Stardust (The Starlight Trilogy #3) (11 page)

Marion Taggart, known as Marion Whitney publicly, had worked at Starlight Studios for over twenty years. She was the most popular silent film actress until talking pictures arrived and her attempt to transition to sound failed. She continued to make movies but never reclaimed her status. When her star faded completely, Nathan only heard from her through letters. He received the last one six months ago.

Marion had lived in Los Angeles during her time with the studio but insisted it was not the proper place to raise a child. She sent Nathan to live with his father on the family ranch in Salinas, California while she worked in Hollywood.

For years, Nathan cut out pictures and articles from entertainment magazines to gather information on his mother, and whenever her films played at the local theater, he’d steal a nickel from his father’s change jar in the kitchen and ride his bicycle into town to watch her.

Nathan’s fondest memories were his mother’s visits to Salinas during his summer and winter breaks from school. She wore extravagant clothes, and her hair and makeup were flawless, like she’d just stepped off a film set, not a country bound train. His bleak life on the ranch always brightened in her presence. She never stayed long, though, explaining that she needed to return to Hollywood to make money so she could give him everything he wanted.

All he wanted was her.

His father, Lloyd Taggart, was a proud rancher who loved horses almost as much as he loved the bottle. In the evenings, Nathan often found him passed out in his favorite wicker chair on the front porch, surrounded by the acres of property paid for by his wife’s monthly checks.

In their household, it was assumed Nathan would help his father run the ranch full time after high school. But Nathan wasn’t interested in that life. He planned to tell his father in his senior year but never got the chance. Lloyd was killed when one of his stallions kicked him in the head, rendering him unconscious, and he choked on his own liquor-saturated vomit. Nathan discovered his bloody body the next morning. He never returned to high school after that. Neither did he become a full time rancher.

Following his father’s death, Nathan couldn’t reach his mother—calls to her West Hollywood, Malibu, and New York homes yielded no response—so the bank seized the property. He didn’t particularly want to keep the ranch, but it was still tragic to lose it under such circumstances. When his mother finally contacted him, from a foreign address in Manhattan she referred to as her new main residence, he wrote her back with news of her husband’s death as well as the foreclosure. He never received a reply.

Six months later, Nathan relocated to New York with barely a nickel to his name. Fast-paced urban life was very different from what he was used to. The streets were crowded, the housing options he could afford were dismal at best, and the air was thicker, infused with a chemical smell that burned his nostrils. Nevertheless, the energy of the city and the seemingly endless professional opportunities inspired him. There were many esteemed national newspapers based out of New York. He hoped to get a job at one of them and work his way up the ranks to become a columnist eventually.

Living in New York also meant he was closer to his mother. Nathan had visited the address accompanying her last correspondence, but the doorman said she’d moved out years ago, which meant she wasn’t living there when she sent him the letter. Questions clouded Nathan’s mind. Today, he wanted answers.

“May I help you, sir?”

Nathan stopped in front of a workstation occupied by a nurse. “Hello. My name is Nathan Taggart. I’m here to visit my mother, Marion Taggart.”

“There’s no one here by that—” The appearance of her smile eroded the tension in her face. She looked young, perhaps only a few years older than him, but the clinical coolness in her eyes suggested she’d experienced far more than he ever would at that age. “Oh, you mean Marion Whitney. I apologize. It’s easy to forget that Taggart is her real surname, given, well, who she
was.”

Was.

Nathan cleared his throat. “I received a telegram requesting my presence here immediately.” He withdrew the cable from his pocket and held it up. “I’m not sure who sent it. It’s unsigned. I just know that it came from this institution.”

“Ah, yes.” The nurse pursed her lips. “Mr. Taggart, why don’t you sit on one of the chairs behind you, and I will let Doctor Littman know you’re here. He is the head psychiatric practitioner at Bellevue.”

Nathan sat down and placed his fedora in his lap. He rifled through a back issue of
National Geographic Magazine
until the doctor’s arrival.

“Hello, Mr. Taggart.” The physician extended his hand. “I’m Doctor Peter Littman.”

Dressed in a tweet suit jacket and slacks, the man didn’t look like a physician, but the confident way he spoke and carried himself held a scholarly significance that somehow confirmed he couldn’t be anything else.

Nathan stood to shake the doctor’s hand. “Good morning.”

“Please accompany me to my office and I will explain the reason for the telegram. It’s best if we speak in private.”

Nathan picked up his hat and followed the physician. At the end of the hallway, Dr. Littman unlocked a door decorated with his nameplate, and they entered a wood paneled room that smelled of smoke and freshly brewed coffee. Nathan sat in the seat offered to him.

Dr. Littman claimed the chair on the other side of the desk and lit a cigarette. “Son, there is no easy way for me to say this, so please excuse my bluntness. Your mother was found walking the streets, speaking incoherently and lashing out physically at those around her. Fortunately, a concerned citizen was able to subdue her and bring her here. She had her driver’s license and Screen Actors Guild membership card in her pocket, which is how we identified her and consolidated her two surnames, Whitney and Taggart. I conducted an initial assessment upon her admission and have concluded that she’s had a complete psychotic breakdown and needs continuous observation. Presently, she is under self-harm monitoring.”

Shock lanced through Nathan, carving up his hope that he had been called to the hospital for something not too serious.

“Self-harm?” His lips trembled, but he refused to cry in front of the physician.

Smoke billowed from Dr. Littman’s nose with his deep, tight-lipped exhale. “I’ll cut right to the chase, Mr. Taggart. Your mother was once a very rich and famous actress, but I’m afraid her funds have run out.”

Nathan gaped at him. “That’s impossible. She owns properties in Los Angeles and
—
”

“All of her homes have been foreclosed. And since this is a private hospital and her condition is so unique
—
in the general health care sense, that is
—
insurance does not cover her stay.”

Unique…as in taboo…as in no insurance company would support a mentally ill person since it was not considered a real affliction.

Nathan frowned. “What does this mean?”

Dr. Littman leaned forward, his cigarette grasped between two fingers. “If you cannot come up with the money for her treatment, we will have to release her. And if that happens, well, based on my professional medical opinion, the results will be catastrophic. You must understand that her mental illness has already progressed to the later stages. Without proper psychiatric interventions, she will only get worse.”

“So this came on suddenly?”

The physician took a long drag on his cigarette. “No, there must have been warning signs. Do you remember frequent crying bouts? Emotional withdrawal?”

“No. I…I haven’t seen her a while. Although…” Nathan’s gaze landed on a brass locomotive paperweight on the desk. Four Christmases ago, when his mother came home for the holidays, she was jittery, not sleeping, and seemed despondent.

He placed his head in his hands. How had it come to this?

“So if I don’t come up with the money for her stay, she will be put out on the street.” Nathan raised his head in preparation for the physician’s reply.

Dr. Littman nodded. “I’m sorry.”

Shame brought color to Nathan’s cheeks. “I don’t have any money.”

“That’s what I figured.” Dr. Littman sighed. “You’re just a boy, but by law, we had to try.”

Nathan leapt from his chair, clutching his fedora. “I’m not a boy. I’m a man. I turn eighteen next week. As for the money, I’ll get it. I’ll beg, steal. I don’t care. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just tell me how much I’m looking at here.”

Dr. Littman shook his head. “We’re talking three, perhaps five thousand dollars, depending on her course of treatment. I won’t know the full extent of her needs until she’s been here at least another month under my observation.”

The weight of the physician’s disclosure forced Nathan to sit back down. Three to five thousand dollars? He couldn’t come up with that.

“And that’s per year.” Dr. Littman stubbed out his cigarette, though he’d smoked only half of it. “We kept her these last few days free of charge solely because we needed time to contact her next of kin. I’m sorry about your father, Mr. Taggart.”

Nathan slumped in his chair. Tears obscured his vision, despite his efforts. If the doctor was correct about her condition, he now had his answer as to why her contact with him had become so sporadic and finally turned nonexistent.

“May I see her?”

“She received her last dose of medication two hours ago, so it should be safe.”

Nathan’s eyebrows furrowed. “You’re mistaken, sir. My mother would never hurt me.”

Dr. Littman folded his hands on the desktop. “Mr. Taggart, she is not the woman you once knew.”

Nathan set his jaw. “I need to see her.”

Dr. Littman’s gaze traveled all over Nathan’s face, as if he were assessing maturity, readiness. Psychiatric stability, most likely. It was his specialty, after all. Finally, he stood. “Come with me.”

Nathan exited the office with the physician. In a quiet voice, Dr. Littman conversed with the nurse Nathan had spoken to earlier. Lucille was her name. She would escort him to his mother.

“Stay strong, Mr. Taggart.” Dr. Littman patted Nathan’s back, bidding him a somber farewell. Nathan refused to make it a permanent one.

“How long does she have before you let her go?”

Dr. Littman’s expression softened enough to convey pity. It made Nathan even more determined to help his mother. “If you don’t have the funds to cover at least six months of her stay in advance by tomorrow, she will be discharged before rounds on Monday morning.”

Nathan nodded. “I will see you again soon, Dr. Littman.”

He provided the physician with a firm handshake and followed the nurse.

Lucille unlocked a door at the end of the corridor, which led to another hallway, and then another. All of them were decorated the same—white walls, tiled floors. All of them were silent. The anticipation, the fear, was enough to drive Nathan toward madness.

“It’s so nice that Marion has another visitor. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you.”

Nathan peered at the nurse curiously. “Another visitor?”

Lucille closed and secured the door from which they had just emerged. “Why, yes. An older gentleman has come in to see her every day since she was admitted. He says he’s known her for a long time. He’s here now, so you can say hello.”

Nathan hung his head. He didn’t know enough about his mother’s personal life to recognize the man the nurse described. How pitiful.

A sign that read Authorized Personnel Only guarded the next door Lucille unlocked. On the other side, a security officer manned a small desk.

“You’ll have to leave all of your personal possessions here, Mr. Taggart.” Lucille shared her instruction casually. She’d obviously said the same thing many times previously. “Empty your pockets and please remove your tie. Your shoes do not have laces, so you can leave them be.”

Nathan left those items with the security guard and followed Lucille down the corridor. Muffled screams radiated from the locked rooms they passed. There were no windows in this hallway, just steel doors, concrete floors, and the same white walls. The family ranch came to Nathan’s mind. Perhaps his mother would’ve fared better in the countryside. Perhaps taking her out of here would be the cure she needed.

“This is the gentleman I was talking about.” Lucille’s bright voice pulled Nathan from his thoughts. “Mister…I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t catch your name.”

Nathan locked eyes with a heavy-set man with thinning gray hair and a beady gaze. A shudder tore through him. He glanced at his surroundings. There had to be a draft coming from somewhere. Poor insulation, maybe.

“I’m an old friend of Marion’s,” was the man’s reply.

Although he looked familiar, Nathan couldn’t place him. “Hello, sir.”

“Mr. Taggart, let’s see your mother, shall we?” Lucille gestured to the steel door across from them.

The still yet-to-be-identified man nodded, as though providing Nathan permission. “I’ll wait here. After you’ve concluded your visit, we’ll speak further.”

The nurse disengaged the lock and opened the door. “Marion, you have another visitor!”

Grasping his fedora, Nathan entered the room after Lucille. The door slammed shut behind them, trapping them in a concrete, windowless space with only one buzzing, flickering light bulb to guide them.