Page 42 of The Launch

“So,” May Ogilvy says kindly, standing at Bill’s side as he watches through the window. “You’ve gotten a sample of what we’re working with. I think it’s much more impactful for you to see it in person.”

Bill’s hands are in his pockets again. He tears his gaze from the image of his ex-wife being subdued in a hospital bed that hecan see through the tiny window. His heart is racing. “Sure. Yes. I can see that she’s got some issues.”

Mrs. Ogilvy leads him to a small office on that floor, waving a hand at an empty chair for him to sit in. Bill sinks into it gratefully.

“Is this the highest level of care? Are there any options for medication? Will she ever get better?” His questions aren’t meant to sound like an interrogation, but they come out that way.

Mrs. Ogilvy sits and folds her hands together on top of the desk. “Well,” she says. “Let me address each issue individually. First of all, this is the second-tier level of restrictive care. The top tier is one that is essentially entirely restrictive. If there is any attempt to actually self-harm, or if real bodily harm is visited upon an employee by a patient, then we relocate them to the top tier immediately.” Bill nods silently. “Next, medication is an option. There are all kinds of psychotropic pharmaceuticals that we can use, Mr. Booker, but some will require your permission as her next-of-kin.”

“I see,” Bill says. He wants Margaret to get the best care she possibly can, but he also has concerns about her quality of life. “If we try one of these medications, will it mean that she’s…a vegetable?”

Mrs. Ogilvy smiles with understanding. “That’s a harsh term and one that we like to avoid,” she explains. “But it’s possible that the medications can put a patient into a state whereby they lose the ability or the interest in interacting with the world around them. However, if a patient is a danger to themselves or to others…that might be the best option.”

Bill inhales deeply, taking this in. “Right. Okay.”

“Now, as to whether or not she’ll ever ‘get better,’ I have to say that her particular type of psychosis is one that generally plagues a patient for the rest of their lives.” She stops andwatches Bill as this sinks in. “Mr. Booker, once a person loses touch with reality, they often fall into a place that feels real to them. Margaret is doing her very best to get by in a world that she does not understand. She lives on a plane of reality that you and I cannot visit. Our goal is to make her safe, and to keep all of us—herself included—from coming to any harm. Is that clear?”

“It is.”

“Okay. Then to that end, I think our best options are to pursue a heavier dose of lithium, and to consider implementing Thorazine and possibly shock therapy.”

Bill rears back in his chair. “Shock therapy? Isn’t that dangerous—and painful?”

Mrs. Ogilvy holds up a hand. “At Desert Sage, we fully adhere to the standards for pain management during any treatment, Mr. Booker. Shock therapy is used to stimulate the frontal lobe and to incite a seizure that will, under the best circumstances, treat a patient’s depression and mental illness. Now, the risks and the cost will go up for these treatments and this level of care, but it’s what we feel is necessary.”

Bill is momentarily overcome by the crushing feelings of disappointment and responsibility. Mrs. Ogilvy seems to pick up on this as she watches him with sympathy.

“Are there any other close family members with whom you can consult?” she asks gently. “Perhaps any living relatives who might be willing to work with you on the cost of care?”

Bill shakes his head. Margaret’s mother had died of cancer shortly after they’d agreed to put Margaret into a care home, and her father had died of a heart attack three years later. There’s truly no one but him, and his pride won’t even let him consider reaching out to distant relatives or searching for someone who can help him. Bill had married Margaret, he’d chosen to leave her at Desert Sage, and she is—and will forever be—his obligation.

“No,” Bill says, looking at May Ogilvy squarely. “It’s just me.”

“I would imagine you’ll want to speak to Mrs. Booker about the situation, so I’ll just give you a write up to take home with you, and then you can get back to me about what you’d like to do. How does that sound?”

It sounds exhausting to Bill. It sounds overwhelming. It sounds like something he has to do.

He nods.

“Okay, then let me take you back to Margaret’s room. She should be calmed and under control at this point, and you can spend a bit more time talking to her or just sitting with her.” Mrs. Ogilvy looks at him from across the desk. “It might be hard for you,” she says softly. “But it will be good for her.”

Bill is accustomed to doing hard things, and so he slaps his hands against his knees and stands. “Then take me to her,” he says. “I want to do what’s best for Margaret.”

Bill sets his bags down inside the front door of his own house, tiredly accepting the hugs and squeals of his daughters, as well as a humorously manly handshake from his eleven-year-old son.

“Dad,” Jimmy says, holding out his hand.

“James,” Bill says, fighting to keep a smile off his face.

“We missed you.” Jo is waiting until the children have scattered to wrap her arms around his waist and give him a side-hug. She looks up at him. “A lot happened while you were gone.”

“For me too,” he says, and this is an understatement. The manila folder that May Ogilvy had given him at the end of an afternoon spent spoon-feeding his sedated ex-wife as she stared out the window had felt like a contract that he’d need to review and sign. He has no energy to look at it now, and therefore hedoesn’t mention anything about it to Jo. “What did I miss?” he asks instead.

Jo has wrapped up a plate of dinner for him. The children have already eaten, so Bill and Jo sit at the kitchen table together and watch through the glass of the sliding door as the kids take turns jumping into the pool in the duskiness of late evening. They are illuminated under the porch lights and the half moon, and their shouts are filled with joy.

“Oh,” Jo says with a world-weary sigh. “I had my hands full.”

Bill forks a bite of roast beef into his mouth and chews while Jo sits in her chair with a glass of water.

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