The Night Strangers - Chris Bohjalian [127]
“Go on.” There was no doctor-patient confidentiality. Chip had told Valerian he wanted her to share with Emily whatever Valerian thought his wife should know.
“First of all, I worry that if we don’t, well, get him under control, he may hurt himself.”
“You mean again?” Emily said, seeing once more in her mind the knife in his stomach that night as he had stood at the top of the stairs.
“I mean worse than what was, in essence, an instance of especially violent cutting.”
“You’re suggesting that he might make another attempt to kill himself.”
“Yes.”
Emily sat back against the vinyl cushions and tried to focus. She reminded herself that Valerian was only verbalizing thoughts she had already had and things she and Michael Richmond had discussed. Nevertheless, the reality of her husband’s deteriorating mental state was still hard to hear. “I leave him alone with the girls as little as possible,” she murmured.
“Oh, he would never hurt the girls,” Valerian reassured her. “Never. This isn’t about that.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest he would,” she said. “I just worry that he gets so … so distracted. I just worry that one afternoon Hallie or Garnet might do something dangerous and silly—they’re only ten, after all—and Chip would be completely oblivious.”
“I see.”
“So, tell me: What do you want to do?”
“Well, remember, I am just the second opinion,” Valerian began. “Michael is still his doctor, and he seems perfectly competent in most ways.”
“Go on.”
“But your husband and I are starting to build a good rapport, too. And my sense is that I would like to admit him.”
“Admit him?”
“So we can observe him.”
Abruptly Emily understood what Valerian was telling her, and she felt as if she was on a plane and had just dropped a few thousand feet in sudden turbulence. She felt as if her whole body had lurched, and she was frightened. She heard the clatter of silver and plates and the din of conversation all around her through the thick French drapes of a theater. Everything sounded muffled and far away. “You want him institutionalized?” she asked when the idea had sunk in.
“Just temporarily. And he would have to agree to it. But all those beams that keep a person sane and functioning are about as stressed as they can get without snapping in two. And if they do snap, it won’t be pretty.”
“How long?”
“At the state hospital? I don’t know.”
“Best guess?”
“Maybe a month. Maybe less, maybe more. You both should view it as a time-out from life.”
“Then couldn’t the same effect be achieved with, I don’t know, a really restful vacation?”
“He needs treatment and observation.”
Emily was vaguely aware that the psychiatrist had opened her bag of granola, and now the woman popped a few pieces into her mouth. Her chewing reminded Emily of a rabbit.
“Have you talked to my husband about this?” she asked finally.
“No. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“What about Michael?”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“Can you tell me what’s involved?”
“With institutionalization?”
She nodded.
“Since it’s voluntary, it’s mostly about making sure there’s a bed. John Hardin would not even need to help us prepare committal papers.”
In her mind Emily saw her calm and gentle boss. “I keep forgetting: You know John.”
“Like a godfather, Emily. I love that man. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.”
“Can I think about this?” she asked.
The waitress returned and, smiling, placed the chicken salad sandwich on the table. She was an older woman with bluish hair and large tortoiseshell eyeglasses that dwarfed her nose. She didn’t seem troubled by the idea that Valerian was eating food she had brought from home into the diner, and so Emily reflexively looked at the badge on her smock dress. Maggie. So, the waitress wasn’t one of them. Emily was surprised.
“Of course you can think about it,” the psychiatrist said after Maggie had left them alone. “And I will respect whatever decision you make. Just …”
“Just what?”
She pushed her little bag of granola aside and put her hands on the table, palms open and