“I have it memorized, almost. I can do Stella, too, and even some Stanley.”
“It was quite vivid,” I told her.
“Thank you, thank you,” she said, bowing again, spinning around and landing in a curtsy, blowing us each a kiss before handing back the roses. “I’m an actress—all the time. I’m always in character. There is no real me. That’s good, right?”
“Well, you want to be yourself sometimes,” I said.
“Why? It’s better being someone else.” Her phone buzzed, and she grabbed it from her pocket, glancing at the screen before texting back. “That’s Mom. She’s ready for us. Come on, it’s this way…”
We followed her down the hall, Jill walking backwards, like a tour guide leading us through a museum. “I don’t understand anything about you,” she said, “But I don’t understand clouds, either, and that doesn’t stop me from enjoying their shapes in the sky, or from getting wet whenever it rains.”
“Is that from Streetcar, too?” Kelly asked.
“No, it’s from one of the lesser playwrights,” I said.
The lines, of course, were from my play, Confessions of the Midnight Chair, part of a brief monologue delivered by the protagonist to the character inspired by Amy. It had been almost fifteen years since I’d heard anyone speak those lines. Jill winked at me, scrunching her shoulders and peering left and right, each step hesitant, her face tense, lips in a Nightmare on Elm Street grimace. “I think he’s…watching us!” she said, her voice hushed as she tip-toed ahead and slipped into the elevator.
“A bit histrionic, don’t you think?” Kelly whispered. “I hope her school has a good counselor.”
“Aspiring actresses are like that. She’s just having fun.”
“Hm.”
We signed in at the entry desk and waited five minutes before a woman arrived and introduced herself as Lorraine Sandifer, the social worker assigned to Amy’s file. She led us into her musty office and we each grabbed a seat, waiting quietly as she skimmed through some papers in a manila folder. In her fifties, she looked exhausted, little black flecks of mascara dotting her cheeks, decaf breath wafting over her desk. She grabbed a pen and peered over her glasses, eyeing the roses as if I’d brought a toaster or a boa constrictor, something totally inappropriate for the moment at hand.
“And you are…?” she asked.
“Donatello Marcino.”
“The playwright!” Jill said, as if I were a name someone might recognize.
“Just a family friend. I’ve known Amy since we were five,” I said. “And this is…”
“Kelly Price. I’m here on vacation.” She put her hand on my shoulder and squeezed. ‘I’ve known him since he was thirty-seven. We’re not sure what we are, but we like each other, at least so far.”
Ms. Sandifer flashed us a fake smile and made some notes in the folder.
“Due to HIPPA laws, I’m unable to share information without Ms. Willingham’s permission, but her doctor did recommend that she stay another forty-eight hours. She declined to follow our suggestion.”
“She needs to get back to work. The Regional Manager’s been calling three times a day,” Jill said. “Her store is the fourth busiest Victoria’s Secret in New Jersey. On an average weekend, they sell four hundred panties!”
Ms. Sandifer gave her a look, and Jill sunk back into her chair.
“We understand,” I said. “Where do I sign?”
“Excuse me?”
“Amy said I had to sign for her. I need to stay with her for ten days as a condition of her release.”
Ms. Sandifer put down her pen, the lines above her eyes curving into troubled arches.
“You must have misunderstood; otherwise she lied to you. Many of our patients can be quite manipulative.” She grabbed a plastic water bottle and took three sips. “There are no ‘conditional’ discharges. We provide a structured out-patient program but it’s the patient’s responsibility to follow it. You don’t need to sign anything, Mr. Marcino. I assumed you were here to drive her home.”
Kelly poked my leg and mouthed “I knew it!”
Jill leaned forward, her hands on the desk. “You’re still going to release my Mom today, right?”
“We can’t hold her here without a court order, and we’re not going to pursue that. Except for an incident in Art Therapy yesterday, your mother has done well here.”
I remembered the nurse’s comment from the other day. “What happened in Art Therapy?”
“She drew some disturbing images, but I really can’t discuss it with you.”
I wasn’t surprised—most likely she’d been drawing Captain Sick again. Growing up, Amy often drew wild images as a release valve. When she got busted for having pot in her locker, she filled three notebooks with vicious caricatures of the principal, the chief of police, and the black-hooded Captain Sick, each of them bearing down on her like vultures eyeing a field mouse.
Jill turned, her voice anxious. “You’ll still stay with us, right? We won’t be any trouble.” She put her hand on my arm, lightly, and flashed those big brown Amy eyes. “Please! Just a few days until Mom feels better…”
“Of course,” Kelly said, poking my leg again and mouthing “you’re welcome.” Jill eased back into her chair.
“I’ll go get Ms. Willingham,” Ms. Sandifer said, bored with our act. As soon as she left, Jill grabbed my hand.
“I know Mom lied to you, but she was afraid to tell you the real reason. It’s that guy who keeps stalking her—your old teacher.”
So Jill knew about Mr. Ronan.
“She’s being stalked?” Kelly said.
“Yes!”
“Amy is mistaken. Mr. Ronan is not stalking her. It’s impossible.”
“Have you called the police?” Kelly asked.
“My Dad is the police. He doesn’t believe her.”
“He’s right.”
“He’s an asshole,” Jill said.
I couldn’t argue Clyde’s essential assholery, but if Mr. Ronan had hung himself, he wasn’t stalking Amy; that much was certain.
“I’ve seen him outside our house. He always runs away, but Mom’s not lying. I promise,” Jill said. “Stay a few days and you’ll see.”
Through the open door, Ms. Sandifer returned, Amy trailing behind. I braced for a bad reaction to Kelly’s presence, but all Amy said, to both of us, was “Thank
