Chapter 3 - The Ghost in Unit 3B
The pediatric ICU smelled of sterile saline and industrial lemon cleaner.
For fourteen hours, I sat in a vinyl armchair beside Lily’s crib, watching the blue line of her heart monitor rise and fall with agonizing slowness. A thick IV line was taped to the back of her tiny hand, flushing the residual benzodiazepines out of her tiny system.
By 10:00 AM the next morning, the tox report came back: high traces of Clonazepam, alongside faint traces of an anti-psychotic compound used to manage severe schizoaffective episodes.
"She's going to be okay, Mrs. Vance," the pediatric specialist, Dr. Aris, told me, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Her liver processing is strong. But if she had taken another dose... if your mother-in-law had given her another fluid dram tonight... her respiratory system would have collapsed in her sleep."
I closed my eyes. The horror didn't shock me anymore; it had hardened into a cold, dense mass in the pit of my stomach.
"Is the hospital social worker outside?" I asked.
"Yes. And two investigators from the State Child Protective Services division," Dr. Aris replied. "They need to take your official statement regarding the home environment before they can clear Lily to be released into your sole custody."
"They can have my statement," I said, standing up and smoothing down my crumpled jeans. "As soon as I come back from Pine Crest."
The drive to Pine Crest Restorative Care took forty-five minutes.
It was located in a remote, wealthy pocket of the county, hidden behind high stone walls and wrought-iron gates lined with overgrown arborvitae. It didn't look like an asylum; it looked like an elite country club for people whose families had enough money to hide their darkest secrets from the public record.
I walked through the heavy glass doors of the administration building carrying my daughter’s original birth certificate, my marriage certificate to Ryan, and the amber prescription bottle I had pulled from the ambulance evidence bag after Officer Davis let me take a photo of the label.
The receptionist at the front desk was a young woman in light blue scrubs. "May I help you, ma'am?"
"I need to see Sarah Lin-Vance," I said, setting my phone on the desk with the photo of the prescription bottle facing her. "Unit 3B."
The receptionist’s face went completely blank. Her fingers hovered over her keyboard. "I'm sorry... Unit 3B is a restricted residential wing. Only primary power-of-attorney holders are permitted visitation."
"My husband is the primary power of attorney," I said, leaning over the counter. "And he is currently sitting in a county holding cell on charges of felony pediatric endangerment and prescription fraud. If you don't call the head of this facility down here in two minutes, the State Police convoy sitting at the front gate will come through those doors with a search warrant."
Thirty seconds later, a tall, sharp-featured woman with grey hair cut into a severe bob walked out of an inner office. Her badge read DR. ELEANOR VANE - MEDICAL DIRECTOR.
"Mrs. Vance?" Dr. Vane asked, holding out a hand that I ignored. "I was just notified by the sheriff's department about Ryan’s arrest. This is a catastrophic breach of our patient confidentiality protocols."
"Your facility has been dispensing high-potency liquid narcotics to a woman who hasn't been in her room to take them," I snapped, stepping into her personal space. "My mother-in-law was stealing Sarah’s prescriptions from this building and feeding them to my two-year-old daughter. I want to see Sarah. Now."
Dr. Vane’s jaw tightened, but the threat of a full state investigation was written clearly in her eyes. Without another word, she turned her master key in the elevator lock and held the door open for me.
Unit 3B was located on the third floor, behind two sets of heavy, key-carded security doors. The hallway was hushed, lined with thick beige carpeting and framed oil paintings of countryside landscapes.
Dr. Vane stopped in front of Room 314. She tapped her card against the sensor, turned the brass handle, and pushed the door open.
"Sarah has been non-verbal for three years, Mrs. Vance," Dr. Vane whispered. "She suffers from advanced catatonic schizophrenia complicated by early-onset neurological degeneration. She doesn't recognize anyone."
I stepped into the room.
The sun was streaming through a large, reinforced window. Sitting in an armchair near the window was a woman.
She looked to be in her mid-thirties, though her dark hair was prematurely streaked with silver. She was wearing a simple soft cotton cardigan and grey trousers. Her hands rested motionless in her lap.
On the small bedside table next to her sat a framed photograph.
I walked over to the table and picked it up.
It was a wedding photo. Ryan stood in a black tuxedo, smiling radiantly, holding Sarah in a beautiful lace gown.
Beside that photograph was another one.
It was a picture of Ryan, holding a newborn baby wrapped in a pink hospital blanket.
I stared at the baby in the photo. The round blue eyes. The tiny dimple on the left cheek.
It wasn't a baby from five years ago.
It was a picture of my daughter, Lily, taken in the hospital maternity ward two years ago. Ryan was holding my newborn daughter, smiling at the camera—and the background of the photo was this room.
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"Where did this photo come from?" I choked out, holding the frame up to Dr. Vane.
Dr. Vane looked confused. "Mr. Vance brought the child here two days after she was born. He brought her here every month, Mrs. Vance. He told us it was part of Sarah’s therapy."
