Chapter Eight
Hours later, he was filling out paperwork in the hospital, a headache still beating its way around inside his skull. Molson rubbed his eyes as he handed the forms back to a nurse and was buzzed through to the exam rooms.
Margot had been sedated. She’d thrown a fit when they had put her in the ambulance. She’d wanted to continue to stargaze and the paramedics had needed to assess how she was after inhaling so much gas. The firefighters had opened everything up, so the gas could clear the house while the gas company shut down the flow.
Margot had hit a line in the basement with her axe while she was fighting the weather boogeyman.
Now at the hospital, she lay, small and frail in a bed, looking like she couldn’t possibly lift an axe, let alone swing one. An oxygen mask was on her face and she was hooked up to machines to monitor her vitals. Molson slumped into the single chair.
“Do you have a list of your mother’s medications?” a doctor stepped in, holding a chart.
“It was in the house,” Molson said tiredly. “I can tell you most of the meds that I remember but truthfully, she doesn’t take them anyways. I try to make sure she gets them on time, but she just throws them up.”
“Has she seen a psychiatrist lately?” the doctor asked.
“She won’t go unless I drag her there,” Molson replied woodenly. “She says it’s a waste of her time. We saw Dr. Velts maybe three months ago. He suggested institutionalizing her.”
The doctor scribbled something on his chart. “It might be wise to revisit the idea.”
“She don’t want to be in a psych ward,” Molson looked up at the doctor sharply.
“Even for a small amount of time, institutionalization might do Ms. Colborne a world of good,” he said gently. “We could see that she received her medications, got appropriate therapy, work at reintegrating her safely into society if it is a possibility. Your mother would be in a safe place where she wouldn’t be a danger to herself or others.”
Molson guessed the doctor had probably heard about the axe to the gas line from the paramedics. He rubbed a hand over his face.
“It would also give you a break from caring for her,” the doctor probed. “You must be exhausted. She can’t have been easy to look after.”
“She asked me to take care of her,” Molson swallowed thickly. “I promised I would.”
“You would be taking care of her by seeing that she gets the best care possible,” the doctor noted with sympathy. “I’m going to start the admitting process. In a few hours, we’ll have her moved to her new room.”
What if he hadn’t come home in time? Molson wondered. She could have blown herself up. She could have blown up the whole neighborhood. He set his head in his hands with a shuddering breath. Maybe he was out of his mind thinking he could do it all. Thinking he could care for her amongst all the rest of the things on his plate. School, work, doing his rounds, taking care of Margot. Something had to give, and he admitted he probably hadn’t been giving her the supervision that she needed. “Okay.”
“You’re doing the right thing,” the doctor told Molson before he left, drawing the curtains so that Molson could have some time alone with Margot.
He didn’t feel like he was doing the right thing. Molson felt guilty. He felt like he was failing.
Molson didn’t know why he’d come here. It wasn’t like he was going to magically find something that the FBI had missed. It was more likely that someone would call the cops and have him escorted away for trespassing. It was an upscale sort of place, with huge houses overlooking the beach and a marina accommodating all the boats.
He supposed he’d just needed to get away from the hospital for a while. Away from Margot and feeling like he was doing the wrong thing by letting them keep her. She’d hate him when she woke up and figured out where she was. Margot had a thing about hospitals.
Molson walked along the dock, looking at the area, trying to distract himself. This was how the other half lived. It was nice, if you could afford it.
There was an empty slip and Molson paused, wondering if it was the spot where Michael’s boat had been. The FBI had seized it for evidence. It had been a dumb idea to come here. There was nothing to learn. Molson drained his takeout cup of coffee and looked around for a garbage to dump it in before he made the long journey back into the city.
“I hope you’re not going to litter,” a voice piped up nearby.
Molson raised an eyebrow at a girl carrying a book under her arm, who blinked up at him with a solemn attitude. She was perhaps eight or nine. “Wasn’t planning on it. You got a garbage around here?”
“It’s over by the clubhouse,” she pointed.
“What are you, the litter police?” Molson said, only half-jokingly.
“No,” she gave him a dirty look. “The other guy threw trash off the boat that was here. I thought you might do the same.”
“The boat that was here?” Molson pointed to the empty slot in the water.
“Yup. Mr. Ramesly’s boat,” she clarified.
