In the Shadow of Lakecrest(32)

We walked into the common room I’d seen in the brochure. A teenage girl was picking out “Three Blind Mice” on a grand piano, and women who didn’t look the least bit insane sat reading and sewing, watched over by nurses. We peeked into what looked like perfectly normal bedrooms on the second floor, all with pictures on the wall and immaculately folded blankets. The rooms could be bolted from the outside, I noticed, but there weren’t any restraints in sight.

“How many residents do you have?” I asked.

“A dozen or so, at any given time. Most of our residents are with us a few months.”

“A woman I met in the visiting room said her sister had been here eleven years.”

“Yes, poor Lizzie Welcher. An unusual case. The majority of our patients recover sufficiently to be sent home. Shall we make our way downstairs? The kitchen and dining room are on the lower level, and we pride ourselves on serving high-quality meals.”

“What about that way?” I pointed up the stairs, toward the third floor.

“Our Severe Cases wing. I’d prefer those patients not be disturbed. They could be quite aggravated by a strange face.”

I knew it was highly unlikely—impossible, really—that Cecily would be locked up there. But I felt a sudden, overwhelming need to see for myself.

“I’d like to have a look,” I said firmly.

I turned away from the doctor and began walking confidently upstairs. A nurse at the top barred the way, but stepped aside when Dr. McNally caught up and indicated with a flick of his hand that I was free to go.

The doors on this floor were made of metal, with small glass observation windows. I heard scuffling sounds. Indistinguishable words. I glanced into a room that at first appeared empty. Then I saw a figure tied to the bed, straps connected firmly at her shoulders and knees. She was asleep, with her tongue lolling out from her mouth. I turned to the room opposite, drawn by an odd rustling that reminded me of the mice that used to rummage through Ma’s pantry. An old woman with roughly chopped-off hair was rubbing her hands together. They were encased in bulky mittens, the ends secured with twine. I wondered why until I saw the woman desperately paw at her face. Her hands slid along her greasy head, and she grimaced in frustration. Without the mittens, I slowly understood, she would be clawing her own cheeks, pulling out her hair. Destroying herself.

The final room was what did me in. I peered inside and instantly pulled back in shock when another face appeared, mirroring mine. It was an image from a nightmare: a gaping mouth; wild, bedraggled hair; eyes that were the definition of madness. She screamed, and I screamed, and those sounds set off a chorus of shrieks and yelps from the surrounding rooms. I ran past the scowling nurse, past Dr. McNally and his disapproving frown, and down the stairs to the main floor landing. The doctor caught up with me soon after, as I gulped mouthfuls of air to steady my breathing.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, looking down in embarrassment.

“You can’t quite understand until you see for yourself,” he said sadly. “Despite our best efforts, there are some we cannot save.”

His dejection was so real, so honest, that I berated myself for my dark suspicions. Dr. McNally, by every indication, was a devoted doctor, not the kind of man who’d lock away a difficult woman in exchange for a hefty payment. And I’d gotten a look at all the “severe cases.” None of them bore any resemblance to Cecily Lemont.

“Would you like to see the rest of the building?”

I shook my head. I already knew what it would look like: meticulously neat and clean, with a lingering scent of bleach. I wanted to leave. To breathe fresh air.

“I’ve taken up enough of your time,” I said.

“It was my pleasure. I hope I can be of help to your friend.”

“I hope so, too.”

Almost frantically, I pulled at the front door, dimly aware of the nurse hovering behind me. The assault of bitter cold made me gasp, but I pressed my face down into the mink, anxious to move, to get away. A walk around the block would clear my head; I didn’t care if my feet went numb and my eyes watered from the stinging wind.

But I’d gone only a few steps before I saw the black Packard parked at the corner. I hadn’t expected Hank to be back yet; hopefully, he hadn’t seen me come out from the Clinic.

“Have a good visit?” I asked breezily, as Hank got out to open the door.

“My wife was still at work,” he said. “But the girls were glad to see me.”

There was so much I could have asked. What did his wife do? How old were his girls? But I felt awkward prolonging the conversation. Lemonts aren’t overly familiar with staff, Hannah liked to say. I waited until Hank was settled behind the wheel before I spoke again.

“How long is the drive back, do you think?”

“Usually an hour and a half or so.”

“Usually?”

We stopped at a red light on Michigan Avenue. Hank turned around to face me.

“When I take Mr. Lemont.”

“I don’t understand.”

Hank looked confused. Then his face relaxed into its usual inscrutable expression, and he looked back toward the windshield. Carefully, he guided the car forward.

“I thought you knew, ma’am,” he said flatly, reverting to his role as the invisible, inconsequential chauffeur. “Mr. Lemont goes to that building all the time.”