work, she had talked about the lawsuit. She had become so obsessed with discussing the suit that finally, her mother had snapped, “For the love of God, Sara,
do
something. Even patients in mental homes have to weave baskets.”
Unfortunately, getting out of the house only exacerbated the problem. Whether Sara was at the grocery store or picking up Jeffrey’s suits from the cleaners or even raking leaves in the front yard, she had felt people’s eyes on her. Not just that, but she’d felt their disapproval. The few times she’d talked to anyone, the conversations had been brief if not downright cold. Sara hadn’t told anyone about these exchanges—not Jeffrey, not her family—but she had found herself sinking deeper and deeper into depression with each encounter.
And now, courtesy of Lena Adams, Sara had one more failure to add to her list. How could she have been so easily tricked? How could she have been so utterly idiotic? All night, Sara had tried to parse each moment of her time with Lena, picking apart the seconds, trying to see how she could have acted differently, how she could have changed the outcome. Nothing came to mind except her own glaring stupidity.
Lena had been up on her knees in bed, the restraints keeping her from moving any farther away. As soon as Jeffrey and the sheriff left, she relaxed, her arms going limp.
Sara had studied her, noticed the way the other woman’s chest shook with every exhale of breath. “What’s going on, Lena? Why are you so afraid?”
“You have to get out of here. Both of you.” Her voice was quiet, ominous. When she looked up, her eyes seemed to glow with terror. “You have to get Jeffrey out of here.”
Sara felt her heart stop. “Why? Is he in danger?”
Lena did not answer. Instead, she looked down at her hands, the tangled sheets. “Everyone, everything I touch—it all turns to shit. You have to get away from me.”
“Do you really think we’re going to abandon you?” Sara had said “we,” but they both knew that she meant Jeffrey. “Someone died in that car, Lena. Tell me what happened to you.”
She shook her head, resigned.
“Lena, talk to me.”
Again, no answer came. That must have been when Lena had decided her course of action, that if she could not control Sara, she could at least use her.
“I’m so dirty,” she’d said, her tone of voice indicating the filth was more than skin-deep. “I feel so dirty.” She’d looked up at Sara. Tears wet her eyes, and though her voice was more restrained, her hands still shook in her lap. “I need to wash off. I have to wash off.”
Sara hadn’t even thought about it. She’d walked over to the side of the bed and unstrapped the Velcro restraints. “You’re going to be okay,” she’d promised. “You need to trust me, or I can get Jeffrey—”
“No,” Lena begged. “Just…I just need to wash off. Let me…” Her lips trembled. All the fight seemed to be drained out of her. She slid to the edge of the bed, tried to stand on shaky legs. Sara put her arm around the other woman’s waist, helped her gain her footing.
Lena had really acted the part, Sara thought. A decided frailty had marked her every move. Nothing about her actions suggested she was capable of climbing on a toilet and pulling herself up into a drop ceiling, let alone eluding a manhunt.
Sara had been completely fooled, walking alongside Lena across the room, keeping her arm out a few inches from the other woman’s back in case her support was needed. It was an automatic gesture, the sort of thing you learned your first week as a resident. Sara had escorted her all the way to the bathroom, shuffling her feet to match Lena’s slow gait.
What Sara had been thinking as they walked was that Lena was not a whiner. She was the type of person who would rather bleed to death than admit she had been cut. Sara found herself wondering if maybe the doctors had misdiagnosed Lena, that she should look at the chest X-rays,
do
something. Even patients in mental homes have to weave baskets.”
Unfortunately, getting out of the house only exacerbated the problem. Whether Sara was at the grocery store or picking up Jeffrey’s suits from the cleaners or even raking leaves in the front yard, she had felt people’s eyes on her. Not just that, but she’d felt their disapproval. The few times she’d talked to anyone, the conversations had been brief if not downright cold. Sara hadn’t told anyone about these exchanges—not Jeffrey, not her family—but she had found herself sinking deeper and deeper into depression with each encounter.
And now, courtesy of Lena Adams, Sara had one more failure to add to her list. How could she have been so easily tricked? How could she have been so utterly idiotic? All night, Sara had tried to parse each moment of her time with Lena, picking apart the seconds, trying to see how she could have acted differently, how she could have changed the outcome. Nothing came to mind except her own glaring stupidity.
Lena had been up on her knees in bed, the restraints keeping her from moving any farther away. As soon as Jeffrey and the sheriff left, she relaxed, her arms going limp.
Sara had studied her, noticed the way the other woman’s chest shook with every exhale of breath. “What’s going on, Lena? Why are you so afraid?”
“You have to get out of here. Both of you.” Her voice was quiet, ominous. When she looked up, her eyes seemed to glow with terror. “You have to get Jeffrey out of here.”
Sara felt her heart stop. “Why? Is he in danger?”
Lena did not answer. Instead, she looked down at her hands, the tangled sheets. “Everyone, everything I touch—it all turns to shit. You have to get away from me.”
“Do you really think we’re going to abandon you?” Sara had said “we,” but they both knew that she meant Jeffrey. “Someone died in that car, Lena. Tell me what happened to you.”
She shook her head, resigned.
“Lena, talk to me.”
Again, no answer came. That must have been when Lena had decided her course of action, that if she could not control Sara, she could at least use her.
“I’m so dirty,” she’d said, her tone of voice indicating the filth was more than skin-deep. “I feel so dirty.” She’d looked up at Sara. Tears wet her eyes, and though her voice was more restrained, her hands still shook in her lap. “I need to wash off. I have to wash off.”
Sara hadn’t even thought about it. She’d walked over to the side of the bed and unstrapped the Velcro restraints. “You’re going to be okay,” she’d promised. “You need to trust me, or I can get Jeffrey—”
“No,” Lena begged. “Just…I just need to wash off. Let me…” Her lips trembled. All the fight seemed to be drained out of her. She slid to the edge of the bed, tried to stand on shaky legs. Sara put her arm around the other woman’s waist, helped her gain her footing.
Lena had really acted the part, Sara thought. A decided frailty had marked her every move. Nothing about her actions suggested she was capable of climbing on a toilet and pulling herself up into a drop ceiling, let alone eluding a manhunt.
Sara had been completely fooled, walking alongside Lena across the room, keeping her arm out a few inches from the other woman’s back in case her support was needed. It was an automatic gesture, the sort of thing you learned your first week as a resident. Sara had escorted her all the way to the bathroom, shuffling her feet to match Lena’s slow gait.
What Sara had been thinking as they walked was that Lena was not a whiner. She was the type of person who would rather bleed to death than admit she had been cut. Sara found herself wondering if maybe the doctors had misdiagnosed Lena, that she should look at the chest X-rays,
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