Chapter 6 - THE PATIENT WHO COULD NOT REMEMBER HER DAUGHTER
The hospital was called North Ridge Recovery Center.
It stood in a wooded valley outside Burlington.
Its website described a specialized facility for patients with complex neurological conditions.
The photographs showed gardens, therapy rooms, and smiling nurses.
I had worked in healthcare long enough to know photographs proved very little.
Detective Ortiz coordinated with Vermont authorities.
Dominic's attorney helped establish the identity records connecting me to Miriam Ellison.
I insisted that any visit happen through the proper medical and legal channels.
Dominic agreed.
He didn't like waiting.
But he agreed.
Two days later, I received a call.
A woman named Dr. Claire Benton introduced herself as the medical director.
“Miss Walker, I understand you believe one of our patients may be your mother.”
My hands trembled.
“Yes.”
“We have a patient who has used the name Miriam Ellis. She's been here for nearly four years.”
I closed my eyes.
“Can I see her?”
“We'll need to verify your relationship and obtain her consent if she's able to provide it.”
I nodded, even though she couldn't see me.
“Of course.”
The following morning, I traveled to Vermont with Detective Ortiz.
Dominic wanted to come.
I told him no.
He looked disappointed.
Then said, “Call me when you're ready.”
It was the first time I'd seen him accept a boundary without trying to negotiate.
At North Ridge, a nurse led me into a bright sitting room.
A woman sat beside the window.
Her hair was almost entirely gray.
Her shoulders were narrow.
She held a book upside down.
My heart stopped.
“Mom?”
The woman looked up.
Her eyes were the same green I remembered.
But there was no recognition in them.
“Hello,” she said politely.
I couldn't move.
Dr. Benton stood beside me.
“Miriam, this is Grace. She believes she's your daughter.”
The woman frowned.
“Grace?”
I nodded.
“It's me.”
She stared.
Then shook her head.
“My daughter died.”
The words struck like a knife.
I sat down.
“No, Mom.”
Her expression became frightened.
“They told me she died in the fire.”
I began crying.
“They told me the same thing about you.”
She looked toward the window.
“I don't understand.”
I reached into my pocket.
I withdrew the photocopy of her medical license.
On the back were the words she'd written.
Remember the lighthouse.
I placed it before her.
She stared.
Her fingers began trembling.
Then she whispered:
“The lighthouse.”
I leaned forward.
“Mom?”
She looked at me.
For one brief moment, something changed in her eyes.
Recognition.
Pain.
Terror.
May you like
Then she grabbed my wrist.
“Don't let Eleanor take you.”
