Page 18 of The Locked Ward

I’ve visited patients before, but gaining entrance to the locked ward is an entirely different procedure.

I follow the same steps I went through when I first came to meet Georgia.

The guard at the main front desk is the first gatekeeper.

I give him my name and show my driver’s license.

Then I’m handed a stick-on visitor’s pass and instructed to step to the side and wait.

Everyone who comes to the main desk after me is told the room number of the patient they’re visiting and given directions to it.

But I need a special escort. After a few minutes, a young guy in burgundy scrubs comes down to retrieve me.

“I’m Tim,” he tells me as he leads me down a wide corridor.

We’re still in the main part of the hospital, so medical staff and visitors are milling around.

We pass a smiling man pushing a wheelchair that holds a tired-looking woman with a newborn cradled in her arms. A middle-aged couple comes out of the gift shop holding a helium balloon with the words Get Well Soon printed on it.

A doctor in a white coat hurries past, sipping coffee from a paper cup, the rich smell of roasted beans wafting behind her like a cloud.

Are any of the patients and visitors aware of the alien world that exists just a few floors above?

Tim pauses at an elevator bank and pushes a separate button for the elevator at the very end.

“How’s traffic out there?” he asks. “I do overnight shifts, but I’m heading home soon.”

“Not too bad,” I reply.

The elevator doors open and we step inside. Tim takes out his keys and touches a small circular fob to the control panel, then presses the button for floor five.

The doors close and we jerk up.

“Do you know how many things I’m picking up?” I ask. I’ve got a few reusable shopping bags tucked under my arm.

“No, but those bags should do it,” he tells me.

“It’s whatever Georgia had on her when she was brought in that the cops didn’t take.

By the way, she’s off her one-to-one, so you’re welcome to bring back some clothes for her.

Just no belts or scarves or shoelaces. Sweatpants without a drawstring, T-shirts, and sweatshirts are fine.

No bright colors or offensive words on the clothes, though. ”

“‘One-to-one’?” I echo.

“Sorry, that was when she had a watcher at all times. She hasn’t shown any signs of wanting to injure herself, so she isn’t considered an imminent suicide risk.”

I have plenty of sweats and T-shirts. It wouldn’t be a big deal to bring a few for Georgia. I’m sure the fabrics aren’t as luxurious as the ones she’s used to wearing, but she’d probably be more comfortable in them versus the paper pajamas she wore the last time I saw her.

Sisters share clothes, after all.

I try to picture Georgia slipping her head through the slightly frayed neck of my favorite dusky blue sweatshirt and pulling on the matching sweatpants.

They’d be a little short on her, but they’d fit well enough.

It would feel so strange to see her in them, knowing her microscopic skin cells were shedding and mingling with mine as our scents blended together.

The elevator opens to the silent hallway. Our shoes slap against the linoleum and echo as we approach the small wooden door. I wait for Tim to unlock it, but instead, he moves to the row of metal lockers built into the adjacent wall.

He finds one in the center of the row and checks something on his phone, then spins the dial and unlocks it using a combination I can’t see.

“All yours.” Tim steps back.

The only object is a small clutch purse, shining like a star in the dark hole of the locker.

“Where are her clothes?” I know Georgia was wearing a backless silver dress the night of the party; I saw it in a photograph published in People .

“Probably taken as evidence,” Tim says matter-of-factly. “Guess you didn’t need those shopping bags after all.”

I reach for the purse, my fingers beginning to tremble. It feels unexpectedly heavy, and its clasp is intricate and elegant. I’m desperate to peer inside, but I don’t want to do it with Tim watching.

“All set?” he asks.

I feel a stab of disappointment. I was steeling myself to go back into the psych unit. My sister is only yards away. If I could look through walls, I could see her.

“Can I see Georgia before I go?” I ask. “Just for a minute?”

“Hang on a sec.” He picks up the phone and speaks into it. I wait, my fingers touching the sleek silver fabric of her purse. There’s no blood on it, which must be why the police didn’t take it. The purse feels strangely warm in my hands, as if it’s a physical entity.

Tim hangs up the phone. “You can visit her briefly. Don’t bring that in, though.”

I give him back the purse, and he locks it up again.

Then he leads me through the two doors into the high-security unit.

I spot Georgia immediately. She’s sitting on a couch in the common area, staring blankly at a television. I walk over to her with Tim matching my steps. Two other male nurses come out from the secure station and form a perimeter around me.

“I’m getting your things,” I say.

Georgia doesn’t acknowledge me. Maybe that’s because she doesn’t want anyone to overhear. But I can see a pulse beating at the base of her neck, like a bird’s wings frantically fluttering.

“I’ll be back soon,” I tell Georgia.

A strange sensation floods my body. It feels like deep relief, as if someone has stretched out a hand and caught me as I’ve been sliding off a precipice.

I’m not in any danger, though. An eerie thought strikes me: Could I be tuning in to Georgia’s emotions?

“We need to leave since this isn’t a scheduled visit,” Tim tells me.

I look up and see a man with pitted skin heading toward us. If he ran, he could be upon me in seconds. But his movements are slow and languid, like he’s trying to walk underwater. He must be heavily medicated. Still, he’s staring at me and I can tell he’s trying to get to me.

I’m not the only one who notices. Another big male nurse quickly exits the walled-off station and blocks the man’s path.

“Follow me,” Tim instructs.

We’re out the door before the man reaches us.

Tim whistles a tune I don’t recognize as we walk back down the hallway. My stomach is still clenched, but this is everyday for him.

Tim retrieves the silver bag from the locker, then touches his fob to call for the elevator.

“I can take it from here,” I tell him.

He shakes his head. “No visitors can be unattended until they’re off this floor.”

We ride down in silence. I’m acutely aware of the bag in my hands. I think of Georgia standing in her closet—it would be a walk-in and beautifully organized—and considering the evenings bags displayed on a shelf before selecting it.

Did Georgia tell her lawyer she wanted me to pick up her things because there’s no one else in her life that would do it? Or did she have another motive?

Tim walks me back to the guard’s desk and tells me to have a nice day. I wish him the same, then step on the mat that triggers the big, oversized doors and walk out into the warm sunlight.

I practically run to my car and jump into the driver’s seat. I can’t wait another second. I open the purse.

It holds four items: A Chanel lip gloss. A slim silver card holder with Georgia’s platinum Amex and driver’s license tucked inside. A travel perfume atomizer. And a set of keys.

I already know where Georgia lives; the tabloids showed images of her posh building named The Vue.

Now I know how to get inside.