Halfway across lake Ponchartrain I almost turned around and went back. The rain came down in buckets. Suspended there on the Cause-way, both shores out of sight, I wondered: did I really want to know? That twenty-six miles was the longest trip of my life.
I drove through the gates and followed the signs that said ADMISSIONS. Pulled up in front of a cinderblock building painted green, got out, went in. After stating my business, I was told that Dr. Ball would be with me shortly. The waiting room was full of what I assumed were patients. They probably assumed I was too. A psychiatrist I’d gone to once, back when I was trying everything to keep my marriage and life from falling apart, told me I needed to be here.
“Shortly” was an hour and spare change. Time moves a little slower over here, I guess.
When I was finally ushered into his office, Dr. Ball said, “Mr. Griffin, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long, but as you can see, we’re very busy here.” An upper-Mississippi accent, edge planed away by college and ambition. He settled back in his chair. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“You’re holding a patient calling herself Blanche Davis,” I said.
“I’d have to check to be certain of that.”
“Would you, please?”
He picked up the phone and dialed three digits, spoke her name, listened.
“That is correct, Mr. Griffin,” he said, cradling the phone. “She’s in Ward E.”
“I wonder if you could tell me what’s wrong with her.”
“You are a relative, I believe?”
“Her brother.”
“Well, then. As for what’s wrong, I only wish that we knew. We seldom do, really. I can tell you that she’s been drinking heavily. There are fresh needle tracks inside her arms, behind her knees. But I’m afraid she’s too locked up in herself to give us much useful information. Perhaps your being here will help.” He picked up a pen and tapped it once, lightly, on the desk. “We fear, Mr. Griffin, that she may be schizophrenic.”
“I see.” I didn’t.
“You would like to see her?” Dr. Ball said after a moment.
“Is that possible?”
“Absolutely. It might well do her some good. All of us. The last thing we want is for patients to lose sense of whatever family there is. I’ll call for a truck to take you over to the ward.”
I waited outside and the truck showed up in about ten minutes. It was an old paneled job, green like the building. The driver was a cheerful-looking young man with long hair. He may have thought I was a patient.
“Ward E?” he said when I climbed in.
“Ward E.”
That was the extent of our conversation.
He wound about the grounds and at last pulled up in front of another green building with oversize windows and covered walkways running off in all directions.
“It,” the driver said.
I got out and walked through the nearest door. Halls converged toward a room to my left where a number of people sat reading magazines or watching TV. I walked in and back toward what looked like the nurse’s station-either that or a tollbooth. Mrs. Smith RN got up and stepped out of it.
“You must be Mr. Griffin,” she said. “Dr. Ball called ahead that you were on your way. Let me take you to her.”
We went through a door into a dormitory room with maybe twenty beds. Then through another door-each one was locked-into a long hallway with windowed doors on either side. Halfway down the hall, the nurse stopped and fit a key into the lock of one of the doors.
“This is it,” she said. “Try not to be too shocked. It’s extremely difficult, I know. It always is, the first time.”
She opened the door.
On a bed inside the room a woman lay staring at the ceiling, her eyes wide with fear. Every few seconds she would scream out-a silent scream-and throw her body against the restraints. Her exposed fingers worked at the air nonstop, like the legs of an overturned insect.
I had found Corene Davis.