Project 17

3

“Oh, hello, Lillian. Nice to see you.”

Maxine was sitting on her usual spot: on the floor, leaning against the couch, her laptop on the coffee table. Lillian didn’t have a TV set in her apartment, so Max faced nothing but the opposite wall, with its peeling paint and a bumper sticker posted by the previous owner that said, NOTHING IS SACRED.

“Nice to see you, too,” Lillian said. “This is my unit, as it turns out.”

Jamie emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “That bumper sticker is making my skin crawl. We should re-paint your walls.”

Jamie and Max were cousins who lived in the apartment next door. The three of them had known each other since Lillian’s freshman year in college, when Jamie and Max were already on their last semester. When Lillian moved into the same building three months ago, Jamie and Max doted on her like a pair of overbearing aunts, fussing over her diet and dwelling.

“Also,” Jamie said, “your kitchen is ghastly.”

“Are you cooking? I want a cheeseburger.”

Jamie took her groceries from her with a look of disapproval. “Why do you eat so much junk? I made vegetarian mechado. Sit down.”

They ate on the floor, sitting by the coffee table.

“I still want a cheeseburger,” Lillian said morosely, stirring through the chunks of potatoes on her plate.

“Jamie says you have a new charge,” Max said, eyes on her laptop screen.

“A twenty-eight-year-old male,” Lillian said. Jamie nearly choked on his rice.

“What?” Max said, then lowered her voice to a whisper, “Is he disabled?”

“He has schizoaffective disorder.”

“Is that the violent kind of crazy?” Jamie asked.

“Way to be sensitive, Jamie,” Max said.

“I’m just saying,” Jamie said. “He’s not violent, is he?”

Lillian thought about it. “To be honest he seemed dulled by all his meds. He’s taking a lot.”

“Like Jamie on most Friday nights,” Max said. “It should be fine.”

“He’s with family?” Jamie asked.

“A brother.” Lillian chewed. “Who seems loaded.”

“Ooh. Is he going to pay you a lot?”

“Higher than my asking rate.”

“And you’re sure his brother’s not violent?” Jamie asked.

Max pushed back her plate and placed her hands on her keyboard. “What’s their name?”

“Dolores. Paul and Caleb. But I already checked on them. Checked SentryServ, too. No hits. No priors. Not even a photo online.”

“Very secretive,” Max said, typing.

“Very suspicious,” said Jamie.

“Oh, give the guy a break. There are mental patients who blog about their condition to share info, but not everyone is that open or confident.”

Lillian shrugged. “I’m really not worried.”

“What made you say he’s loaded?” Jamie asked, as Max continued to type away, peering at the screen and frowning. “They live in a mansion? Will you get free food?”

“He gave me a card for my meals,” Lillian said, and Jamie raised his eyebrows.

“Titanium band. And he owns a tabletop, Jamie! His house looks like shit but he’s got this gorgeous machine.”

“Your wall paint is peeling, Lillian. I can’t imagine a shittier home than this.”

“Mediatrix of All Graces Center,” Max said. They looked at her.

Max said, “Caleb Dolores was admitted more than a decade ago in Mediatrix of All Graces. Involuntary commitment for 20 days back in 2017. Paul Dolores signed it off.”

“They publish that kind of information?” Jamie said. They climbed on the couch and peered over Max’s shoulders. Lillian looked at the screen. Max had what looked like twenty windows open, but one inset showed Mediatrix of All Graces Center’s website. The homepage featured a manor, a sprawling garden, a marble statue of the Virgin Mary with her arms open, and that careful doublespeak also used by drug treatment facilities and funeral homes.

“I hacked their system,” Max said. The first time Max uttered these words to her, Lillian almost had a heart attack, thinking a Sentry would be breaking down her door at any moment. After a while, she got used to it.

“The place looks great,” Lillian said.

“It’s a very expensive facility,” Max said. “And I mean break-the-bank expensive.”

“Crazy expensive.”

“Not funny, J.”

“If he’s loaded why not just hire a stay-at-home nurse?” Jamie asked.

“He couldn’t find one in this town,” Lillian said, and began to clear the table. “And he needed a caregiver on short notice. He’s starting work on Monday.”

Max was ready to pounce. “Where?”

“Seton,” Lillian said.

“According to Mediatrix of All Graces, Caleb Dolores exhibited delusions and other symptoms just five months before he was admitted there,” Max said, as she opened another window. “No history of mental illness, even in his family.”

“That’s sad,” Jamie said, expressing empathy for the first time. “Do you think it’s work-related? Or academic pressure?”

“I guess extreme stress can really do a number on your brain.”

“My own thesis did a number on my brain.”

Lillian, who had started to get up to take the plates to the sink, sat back down.

“What?” Max said.

“Paul said Caleb had had this ever since he was a kid.”

“He lied to the hospital?” Jamie said.

“They can’t lie to the hospital,” Max said. “They need to tell the truth so Caleb can get proper treatment.”

Jamie looked at Lillian. “So he lied to you.”

“Paul’s not in the Seton system yet,” Max said.

“Maybe they just want to start over,” said Jamie. “Clean slate. Maybe Paul Dolores was a CEO before he came here, shamed by scandal.” He snapped his fingers. “Or maybe Paul and Caleb are actually a couple!”

Max looked exasperated. “You think everyone’s gay.”

“Everyone is gay. Keep that in mind when you go on a blind date again.”

Max rolled her eyes.

“Paul’s actually pretty cute,” Lillian said. She put the plates in the sink and came back with a Candy Stripe stuck in her mouth. “Kind eyes. Like he trusts everyone.”

“And therein lies his downfall,” Jamie said.