Linnea felt her mother’s arms around her and held her tight. “Mama,” she cried again. At last she could let the tears flow. “I’ve been so worried.” She took a step back and wiped her eyes. “How’s Cooper?”
“No further word. We’re just waiting.”
Across the room, Cara was talking to Palmer in hushed tones. When their eyes met, he held out his arms. Linnea ran into them. These were the arms she was accustomed to, warm and strong.
“Oh, Daddy,” she cried.
Palmer released her and put his hands on his hips. His face was flushed, his eyes glazed with disbelief, like a man in shock. “This is so terrible. A drug overdose! My son . . .”
“How did he get to the hospital?” Cara asked. “Was he home?”
“No,” Julia spoke up. “His friends brought him in.”
Palmer screwed up his face and looked at Linnea. “Did you know he was using drugs?”
Linnea shifted her gaze to her mother. Julia stared back at her with a sunken, haunted expression. Linnea was filled with a sudden fury. She wanted to scream at her, I told you to watch him! But how could she blame her mother? What had she herself done to intervene?
Cara stepped in. “We all wondered if he was using drugs. I told you we were worried last time I saw you. And you brushed me off. Told me to go home.”
He stared back at her blankly, then his shoulders slumped and he put his hand to his forehead. “I didn’t believe you. Damnation. How could this happen to a family like ours?” he asked, anger seeping into his words. “How could Cooper do this to us?” Palmer paced the room, restless. He stopped before Linnea. “I can’t imagine you doing something like this. You’ve always been a good girl. A real comfort to us.”
“He didn’t do it to hurt the family,” Linnea cried. “He did it because he was hurting. He tried to tell you, Daddy. And you too, Mama.” She burst into tears. “But you didn’t listen.”
Palmer swung his head to pin Julia with his stare. “You knew about this?”
Julia, pale and drawn, had no will to fight. She just turned her back on him.
“Palmer, this isn’t the time for blame,” said Cara. “I’d say this was the time for prayer. Let’s all sit down and silently say our own prayers for Cooper.”
Palmer’s face sagged as if the wind had blown out of him. He nodded in agreement and walked with the stooped pace of an old man to an empty chair.
They sat in relative silence for another hour and a half. Linnea crossed her arms and leaned back in the remarkably uncomfortable chair. Hope was asleep in Cara’s arms. Julia had turned down the volume of the television in the waiting room so they could close their eyes.
At last a nurse came out to talk with them. Beside her was a man in blue scrubs who was so thin and young that Linnea couldn’t guess whether he was a resident or a physician. He was carrying a clipboard in one hand. His other hand he stretched out in greeting. Julia stepped forward to take his hand, followed by Palmer.
“I’m Dr. Foster, the resident on call tonight. You must be the Rutledges.”
Palmer cleared his throat. “Yes.”
Dr. Foster lowered his clipboard. “The good news is your son is doing well. He was admitted with opiates on board. We administered a shot of Narcan, which woke him up. He wasn’t very coherent. But he did say it wasn’t a suicide attempt.”
“Thank God,” Julia said.
“Of course it wasn’t a suicide attempt,” Palmer blustered, but his face had grown ashen at the suggestion.
“Has he been depressed?” asked Dr. Foster, pushing on. “Is there any family history of suicide or depression? Drug use?”
“No,” Palmer said with alacrity.
“Well, actually . . .” Linnea spoke up. She walked toward the doctor, avoiding looking at her parents. “I thought he seemed depressed. Not his usual self.”
The doctor wrote in the file, then looked up and asked Linnea, “And you are?”
“His sister.”
Understanding reflected in the doctor’s face.
“He wasn’t depressed,” Palmer repeated.
“He’s being stabilized now,” the doctor continued, unfazed by Palmer’s insistence. “Psychiatry is coming to see him. Whether they’ll decide to keep him or not, we don’t know yet.”
“Psychiatry?” asked Julia with alarm. “But you said it wasn’t a suicide attempt.”
“My son doesn’t need to go to a psych ward,” declared Palmer.
“Your son was in pretty bad shape when he arrived,” Dr. Foster said. “He wasn’t awake enough to get much information from him. He’ll stay here until he’s seen by Psychiatry and . . .” He paused and looked at Julia. “As soon as he is, he’ll be transferred to the psychiatric hospital.”
“But—” Palmer began, his face coloring.
“Palmer . . .” Cara said softly in warning.
“Mr. Rutledge,” Dr. Foster said with compassion, turning to address him. “Cooper is denying that this was a suicide attempt. But he could easily have killed himself. He doesn’t appreciate the gravity of that. The fact that he doesn’t concerns us. He needs to be observed for a while. He’ll also get some needed therapy.” He glanced briefly at Linnea. “His friends who brought him in also reported that he’d been depressed.”
Palmer didn’t speak.
“Can we see him?” Julia asked, stepping forward. “Please. We’ve been here all night.”
The doctor looked at the nurse and nodded. He spoke kindly to Julia. “He’s awake. He may not be terribly lucid. But yes. You can see him. For a short visit. The nurse will give you information about the psych hospital and visiting hours.” He raised the clipboard to his chest. “Okay then,” he said by way of conclusion. “I’m glad this was good news. There’ve been far too many cases of opiate overdoses brought in. Not all of them end up nearly so well.”
With a final nod, the doctor turned and hurried through the double doors.
The nurse was a short, slender woman with tight black curls. Small, but she gave off a vibe that you wouldn’t want to cross her.
“This way, please. I’ll bring you to your son.”
Julia hurried to grab her purse and sweater. Cara rose slowly so as not to wake the baby. Linnea followed her mother and father through the double doors and down a wide, brightly lit corridor with white and pale-blue flooring. Emergency room beds lined the walls, and around each were curtains that could be drawn shut when privacy was needed. A few were closed, and Linnea could hear soft voices emanating from behind. Men and women in blue scrubs with stethoscopes around their necks were all hard at work.
Their nurse stopped in front of one curtained cubicle in the middle of the room. It looked like so many others. Her stern expression slackened some.
“Right in here. As the doctor said, this can only be a short visit. We’re expecting the psych eval any moment.” She extended her arm, indicating they should go in.
Julia rushed to the side of the bed. Cooper’s eyes appeared sunken but they followed his mother, filling with tears.
“Cooper,” Julia said in a choked voice, grasping his hand. “My baby.”
“I’m sorry, Mama,” Cooper said, his voice thick and raspy. “I’m so sorry.”
Palmer stood at the end of the bed with Cara. Cooper looked over to him and cried, “I’m sorry.”
Palmer stared back at his son, working his mouth, but words didn’t come.
Linnea followed her mother to the side of the white plastic bed and leaned over the metal side rail. She let her gaze travel to her brother’s, and her voice caught in her throat. She didn’t recognize him. Cooper was rail thin; his dark eyes seemed huge in his face. But most shocking, his hair, his beautiful dark curls, had been shorn off like a sheep’s coat. His scalp was pale against the stubs of dark brown.
“They shaved your head,” she said sorrowfully, shaking her head.
Cooper looked at her drowsily. “Yeah. I’m a knob.”
Linnea tried to laugh, but it came o
ut more of a choked sob.
Cooper’s face scrunched up, and it embarrassed her to see him cry. “I . . . I didn’t try to hurt myself,” he forced out. “I swear I didn’t.”
“I know, honey,” Julia said, wiping the tears from his face with a handkerchief. “Of course you didn’t.”
“What happened?” asked Palmer.
Cooper’s eyes darted to the bottom of the bed where his father stood. Linnea saw fear shift in his eyes.
“I don’t know. Sir.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? You OD’d! You were doing drugs.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Palmer, let’s not get into that now,” Julia said tersely, delivering Palmer a fierce look. If she were a tigress, she would have been snarling.
“This is going to be a problem,” Palmer told Cooper. “I did what I could about that DUI. But this . . .” He shook his head and gripped the metal railing of the bed. “Hell. This is the kind of thing that can get you bounced from the Citadel.”
“Daddy,” Linnea said sharply. She leaned over her brother toward her father, tears flooding her eyes. “Aren’t you listening? He doesn’t want to go there.”
“It’s okay, Lin,” Cooper said, reaching for her.
“Sure he does. Tell them, Cooper. Tell them you want to go back.”
Cooper held his sister’s hand and looked squarely at his father. “No,” he said in a steady voice. “I don’t. I’m not going back.”
Palmer leaned forward, staring into his son’s eyes. “What was that?”
Cara stepped into the argument. “Palmer, don’t.”
“I’m not going back,” Cooper said again, with a fierceness born of desperation and determination.
The room fell into a stunned silence.
Palmer stared hard at his son. He said in a gravelly voice, roughened by emotion, “I’m disappointed in you.”
Cooper’s eyes reflected his crushed spirit. His whole body seemed to go limp, and Linnea realized he’d been holding himself stiffly the whole time they were there. She stared at her father, equally crushed. At any time such cutting words would be horrible, but now, when Cooper was so fragile, they were plain cussed cruel.
“How could you say such a thing to sweet Cooper?” she cried.
Cara faced her brother with Hope in her arms. “I’m disappointed in you!” she told him. “And I know Mama would be, too.”
Palmer swung his head around and glared, shocked at her words. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and walked away.
Chapter Twenty-One
Marine debris comes in many forms, ranging from small plastic cigarette butts to 4,000-pound derelict fishing nets. Plastics in the ocean take days, weeks, and even decades to break down. Debris may also be mistaken for food by marine animals. Nets and fishing line negligently left in the sea trap animals, which leads to injury and death.
CARA SIGHED WITH relief when she turned off the highway toward Tryon, North Carolina. The traffic had been brutally slow. As feared, it was bumper-to-bumper with cars, campers, and trucks with southern license plates fleeing the hurricane. Hope was good, considering, crying herself to sleep for this final leg of the journey. They’d caravanned, pausing at gas stations for pit stops when the baby refused to settle. David was eminently patient, never checking his watch. Cara was grateful to be following David’s massive Range Rover. He took it slow along winding, wooded roads through small mountain communities. Small shops and restaurants, each more charming than the last, lined the roads. From the looks of it, many people were stocking up after a long journey.
At last he turned off the main road to a narrow road that led through a bold wooden gate. Up they climbed, deeper into the woods, past tall hardwoods, dogwoods, pines, and Cara’s much-loved rhododendrons. When they reached the top of the hill, suddenly the land cleared and in the center of soft green grass sat a massive log house. It was stunning, surrounded by broad porches replete with rocking chairs overlooking breathtaking long-range mountain views. A fleet of thunderclouds hovered low and fat, promising strong wind, thunder, and lightning. Cara drove around the circular gravel driveway to park near one of the front porches. She pulled the parking brake, then slowly climbed from the car. She leaned against the door, weary beyond words. She felt she had little left to give.
She heard the other car door close and turned her head to see David walking toward her across the gravel. He wore boots, dark jeans, and a white shirt rolled up his arms but his face appeared tired from the long, stressful drive.
“We made it,” he said, stopping before her.
She offered him a crooked smile and gestured at the huge house. “You think you could squeeze me in?” she asked, teasing him with his own words.
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “How are you?”
“Tired. Sad. In need of a bath and sleep, in that order.”
“And Hope?”
“Asleep in the backseat.”
“We’re all pretty tired. We can rest now.”
Her gaze swept the magnificent log home with its long mountain views, the fenced pastures and barn. “It’s stunning,” she said. “I feel a million miles away from the beach. And from the storm. Thank you for inviting us to come.”
“I’m glad you like it. I hoped you would.” There passed a quiet communication between them that it was also important to him that she liked it. “Let’s get you inside. Those clouds promise rain.”
On cue, the wind gusted, tossing leaves and bits of dirt into the air. Cara looked out over the mountains toward the sea. An armada of clouds was traveling north. She said a quick prayer that her brother and the family would hunker down and be safe. The storm was upon them.
HURRICANE IRMA’S PREDICTED path shifted again in what the meteorologists called a wobble. The storm no longer had the Charleston coast in its sights and there was hope there’d be fewer calamities than predicted.
At least weather-wise.
It was late morning when Linnea and her mother walked the few short blocks from the hospital to the Institute of Psychiatry. The skies were overcast, the winds were blowing hard, and rain had started falling. But they weren’t afraid. It seemed like any other serious thunderstorm.
The streets were deserted. Charlestonians were staying indoors as directed, hunkering down for the oncoming storm. Once in the psychiatric hospital, the two women stoically sat in the waiting room until Cooper was admitted. Julia needed to see for herself that her son was in good hands. When they were allowed, they met Cooper in the dayroom where he would spend most of his day under observation. This was an airy, brightly lit community room with two-story windows. Cooper appeared calmer now but more despondent. The doctors assured them that this was normal as he began to comprehend the ramifications of his actions.
Linnea was exhausted and emotionally drained. She’d awoken at two in the morning. It was almost eleven. She needed to sleep. And so did her mother.
“Mama, there’s nothing more we can do for him. And he’s currently getting a lot more sleep than you and I combined.”
“I’m not leaving him,” Julia said stubbornly, shaking her head.
“I get it. But we have to take care of ourselves if we hope to help him. Let’s go home, just for a little while. We can shower, grab some food, and pack a bag. Then we’ll come back.”
Her mother stared at her, numb with indecision.
“Please, Mama.”
“Yes, fine,” Julia said wearily. She clutched her purse close to her chest as she looked longingly over her shoulder at the dayroom. “But I do so hate to leave him here.”
Linnea looked at her mother with almost maternal tenderness. She’d never seen her so disheveled. Not in public. Her usually impeccable appearance was altered—her ashen face was void of makeup, her hair in a haphazard ponytail, and she was wearing a lived-in sweater and jeans. Linnea was shocked to see she’d aged, too. Her face sagged with grief.
They walked the short distance from the Institute of Psychia
try back to the hospital garage. Linnea was stunned by the increased power of the storm as it moved closer. The wind was blowing so hard they had to raise their voices to be heard. When they reached the garage they decided to leave Linnea’s Mini Cooper and drive Julia’s substantial Mercedes. It was clearly the better choice to navigate Charleston’s flooded streets.
“I’ll drive,” Linnea said, and she slipped in behind the wheel of the car. Julia offered no argument and slumped into the passenger seat. The garage was deserted as they drove to the exit.
The security guard looked at them like they were crazy. “You’re not going out in that?”
“Not far,” Linnea called out.
“We’re coming back,” her mother felt compelled to tell him.
“Be careful, ladies, and get home quick. And stay put. The storm may not be hitting us directly, but a king tide is predicted to combine with the storm surge. They’re expecting a four- to six-foot surge. That means we’re going to have some serious flooding, the worst since Hurricane Hugo. Yes, ma’am. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want to get stuck in this hospital. It’ll be a lake out there.”
“Thank you,” Linnea called out as they exited, feeling her heart rate accelerate with the engine.
Leaving the garage, they entered a storm whipping the air, stirring up debris. Rain began to beat the roof like a tom-tom. Neither woman spoke as Linnea crawled south along Rutledge Avenue toward Tradd. The water of Colonial Lake appeared as dark as steel.
The mile-long trip took twenty minutes. Linnea parked the car in the driveway and they scurried to the front door, ducking their heads and pushing through the squall. Once inside, they both sighed audibly when they closed the door against the tempest. The house was dim and quiet. Not a light was on. The storm made the skies as dark as dusk. They removed their damp shoes at the door and slipped from their raincoats without speaking, tacitly understanding that neither of them wanted to disturb Palmer. Linnea felt her eyelids drooping with fatigue as she wiped a damp lock of hair from her forehead.
“You’re back.”
Linnea startled at the sound of her father’s voice and spun around. She didn’t see him and was momentarily confused. Across the foyer, the living room was dark. Nonplussed, she looked to her mother. Julia was putting her purse on the small Hepplewhite table in the foyer. Her hand stilled and her face hardened at Palmer’s voice.
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