Sebastian Stuart - The Mentor

Outside, he hails a cab and gently helps her into it.

“Park Square Hospital,” he tells the driver.

It’s one of the best psychiatric hospitals in the city. And certainly the most discreet. Tucked away on a side street in the East Fifties, the six-story limestone building looks more like an expensive apartment house than a hospital. Several of Charles’s friends have used it as a place to dry out or cool down, and Dan Leber, considered one of the most progressive psychiatrists in the country, is second-in-command. Charles wants Emma to have the best care.

He helps her out of the cab and into the building. The lobby is quiet and clean, and there’s a carpeted lounge with a fireplace. Charles leads Emma into the lounge and sits her down in a deep wing chair. He walks over to the admitting desk and speaks to the calm, concerned nurse. She picks up the phone and speaks quietly.

Moments after she hangs up, Dan Leber appears in the lobby, looking grave and professional. He greets Charles and then leads him to a quiet alcove.

“She’s completely delusional. I’m very worried about her,” Charles says.

“Understandably.”

“I should have brought her in last week.”

“Don’t blame yourself. These things are entirely unpredictable. We’ll admit her immediately, and I’ll get her started on some stabilizing medication.”

Charles sighs heavily. “Christ.”

“Charles, I’m sure your concern means a great deal to her. But the fact is, she’s not your responsibility. I’ll check into state hospitals near her family.”

Emma doesn’t know where she is. The chair and the carpet are soft and cozy. And the music is soothing. Is it the Beatles? Her father loved the Beatles. “Strawberry Fields Forever.” Is she in a safe place? The room has a fireplace with a real fake fire. The colors are pretty. She’s so tired. She lays her head against the back of the chair and pulls Charles’s jacket around her. It’s so soft. What’s in the pocket? Something heavy is weighing it down. Is it a gun? She hopes it’s a gun. She feels it. No, it’s only his keys. Too bad. But won’t he need them? Where is he, anyway? He was just here, with her. He can’t go home; he won’t be able to get in. She has to find him, give him his keys. She lifts them out of the pocket. There’s something else. Some money. And a matchbook. It has writing on it: “Hearty Home Cooking, Terrace Diner, Munsonville, PA.”

That’s funny. She’s from Munsonville and so are the matches. What a small world. She’s even been to the Terrace Diner. Running away, she’d been running away. But she’d had no money and they found her hiding in the bathroom and they called her mother and she got the living shit kicked out of her. She doesn’t like that diner. She doesn’t want these matches. She’ll give them back to him, back to Charles. Running away, I’m running away. But how did he get them? Why are they in his jacket? “Do you think Zack had fish?” The matches, from Munsonville, in his jacket. Pretty powder, pretty powder. The apartment, that apartment that smells like grease and damp and hate. That apartment where her mother lived, her sick sad mother. Running away, I’m running away.

Dan Leber leads Charles back toward the lounge.

“By the way, after the memorial I started rereading Life and Liberty. Extraordinary,” the doctor says.

“Thank you.”

“We’ll do our best for the girl.”

They round a corner and the lounge comes into view. Emma is gone.

Emma is running down the street. She doesn’t know where to go. There is no safe place. The tall buildings are closing in on her, they might fall-don’t look up, don’t look up. She could run to the bus station and get on a bus. But to where, to where? The city is so big, and nobody cares about one crazy little girl all alone. California! She’ll go to California, she’ll find her father, she’ll find him, and everything will be all right. Her father loves her, he loves her. “Teach your children well… and know they love you.” But first she has to get Zack, she has to get her book, it’s her book, not his. It’s in a safe place. She’ll get her book and run away to California and find her father because he loves her and the everything will be all right. Good plan, good girl good girl. Now get your book, get your book and run. Running away, I’m running away.

Emma sits up straight in the back of the cab, like a rich lady. She brushes the hair out of her face. She’s fine. Everything is working out. She has to move quickly, though, she can see that now. She can’t trust him. Only her father. She can trust her father. He probably lives in a little cottage in Santa Cruz. They have a boardwalk there, with a roller coaster and a Ferris wheel. When he sees her he’ll cry. He’ll make her corn bread like he used to when she was a little girl, before she was a dirty monkey. Dirty monkey, dirty monkey. Emma pinches the skin on her wrist as hard as she can, digs her nails in. It helps her to stay calm. When she stops there’s a half-moon of blood. Her blood.

The doorman opens the taxi door. Emma smiles at him as she gets out. “I’m on an errand for Mr. Davis,” she says. Her voice sounds normal. Why shouldn’t it? She’s just coming to get her book; nothing crazy about that. She crosses the lobby with slow, measured steps and presses the button for the elevator. She can tell the doorman is watching her. That’s all right. She’s cool. She just looks straight ahead. At the wallpaper. It has little fleurs-de-lis on it. Or are those bugs?

The elevator doors open and Emma runs down the corridor. It’s hard to get the key in the lock because her fingers are trembling. That’s strange; she isn’t nervous. But she has to hurry, her daddy is waiting and he has corn bread in the oven. She grabs her wrist with her other hand and steadies herself. She gets the key in. She steps into the foyer and stands perfectly still, listening. The apartment is so big and so empty and so quiet. She picks up a vase and throws it against the wall.

She runs through the kitchen, down the long hallway and into Charles’s office. Running away, I’m running away like my daddy did, to California. She throws open the drawers of his desk and paws through the contents, throwing things all over the room. The last drawer is locked and none of the keys fit. She runs back to the kitchen and grabs a heavy knife from a wooden block. The knife feels good in her palm, it has real heft, she could kill someone with it. If he shows up, she’ll kill him. Like Zack killed his mother. Stab him again and again and again. She slides the knife into the top of the drawer and jabs again and again and again-the lock gives. There’s a neat stack of papers in the drawer. Her manuscript, her book. Except her name isn’t on it. His name is: The Sky Is Falling by Charles Davis.

How stupid of him, to put his name on her book. Does he really think he can get away with it? Her daddy is going to be so mad at Charles because her daddy loves her. He might come all the way east and beat him up because he hurt Emma and Daddy doesn’t let anybody hurt Emma. Daddy, Mommy’s hurting me, Daddy. But it doesn’t matter anyway, because she’s running away now, with her book. Running away, I’m running away. Emma lets the knife drop from her hand. She lifts the manuscript from the drawer and slides it into a soft canvas briefcase. She looks around the room. Such a pretty room. She spent so many hours here, with Charles. One afternoon they made love on that couch. It’s all messy now, with blankets. Maybe she should lie down, just for a minute. And Charles will come and lie beside her and hold her in his arms. No, that isn’t a good idea. Maybe if her daddy wasn’t waiting. He wants to take her on the Ferris wheel. From the tippy-top you can see all the way to China.