Page 17 of The Last Session

“Somewhere else?” I echoed.

“Unless she wants to stay here.” Diane raised an eyebrow and the implication was clear. It was unlikely that a celebrity would choose to stay in our public psychiatric unit, not when there were private, spa-like treatment centers to recuperate in.

A heavy sadness filled my stomach. After having been reunited with my thirteen-year-old celebrity twin, I felt a bit despondent that she’d now exit my life so swiftly.

We entered the wing and approached a hallway filled with beds cordoned off by teal curtains. My pulse quickened.

Diane pointed to the last bed on the left. “I have a call. You good?”

“Yep.” I steeled myself as I approached, a patient to my right coughing while another to the left hissed angry words into her phone. There: a flash of Catherine’s russet hair through the gap in the curtains. Time to put on my competent social worker face.

“Knock, knock.” I stepped inside. Was that too corny? “Hi, Catherine.”

She was awake in all senses of the word: sitting up in her green hospital gown, eyes wide and clear. A bandage encircled her forehead, and her face was slightly swollen.

She looked me up and down. “Hi.” That familiar husky voice again.

“How are you feeling?” I stood there awkwardly.

“Fine.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” I sat on the plastic chair next to the bed. “How’s your head?”

“It’s…” She touched the side of her head and flinched. “The nurse said that I fell?”

“Yes.”

She rubbed a wrist. “I was, like, tied up when I woke up.”

Four-point restraints were sometimes necessary for agitated patients—psychiatric or otherwise.

“That must’ve been confusing,” I said.

Her leaf-green eyes flicked back to me. “Sorry… who are you?”

“Oh! I’m sorry.” I chuckled. “I’m Thea. I’m a social worker. I’ve been working with you in the psychiatric unit.”

“Oh.” She squinted. “Were you the one I pushed?”

“Push”: now, that was a nice euphemism. “Yes.”

“Oh.” She swallowed. “I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. You were…”

“Acting insane.” She dropped her head back against the pillows.

“Upset,” I supplied.

She was quiet for a minute, staring at the ceiling. I felt a flash of unreality: Was this truly happening? Was I really here, sitting across from Catherine O’Brien?

“How long can I stay here?” she asked.

The question surprised me. “You mean… in this unit? Or…”

“Anywhere. People can’t see me unless I agree to it, right?”

“Right.” I thought of Diane’s words. “Are there people you’d like us to contact?”

---