Unlocked

by Barnes, Rebecca

  “So, after this incident, you were terminated, you relocated to the city of Breemont, and you are now employed and in good standing at Breemont Medical Facility at 417 Canal Street?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I understand that you not only treat patients, but you are also in regular counseling yourself due to your past experiences. Is this so?”

  Now Lydia was sure she wouldn’t get the case. Who wants a whack-job trying to help a whack-job? She had already proven it doesn’t work and is in fact quite detrimental to the patient and those around him or her. She thought about walking out of the interview, but she needed the job. Even if she didn’t get this case, she still needed the job. If she walked out, Breemont would have no choice but to terminate her employment. So, instead of throwing her hands up and leaving, she looked her interviewers in the eye and answered as confidently as she could, “Yes, I am seeing a fellow psychiatrist at Breemont for an hour once a week. It was a stipulation when I hired in.”

  The voice from the other end of the phone switched gears: “And how would you treat the patient in question?”

  “I would use my past experiences to guide me. People learn from mistakes, and I most certainly will never make the same mistake again. I would rely solely on facts, nothing more, and I would be sure to present those facts to the patient during treatment.”

  The woman, Kay if Lydia remembered correctly—she was terrible with names, straightened her papers, causing a loud shuffle, and a sharp tap, tap, tap to echo through the phone. Rob Schneideker took off his glasses gave his partner a look. They nodded. Rob stood and thanked Lydia for her time. The research lady from BioTech, Kay Crider, hung up, and Duke Elliot, joined Rob in a standing position. Lydia stood and allowed herself to be shown to the door. She was sure the interview had been in vain. It was the second most awful experience of her life, though a distant second from the Bedford incident which would now and forever be number one.

  Lydia took the elevator back down to her office in Breemont. She sat at her desk and shook her head. It had been such a defeating day. She really wanted this patient. She needed to prove to herself that she was a good doctor. She knew it wouldn’t erase the mistakes of her past, but she hoped to somehow regain some credibility. She looked over her patient load. It was light. She had a few regulars, but she hadn’t been able to build up her practice as much as she would have liked. She filled in her calendar with upcoming meetings and patient sessions and then filed some paperwork she had been putting off, trying to push the awful interview experience out of her mind. She had tidied her desk and removed her purse from her desk drawer in preparation to leave for the day when the phone on her mahogany desk—the phone she had just aligned perfectly with the corner of that desk—rang.

  “Hello, this is Dr. Lindenhurtz,” she answered as cheerily as she was able in light of this terrible day.

  “Dr. Lindenhurtz, I’m glad I caught you,” Rob Shneideker’s voice came through the receiver. “I’ve just gotten off the phone with Ms. Crider and Mr. Elliot. The three of us along with the patient’s parents believe you are a good fit for this case.”

  Mr. Schneideker’s voice reverberated in her ear. She wasn’t sure she had heard him properly. When she didn’t respond, he continued, “We all feel strongly that because of your past with the Bedford boy, that you are perfectly suited for this case. Like you said in your interview, there is no way you will make the same mistake twice. The patient is sedated now. You’ll meet with her tomorrow when the grogginess wears off.”

  “Th-thank you, Mr. Schneideker,” Lydia stammered. “I look forward to meeting her.” Lydia’s wide eyes were no match for her gaping mouth.

  “Yes, Dr. Lindenhurtz, I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

  Lydia hung up the phone and collapsed in her chair. She was still for a long while and then broke into wild laughter. That was ridiculous, she thought. When the laughter subsided, she left her office and drove home. Lydia had been sure after that disastrous interview, she had no chance of landing the case, especially taking into consideration her past...mistake. As it turned out, the administration at Breemont put her on this case because of her previous experience, not in spite of it.

  When she came through the door after an uneventful commute, she was bursting with excitement but found no one home to share it with. She texted Dylan to find where he was and when he was coming home. She wanted to celebrate. He responded over an hour later, which annoyed Lydia since she knew on most occasions he couldn’t bear to pry his eyes away from his phone. He was around the corner at The Pub, and by the typos in his reply, she figured he’d been there a while. She changed into some yoga pants and an oversized shirt, and started to hope she’d be asleep before he dragged himself home and into bed later.

  She instead opened a bottle of already chilled Pinot Grigio, pouring a glass for herself. If he wasn’t around to help her celebrate, she would celebrate alone. In her sweats. She sat down on the sofa and stared out the window at the lights of their little town. All those buildings, all those homes. By the bottom of the first glass, she began to think of all of them as individual human minds. You could see the buildings. You could see the lights through the windows. Sometimes you could even see a spark of activity within, but a person could never really see into them—not into the corners and crevices, not into the hidden closets in the back of the room. The majority of what lay inside would never be seen or understood by anyone who didn’t live there. She thought of her new patient, Clara Marcel. She figured that sometimes even the person who lived in the house could manage to lose a thing or two. She’s misplaced something—her memory, her family—somewhere inside. I’ll just have to help her find it, Lydia thought and poured another glass before putting the stopper on the bottle.

  Dylan, on the other hand, poured himself into bed around one a.m. First he stumbled around a bit in the bathroom, waking Lydia, and bounced in between the sheets a few minutes later. She rolled over and said, “Guess what. I got the case. Can you believe it?”

  “Not really, hon. I guess they’ll let anyone shrink a head these days,” he snorted and slurred.

  “That’s not funny, Dylan.”

  “I was just playing around. Seriously, congrats,” he mumbled and moments later, he began to snore.

  Clara’s file was fairly small, as she had only been a patient at Breemont for two days. However, Mr. Schneideker said they’d be getting another file on Clara from BioTech as soon as it had been updated. Apparently this patient was a part of a study BioTech had been working on for almost two decades. He explained there wouldn’t be much information there. The file would contain backgrounds on both parents, as well as the child conceived as a part of a fertility trial. It would also contain routine medical information from all the study-related doctor visits and testing. Mr. Schneideker didn’t think there would be any pertinent information in this file, but he wanted his new employee to be as prepared as possible to treat this patient. Lydia finished her wine and finished reading the file. She fell asleep thinking about Clara Marcel, nervous but excited about what the future would bring: Success, redemption, and an empty lost and found bin in her patient’s mind, she hoped.

  Chapter Six—Thursday

  Lydia walked into at Breemont at six a.m. She was hoping that by arriving before her patient awoke, she’d catch her with her guard down, and she’d be more willing to talk. She felt Clara trusted her enough to not be upset by this. She hoped, anyway. An orderly buzzed her in to Clara’s room. Lydia had planned to sit quietly in the same chair as the previous day until Clara woke up naturally, however, when the door buzzed, Clara began to stir. Perhaps this was for the best.

  “Good morning, Clara.” Dr. Lindenhurtz greeted her patient in a cheery but hushed morning tone. She padded toward the chair and sat down. Clara gazed at her with a drowsy haze.

  “Umm..Good morning.” Clara responded, sleepily. Suddenly, remembering the photograph, she shot up in bed. It was still clasped in her hands. “Oh my God! Dr.
Lindenhurtz! The picture! I looked at the picture! It’s them. It’s really my parents. Look!” She commanded, as she herself looked down at the photograph then stopped short. Her face twisted in agony. “What! No! It was them. I swear it was them. These are not the same people from the photograph I saw last night!”

  Terror swept across her face as she ripped up the strangers in the picture. Lydia approached Clara’s bed and scooped up the remnants. From what she could tell, the people in the photograph were in fact Clara’s parents, the same parents who were waiting as patiently as they could for their only daughter to recognize them.

  “Clara, that’s the same picture I gave you. It has the same people in it. They haven’t changed. What changed was your mind, the way you viewed it. You saw what your mind wanted you to see, what it had created. Does that make sense?” Lydia broached the subject tenderly.

  “No!” Clara screamed. “No, it doesn’t make sense! I know what I saw. I saw my parents. This morning,” she seemed unsure, “this morning it’s different. The picture changed overnight!” Clara’s voice trailed off on the last sentence and she grew quiet. She was becoming aware of how…crazy…that sounded.

  “The mind is the most interesting element of the human body, Clara. It is capable of so much more than you or I realize. The human mind’s vastness never ceases to amaze me.” Lydia was careful not to insinuate that Clara’s own mind was sick or impaired in any way.

  Clara chewed her thumbnail. Eventually, she looked up at her psychiatrist. “Am I…am I crazy?” She whispered the last word, embarrassed by it. She had always been intelligent, intuitive, and headstrong. She didn’t like the fact that all of that may be crumbling before her very eyes, or rather, behind them.

  “Clara, you are not crazy. You are just…sidetracked. I’m confident that we can get you back on track, though, okay?” Lydia attempted to reassure her patient.

  “I don’t…I don’t feel sidetracked. I don’t understand what’s happening. The only part that feels crazy is the fact that I’m here and those people aren’t my real parents. I can’t explain it. I just know that’s what’s true. But that picture…I can’t explain that picture.” Clara’s voice cracked and she looked down. She pulled at a frayed thread on her bleach-scented blanket.

  “Clara, let’s entertain other options. I’d like you to explore the idea that, in fact, this picture,” Lydia held out the pieces, “didn’t change. Let’s imagine that not only did it not change, but that what is represented in the picture is true.”

  Clara looked up from her blanket, unsure of how to respond. She raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders. It’s a start, Lydia thought. At least she’s not screaming or completely rejecting the idea. Not yet, at least. Lydia allowed what she had said to her patient to sink in. She granted Clara a few silent moments to marinate in the idea that her world was not as it seemed.

  At length, the silence was broken by the door buzzing again. “Dr. Lindenhurtz?” an orderly beckoned. Lydia stood and walked to the door. After a few whispers, she thanked the orderly and closed the door, returning with a tray of food and a cup with pills.

  She approached her patient, sat down her tray, and spoke: “Clara, your parents have put together a scrapbook for you. It’s been dropped off at the nurses’ station. You don’t have to look at it today, but I would like to get it for you, so that it is in your room when you decide you’d like to see it. Your parents are here and would like to speak with me. I’ll only be gone for a bit. They’ve already brought your breakfast,” she said motioning to the food she had just placed on Clara’s side table, “I should be back by the time you finish, and we can continue talking. Does that sound okay?”

  Clara’s heart raced at the mention of the scrapbook. What secret life lay inside, she wondered. Which parents would she see? How would she react to seeing herself with people she didn’t know? She knew she wasn’t ready to find out, but was happy that the book would be in her room just in case. “Yes, that sounds okay,” Clara answered, though she sounded hesitant.

  “I’ll be back soon..” Lydia said but paused guiltily. Clara understood Dr. Lindenhurtz’s delay. She threw back the pills and swallowed them with no water, thereby allowing her doctor to leave the room.

  Mark and Melanie were waiting for Lydia as expected at the nurses’ station. The doctor noted that Melanie clutched the book to her chest. She couldn’t hold her daughter, so the book was the next best thing. A poor substitute, Lydia thought, but didn’t know the extent of that pain since she wasn’t a mother herself.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Marcel, thank you for coming in, and thank you for bringing the scrapbook so quickly. It will prove to be a great tool during therapy.” Lydia greeted the grieving parents. “If you’d like to talk, we can go to the consult room again.”

  “Yes, please,” replied Melanie with urgency in her tone.

  The trio wound their way through the halls to the nearest consultation room. It was the same room they’d been in the previous two days. It was cramped, and there was only enough room for the three of them. Lydia pulled her chair to the corner so that she was sitting at an angle to them rather than directly across. She didn’t want to seem confrontational or appear as an adversary to Clara’s parents. She needed to form a good bond with them too. So far, so good.

  “So, do you have questions? Is there anything pressing you’d like to discuss this morning?”

  “Yes,” Mark responded, “Have you seen her this morning? Did she remember us? Did the early session help?” He queried eagerly, hopeful to have some sliver of his daughter back.

  “Mr. Marcel, this will take time. I would like to let you know that she thought she recognized you both last night in the photograph, unfortunately this morning, that recognition had disappeared. She’s a little confused right now, just trying to sort things out.”

  “A little confused? My own daughter, who I’ve raised for fourteen years, doesn’t even recognize me, her own father. She’s more than a little confused.”

  Lydia detected the subdued anger in his voice. It was to be expected. Perhaps Lydia could have used better language to explain the incident.

  “You’re right, Mr. Marcel. I apologize. Clara’s mental state is fragile right now. After realizing the photograph showed the two of you, the “strangers”,” Lydia used air quotes here, “this morning, she became extra agitated. She’s been fairly calm and collected throughout this experience, and this morning, she lost her cool for a moment. I believe that last night, she saw the photograph and recognized you and Mrs. Marcel as her parents, that she had a moment of clarity, but this morning that clarity was gone. It’s a start.”

  Melanie looked at Mark longingly, “Do you think she really remembered us?” She asked, tottering on the cusp between doubt and hope.

  “I hope so, Mel. I really hope so.” He answered as he brushed her hair out of her face.

  Melanie sat up and addressed Lydia, “Dr. Lindenhurtz, here is the book we’ve put together. We put everything we could think of in there. Even pieces of clothing and her locket. She’s had that locket since, gosh, I think she was seven or so. She wore it every day, but when she was admitted, they took all of her belongings and boxed them up. They gave them to us when we left, the world’s worst parting gift.” She attempted to laugh, but when it came out it was more of a smiling moan. “There are pictures of all of us from Clara’s birth all the way up through a few months ago.”

  The book was bursting at the seams and expanded much farther than the binding should have allowed. There were items sticking out here and there, and when Melanie handed over her memories to Lydia, the book was heavy. Some memories are heavy, Lydia contemplated, thinking of Stanley Bedford.

  Melanie offered, “Is there anything else we can do to help? Do we need to be doing anything at all? Maybe we should go in and talk to her, you know, just for a minute. Maybe she will remember us if we just talk to—”

  Mark cut her off gently by pushing down her arms. She talked with her hands,
so this was his way of silencing her. “Melanie, we tried that, remember? It didn’t work. We have to let Dr. Lindenhurtz take care of Clara now. She knows what’s best, right, Doctor?” He pleaded with his eyes.

  “Yes, Mr. Marcel. I can guarantee that I will give your daughter my very best, and I will do everything in my power to get her home to her family as soon as possible.” Lydia promised but felt uneasy about it. She was still thinking of Stanley.

  “Thank you,” Clara’s parents responded in unison.

  “Is there anything else?” Lydia asked, itching to get out of that tiny room.

  Mark and Melanie looked at each other, using that silent language married couples sometimes have, and shook their heads no.

  “Okay, well if you think of anything, give me a call. Clara has probably finished her breakfast by now, so I’ll finish my session with her.” She stood. “Thank you again,” she said as she held up the book and subsequently vacated the room.

  Mark and Melanie Marcel exited the room then exited the building. They walked to their car in silence. Mark spoke as he pulled out of the parking space, “That book should help, right? That’ll do the trick?”

  “That’s the plan,” replied Melanie as she clicked her seatbelt and they drove out of the lot.

  Chapter Seven—Diagnosis

  Back in the patient’s room, Lydia placed the book on the nightstand. She and Clara exchanged glances, and it was understood that Clara was not yet ready to open it. Lydia paused giving Clara a chance to speak. As she waited, she noticed that Clara had eaten some of her grapes and a few bites of toast, but the rest of her breakfast was still bedside. At least she’s eating something, Lydia thought. Clara was sitting in her bed, combing her hair. Finally, she said, “I’d like another chair in here. Is that possible? I don’t like sitting in this bed when you’re here. It makes me feel sick.”