Almost Perfect - Brian Katcher [102]
When Sage had first told me about her past, she needed me to be understanding. I was hateful. When she needed a friend, I turned into a lover. And when she needed a lover, I wanted nothing to do with her. How many times could I apologize? I sounded like one of those alcoholics who keep swearing that this time, they’re really going to stay sober.
One thing was certain, though. I wasn’t my father. Things were rough, but I was going to stick around. Maybe it would be months before Sage would forgive me. Maybe years. But we’d be going to the same college. I had lots of time to help her get her life back on track.
“Logan? We’re here.”
The clinic was a compact brick building of four stories. It had that healthy, generic look of most medical facilities. Looking at it from the outside, you’d believe that it was filled with proctologists’ offices and blood labs. Only the security fence around the perimeter showed otherwise.
“Mom, could you wait in the car?”
She shook her head. “I’m going in with you. But I’ll wait in the lobby, and you can take as long as you need.”
I didn’t have to take Mom with me. I could have borrowed Jack’s car or had Laura bring me. But I don’t think I could have handled it. Visiting a friend in a mental facility … it was too adult. It’s not something you did in high school. I wanted my mom to be with me, for moral support, if nothing else.
The lobby was tiny and almost completely undecorated. I’d half expected to see guys in white coats dragging googly-eyed men in straitjackets through the door, but this was as bland as my dentist’s office. I leaned through the receptionist’s window.
“I’d like to visit”—I couldn’t bring myself to say a patient—“someone.”
She smiled. “Who would you like to see?”
“Sage Hendricks.”
I had to fill out several forms. Mom flipped through a magazine and tried not to ask any questions. I’d never signed a no hostage waiver before; I wondered just what I was getting into.
“Mr. Witherspoon?” A tall, skinny guy with an enormous Adam’s apple was standing in the doorway. He was dressed in scrubs. I shot a thin smile at Mom.
“Take as long as you need,” she reminded me. I followed the aide.
In a tiny antechamber, he waved a metal detector over me and made me empty my pockets. He then lectured me that I was not to give anything to the patient, that I would be under observation during my entire visit, and that I could be asked to leave at any time.
I felt depressed. What sort of rules was Sage living under?
The aide gave me a visitor name tag. He punched in some numbers on a keypad, and we passed into the main building. It resembled a generic hospital. I couldn’t see any of the patients, which is probably just as well. I would have stared.
This wasn’t right. This was an asylum for insane people. I wanted to shout that Sage wasn’t crazy, that her family had stuck her here, that all she needed was for people to be understanding. I kept my mouth shut. The time for me to be understanding had come and gone.
I was led to a door labeled CONFERENCE ROOM A, a bare room with a table, chairs, and a whiteboard. Inside, a plain woman of about fifty sat at a table reading a file. As I entered, she smiled and removed her reading glasses.
“Please, leave us.” The aide shut the door behind him.
“I’m Dr. McGregor,” she said, gesturing to an empty seat. “You can call me Sally, if you like.”
I nodded and sat down. “Doctor.”
She looked at me with such a friendly smile, I almost forgot she was holding Sage prisoner. I had to remind myself not to let my guard down.
“Logan—may I call you Logan?—I’m Sage’s therapist. I’ve been working with her for the past few months.”
“Months?”
“Yes. I’m helping her work through her gender identity issues. I’m not affiliated with this hospital.”
I felt a little less hostile. Mr. Hendricks had said Sage’s therapist was understanding.
“Sage doesn’t belong here, Doctor.” Someone had to say it.
Dr. McGregor frowned. “They’re not planning on keeping her here. But she said she wanted to kill herself.