Chapter 2
The service elevator doors closed before I could reach the public lobby.
Somewhere below us, reporters were still packing up after Graham's interview about maternal health.
Camille watched the floor numbers fall.
"Graham wants you somewhere quiet," Camille said. "Wade will take you to Rittenhouse Square."
"I know what I saw."
"Then discuss it with your husband after you've calmed down."
The elevator chimed.
The doors opened onto the underground garage.
Graham's SUV waited near the exit.
Wade stood beside the rear door.
I didn't trust Camille, but I had trusted Wade for years.
He had waited outside the hospital when one of my prenatal tests ran long.
He knew how I took my tea and which turns made me carsick.
When he saw me, he looked down and adjusted a cuff that didn't need adjusting.
"Rittenhouse Square?" I asked Wade.
He looked at me then.
After a moment, he nodded.
I wanted to believe the shame on his face meant there was still a line he wouldn't cross.
Rittenhouse Square was ten minutes away.
My hospital bag, my charger, and my medical files were there.
I got in.
Wade usually asked whether I needed the window cracked before he pulled away.
That afternoon, he shut my door without a word and waited until Camille stepped back from the SUV before he locked it.
The click was soft.
I felt it anyway.
Camille closed the door.
The SUV pulled out of the garage and merged into the afternoon traffic.
I reached for the door handle and pulled it up.
The handle lifted, but the door stayed shut.
I tried the window switch.
Nothing moved.
Graham had my phone.
I couldn't call my doctor or tell anyone which car I was in.
I leaned toward the glass partition separating the cabin from the driver's seat.
"Wade, my hospital bag is at Rittenhouse Square," I said.
His hands tightened around the wheel.
"Della's car seat is there too."
Wade finally looked at me in the rearview mirror.
Wade's foot eased off the gas.
Then Camille's name flashed across the dashboard.
Wade silenced the call and kept driving.
The SUV stopped at a red light beside a crowded crosswalk.
A woman pushing a stroller stopped six feet from my door.
I struck the glass with my palm.
She turned at the sound.
The light was still red, but Wade took the right turn before the woman could reach us.
I leaned back against the headrest, my breathing shallow.
"Did Graham tell you to take me south?" I asked.
Wade looked away from the mirror.
"Or did Camille?"
The turn signal kept clicking.
He didn't answer.
The map on the dashboard showed a blue line running south, away from Rittenhouse Square.
"Where are you taking me?"
Wade kept both hands on the wheel.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hollowell."
Then the glass partition rose between us.
I stopped wasting questions on Wade and watched the road signs instead.
An hour later, the SUV left the highway and followed a narrow road to a guarded gate.
A security guard stepped out of a brick booth, took one look at Wade's license plate, and pressed a button to swing the gates wide.
A sign beside the gate read:
BRIARFIELD BEHAVIORAL HEALTH CENTER
The SUV stopped beneath the covered entrance.
A woman in navy scrubs waited beside the glass doors with a white plastic wristband looped over two fingers.
Wade killed the engine and opened my door.
I stayed in my seat.
The woman checked the name on the band.
"Mrs. Hollowell. Let's get you inside."
"Call the police."
"There's a phone at the reception desk," she said. "You can call anyone you want."
I swung my legs out of the SUV but kept one hand on the open door.
The muscles across my stomach tightened.
It was the same hard pressure that had come and gone for days, but this time it made me stop and wait for it to pass.
The woman watched me.
"The nearest maternity ward is forty minutes away," she said. "Your driver is leaving. Come inside, make your call, and let someone check you."
Wade closed the rear door.
"Wade."
He paused beside the driver's door.
I waited for him to look at me.
He didn't.
He got behind the wheel and started the engine.
The SUV circled the drive and disappeared through the gate.
The road beyond it was empty.
I had no phone and no coat warm enough for a two-hour walk.
Through the glass doors, I could see a black telephone on the reception desk.
I walked inside.
The woman tapped the badge clipped to her scrubs against a second set of doors.
They opened with a buzz.
The telephone sat just beyond them.
I crossed the threshold.
The doors locked behind me.
Before I reached the desk, the woman closed the white band around my wrist.
"Welcome to Briarfield, Mrs. Hollowell."
My full name was printed above a single word.
INPATIENT.