Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(47)
The place was only thirty years old, and it already looked dated. But all in all, there were surely worse places to be sick.
“Reminds me of a sanatorium I know in Providence,” I murmured, craning my neck to look out the window. I meant the one where Emma had gone, at the very end. (The one where you died without me beside you, because that’s what you had chosen, and I chose to respect it. Even though I didn’t want to.)
He opened his door and climbed out. “There’s a certain style to these things, all across the land. At least, there’s a certain style to those built in the last century. Cut from a template, each and every one of them.”
“It’s a nice template, though.”
“Nice enough on the outside.” He paused to pay the driver, and then to dart around the car’s hood in order to open my door. “They’re more progressive within, but not so much as a modern inmate might prefer, I think.”
? ? ?
(He’s really quite the gentleman, Emma. It’s a pity you never gave him a chance. I think you could’ve been friends.)
? ? ?
Up the walkway we went, and through the main door. Beyond it, there was a desk with a nun behind it. Obviously, I could’ve guessed that it was a Catholic hospital, given the name, but for some reason it still surprised me to see a woman in a habit working up front like that. I’d heard such awful things about how Catholics were treated in the region; and when I looked around, I saw that certain measures were being taken to ensure the safety of the patients, and the security of the grounds.
An armed guard sat in a corner reading a newspaper. He glanced up at Wolf and me as we entered the lobby—then quickly judged us harmless, and went back to reading. An alarm was established behind the main intake desk . . . I assumed there was some kind of trigger or lever hidden beneath it somewhere, to be pulled in case of emergency. I wondered if they treated this space like a saloon, and kept a shotgun behind the counter.
Has it come to that, do you think? Emma, it’s unreal. This really is another country, I fear.
Several stacks of forms were presented on clipboards, and I was compelled to fill them out—though Wolf merely signed himself in. “I did all my paperwork yesterday,” he explained. “Now they have me on file.”
I obliged St. Vincent’s with my new name (it was legal, after all, and therefore true), my address, and even filled in my phone number—since there was a place to put one, should the visitor have one to offer. I could’ve lied about any of it, but there was no point. I had nothing to hide, not really. Not anymore, and certainly not anything relevant to my visit.
When all was sorted and accepted, I signed my name on a different sheet, and noted the time of my arrival.
The nun gestured toward an orderly. He was an enormous man, half a head taller than the inspector and nearly as wide; but he wore a pleasant expression to go with his uniform, and I assumed that this was just one more form of security—something more subtle and versatile than a hidden firearm.
“This is Jeremiah. He’ll bring you to Mr. Lorino’s room. Please stay with him at all times, and obey any instructions he may feel compelled to give you. Most of our patients are peaceful and content, but a few are prone to outbursts. Should you see such an outburst, please resist any urge to intervene. Our staff is comprised of trained professionals. Please leave matters in our hands.”
We agreed to these terms, and followed silently behind the big man.
Down one long corridor we tagged along, past rows of rooms with doors closed, their small windows lit from within (though we couldn’t see what was inside). On the other side of the hall were larger rooms, common areas where patients gathered to play checkers or read pulp magazines drawn from well-thumbed stacks. I saw a piano in one such area, with sheet music open and ready—though no one was playing it at that time. The floors scrolled by in checkered linoleum, a modern amenity that kept the place quieter than tiles or stone, so that all the voices, the ringing phone at the desk, the squeaky wheeled carts, and even our own footsteps were too muffled to echo very much.
Finally we reached our destination, a door with a small square window crisscrossed with tiny bars threaded through the glass.
Jeremiah said, “Mr. Lorino is usually a calm man, and happy for company—but he doesn’t always understand as much as he pretends to. The blow to his head, the blade . . .” He hesitated, as if uncertain how much he should say. He settled for, “There was bleeding in his brain. He sometimes gets confused, and there are subjects that agitate him.”
“Is he ever violent?” Wolf asked.
“Not deliberately. His coordination isn’t what it used to be, and there are times he struggles to control his limbs. I don’t think he would harm you on purpose, but be aware—patients like him may prove full of surprises.”
He knocked gently upon the door before opening it; I noticed that it wasn’t locked, or else it only locked from the outside. “Mr. Lorino? You have visitors.” He looked back at us, and said, “His sister was called away on a personal errand, but she will return shortly. Her name is Camille, and she knows that she might find you here when she’s finished.”
With that, he opened the door to reveal a man seated in a corner rocking chair, beneath a large window set well out of his reach. Sunlight streamed down on his head, making his very dark hair appear as if streaked with rust, and giving his pale blue hospital uniform an almost translucent appearance at the sleeve cuffs and the loosened collar.