One We Love, The (6 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

 _

L
achlyn was
waiting in the office where I’d left her, lips two white slashes as though, in
her impatience, she’d pressed hard enough to leach the blood from her face.

“Found it.” I waggled Karissa’s file at her. This did not
appear to elevate her mood as much as it did mine.

“Wonderful,” she drawled. “How much longer are you going to
be?”

“Not too long. About another hour, maybe.”

“Well, make it quick. I have work to do.”

To my credit, I did not snap off a salute in response, but
sat quietly and began to take notes. Lachlyn watched closely like she’d expected
me to try to steal the paperwork. A ridiculous notion. Regina had already spared
me the effort.

Karissa Dillard’s file was thin. She and her children had
been at the clinic for three weeks, and she’d seen Regina for individual
therapy once each week. There was also a case note in Regina’s spiky scrawl for
a group session that had taken place the second week. Four other group notes
had been written by Lachlyn, another two by Clotilde and one by a
Joyce-somebody. A quick read-through of the individual sessions didn’t turn up
anything unusual. Regina and Karissa had focused on developing a safety plan
and had begun to set goals. Nothing much more than that, which wasn’t
surprising, given that they’d only met a few times. Besides, in this type of
setting, much of the deeper therapeutic work would go on in the group sessions.
Peers guiding peers, much like in AA I set the group notes aside for a more
careful review and picked up the intake forms.

Aside from a crossed-out phone number, the face sheet, where
most of the contact information should be found, was conspicuously blank. A
string of three “O’s” had been handwritten next to the phone number, which I
deciphered as “out of order.” I copied them down anyway. Nothing else, not even
an emergency contact number, had been filled in on the form.

 Except. . .

I squinted at the paper. There
had
been another
number. Now that I wasn’t scanning the form for information, I realized what I
was holding was a copy. Somebody, possibly even Karissa, had erased a phone number
from the original and then had the form copied. Whoever it was hadn’t managed
to erase the digits completely, however. Wisps of lines rose like ghosts from
the paper. I squinted harder. I could just barely decipher the area code:
7-1-5, but the rest was too faint. I thought I could see 2-4-7, but the first
number might have been a three and the seven was especially iffy, morphing into
a one or a nine depending which way I looked at it. The last number was
completely indecipherable.

I grabbed the other papers from the file, looking at them
harder. All originals, as was the rest of the intake packet. As far as I could
tell, only the front page, with the all-important contact information, had been
altered.

I looked up and found Lachlyn’s eyes boring into mine. Fine.
She knew that I knew. I knew that she knew that I knew and all that gibberish.
So no need to pretend.

“Who copied this page?”

“What are you talking about now?” Her eyes dropped briefly,
flickering to her notepad, then back to my face.

“This page.” I held it up.

She didn’t even glance at it, although it seemed to cost her
some effort to avoid looking at it. Her whole body was tense, but then Lachlyn always
held herself like a coiled snake. It was hard to pick out the nuances of her
body language since her emotions didn’t seem to fluctuate beyond anger or
disdain.

“Somebody copied it,” I repeated. “
Why?
”

Rising, she strode to the desk and snatched the form out of
my hand. She gave it a cursory glance, then tossed it back on the pile of
papers strewn across the desk. “I would imagine Karissa did. Clients are
understandably upset when they first come in. Don’t you get it? They’re in fear
for their lives. They aren’t thinking clearly. She probably started to write
down her abuser’s number and then realized it would be dangerous to use that
one. So I imagine she erased it.”

“So why make a copy?”

“How should I know? I didn’t do the intake.” She stopped
abruptly. Took a deep breath. “Look. You really don’t get it. We do good work
here. We save lives. Regina was a part of all that practically from the
beginning. She might have worked at your clinic, but
this”—
her finger
stabbed down at the desk—“this is where her heart was. So go ahead. Do your
job. Close out her files, whatever. But do it quick because we have
real
work
to do here, and you and your snotty, little attitude are keeping us from doing
it.” Spinning on one heel, she strode out of the office, slamming the door
behind her.

I sat in the silence of her abrupt departure, surprised to
find myself feeling guilty. The pile of papers and reused, recycled manila
folders stared up at me in reproach. She was right; this was where Regina’s
heart had been. I knew that. Even Regina’s anger mirrored the other two
administrators, although hers seemed slightly tempered. Possibly working at the
clinic had given Regina a different perspective. At least it would have given
her some respite from the work going on here. The really important work. Saving
lives, yes.

We saved lives at the clinic. We did. But the work here had
a grittier feel, a realness that was hard for me to face. The people I worked
with at the clinic had problems and they needed help, no doubt about that. The
women here, however, were in literal fear for their lives, and their
children’s
lives, in some cases. I’d recently lived through similar circumstances, which I
assumed was why Regina had reached out to me. Why, when we’d never even really
liked each other, she’d saved me.

 The cheap furniture, bare walls, the cheeseparing approach
to services, the miserly pinched pennies: all reminders that the shelter served
people with no other place to go. No other resource. No voice. Only these
bitterly dedicated women scrabbling to keep the place afloat on ever-reducing
budgets, infrequent donations, and willpower.

Were all of my suspicions wrong?

A soft tapping at the door pulled me from the pity pot I was
stirring. Astrid poked her head in. “I have a box for you.” She thumped a
dilapidated box on the desk. “Regina’s things,” she explained. “She didn’t keep
much here. Unfortunately, things have a nasty habit of getting stolen. I
suppose it’s the children, mostly, but I don’t know. The moms are having such a
rough time that it’s hard to say what they’ll do. I mean, they’re like in
survival mode, you know?”

I nodded. Shoving papers back into their files, I handed the
stack to Astrid. “Can you make sure that Lachlyn gets these? She might be
worried that I’d. . .well. . .you know.”

“Steal them?” She laughed. “Yes, we’ve had a rash of that
lately, too, haven’t we? The board is extremely upset with the situation. Will
you be at the meeting Saturday morning?”

“I plan on it.” Well, I planned on it now, anyway. “That was
at what time?”

“At 6:30, which is just crazy, but it’s the only time they
could get a quorum.”

“Sounds pretty official. They
must
be upset.”

“Well, security is the most important part of our services.
If word got out that we’d been missing files. . . ” She let the thought trail
off, apparently unwilling to give voice to the consequences. “I can’t imagine
what Regina was thinking of, can you?”

“Maybe it was all just a big mistake,” I said.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I
sat in my car
trying to think of the best way to make use of the time I had before meeting
Emma the next afternoon. My mind was in a swirl trying to decide whether my
suspicions had any basis or if I was simply acting paranoid, a not unlikely
state of mind after nearly being killed by my co-worker.
Why do therapists
always avoid analyzing ourselves?
I decided I needed a second opinion and
resolved to get hold of Detective Blodgett sometime today. Aside from the “I’ll
call you back” message he’d left two days ago, I hadn’t heard from him. Maybe
he’d meant I should call him? Or perhaps he was working a big case and just got
too busy. I’d wait another day and then try again.

In the meantime, I decided to delve deeper into the files
that were causing such uproar at the shelter. Regina had broken policy by
removing them, and she must have had a pretty significant reason. I pulled my
car into the sparse traffic of midday Chippewa Falls and headed back to the
clinic to retrieve the files. I’d work at the library so Bob wouldn’t question
why I was working on shelter business rather than the clinic’s.

It had been years since I’d been at the public library.
After finding a parking space on Bay Street, I took a moment to poke through
the odds and ends in the box Astrid had given me. A coffee cup with a picture
of a golden retriever on it; a framed, black-and-white picture of two young
girls—Regina and Emma, perhaps; a worn copy of the DSM-IV, the manual we use to
diagnose mental disorders; a handmade, dried clay mug that had obviously held
pens and pencils.

No calendar.

 I closed the flaps of the box, grabbed the files and headed
in. It was just as quiet and restful as I remembered. That was good. I needed
restful quietude. I found a study carrel in the corner of the nonfiction
section and spread my things out.

Regina had snuck six files out. Three were her clients, the
other two had been seen by Clotilde and Lachlyn. Regina’s most recent file belonged
to a woman named Monica Skolnik. I flipped the cover open and found myself
confronted with a Polaroid photo detailing in exquisite detail the injuries one
human could inflict on another. Monica’s eyes were so black and swollen that
the only way I knew they were open was because of the glitter of blue trapped
in the center of the blackened voids. Her nose, presumably intended as a Slavic
ski slope, had morphed into a jagged slalom course, proof of having been broken
more than once.

Forcing myself to read on, I discovered at only twenty-three
years old, she’d already been to the shelter twice; this latest time she stayed
for nearly four months. I paged through her file, feeling sadness wash over me
as I read the meager details of her young life.

She and her live-in boyfriend had two children, who’d been
removed by child services more than a year ago due to the violence in the home.
The kids were allowed regular visits with their mom at the shelter, but the
court had ordered supervised visits for their dad.

 According to the case notes, Monica had been doing well in
group and had managed to get a job as a receptionist at a local dental office.
She’d also placed a deposit on a studio apartment. Things were looking up. Unexpectedly,
however, she’d moved back with her abuser. Despite the professional language of
the notes, the disappointment of both Regina and the other workers was
palpable.

Despite the fact that D-N-C was written in big block letters,
I jotted down her phone numbers and address before closing the file. It was
gut-wrenchingly sad, but I couldn’t yet see why Regina had felt the need to
sneak the file out of the shelter. There didn’t seem to be any unethical
behavior on the part of the shelter workers, which is what I had expected to
find. No complaints had been filed, at least, not internally. I’d have to check
with the state licensing board, but I doubted I’d get a clear answer. Maybe it
would be smarter to have Regina’s lawyer check that out.

I debated whether I should call Monica myself. Technically,
I was supposed to review each client and determine the need for continued
therapy, but with that big DO NOT CONTACT request, I could be putting Monica in
danger just by contacting her. One look at her fractured face was evidence
enough of that. Flipping back through the file, I found the address of the job
she’d applied for. Perhaps I could track her down there and avoid the home
situation altogether.

Pulling the second file toward me, I took a deep breath
before opening it to another white-bordered photo of misery.

It took two hours to work all the way through the files. It
would have gone faster if I hadn’t kept getting distracted by my own reactions
to the horrible stories the files held. With each story I could feel myself
understanding more and more Regina’s passion and how she or any of the shelter staff
could become so dedicated to helping these shattered lives. And how they could
become so bitter as well.

The similarities from case to case were striking. The women
were kept isolated from family or friends and usually had young children, which
added to the hostage mentality. Where could they go? Where could they run? Only
to other women, it seemed. Women dedicated to their safety, determined to help,
ready to give all of their time, maybe even their very lives, in order to save
their sisters. To women ready to sacrifice their own sanity as well?

I was certain a cigarette would help me make sense of this.

That might be my addiction talking.

I sighed, shoving the files into my tote bag. I’d compiled a
list of names and numbers for the women in the files, but I was still uncertain
about contacting them. Only one, Monica Skolnik, could be considered a recent
client having left the shelter this last August. Regina had died—or been
killed—just over two months later, but if there was a connection, I couldn’t
see it. The others were all more than a year old, one going clear back to March
2007.

Still, for whatever reason, Regina had been concerned enough
about these women to have stolen the files and secreted them in her clinic
office. I wasn’t ready to give up yet.

Since I was in the library, I decided a little research was
in order. I moved to the computers. A quick search popped up thousands of hits
for Devlin House. Not surprising since the shelter depended on donations and
grant money. It also explained why they couldn’t maintain complete secrecy for
the operation and Astrid’s subsequent emphasis on security.

A shelter newsletter popped up about seven hits down, so I
clicked it open. It was a typical newsletter, half information, half appeal for
money. There was also a national study that examined the compliance with
aftercare services in women who left the shelters before treatment had been
completed versus those who left after meeting treatment goals. Not
surprisingly, those who went AWOL hoping their partner had “changed” refused
follow-up counseling and, more often than not, returned to the shelter bruised
and battered.
How awful.
I shook my head sadly.

The newsletter also had a listing of the board members,
along with cameo pictures of each. One woman looked familiar, but I couldn’t
quite place her. Her name, Beth Collier, didn’t help either. Shoulder-length
auburn hair, emerald green eyes, a nice smile that reached her eyes. The
association tickled the edges of my memory but refused to come to the fore. I
printed the newsletter, hoping it would come to me later.

For the next hour, I clicked my way down the search hits
without finding anything that seemed unusual. Another thought struck me: the
shelter predated the age of Google by at least a decade and a half. It was time
for some old-fashioned research.

A nice librarian led me to the newspaper archives and, once
she was certain I could manage the microfiche machine, left me on my own. From
the newsletter I’d just downloaded I knew the year the shelter opened, although
not the month. I’d reached September before I found the article I’d felt
certain would be there. By that time I had a raging headache from the strobe
light effect of the flipping screen. It was worth it, though, if only for the
photo.

The article’s headline ran “A Safe Haven For Women.” The
paper had granted two columns for the story, a surprisingly generous allotment.
Next to it, a grainy black and white photo captured the moment. Streamers and
banners decorated the front of the structure, lush flowers bordered the
walkway, the paint looked fresh. Quite a difference from the run-down facility
that housed the women now. I doubted it had been painted since.

Clotilde and Astrid each stood with wide smiles on either
side of an obviously handmade poster board welcoming the women of Chippewa
Falls to Devlin House. Behind the poster, beaming like sunshine on a summer lake,
stood Lachlyn in full nun regalia. I gaped at the screen trying to reconcile my
mind to Lachlyn as a nun, much less a
smiling
Lachlyn in a nun’s habit.
But there she was. There they all were. Three women—young, idealistic,
strong—each basking in the joy of achieving their life’s dream. Or no, I
thought. Not achieving it.
Beginning
it. They looked like adventuresses,
fearless, ready to stride off to battle, as indeed they were.

Strangely, perhaps because of the black, cloak-like habit,
it was Lachlyn that drew one’s eyes. Lachlyn, who despite the bright smile,
gave the ensemble an aura of austerity, asceticism, harsh determination. She
loomed tall and stately as she stood with Clotilde and Astrid on either side of
her like stewards to a warrior queen. An optical illusion, really, because the
three were so nearly the same height and build that they could have been
sisters.

I blinked and the image cleared.

I needed a meeting.