One We Love, The (4 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

I
made sure to get
to the shelter later that very evening. No sense in dragging it out, but
irritated at the delay over the weekend and the ridiculous restrictions, my
inner bitch tugged on the leash a little. She decided we needed to make a
point. Sometimes I have very little control over her. It was worse when we
drank.

Astrid once again opened the door. This time the group room
door was shut, the soft sibilant sound of women’s voices dipping and rising
just beyond. Astrid put a finger to her lips, shushing me, then motioned me to
follow. I couldn’t tell if she was protecting the residents’ confidentiality or
merely trying to keep my presence a secret. We retreated to Clotilde’s office.
Astrid, still silent, circled around the desk and took a seat. Her expression
was a careful blank, no vestige of the welcome that she’d previously extended.

“Clotilde told me to give you the list of Regina’s clients.
Her current ones, that is. A few of them are still in residence, but the others
were seen as outpatients. Their contact information will be in their individual
files, but be sure you read the notes sections to make sure that it’s safe to
contact them at home. We don’t want you to put anyone at any more risk than is necessary.”

“Of course not. I don’t want to put anyone at risk.”

“Well, that won’t change the fact that you probably will. I
don’t know what Regina was thinking . . .” The last was muttered quietly as she
twisted to reach the file cabinet behind her. Not so quiet as to not be heard,
however.

Pulling the top drawer open, she reached in, grabbing a
sheaf of papers. “I can’t just give you a key. You’ll have to arrange a time
with Lachlyn since she’s in charge of you.”

It took an effort to not respond to the “in charge of you”
statement, but I managed. Taking a deep breath, I asked how I could get a message
to Lachlyn. I imagined another few days of the runaround. Instead, Astrid
pointed to the wall. “Her office is right next door.” Her expression indicated
great doubt that I could manage the five or so feet without visual aids. “She’s
probably still here. She rarely leaves before 7:00.”

“Such dedication.” I turned before she could verify whether
I was being sarcastic. My vow to resist pettiness was being broken at every
step, but I tried to regroup before knocking.

A crisp “One moment” greeted me through the cheap, hollow-core
door. A scowl greeted me after it opened. I couldn’t see much past Lachlyn’s
tall, spare frame, but what I could reminded me of a monk’s cell. The furniture
had been stripped down to a cheap metal desk and a decade old swivel office
chair. No paintings that I could see. No knickknacks. Papers arranged with OCD
precision on the desk’s surface. Lachlyn shifted to block my view.

“Good evening,” I chirped. I was not surprised to discover
that Lachlyn was prone to sneering. Here’s where my pettiness came in handy because
instead of acting as a deterrent, Lachlyn’s sourness cheered me immensely.
Since I couldn’t seem to vanquish my inner bitch, I’d have to make her work for
me.

Easy enough.

I followed Lachlyn to Regina’s old office, where she
unlocked the door as reluctantly as if she were letting me in to ransack her
family’s burial vault. Like Clotilde’s, it was another mishmash of furniture
odds and ends. Oddly enough, Regina hadn’t added her personal touch here. She
did have a couple of generic landscape-type pictures, but nothing that
reflected the sense of style and warmth that she had displayed at our clinic.

Lachlyn stood next to the file cabinet and stretched her
hand palm up toward me.

For a brief, crazy moment I thought she was asking me to
dance. “What?” I asked, mentally backing away.

“The client list?” She didn’t bother with sarcasm, but kept
her voice flat and dry as though my stupidity exhausted her. Nice touch.

I handed it over, glancing around the office again as I did.
It was so very unlike Regina, so plain and stripped down. Inhospitable. Lachlyn
unlocked the cabinet and immediately pulled out a small stack of files
rubber-banded together. She hadn’t even needed to sort through the long row of
manila files lining the drawer.

“You’ve already gone through these, haven’t you?” They had
gone through the office too, I realized. That’s why it felt so wrong. Regina’s
articles had been removed, her files combed through. Whatever I’d be reviewing
was likely to have been sanitized. But of what? At any rate, I still had the
copies of Regina’s pilfered files, and I would find anything worth finding in
those. I hoped.

“Of course we did. We weren’t aware of any changes in
Regina’s plans, and we needed to protect our women.”

“When will I be able to review the closed files?”

“Who knows if you even will? That hasn’t been decided yet.
The full board still needs to meet on that issue. They can’t be expected to
completely rearrange their lives and their schedules to suit you.”

Having spoken her piece, she stalked out the door. I heard
her footsteps recede toward the kitchen and sighed in relief.

Short-lived.

Before I could even circle the desk to take a seat, she was
back in the tiny room, hauling a metal folding chair. She stuck it in the
corner, then sailed out the door again. Moments later, back in she came with a
notepad and pen. She sat in the chair looking like she might be ready to take
dictation.

Apparently, my file-reviewer reviewer was ready to begin.
Sitting at the desk, I pulled the stack of files to me and began checking the
names against the list Astrid had provided. Not that I would be able to tell if
there had been any tampering. Unless . . .

I pulled open the top drawer, yanking it too hard since I’d
expected it to be locked. Stray pencils shot from back to front, rattling like
bones in a coffin. No wonder they hadn’t bothered with locks. Unless I could
read the past in the loose paperclips and food crumbs in the empty space, there
was nothing for them to worry about. I slammed the drawer.

“Did Regina have an appointment book?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Did she use a computer?” I thought back, seeming to
remember Regina carrying a red leather laptop case. Of course, our clinic had
computers, old and clunky, in each therapist’s office, which hooked up to a
central server. We were able to check our schedules, although clients set those
up with the secretaries in the front office. But here, the only computer I’d
seen was Clotilde’s dinosaur-era monster. I hadn’t noticed one when I’d peeked
over Lachlyn’s shoulder, but maybe it was out of view.    

  “No, we can’t afford one for everyone. And those that are
donated are usually so riddled with viruses that they’re next to useless.”

“Then how did Regina keep track of her appointments? Did she
have a planner?”

Lachlyn’s hesitation was so brief it might have been
overlooked by someone less familiar with resistance. “I said I don’t know.
You’ll have to ask Astrid. By the way, you only have another twenty minutes
before I have to go. Next time, you might let me know what your plans are. I
can’t be expected to drop everything whenever you decide to show up.”

“How do the rest of you keep track of appointments? Does
Astrid have them on her computer system?”

My cell phone rang, jarring me from my thoughts. I checked
the Caller ID—Blodgett. The detective’s timing was as rotten as a fart in an
elevator. I let it go to voice mail and repeated my question to Lachlyn.

“No, she doesn’t. We each take care of our own scheduling.
Are you finished?” She snapped her notebook shut and stood.

“I still have twenty minutes.” I pulled the top file off the
stack and opened it. Keeping my eyes riveted to the document, I could
nevertheless feel Lachlyn’s resentment emanating from across the desk. However,
she regrouped.

“
Seventeen
minutes,” she said as she sat back down.

I let my eyes rise to hers and gave a fleeting Mona Lisa smile.
Then I got back to work.

CHAPTER EIGHT

S
ixteen minutes
later—yes, I counted—Lachlyn snatched the files out of my hands, locked them in
the cabinet and stalked back to her office. Didn’t even say good-bye.

I could still hear voices coming from the group therapy
room, so instead of leaving, I followed the hall past Lachlyn’s lair and Clotilde’s
office. I paused briefly outside the director’s but couldn’t hear anyone beyond
the closed door. I didn’t want to see her anyway. Just beyond Clotilde’s office
stood another door. I tested it and discovered a set of stairs leading up into
Stygian darkness.
Was it this stairway. . . ?

I shuddered, not wanting to think about Regina’s fall, and
shut the door a bit too loudly. I half-expected Lachlyn to poke her head out
and catch me being nosy, so I hurried on into the communal kitchen. A light
burned over the stove, which should have made the room feel cozier. I could
feel the chill of the tiled floor through my thinly soled dress shoes. The heat
was probably on a timer-switch that lowered the temperature automatically in
the evening.

I’d just decided that there was no one around and was
envisioning going home to a long, hot bath, when I heard a thump from a room just
beyond the furnace room.

“Hello?” I called.

The door cracked open, spilling light into the space. Astrid
stood blinking out into the hallway, a warm smile on her plain face. “Yes?”

“Hi, Astrid. It’s me. Letty Whittaker?” I moved into the
tiny halo of light offered by the stove.

She stopped smiling. “Oh. What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry to bother you. I just wondered if we could set up
some time for me to meet with you. I really don’t understand the shelter or its
workings, and, well, I don’t want to make things worse for the women here. I
thought maybe you could give me an overview, kind of help steer me in the right
direction.”

“Oh!” Surprised at my overture, she moved toward me
slightly, her body relaxing into itself, becoming less of a barricade. I’d
touched her Achilles heel, one which most of us in the mental health field
shared: the need to be needed. I hadn’t planned it, but I’d always had a soft
spot for support staff in an agency. Secretaries could be formidable allies.
They knew where the bodies were buried. So to speak.

  Down the hall, a door opened. The sound of several women
talking at once rippled toward us as the group let out.

Astrid stepped back quickly, almost guiltily. “Call me. We’ll
set something up.” She shut the door in my face, leaving me stranded in what I
thought was the
middle
of the conversation.

“Well, now I just feel cheap,” I muttered.

“What?” The light clicked on as two women entered the
kitchen, apparently ready to scrounge up an evening snack. They looked at me
strangely.

“I, um, said I needed some sleep. Time to go home!” I sailed
past as they traded skeptical looks with each other, their giggles following me
out the door.

I
didn’t call.
Instead, I showed up at the shelter at 7:00 a.m. Unfortunately, I was the only
one who did. I tried tapping at the office-side of the duplex, but no one
responded. After briefly entertaining the idea of knocking on the other side, I
decided against it. I was afraid I’d scare the women and really piss off Clotilde.
Astrid showed up about an hour and a half later, thus saving me from a nearly
exploded bladder and terminal boredom. After waiting for her to park, I hopped
out of my car, trotting after her.  

“I thought you were going to call,” she said, scowling.
Apparently, whatever goodwill I’d accrued last night had expired. Maybe she
wasn’t a morning person.

“Really? I thought you said to meet you here this morning.
I’m sorry.” I smiled disarmingly.

It didn’t take. She stood frowning in the middle of the
sidewalk, although since she didn’t actually order me away, I pretended not to
notice.

“I really don’t have time this morning to—”

“Do you mind if I use the bathroom? I really have to go.” I
whispered the last sentence in one of those confidential, pseudo-girlfriend
tones that are supposed to be hard for fellow women to resist. I could tell she
was tempted, but when I pretended to eye the shrubbery, she caved.

After using the bathroom, I found Astrid in the kitchen
making fresh coffee. The smell of eggs and syrup hung in the air like the ghost
of breakfasts-past, making my mouth water. Despite that, the room looked much
the same as it had last night; the women had cleaned up after themselves so
well that, without the aroma, I wouldn’t have been aware they even existed. It also
made me wonder why no one had answered my knocking.

“Do the women eat on this side? I thought it was just
administrative.”

“It is. The stove is broken on their side and we just have
to make do.”

“This is certainly an amazing place,” I said, my voice so
buttery I almost imagined it adding to the breakfast smell. “I can see that
it’s very well run. What exactly is your role here?”

A brief war played across Astrid’s face. Half of her knew
she should boot me out, but the other? The other half ached to talk about her
life’s work.

“My role? Well, I guess I’m the one who feeds the women
cookies and tucks them in at night.”

She laughed and I could tell that she’d used that line many
times before. I smiled back at her. “That’s nice. They must need someone like
you after all the abuse they’ve been through.”

“They do. Many of them can’t even remember feeling safe or
cared for. That’s the first thing we tell them. That’s what I told you,
remember? When you first came in?” A shadow crossed her eyes as she remembered
my purpose in coming to the shelter.

“How does the shelter manage the security issues here?” I
asked hurriedly.

“That’s my area,” she said, almost preening again.
Apparently I’d stumbled on exactly the right question to keep from being booted
out the door. “It’s our biggest expense, really. But there’s no getting around
it. Come here.”