Blood Ink

Coda

"You remember that girl you practically forced me to hang out with?" Alex asked her mother.

Diane Winslow was standing in the kitchen, making a new snack for her daughter: apple slices, topped with Brazilian guava paste and cheddar cheese. She was wondering where she'd learned about this snack when her daughter's question jolted through her mind.

"What girl?"

"Martina," Alex said, and snatched one of the apple slices off the plate. "She was a patient of yours, right?"

"I didn't force you to hang out with anyone."

"Oh, come on, Mom. You dropped me off at the library, which you never do, like a day after we saw her walking there by herself. You even told me, 'Be kind to someone today.' It was super obvious."

Diane bristled at this. "I needed to do some research," she said. "At home. And you were working on that big project for history class."

"Relax, mom, no need to play defense. It's just – you heard about what happened to her, right?"

"No, what?"

"Sara told me – they were on this beach trip last week, and all of a sudden Martina just flipped out and started biting people. Like, full-on, breaking the skin, just out of nowhere. And she was screaming the whole time. They had to call the cops."

Diane put a hand to her mouth. "You're kidding," she whispered.

"I'm not. I guess she's in county on a psychiatric hold now – they called you about it, right?"

"Are you absolutely sure that this happened?" Diane said. "It's not some story that Sara made up?"

"Sara got bit on the elbow––she showed me. She had to get a tetanus shot."

"Oh my God."

"It's so weird," Alex said, her feet swinging from the stool. "I know anytime this happens, people always say 'she seemed like such a nice, quiet girl,' but she really did seem like a nice, quiet girl. Cliche, I know. Was she on drugs?"

"You know I can't tell you that."

Diane put the plate of apple slices down on the kitchen island. Alex, sitting in front of them, took another, examined it, and put it back.

"They really didn't call you about this?" Alex said. "They have to commit you if you attack somebody, right?"

"Probably."

"Did she hear voices, though?"

"You know I can't say. Go finish the laundry––before it gets any later."

Alex shrugged and waltzed out of the kitchen. 

Diane stared at the apple slices in front of her. She picked up the phone and dialed Saint Joseph's number, but as she held the phone to her ear, she felt less and less certain. 

"Hello?" a voice said on the other end. Diane hung up before she could answer.

In her office, she found and called the number for Ron Eberhardt. A chipper woman's voice came on the line, informing Diane that the number she was trying to reach was no longer in service. Diane sighed and hung up.

Sara came to visit Alex that night. Sara's hand was still bandaged, and she kept scratching at it.

"Don't do that, honey," Diane said.

"I'm trying," Sara said, "but it's so itchy. And it keeps getting worse. I feel like the itchiness is...spreading somehow."

"Have you noticed any redness, swelling, extra irritation?"

Sara shifted in her seat, not meeting Diane's eyes. 

"No," Sara said. "Nothing like that. Only..."

"What is it, sweetie?"

"Probably nothing," Sara said, with an apologetic half-smile. "Really. I'll just show it to the doctor tomorrow."

"Well if it starts to feel worse, you call me right away."

"I will, Dr. Diane."

After Alex and Sara went to the movies, Diane noticed a yearbook at the table – the Chihak Prep yearbook. Sara must have left it behind. I won't do it, Diane said as she opened its cover. It's not my business anymore, just because she was my patient doesn't mean...

Diane turned to Martina's yearbook picture.

In the photo, Martina smiled benignly at the camera without showing her teeth. There was only a hint of the loneliness that Diane often saw in the young girl's eyes. And yet...what was it about the image that was so unsettling? It must have been Dr. Diane's knowledge of the girl's inner life, the yawning pain and grief, how at odds it was with this banal picture. She had seen this same dynamic plenty of times – unassuming teenagers with skeleton armies in their closets. Suburban kids with big problems were her bread and butter. What made this one different?

Dr. Diane looked at the picture again. There, by Martina's hand, was a small dark spot. Maybe it was a blotch of ink, maybe a little note Martina wrote to herself, maybe a printing error or a speck of dirt. Maybe it was nothing at all, just a figment of her imagination.

Something about this mark filled Diane with revulsion. She closed the book and stood up; an image of Martina, cradling a butterfly to her chest, filled her mind. In the kitchen, she made an extra glass of chamomile tea. So many things are beyond your control, she reminded herself. All that matters is to do good work. But this didn't soothe her. Nothing soothed her any more. 

Somewhere out in the darkness, behind locked doors or jail bars or even the walls of a house, Martina still existed. Maybe she was sitting up, her eyes glazing over as she stared at the wall; maybe she was lying down, face turned away from the light streaming through an open doorway; maybe she was asleep already, dreaming of God only knows what.

All that matters is to do good work, Diane told herself again. There could be phone calls from attorneys, police, from hospitals from other psychiatrists and therapists in the area. Even Ron Eberhardt might get in touch. God willing, there would be no calls from journalists, posing as concerned relatives. She closed her eyes. Martina's yearbook picture refused to leave her mind.

In her mind's eye, Diane reached out to her old patient. The girl had always made her uneasy, even from the first session. Now, with so much distance between them, it no longer mattered. Do good work, she told herself, Do this one kindness for her, even if it doesn't help. That's what matters now.

Out in the night, behind locked doors or jail bars or even the walls of a house, past empty streets and silent rooms and sleeping azalea bushes, something else felt Diane reaching out. A part of it rose from its resting place, stretched its limbs, and waited, patiently, to make a connection.