She looks up, trying to place me.
“I’m Beatrice Bennett. I was a patient here twenty-six years ago.”
“Oh, yes … I remember you,” she says.
“You do?” I ask.
She nods her head. “Hard to forget. You hated the horses. Most girls love ’em—a break from having to eat. What brings you back?”
“I have a question for you. My mom worked here years before I was admitted. I’m wondering if you knew her.”
“What’s her name?”
“It was Irene Bennett,” I say. “She passed away.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Joan says, her voice softening. “I remember her.”
“Really?” I say.
She nods. “She also hated horses.”
I smile, thinking about Mom and me sharing this in common. I never spoke with Joan about Mom when I was here—I almost always avoided the barn.
“Do you, by any chance, know if she used her contacts to get me in here?” I ask.
“I’ve never had anything to do with admissions,” Joan says.
“Do you know who might know?”
“We’ve probably had about half a dozen admission directors and hundreds of interns since she worked here. And nobody keeps track of interns after they leave.”
Like that, I watch my only lead vanish.
“Okay,” I say, defeated. “It was nice seeing you again.”
“Likewise,” she says.
I walk away feeling deflated when she calls back out to me. “Did your mom end up with the guy from New York?”
“What?” I say, turning back around again.
“Is that your dad?” Joan asks.
“My dad was a native Angeleno,” I say.
“Guess you got lucky,” she says. “That other guy sounded like a real piece of work.”
Who’s Joan talking about? When Mom was working here, she and Dad were an item.
“You probably have him confused with someone else,” I say.
“Nope,” she says emphatically. “Your mom talked about himallthe time. He drove around in a VW with a surfboard on top like he was born on the beach, but he had the thickest New York accent I’d ever heard. Your mom said he wanted to be a director.”
CHAPTER9
January 1998
WHENIWASfirst admitted to Better Horizons, I was placed with a roommate, Emily, who was all of sixteen and on her seventh stint at the treatment center.