Brooklyn Gothic, page 22
“Definitely not,” she said.
“We’ll do a pregnancy test. State law. They should have done one before. I’d also like to check your thyroid levels.”
Casey plopped her head in her hands. She looked up, feeling as if her face was melting, as if it had aged ten years. She had not asked about him because she feared the answer, but now she had to know.
“Is there a man named Samuel Foster here? He must have come in with me.”
“I wouldn’t be at liberty to say. Wait, we’ll have you out of here soon.”
Casey knew “soon” in hospital-speak meant “not soon.” She lay down and stared at the beige walls and drifted in and out of half-sleep while an hour passed, maybe two or even three. With no phone, she’d become accustomed to losing track of time. Finally, the doctor reappeared and Casey sat up, heart beating ominously, feeling as if she knew what the doctor was going to say, sensing the sharp blade of change in the room.
“Cassilda, your pregnancy test is positive.”
A marshy darkness spread everywhere, her blood, her bones, and her brain. She said nothing, and came to realize she was squeezing her bottom lip, pinching it hard. Then she collapsed her head into her hands, and hoped the darkness of her hands would blot out the burning fluorescent light of the room, of those unbearable words.
“I would advise you to confirm through your OBGYN and discuss the possibility of having had a pregnancy-related psychotic episode,” the doctor said, her voice far away. “And getting a recommendation for a perinatal mental health professional.”
Casey suddenly realized that they may not let her out if she appeared distraught, so she lifted her head, trying to look, if not happy, at least stable.
“Absolutely. Who knew these things happened. Not me!”
The doctor glanced up at her from her clipboard and Casey worried for a moment she’d overdone it.
“Your thyroid levels are normal but you were very dehydrated when you came in, and you’re slightly anemic,” the doctor continued. “That and the spike in your hormone levels combined with stress could have triggered your episode. At least ten percent of women have some kind of mental health episode during pregnancy. It’s important to have a good support system.”
Casey shook the printout the psychiatrist had given her. “I’m A-okay, doc,” she said.
She signed a series of discharge papers.
“Your sister is here to get you,” the doctor said.
“My what?”
“Your sister. That’s how she identified herself.”
“I don’t have a sister.”
“Do you have someone to take you home? I don’t want keep you here, but we need someone to take you home.”
“Fine, she’s my sister.” Casey wanted to get out. She didn’t care who or what was waiting for her.
No one showed her where the exit was, so she asked anyone she saw along the way how to navigate the white hallways glutted with doctors, police officers, and fellow patients, including a man with darting eyes who was shouting, “I saw the seven hills of Rome!” His far-away eyes rotated in her direction and he added, more somberly now, “They gave me TV tooth.”
In the waiting room, a tall, gorgeous woman with a sheet of straight blonde hair approached her. Ugh, not her. “Hi, Casey,” Sharon said. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.”
“Good. Let’s get you out of here.”
She followed Sharon out of the hospital and to a car park about a block away. Sharon opened the door to a silver SUV and Casey slid into the passenger side. She was putting off asking the question, was scared to hear the answer.
When they got to a stoplight, Sharon spoke, her attention straight ahead.
“Sam had checked out of the Baccarat. Good thing I showed up when I did. There was a knife and pepper spray in the foyer, handcuffs lying right by the stairs. I couldn’t imagine what was happening. Then I heard moaning from upstairs, but it didn’t sound like fun moaning, if you know what I mean. Seeing the two of you like that.” She shook her head. “A voice from your phone. ‘Are you there? Can you speak?’ I gave the address. Who knows how long it would have taken them to trace the call, if they’d even bother.”
“Is he dead?” Casey asked, shocked that she’d asked it, because she still did not want to know.
“Oh, no. He’ll be fine. I’m his power of attorney and was able to get him out yesterday. I had to wait the entire hold time for you.”
Casey was hugely relieved he was alive, and the hugeness of her relief was a nasty betrayal. How could she still feel for him? How? “Where is he?” she asked.
“He’s at the mansion. But I don’t think you two should stay there together right now, do you?”
Casey said nothing, and sat silent through the short drive to a deluxe hotel. Sharon took her to a stately room with large bay windows overlooking high rises sprinkled with glowing lights in the gloaming, the skyline streaked with mulberry and tangerine hues and heaped with pearly cumulus.
Sharon handed her a robe and pointed to the bathroom. “Shower,” she said. “I’ll order up some food. Can’t imagine what they were feeding you in there.”
Sharon slipped her a menu but Casey only stared at it, unable to process the print. Eventually, it was plucked out of her hands. “I’ll get you some soup and salad. Good? Now go shower.”
Thankful to get out of her crusty, hospital-smelling clothes, she took a long, steamy shower, luxuriating in the feel of the hot water blazing on her body, and lathered everywhere, wishing she had a razor.
Slightly shaky from lack of food, she forced down some onion soup and leaves of lettuce and slices of tomato. She drank all of the orange juice, which had a poignant kick, freshly squeezed, she imagined. She finished off the large glass and had more soup, some soggy croutons, and picked out the green olives from the salad and ate them.
“Now,” Sharon said. “You’re going to get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, we’ll see the doctor.”
“Doctor?”
“A psychologist. You must have signed papers saying you would get mental health care. Didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So we’ll do that. He’s the best. And don’t worry, it will be paid for. Listen, I’m exhausted. You must be too. I’m in room 708 if you need me. Get some sleep.” She smiled and left.
Casey could not do anything else. A bottomless weariness closed in on her and she almost staggered to the bed.
Still in her robe, she crawled into the big bed, submerged into the cloud-like mattress, and a reddish-white film spread behind her eyelids as her neurons fired incoherently in the dusk between sleep and wake.
Up started a flish-flash slide show—a brightly-painted toenail, pears hanging from a tree, the honeycomb of gauges on an airplane console—and she drifted downstream, hearing the warble of almost-words, and seeing the porcelain blue sky and feeling the plane was coming and trying to tell Ray Albanese they had to leave but knowing they wouldn’t make it out in time.
She was in the hallway of the mansion, and the wolf-creature with the red ember eyes had gotten loose. She couldn’t see it, but sensed it nearby, waiting to bite her. She didn’t know why it wanted to kill her. She wasn’t the one trying to kill it. The men with guns were. Why did it hate her?
She opened a door, and there was a naked teen girl with long, jet-black hair, and tattoos on her hands. The girl was hunched down, with bruises on her arms and knees, and she said, “He wouldn’t let me leave. I’ve been in here the entire time. Help me!”
Casey awoke and realized with disbelief that it was morning. It had only felt like a few minutes had passed since she’d collapsed into bed.
Sharon knocked on her door around nine a.m. Casey was pouring watery coffee from the Keurig into a supplied coffee cup, mixing in powered cream. She hoped the coffee would help her shake off a feeling of intense sluggishness. But Sharon was carrying two paper cups and handed her one.
“I drove to Zabar’s. Only coffee worth having in the city, if you ask me.”
Casey took a few sips, and then said as casually as possible, “Do we have time to go to the mansion before the appointment? I really want to get my things.”
“Well….” Sharon said, looking pensive. “The appointment starts at ten. Can’t you get your things afterwards?”
“No. I really need my stuff.” Something warned her and she did not say what she needed. Her phone. The idea that it was back at the mansion—with him—was nerve-wracking. He could easily find his recorded confession and erase it.
“But Sam will be waiting for us at the doctor’s. Don’t you want to see him?” Sharon asked, cloyingly. “I called him last night, but I know he wants to see you. I can’t imagine what caused all of this, but it’s my duty to—”
Casey cut her off. “I’d really like to get my things. If you won’t drive me, I’ll take the subway.”
Sharon stared at her, irritation etched on her snowy white face. Then, she softened, and gave a little smile. “All right, they can start the session without us. I can’t have you on the subway alone.”
Casey wondered what exactly Sharon was worried about. That she would toss herself in front of a train? But she followed her out of the room.
They took the elevator to the underground parking area and got into the SUV. When Sharon didn’t start the car up right away, the foreboding feeling Casey had had in the hotel room returned full force. And when Sharon turned and propped the side of her knee on the seat, as if getting in a defensive position, the outlying rumble of danger fermented.
“Casey,” Sharon said, “I have your phone. I listened to all the garbage you two were saying to each other. I erased it. But I’m keeping the phone in case there’s a way to retrieve it.”
Casey’s hand lunged for the door handle but when she yanked, it remained gleefully shut. What diabolical mind invented driver-controlled locks?
“I have everything,” Sharon said, calmly. “The belt buckle, the wedding rings, the letters he wrote. I didn’t hear about anything else so I presume I got it all. Your suicide note made it very easy. The ‘rings in his wallet’—I know he keeps his wallet in that tweed blazer.”
Casey’s heart was beating painfully and erratically against her chest. “So you’re going to protect a serial killer,” she said, staring out the window onto the grease-streaked wall of the car park.
Sharon was silent, then her voice was like a low hiss. “I’m going to protect a good man who’s delusional. He’s out of his mind. The aneurysm blew it away and it wasn’t much there before that.”
“Then why does he have a belt buckle from a murder victim?”
“He had a belt buckle. It looks like one he saw on the news. They’re mass-produced, and I found the one that murdered man was wearing online, and it looks just like the one he had.”
Casey grunted and crossed her arms. Sharon had had more luck, or more time, with a search engine—unless she was lying.
“He bought the buckle himself because he’s crazy,” Sharon continued, the soft hiss rising with emphatic energy. “The wedding rings were probably in the mansion already, or he bought them too. Who knows? Casey, he’s insane! Can’t you see that?”
“And the police sketch? It’s him!”
Sharon sighed derisively. “I looked that up too. Could be any dark-eyed man in his twenties or thirties. He was wearing some kind of mask, can’t even see the mouth. The nose looks completely different. Your eyes are playing tricks.”
No, no, the nose didn’t look completely different. Had it looked different? Had she already convinced herself it would be him after finding what she’d found?
No, he was in the sketch. She knew it.
“Now listen,” Sharon said, edging closer. “I’m not playing around. You will keep all of this to yourself. Or I’ll have you committed.”
Casey gave a rough laugh, itching for a knockdown. “Good luck with that. You can’t commit me.”
“Oh, yes, I can. You tried to kill yourself—and your baby.”
Casey whipped around and stared deep into Sharon’s glittering blue eyes, then shook her head and dusted the dashboard with one hand.
“You left your discharge papers in the car.” Sharon glanced at the white folder at Casey’s feet, the one with Methodist Hospital printed on it. “I looked at them when I drove to Zabar’s. You’re pregnant. Presumably, Sam’s the father. As his lawyer and power of attorney, I’ll do whatever it takes to protect his child, even if I have to get its suicidal mother committed.”
Casey literally clenched her fists so she wouldn’t grab Sharon’s long, platinum hair and yank it back. She didn’t need an assault charge on top of everything.
“I think you’ll have a hard time there,” she said. “I’ve been assessed. I’m not a danger to myself or others and what I do with my body after this is my business.”
“Then let’s try another tack. If you start with this nonsense about Sam being a serial killer—if I can’t commit you, I’ll have you arrested. You’ve been taking advantage of his well-documented medical condition to get control of his estate. You’ve been living off him, and when he changed his mind about marrying you, you manipulated this grotesque story out of him to extort him. You drugged him, handcuffed him, and threatened him. It was obvious from the recording he was drugged. Imagine you used those sleeping pills you took. I’ve got his blood tests, I’m sure the pills will show up. The bags for the drug store and the shop where you bought the handcuffs were in your knapsack, so I know where you went, and you’ll be on surveillance video buying them.
Casey, did you think a drugged, handcuffed, and brain-damaged man’s homicidal ramblings would be admissible in court? You menaced him with pepper spray and a knife. I’ve got them both and your prints will be all over them. There’s no recording and no written confession anymore. No buckle and no rings, either. Only what you say, and what you say will be held against you, because you used coercion in the second degree.” She smirked. “He did none of it. He’s what they used to call loony tunes. You must know that!”
“No, I don’t know that. And you don’t either.”
“A multimillionaire traveling cross-country to kill random strangers he read about in the news? Casey, deep down, you know this can’t be real. You love him. He loves you.”
“Stop!” She couldn’t hear any more of that.
“And I do know none of it is true,” Sharon continued, “and you’ll find out how I know. But only at the psychologist’s office, where he’ll have patient confidentiality. Are you coming or not?”
What a moronic question. Of course she was coming. She had to know what in the hell Sharon knew. And she had to keep track of Sharon in case there was a way to get her phone back, and retrieve the recording.
“I wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to spend more time with you,” Casey said.
Sharon started the SUV, and then added, her voice sable yet crackling with demonic energy, “One more thing.” She turned to her and smiled. “You should thank me for not shoving my Xanax pills down your throat at the mansion and finishing you off when I had the chance. But I didn’t know what that fool would do if you disappeared.”
40
The two drove a few blocks away to a glass high rise and parked in the underground garage. As they rode up the elevator, Casey decided to poke the tiger. She actually enjoyed it.
“You’re wrong I’ve got nothing,” she said. “I’ve got him. He has a conscience now and he’ll want to confess everything he did.”
Sharon only stared at the doors as they slid open. They approached a young woman in a ruffled shirt sitting behind a desk. “Can you tell Dr. Putterman that Sharon is here?” she asked.
Within a few minutes, they were ushered into a dark-paneled room with wall-to-wall windows overlooking Madison Avenue, the opposite walls crammed with canvases of abstract art.
Casey held her breath as Mr. Foster rose from the couch, his arms clamped at his sides. “Hello, Casey,” he said, with a formal nod. “I’m very relieved to see you’re all right.” He nodded again, like a Japanese businessman.
“Mm-hmm,” she mumbled, and then felt like an idiot for acknowledging him at all.
A man with a bushy white beard and salt and peppery hair ringed around a half-bald head stretched his palm out to her. She didn’t shake it.
“This is Dr. Putterman,” Sharon said.
“Hi, Casey, nice to meet you.” Giving up on a handshake, the doctor waved animatedly, indicating she should sit on the couch. Mr. Foster sat on the opposite end. Sharon glided like molten metal into one of the wingback chairs.
Casey sat twisting the ends of her hair, and none of them spoke. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Mr. Foster, but could sense his dreary energy on the other end of the couch.
Finally, the doctor crossed his legs and leaned forward, his expression probing and sympathetic. “Samuel has requested that you and Sharon be here, Casey. He’d like to fill you in on everything we believe is happening.”
She didn’t reply, wanting to size up the situation.
“Casey,” Sharon said in her phony voice, the one she reserved for her non-threats. “Dr. Putterman is a well-known expert on false confession and false memory.”
Casey shot the doctor a look of suspicion. She didn’t believe anything Sharon had to say, not after her fiendish speech in the car. “Okay?” she asked, not quite understanding.
“I believe Samuel is suffering from what the psychiatric community terms ‘false memory syndrome,’” he said. “He told me he confessed to terrible things, which I believe are false memories.”
“What is he talking about?” Casey snapped at Mr. Foster, who was slouched low against the back of the couch, his leg hoisting up and down.
“I have these memories,” he said, keeping his eyes on his bouncing leg, as if it were a metronome keeping time with the room’s angst. “I thought I knew what they were.” His leg stilled and he stared off towards the windows. “But also I’m not sure.”
“How do you know they’re false?” Casey asked the doctor.
