One We Love, The (17 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

I
spent the
weekend swinging on a carb-salt-sugar pendulum comprised of Haagen Dazs
Chocolate Chocolate Chip ice cream and bags of Lays potato chips. Cliché,
maybe, but my options for mood-altering chemicals were limited, so I took what
I could get. Concern over Blodgett’s health warred with the seemingly less
important distress at Marshall’s duplicity. In reality, the two events combined
for equal opportunity despair. That made me feel even more guilty. My head knew
that Marshall—a man who had dropped out of my life months before—was far less
important than my friend getting attacked and suffering a heart attack. I
called the hospital Friday night to see how Blodgett had fared his surgery.
Once again, the nurse wouldn’t answer any questions other than to say he was
stable. I had to settle for that, unless I wanted to call Diana.

Which I didn’t.

By Saturday night, I was sick of myself, so I dragged my
butt to the Saturday Open Speaker meeting. Open Speaker meetings, unlike closed,
consist of one speaker telling an audience his or her story—how it was, what
happened, and how it is now. Before, during, and after, so to speak. Perfect,
because I wouldn’t have to actively participate. I just needed to be with
people.

Thankfully, Sue didn’t show up, even though she liked Open
Speaker meetings. I hadn’t called her to set up our meeting like I’d promised, so
I was a little leery of running into her. As soon as the speaker finished, I
slipped out to my car. I had enough to worry about.

At least the meeting had jarred me out of my pity pot, as we
call it in AA Definitely
not
one of my favorite sayings since it had the
nasty habit of being true. I hated that.

But it also got me thinking.

I still hadn’t figured out who RTA was. If I could get
access to the shelter’s files via the efficacy study, I might be able to search
for other RTA notations, but I hadn’t heard from Beth. Hadn’t heard from
anyone
from the shelter for that matter. My impatient side wanted to call Beth, but I
knew it would be better to wait and let it play out. Bugging her wouldn’t help.

So much for thinking.

T
he next few days
were remarkable only in their utter lack of progress. One morning, early, the
phone shrilled. Clotilde must have taken great pleasure in knowing she woke me
up. 6:00 a.m. Who does that?

She didn’t even bother with a phony “Oh! Did I wake you?” I tried
to pretend that I was alert and ready to face the day, but my voice couldn’t
maintain the ruse. All I could manage was that one-octave-higher-but-still-sleep-graveled
tone that never fooled anyone. It certainly had no chance with Clotilde.

She also eschewed niceties like ‘hello’ or introducing
herself. All I got was “The board has agreed to your proposal. I’ll meet with
you this evening at seven.”

“This evening? Um . . . let’s see . . . Today’s Tuesday,
right?”

“If that doesn’t work, I’m available on the 30th.”

“The 30th? Of this month? That’s, what? Three weeks from
now?”

Long pause.

“Tonight would be fine,” I said.

Click.

T
hat left
thirteen hours to wonder what exactly I was going to say since I had no clue
how to set up an efficacy study. It had sounded good when it was in my head,
but like all theories, when it came down to actual implementation, it felt like
I was trying to nail Jell-O to the wall.

In the end, I put together a short, five-item questionnaire
and called it good. It’s not like they could fire me. Kill me, maybe, but not
fire me.

CHAPTER FORTY

I
t was one of
those harried, frantic days at the clinic.

Edna, my 2:00 client—a dear, sweet woman caught in a
remorseless cycle of resentment, depression, and guilt after her meth-addicted
daughter dropped five grandkids off for an “overnight” that had now lasted eighteen
months—had whispered, “I think I’m going to kill myself” four minutes before
her session ended. For the rest of the afternoon, I parked her in the staff
break room, where she placidly crocheted an afghan and sipped warm Diet Sprite.
In the few minutes between client sessions, I worked at arranging admission to the
fourth floor at Sacred Heart for her and respite care for the kiddos. I didn’t
like leaving her alone for long stretches while I saw my other clients, but Lisa
checked in on her regularly. I stopped worrying after I found her cheerfully
cleaning out the staff refrigerator. Apparently, disclosure and the reassurance
that her charges were being cared for had relieved her immensely. In fact, she
appeared to be reframing her stay on the psych floor as a “vacation” as
evidenced by her asking whether the hospital had a hot tub.

With five kids under twelve at home, who could blame her?

O
f course, Bob
needed an update, right as I was going out the door. He’d been conspicuously
absent during Edna’s crisis, his office door shut firmly against intrusions.

I plopped down in the chair, trying desperately to avoid
mental images of Bob doin’ the nasty with Bettina. My nerves had stood all they
could take. If there was a God, he would spare me this.

Bob asked to review my documentation and the suicide plan.
Bored, I sat back and let my mind wander. Eventually, I was going to have to
deal with the Bob-n-Bettina issue and when I did, there would be hell to pay.

Most of it directed at me. Even though I’d be doing the
right thing, turning your boss over to the licensing board for unethical
behavior would not be a career enhancer.

I wondered if the shelter was hiring?

I almost felt sorry for Bob, too. All he’d ever wanted was
to be middle-management, tucked away in an office with a surplus of prestige
and a deficit of responsibility. So different from Marshall.

My eyes fell on Bob’s custom-made nameplate. He’d brought it
in the second week—an office-warming present from his wife. Green-veined marble
with a brass plate: Robert Thomas Aaronson.

I sat up.
RTA?

I must have looked like I’d seen a ghost, but for once,
Bob’s dull-wittedness came in handy. I swallowed the multitude of questions
that surged up.

Now was not the time. I needed to think carefully about what
I wanted to say and ask, because there would be no do-overs.

And it could, I supposed, be a coincidence.

I
was more than
twenty minutes late for my meeting with Clotilde. Surprisingly, she was still
at the shelter. Although my apology was sincere, I didn’t waste a whole lot of
time on it. I was still reeling from my discovery and I’d never convince her
that my tardiness wasn’t a power play. I did wonder, though, if I could work in
a question about Bob’s involvement here.

Taking the seat next to her desk, I simply handed her the
questionnaire and waited to hear her objections. I was sure there would be
several. Her anger was palpable, filling the air around us and wielded in that
chill, dark manner used by people who covet control. As she ran a jaundiced eye
over the form, I watched her expression. Unlike Lachlyn, who was free with her
contempt, Clotilde worked at hiding her emotions—she was the professional face
of the shelter after all—but she had a “tell.” I’d seen it when I’d confronted
her about withholding Karissa’s file from me.

There. Her upper lip flickered in a half-stifled sneer. Despite
the brief welling of juvenile glee at catching her out, I kept my own
expression blandly pleasant.

Briskly placing the sheet of paper on the desk in front of
her, she folded her hands across the top and met my eye. “How do you propose to
go about this . . . this
study
?”

“I thought it would be best to keep it simple. To begin
with, I’ll give the questionnaire to the current residents, and then we’ll need
to have them fill it out again when they leave. In the future, though, we’ll administer
it at admission, two weeks after, and at discharge, provided we know when the
woman is leaving, of course.”

“Not all residents stay two weeks.”

“I realize that, but I don’t think it’s fair to evaluate
treatment results if a woman only stays a few nights.” I smiled to show her I
was trying to be helpful. She didn’t smile back. “We’d have to have some way of
addressing that sub-group though. Maybe we should still give them the discharge
questionnaire?”

Clotilde shrugged.

“Also, in order to get a baseline,” I continued, “I’ll be conducting
a file review of the last few years to see if we can get an approximate idea of
post-treatment results. I won’t include that data in the final summary for the
board, but it could be helpful when it comes time to apply for further grants.
And it will give us an idea of what’s working and what isn’t.”

So much for a poker face. At the mention of a file review,
her lips thinned to a slash, the knuckles on her folded hands, formerly poised
so genteelly over my little questionnaire, blanched white. I realized I was
watching a literal struggle for control, and I found myself mentally
calculating an escape route.

The space between us grew hot and prickly, tangibly tense. Neither
of us spoke for several seconds—a lifetime—but despite the silence, the air
seemed crowded with noise: a ticking clock, my heart thudding, Clotilde’s rasping,
measured breaths.

“Fine,” she said.

Fine?

She didn’t bother explaining herself, just stood, indicating
the meeting was over. Instinctively, I rose. “The board expects a progress
report in one month. Astrid will inform you of the date.” Without taking her
eyes off me, she walked to the door, holding it open, maneuvering my exit.

Maybe I’d ask someone else about Bob.

She left the shelter moments later. Although I hadn’t needed
the bathroom in the literal sense, I locked myself into the porcelain sanctuary
as soon as I cleared her office threshold.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

W
hen I finally
ventured out of the commode, I found Astrid in the kitchen, making coffee. She
gave a start as I emerged, then looked at the door through which Clotilde had
just slammed out and said, “Oh!”

“Oh” can mean a lot of things. In this case, it meant, “Now
I understand why Clotilde was so pissed.”

“I guess you heard why I was meeting with Clotilde,” I said.

She looked uncomfortable. “Oh my, yes. We heard all about it
this morning. Clotilde spent all morning talking to the board.”

Left unsaid was that Clotilde had put in an awful lot of
time trying to get the board to rescind their permission.

“Do you think it’s such a terrible thing to do an efficacy
study?” I asked. “Doesn’t she want to know if the program is effective?”

Astrid tossed me a disgusted, are-you-kidding-me? look. “We
already know that the program is effective. What could be more effective then
removing a woman from her abuser and giving her shelter? There’s nothing a
little questionnaire can tell us that we don’t already know. Besides, Clotilde
has to look at the big picture. There are more things that have to be
considered than just this study.”

The problem with—or the benefit of—an extended lie is the
liar tends to start believing it. I was working up a pretty good head of
self-righteous steam, forgetting that I was, well, lying like a dirty penny in
a parking lot, and close to alienating the one person who had been helpful so
far. I took a deep breath.

“I know the shelter works. I’ve seen it for myself.” We both
knew I was referring to the aftermath of my own attack. She relaxed a bit, so I
went on. “Look, you know grants aren’t being awarded easily. This study can
help with that. More grant money means more for the women. How can that be a
bad thing?”

“More money is never a bad thing.” She smiled wryly at the
admission.

A thought occurred to me. “What other considerations?” I
asked.

The smile slid off her face. “Oh. Um.”

“You said there were ‘more things to be considered.’ What
did you mean by that?”

“I probably shouldn’t have said that. I mean, after all,
it’s all been settled. When you implied that we didn’t care, I got a little . .
.  Look, just forget it.”

“What’s been settled?” I said.

She scowled. “The complaint made against you to the
licensing board. Last spring? Clotilde felt it was her duty to inform the board
about the allegations made against you. After all, if they are going to let
you—”  

“
Allegations?
Are you
kidding
me? You know
very well who made that complaint and why. They were completely unfounded. I
can’t believe . . .” I sputtered to a halt as a new realization hit me.

“Astrid, that information came out of the group sessions I
attended here. Clotilde had no right to violate my confidentiality like that.
Not even to the board.”

Astrid’s face paled. By revealing Clotilde’s anti-Letty campaign
tactics, she’d let her boss in for more trouble than she’d realized. If I chose
to pursue the matter, Clotilde would be looking at her own ethics
investigation. Let’s see how
she
liked it.

“What time does she get in tomorrow?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I guess the usual time. Letty, please—”

I held a hand up. “I’m not trying to get you in trouble,
Astrid. I won’t even mention where I heard it, but she’s crossed the line. She
had no right to bring up information learned in a therapy group, and worse, to
use it when she knew it was unjustified! There’s no excuse for that.

“Is Lachlyn here?” I suddenly changed the subject.

Apparently, the abrupt switch unsettled her even more. Her
face blotched in irregular red and white patches eerily similar to Candi Cow,
the 4-H Guernsey heifer I raised in eighth grade.

Probably best not to mention that particular resemblance.

“Lachlyn is visiting her daughter. Joyce is here, though,”
Astrid said.

“Her daughter? I thought her daughter was dead?”

“Dead? Why would you think that?” Astrid asked.

I had one of those “Who’s on first?” moments. “
You
said she was. When you were telling why Lachlyn is so craz—” I coughed and
started over. “When you were telling me why Lachlyn was so dedicated to women’s
issues. You said her daughter’s life had been ruined by some guy.”

“Well, yes, she had to drop out of college. She still lives
up in Turtle Lake with that jerk. They work at the casino. Lachlyn went up for
little Lacey’s birthday. Her granddaughter. She’s five.”

Lachlyn: holy sister, mother,
grandmother
? My brain
reeled.

“Anyway, she’s running the craft class in the group room,”
Astrid said. Her eyes flicked across my face.

“Lachlyn?”

“
Joyce
. You said you wanted to talk to her. Goodness,
Letty, you’re barely making sense today.”

Completely befuddled, I said good-bye and made my way up to
the group room. It would give me a chance to get to know Joyce a little more
anyway. I could hear the women murmuring inside, the sound a cheerful
counterpoint to my emotions. Tapping on the door, I leaned my head around the
corner.

“What’s going on in here?” I asked, using a faux-perky,
kindergarten teacher voice.

The room hushed in one of those what-is-
she
-doing-here?
moments. Utilizing my alcoholic’s handy ability to deny uncomfortable truths, I
forged on.