Wings to the Kingdom (Eden Moore #2)

Wings to the Kingdom (Eden Moore #2) Page 30

It was a safe bet that once upon a time, Kitty’d had a church. Almost everyone around here does, and besides, the woman had committed her crimes in the name of God. It would also be a fair guess that representatives of that church might visit every so often, if only to make sure God hadn’t relayed any further instructions.

The woman in the window scrunched a fold down between her eyes, but it wasn’t an unfriendly one. After all, I came from a church. I must be okay.

“I didn’t realize they were sending anyone today. Usually the church folks come out on Wednesdays or Thursdays.”

“Well, we heard that Kitty wasn’t doing so well lately, and since I was out this way I thought I’d swing on by and see if I couldn’t cheer her up, if that’s all right with the hospital here.”

The attendant, whose name tag read PAM, folded her arms and leaned forward, mashing together a ponderous pair of breasts until they nearly climbed out the top of her shirt. “You know, that’s true,” she agreed with a slight air of gossipy concern. “The poor thing’s been all kinds of wound up for the last week or two. We’re not sure what’s gotten into her. They had her in solitary for a while, but they moved her back to a regular room yesterday. This one’s upstairs, though. She insisted, and we got tired of listening to her holler.”

“Maybe she could use a bit of company…or some prayer,” I added as an afterthought—since I was from a church and all.

“Sure, sure. Bless her heart.”

“But if now’s not a good time, I could come back.” Time to add a touch of honesty, since I wasn’t interested enough in talking to Kitty to get in trouble over it. “I’m new to this, so I’ve never been here before. I guess I’d need to fill out some paperwork or something?”

“Well, if you’re with the church it shouldn’t be too big of a thing.” She turned and rifled around in a drawer. “I can give you one of their passes and just let you sign in. Kitty’s not a high-risk patient. I’ll send you back with an orderly if you’ll give me a minute here.”

She invited me to leave my purse with her at the front desk. This struck me as a reasonable precaution, so I handed it over without a fuss. She put a tag on it and set it on a counter.

Not a high-risk patient, Pam had said. I wondered exactly what one had to do in order to achieve the high-risk designation, if not kill a couple of kids. Of course, upon reflection I realized that the mere attempted murder of a kid must warrant even less stringent measures—which would account for how Malachi had gotten loose a few years previously.

After a moment, Pam beckoned me over and handed me a laminated visitor’s pass with a metal clip that I attached to the bottom hem of my shirt. She flagged down a skinny, sloppily dressed orderly and gave him the fifty-cent version of my story. “Okay,” he said. “Back this way.”

It turned out that Kitty was being housed in the next building over. First I was led through the rabbit warren of the main building while the orderly ran an errand, then back out a side door. My guide swiped a card at the next entrance and ushered me through a big metal door with a little square window. And then I was officially inside.

The place wasn’t as bad as I expected. I didn’t see any moaning mentally disabled people having pills forced down their throats; there weren’t any Nurse Ratcheds immediately visible in the corridors. Everything felt old and unkempt, though. Leftover 1960s architecture and decorative aesthetics made me feel at times like I was at the bottom of a retirement home’s swimming pool: surrounded by aqua blue, dirty almond, and the odd trimming of institutional mint green. The hospital was clean and more or less tidy, but definitely showing its age around the edges.

In the back of my head hummed an irritating reminder about how Malachi had lived here for years. It must have been a strange way to pass the days, I thought, surrounded by technicians and nurses in pajamalike uniforms, taking calming medicines out of tiny Dixie cups.

I imagined that things could have been worse, but if it were me, I think I would have died of boredom.

My tour guide, the oblivious white rabbit, asked another caregiver if she knew where Kitty might be. “Is she out in the TV room, or did she stay inside her space today?”

A tall black woman with a lean, muscular body like a runner glanced down at my visitor’s pass. She cocked her head off to the right. “Kitty stayed in.”

“Okay,” the orderly said. “Come on, then.”

I followed him pretty close, ducking behind him to clear the way for the occasional briskly stepping doctor or empty gurney. A wide set of double doors opened before we reached them, having been triggered from the other side by the handicapped button. A patient scooted forward in his wheelchair, moving past without giving us a second look.

Down another mazelike run of halls, doors, and up a flight of stairs we went without speaking. I got the strong impression that I was interrupting this guy’s routine, and while he wasn’t going to slap me for it, he could have done without my accompaniment.

Finally, at the end of a linoleum-tiled strip, we stopped at a door and the orderly knocked. “Miss Kitty,” he called, addressing her like the brothel madam in a spaghetti Western. “You’ve got a visitor.”

He slipped a card-key into the slot below the knob. A green light popped and the door came open. “How do you feel about that, Miss Kitty? Are you up for a visitor today?”

The woman underneath the windowsill didn’t answer him either way.

“She, uh, she usually lets you know if she doesn’t want to be sociable. You might not get much talking out of her, though—and what you do get may or may not make a lot of sense. I’m not sure what’s been wrong with her lately. She’s been doing better since we moved her up here, though. Haven’t you, Kitty?”

If she heard and understood him, she couldn’t be bothered to show it.

“She didn’t like being on the first floor,” the orderly explained. “She’s been calmer up here.”

“Huh,” I said.

“Yeah. Anyway, I’ll be back in about twenty minutes. If you have any problems or need any help, hit the red button over there by the door and someone’ll come around faster. Will that work for you? Are you comfortable with that?”

“Sure,” I answered, though I wasn’t certain if he was asking me or Kitty. I figured one of us might as well throw him a bone. He wasn’t looking at either of us, but was flipping papers on his clipboard, and when I told him all would be well, he left us, closing the door and flashing me a hasty thumbs-up sign at the small rectangular window.

The room where Kitty lived was about half again as big as a dormitory room, with a full window lined from the inside by something like extra-sturdy chicken wire; on the outside it was laced with a series of thin metal bars. Thick white paint coated the cement-block walls, and in places those walls were covered with pieces of paper affixed with tape. The sheets looked like articles to me, or handwritten letters. I didn’t see any pictures, not of Kitty or her family, or even anything snipped from a magazine.

“Hello,” I said to her.

I stood in one spot, sliding my weight from one leg to the other because I didn’t want to approach her without permission.

So this was what happened to you if you saw things. This was what happened if you couldn’t make it work for you like Dana and Tripp, turn it into a business or a show. Was there no middle ground for people like me? Surely it couldn’t be one thing or the other—you either ended up on television, or…well…

You ended up someplace like this.

Kitty was coiled with her arms around her shins, knees pulled up to her right temple. A straight plait of blond hair went down past her waist, the ends trailing on the floor where she was sitting, dangling in the crooks of her arms and spilling over her face. If I looked hard, I could see faint highlights of early gray winding their way through the locks.

She didn’t lift her head up from her knees, and I couldn’t see her face.

“I was wondering if I could talk to you for a few minutes,” I went on, not sure what the protocol for this sort of thing was. I looked up at the speaker beside the door and noted that none of the little lights were lit, but this did not prevent me from wondering if anyone was listening in.

If the room was being monitored, there was nothing to be done about it except to hurry up and talk before anyone came to remove me.

“Here’s the thing,” I told Kitty, who hadn’t budged and did not seem remotely interested in carrying on a conversation. “I’m here because I wanted to talk to you about Green Eyes.”

I thought her smooth, gold-draped head might have twitched, so I paused. But she offered me no further acknowledgment. I stepped forward a couple of feet until I’d reached the foot of her bed.

“Could I just sit here, for a minute? If you don’t want me to touch your stuff or anything I understand, but I’d really love it if we could chat. And…if you’re not going to answer, I’m going to take that as ‘Sure, make yourself comfortable.’ Speak now or forever hold your peace. Okay then. I’m going to park right here and keep on talking. Feel free to jump in anytime.”

She made a small sigh, or grunt, or it might have been the first syllable of a cynical laugh. I couldn’t tell.

“Okay. Okay. Right.” I folded and unfolded my hands, laying my elbows on the top of my thighs and leaning in her direction while I spoke. “I don’t know if you’re aware or not, but you had another visitor a few nights ago. He didn’t make it all the way inside, but he really wanted to see you and say hello. So I’ll start by passing along his greetings.”

Technically, I didn’t think Malachi had told me to tell her anything; but I didn’t think it would hurt, and it might even get her attention.

“He used to live here too, in the Bend.” I shuffled my buns along the bed and lowered my voice, for all the good it would do me if anyone was tuning in through the monitoring system. “His name is Malachi. I’m his…” I started to tell her the truth, but on the chance that someone was eavesdropping I changed my mind. “He’s an old friend of mine.”