Close to dying three months ago, Sara had made a spectacular turnaround. Along with the entire staff, Erin was thrilled, but also relieved that her groundbreaking treatment, Family Identity Therapy, had delivered as promised. But what should have been a joyous occasion was tainted by the looming spectre of the Greenlake case.
‘Come on in, Sara.’ Erin guided the girl to a pair of oversized armchairs upholstered in a cheerful apricot paisley. Though fragile still, with legs like pipe cleaners in her tight pink leggings, Sara had made great progress at the clinic. A curated programme of music and bodywork, nourishing meals from their in-house chef, and Erin’s own brand of therapy, had pulled her out of danger.
A residential patient’s last day was always an achievement to celebrate. Though Erin couldn’t help but worry that Sara’s hard-won health would start to unravel, one strand at a time, the moment she left the Meadows’ cloistered domain. Fraught with taboos and tacit expectations, not to mention anxious parents who often did more harm than good, the home environment could pick apart months of careful work.
As Sara settled in the chair and tucked her legs beneath her, Erin’s thoughts drifted to the Greenlake file, lurking under the blotter like a scorpion poised to strike. White male, 43. Mother and sisters brutally slain.
She forced her attention back to the girl in front of her. Whatever she said to Sara during the all-important discharge meeting would set the tone for the rest of her recovery. She exhaled slowly. Do not blow this.
‘This is a big day for you.’
Sara’s lip trembled. It was clear she was struggling not to cry as she clutched a squashy blue pillow on her lap.
At Sara’s age, where had she been? A locked room with stained walls. The stink of despair. Disembodied faces peering through a narrow pane of glass. No soft pillows or smiling therapists.
Erin folded her hands in her lap. ‘What are you looking forward to when you get home?’
Sara’s eyes were the soft grey of a pigeon’s wing. ‘Hugging my dog. Art class with Mr Mulder. He’s the coolest teacher at school.’ She blushed and plucked at a loose thread on her sleeve.
A blast of wind rattled the windows, startling them both. Erin hurried to close the curtains against the darkening sky. Alert to the mood in the room, a shifting tapestry of anxiety and optimism, she touched Sara on the shoulder before returning to the chair.
‘We’ve been on an extraordinary journey, haven’t we?’ Battling ogres, outwitting demons, slaying dragons. Or so it seemed.
Together, they stared at the flickering candle between them. On discharge day, it was a challenge to strike the right note. Some of her colleagues opted for a matter-of-fact approach, hoping to avert a full-on meltdown. But Erin relied on intuition as her guide, and it was clear Sara needed something more than a pat on the back and a cheery ‘off you go’.
Though a final send-off it wasn’t. For the next six months Sara would continue as an outpatient, travelling once a week to the clinic from her home on Long Island. A dangerous time, the first few weeks back with the family, when the risk of relapse was high. Going home. It shouldn’t be so hard, but it always was.
As she blinked away her tears, Sara’s glance shifted to the bookcase, though there was little of interest to see. No photos. Nothing of a personal nature. Better to be a blank slate, Erin felt, lest her patients assign her qualities or quirks she didn’t have.
Was Sara reliving the events that had brought her here? Sick since she was twelve, a quarter of her body weight lost in a single year. Her mother furious (just eat!), her father distraught. Packed off to the Meadows in desperation, where she was placed in the care of Greta Kozani. A costly mistake. Under Greta’s clumsy ministrations, Sara had failed to thrive. Though she hadn’t any proof, Erin suspected that Greta’s treatment methods involved an odious form of shaming.
As if reading her thoughts, Sara said, ‘I’m glad they switched me to you.’
That Sara wasn’t ready to leave them was clear. But it was time.
‘I have something for you.’ From her desk, Erin retrieved a black velvet box. Gifts to patients were against the rules, but this was such a small token, she didn’t think anyone would make a fuss. A corner of the Greenlake file poked out from under the blotter. Mother and sisters brutally slain. Erin shoved the file out of sight. She placed the box in Sara’s hand. ‘Go ahead, open it.’
Nestled on a scrap of white satin, a green and gold bird of paradise, its wings aloft, glinted in the light. Sara lifted the fine gold chain and held it in the air. ‘It’s pretty. Shall I put it on?’
‘Better wait till you get home.’ Erin smiled. ‘It’s meant to remind you how far you’ve come. How strong you are.’
On a chain round her neck, hidden under the navy wool jumper, Erin had a talisman of her own. A silver pendant in the shape of a quetzal, a gift from a Mayan healer she’d met at a street market in Cordoba. Por qué estas triste? Why are you so sad? he’d asked, pressing it into her hand. Seventeen and on the run. She never took it off.
*
At reception, a man in a blue-striped shirt was chatting with Greta Kozani. Stuffed into a black crepe dress better suited to a funeral than a clinic, Greta tapped the man flirtatiously on the arm. Erin felt a twinge of annoyance. Where was Sara’s mother? That she couldn’t be bothered to collect her own daughter was a bad sign, but not a complete surprise. During family counselling sessions, she had come across as rigid and withholding. Erin could only hope the father provided the love and acceptance Sara so desperately needed.
‘I can’t thank you enough, Dr Kozani. You and Dr Cartwright, of course,’ he said,
