip of her lemonade and licked her lips. “You needn’t worry about your old mother.”

  The image of Malcolm helping Aurelia to her car after Clio’s memorial service flashed into Frances’s mind. At the time, watching them from the upstairs window of her father’s house, she had assumed that her mother and Malcolm had just met at the reception and that he had been polite enough to see the first wife off. Perhaps she had been wrong. Her view then had been too distant to notice a hint of affection or the suggestion of a mutual attraction. “How long has it been going on?”