Page 101 of Keepsake
“You said you’d call us if she woke up!” Lark’s mother’s voice was shrill enough to make me wince.
“Jill,” her father warned, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Stand down.” The only reason her parents had been willing to leave the room at all was to hunt down and interrogate the psychiatrist on duty.
And now the doctor entered the room wearing a crisp white coat and a studiously mild expression. “Lark, I’m Dr. Richards. I’m a psychiatrist.”
“Wonderful,” Lark grumbled into my shirt. At that, the doctor smiled. That was a shred of good news—at least the man had a sense of humor. Lark would need that.
There were five people in the little room now, and Lark was clinging to me for dear life.
“Sweetheart,” her mother said in a teary voice. “We’re so worried. You could have told us that things weren’t getting better.”
“But I hoped theywere.” She lifted her teary face and took a deep breath. I watched her forcibly put the calm back on her face. I’d seen her do this many times before, too. But I’d never understood how much it cost her.
“It’s all right, Lark,” her father said. “We’re not mad at you. But we need to make sure you get the help you need. You picked a hell of a way to get that doctor’s note.”
Lark groaned. “Send me somewhere as an outpatient,” she said quickly. “I’m not going anywhere with locks on the doors. I wasn’t going to harm myself.”
I watched her parents and the doctor exchange glances. “Sweetheart,” her mother tried again. “It’s important to get better. And you scared Griffin pretty bad last night…”
My stomach rolled. I’d heard the story of her breakdown. The fear and the screaming. The doctor was concerned about a host of PTSD-related complications, like anxiety, depression, and suicide risk.
I couldn’t even think those two words without wanting to be sick.
“It’s hard to be your daughter sometimes,” Lark said, her voice flat. “You always warned me away from risk. But I thought I knew what I was doing—” Her voice broke. “—until very recently.”
“Oh, honey,” her mother said, tears running down her face. “You don’t have to feel that way. I’ll listen. We’ll work something out.”
The doctor cleared his throat. “Your treatment plan won’t be a hasty decision, I promise. But I’ll need to interview Lark, when she’s ready. It will help us figure out the right choice for her treatment.”
Still sitting in my lap, she straightened her spine. “Okay. Let’s get it over with.”
The doctor smiled. “Why don’t you have a little something to eat, and steady yourself? I’ll come back in half an hour and we’ll talk then.”
“Okay,” Lark whispered.
Lark’s father disappeared to the hospital cafeteria to buy his daughter a pastry. Her mother and I waited while Lark freshened up in the bathroom.
“You can go home,” her mother said when it was just the two of us. “We’ll take it from here.”
“No way,” I said immediately. It was probably the least polite response I’d ever given to a lady. But I had the terrible feeling that if I walked out that door right now, I’d never see Lark again. “I would never leave without saying goodbye.”
Mrs. Wainright didn’t even attempt to conceal her frown of displeasure.
It’s not that I couldn’t see her side of things. Here sat a big farm boy in her daughter’s hospital room, taking up space. But that was just too bad. If Lark told me to go, I’d listen. But I wouldn’t take orders from anyone else.
Lark ate half the croissant her father brought and drank half a cup of coffee. Then she pushed the tray away. “I don’t really have an appetite.”
“Eat, Lark,” her mother said. “You need your strength.”
Her daughter’s eyes narrowed. “Really, Mom? If I come back to Boston, is it going to be like that?”
“Everything is easier with a little something in your stomach. It’s just a fact.”
Her father sighed. “Easy, Jill. Sedatives can make your stomach wonky.”
“It’s just a little bread…” her mother argued, and I thought I might actually throw something at her. Instead, I reached across and grabbed the last piece of croissant and popped it into my mouth.
Lark laughed for the first time in twenty-four hours. “You’reprobably starved, but nobody here gives a damn.”
