Page 56 of Lillian

Grace in a room where drugs are being consumed or shot up a vein.

Grace around any number of strange men…pimps, or drug dealers, or aggressors.

Lincoln leans back with me still in his arms so we’re laying flat on the couch. His head is turned toward the TV, so I follow suit and try to quiet the voices in my head. I’m not sure how long we lay there in silence with Lincoln’s hands running through my hair before he whispers to me. “We’re not going to let anyone take her from us. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

I honestly can’t tell if he’s making me a promise or trying to convince himself.

It’s terrifying.

Liland I both fell asleep on the couch last night, only to be woken up by a sleepy toddler crawling in between us for a morning cuddle. A few weeks ago, I would have never imagined this is how my weekends would be going now. I’d probably be waking up at the ass crack of dawn to get a workout in, only to come back and shower and spend another weekend in the office. If I were really lonely, I’d have tried to find someone to take home for the night. To blow off a few hours worth of steam and then send her on her way.

Lonely. Empty.

That’s how my weekends have been going. Not anymore, though. Now, I have Lillian back and her beautiful daughter, who is quickly becoming the favorite part of my day, too. Holding them this morning, just being together, was perfect.

That’s the only word for it.

Our morning started much like yesterday, with pancakes and laughter and the feeling of family. Only, someone is missing.

For the second time, I get sent straight to voicemail when trying to call Becca’s cellphone. Last night when Grace had been put to bed already, I tried to ring my sister. It had been a few days without contact, and a call was overdue.

With it being a Saturday night and all, I didn’t think much of her silence. But I saw Grace and Lillian off to Flagstaff just ten minutes ago, and Lil reminded me to try again today. It was the first thing I did when I got back up to the penthouse.

Worry starts to creep past all the logical reasons for her missing a call. I tap the callback button. One more time. I’ll try one more time before I ring the main office. They’re technically closed on Sundays, but the women in administration love me, so they gave me their cell numbers to call after hours if I had an emergency.

When the phone cuts off again, with not even a busy dial tone to be heard, I decide this is an emergency.

I pull up one of the three contacts I have in the administration office at the equine facility. Three rings later and a cheery voice picks up. “Lincoln! I was starting to think you forgot about me,” Rachel coos, laying the flirting on thick as usual. For a middle-aged divorcee, she really chases younger men with a single minded focus.

“Hey Rachel. How could I?” My words are obligatory niceties, but the strain in my voice has to be hard to miss.

A pleased noise hums through the line. One I skip right past.

“Listen, I’m actually calling because I’ve had a hard time getting a hold of Becca the past couple of days. Any chance you could get her to call me? Family…uh emergency.” I make something up on the spot because I know Rachel is about to ask, the nosey bitch. We’ve done this dance before. But really, who fucking cares why I need her. Get me my sister.

The beat of silence coming from her end is too long and too loud to be reassuring. “Oh… I thought you heard,” she answers with a nervous quiver to her voice.

“Heardwhat?” I grit out.

“Your sister was placed on an involuntary seventy-two hour psychiatric hold. She had an episode before dinner and attacked one of the nurses.” And I want to fucking strangle Rachel’s dumbass for the way she relays the message like it’s just a bit of juicy gossip and not my sister’s life we’re talking about.

“What kind ofepisode?And who the hell authorized the psychiatric hold?” The facility doesn’t have carte blanche to adjust my sister’s treatments or medicine, or admit her anywhere without consent.

Then, just as I ask her, it hits me. Of course it fucking does. I know who authorized it before Rachel even tells me.

“Your parents. Mr. and Mrs. Walton were informed of the incident and approved the treatment plan by our on-site psychologist.”

I take a deep breath as I try to push aside all the rage and focus on the facts. “You said she attacked one of the nurses?” My voice is deceptively calm, and it reassures Rachel enough to spill everything.

“Oh, yes. Typical bipolar stuff. She had a few really good days in a row. Then the nurse said something triggering, I suppose, and she hit her.”

Bull. Fucking. Shit.

Typical bipolar stuff?

It’s good Rachel is just the administration staff and not one of my sister’s doctors or psychologists because she sounds stupid as hell. There’s nothing typical about bipolar disorder. Everyone experiences it at different levels, and there is no one right prescription to treat it. I also know Becca, and I know she doesn’t get ‘triggered’ by someone's words. It’s not some traumaresponse. Sure, she has good days and bad days, but she’s also not guaranteed to have a bad day because she went three days feeling good.

Typical.

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