Look Closely - Laura Caldwell [28]
I put the letter facedown on my lap. Caroline’s sarcasm made me anxious and confused. I took a sip of my wine, but it tasted too warm and citrusy now. The sun was starting to slide into a thicker, yellow color, threatening to turn rust-red and hot-pink, but I couldn’t appreciate it. Why, why, why, I kept thinking, why hadn’t I been allowed to see Caroline? Why hadn’t my father and I both gone to her graduation? Was Caroline’s resentment based solely on her being sent away to boarding school? Or was it the result of something more?
I lifted the knife off the tray to cut a piece of cheese, more for something to do than out of any real hunger, but as I sliced through the brick of Gruyère, my hand slipped and the knife made a sharp scrape on the bottom of the silver tray, nearly missing the index finger of my other hand. I put the finger to my mouth, as though I had cut myself, feeling jumpy, nervous.
I managed to cut a slice of cheese, and then lifted the stack of mail from Caroline again. The next letter on the pile was written on lavender stationery and was dated seven months after Caroline’s high-school graduation.
Dear Della,
Merry Christmas. Sorry I haven’t written sooner. They asked me not to contact anyone for a while, so that I could stay “in touch” with myself instead. I keep telling them how ironic that request is. I’m already too in touch with myself. Oh well. It’s not all bad here. Hope you are happy in Woodland Dunes. You can write me at the address on the envelope, and if you feel like sending some of your oatmeal cookies, I would be thrilled.
Miss you, Caroline.
I found the envelope the card had been in and looked at the return address. Caroline’s name was listed there and below that, “Crestwood Home” and an address in “Holly Knolls, Connecticut.” Crestwood Home? I swallowed hard on a piece of cheese.
I went inside and turned on my laptop. I could hear a peal of laughter from downstairs and the low rumble of voices. Probably the happy hour Ty had told me about. Every Friday and Saturday from May to October, he opened the small bar on the deck and treated guests to a few cocktails. Normally, it was the kind of gathering I would have joined with optimism, hoping to meet a few nice people, hoping for that rush of belonging, even if it was just for a few hours. Right now, though, I wasn’t feeling very social.
Once my computer was powered up, I got on the Internet, clicked on “Web Search,” then typed in “Crestwood Home.” The search brought up a number of results that I had to scroll through, including a few Crestwood Inns and B and Bs. Finally, I found a Web site for Crestwood Home in Holly Knolls, Connecticut. Under a banner with the Crestwood name hung a photo of a beautiful estate on a green lawn. Below that, in scrolling script it said, At the Crestwood Home and Psychiatric Institute, we are devoted to the restoration of well-balanced mental health. Our residents live in the peaceful harmony of Connecticut horse country until that restoration is achieved.
Oh, God. I sat back, away from the laptop, staring back and forth between the photo of the lovely brick mansion that looked more like a country inn and the words Psychiatric Institute. I pushed the laptop away and leaned on the desk, cupping my face in my hands. Why had Caroline been there? Because she had seen something too awful, because she had known something too painful?
Or maybe, I thought, because she had done something too horrible.
8
I pried open one eye and groaned. Even that minor movement caused a lurch of pain in my head so severe it blinded me for a second. There was light. Way too much light.
I blinked repeatedly until the other eye opened and focused. A small, black alarm clock was on a nightstand, I could see that much, but it didn’t tell me anything except that I was in a hotel, not an uncommon event. I opened my eyes wider and moved my head toward the clock. Now I could see that it was