Page 136 of Bend
I tucked my hair behind my ears. Had I brushed it? I was about to go back into the world, and I’d hate to do it ungroomed, sloppy, with scraggly red hair and no makeup. I already felt as though I had one foot out the door.
“Ms. Drazen,” Frances said to Margie, “can we get you anything?”
“Out of here?”
She smiled so disarmingly, Frances laughed, and the tension of the room broke a little.
“Well, thanks for coming.” Frances looked as if she’d applied lipstick fifteen seconds before opening the glass doors. “This conversation is being recorded for the patient’s protection.”
I almost laughed out loud but choked it down.
Frances continued. “Doctor Chapman and I will be issuing our recommendations to the judge and district attorney for the City of Los Angeles, in the case of Fiona Maura Drazen.” Frances folded her hands in front of her and looked me in the eye. “After careful consideration by the administration of this hospital, and the bearing in mind the counsel of Dr. Chapman, we’ve decided to recommend you stay at Westonwood or another accredited facility for an additional fourteen to forty-five days of observation, pursuant to Section 5250 of the California Welfare and Institutions code.”
I swallowed. “Excuse me?”
“What’s this about?” Margie demanded. “She’s functioning. She’s capable. I’ve seen far sicker people released on their own recognizance.”
“She’s had three violent outbursts while under our care,” Frances said.
I spun on Elliot. “You said the meds caused the outbursts.”
“I said maybe,” he said gently. “I’m sorry, but—”
Frances broke in, “And she still has no recall of the incident.”
“There was no incident,” Margie growled. “You can ask Deacon Bruce.”
“The judge thinks there was,” Frances said. “He’s concerned about letting a woman with psychotic episodes back into society.”
“We just accepted a plea deal.”
“From the prosecutor. Judge trumps lawyer.”
Margie was holding herself together admirably, but I could see her gears turning. I bet the two psychologists across the table could as well.
“Our recommendation is that she be kept here for her own safety,” Elliot said softly. He closed his little folder and stood. “I’m in session in two minutes. Excuse me.” He nodded to each of us and strode out.
I was left sitting in shock. What had just happened?
I had been so sure I was leaving. I’d said good-bye to the place, checked my room for personal items, looked at the cafeteria for the last time. Staying was worse than a defeat. It was a humiliation.
How was I letting that motherfucker walk out of there?
I spun out of my chair and dashed into the reception area. He was just beyond the glass doors.
“Elliot,” I called.
He slowed down, as if deciding what to do.
I ran to catch up. “What happened? Come on, you know I’m not going to hurt anyone.”
He shook his head. “It’s for the best.”
“I’ll have you in session tomorrow, and I’m not saying a word until you tell me what happened.”
“Fiona, I—”
“You can shove your little pen tip up your ass. I’m going to make your life miserable.”
