Page 102 of Bend
“The exam showed nerve damage in your wrist. Did he ever grab you there?”
I shook my head as if I was emptying change out of the bottom of a piggy bank. Nerve damage to the wrist could be caused by an improper knotting, but Deacon would never, ever make that mistake, and I would have called it out if I’d felt a tingling.
“Margie, I’m so confused. It’s like my brain isn’t working right. I have to see him. I have to talk to him.” I didn’t know how I’d calmed enough to make sentences, but I had. I wiped my nose and smeared my tears over my eyelids with the backs of my hands.
“That’s the least of your worries,” she said. “You have to get released first. Your therapist has seventy-two hours to determine if you’re a danger to yourself or others. So no more lunging over the desk to kill the good doctor. If you do get out, you’ll get taken in for questioning or arrested, depending on what the DA feels he has and, to be honest, whatever Dad decides he wants to do. He’s got every judge in L.A. in his pocket, but the media loves rich girls and violence. If you walk, it’ll look like we’ve gotten away with attempted murder. And just so you know, we’ve got some problems at home.”
“What?”
“Jonathan’s girlfriend disappeared from a party at Sheila’s last night. His car’s gone.”
“He had a girlfriend?” I tapped my fingers against my thumb, counting. When did my baby brother turn sixteen? How long had I been high on flake and fucking? Shit, he was old enough to drive?
“Theresa’s friend Rachel.”
Theresa was my sister, and Rachel was, indeed, her friend. She hung around a lot. I’d never given her a thought.
As if reading my mind, Margie continued. “I didn’t know about her and Jon either. So that’s why I’m here and not Quentin.”
“I just want to talk to Deacon.”
“I know. But maybe what you want isn’t what you need.” She took my hand. “When we’re done here, you’re having your orientation meeting with the hospital admin. Be nice. Be good. Okay?”
“Will being nice get me out?”
“It’ll increase the odds.”
“Then I’m all over it.”
five.
The administrator smiled. She seemed genuine enough, but she was probably genuine with everyone, which made the whole act as fake as shit. Her brown hair was straight, but at the ends, I could see it was naturally curly. A little patch of eyebrow had begun to grow at the top of her nose. She wore a little wreath with a bell hanging from it on her lapel.
“I’m Doctor Frances Ramone, but you can just call me Frances.”
Apparently, we were all on a first-name basis in Westonwood.
“You can call me Miss Drazen.”
My joke had no effect on her that I could see. Being blind with a headache, who knew what was happening in my peripheral vision. On the other side of the glass walls, people played checkers and some asshole grumbled in a wheelchair. More windows decoratively barred against escape. Lightweight plastic chairs, great for throwing but not hurting. A television permanently set to beautiful scenes of nature, flowers, butterflies. And that was how rich kids disappeared into Westonwood. No TV. No internet. No phone.
“That’s fine, Miss—”
“I was kidding. Fiona’s fine.”
“Are you okay, Fiona?”
Was I okay? What kind of question was that?
“I have a headache, and I’m a little grouchy, if you don’t mind.”
“Your medication’s worn off.”
Was her smile smug? Or just a smile?
“I need you to hear this and retain it, so I preferred you have all your faculties. Okay?” she said.
“Okay.”
