Experimentation with meth had been her first step past alcohol. Her teeth and skin bear that tale. Apparently, my financial support during her college years had been too generous. She sought higher-grade drugs. Cocaine, then heroin.

I no longer give my sister money. I refuse to waste time thinking about what she did to earn the funds for this latest spiral.

She’s suffering. A month ago, she attempted suicide. I believe there is more at play than a drug addiction. But I don’t want to feed my theory into a psychiatrist’s head. I want the diagnosis to be true and accurate.

“Mr. Wolfgang.”

Dr. Ortega tucks both hands into her pockets. Her purple silk blouse folds neatly into brown, pleated slacks. Her hair is up in a bun. She’s about five foot four, and I estimate she is in her fifties. She’s experienced and well regarded by the medical community.

“Thank you for meeting with me. How is she doing?”

“You mean, since you visited a few days ago?” Red lipstick stains her front tooth.

“Yes.”

“You can call and check on her if you like.” I nod. We’re in a public lobby. Due to privacy laws, she won’t share much where we can be overheard. I want answers. I want solutions. But she texted me. “When you visit with your sister, how does it go?”

She looks at me in a way that says she knows exactly how it goes. And for the first time, I wonder if my sister and I are observed during visitation periods. At first, she couldn’t have visitors. She earned the privilege, but she doesn’t want me to visit. She’s twelve years younger, and I barely know her. But she’s my blood relative, and our mother may have turned her back on Indie, but I don’t work that way.

“Are your visits…emotional?”

“No.” Outside, a man in scrubs approaches. His badge swings from his neck. “She doesn’t say much.”

“She may not be ready yet.” Dr. Ortega attempts kindness. “There are no family illnesses documented on her health history. Is that accurate?”

“Nothing diagnosed on our mother’s side.” Suspected, but not diagnosed. I mentioned this during intake. “I don’t know anything about her father’s side. We have different fathers.”

“That’s all I wanted to ask you.” She looks apologetic. “I didn’t mean for you to come straight out here. I meant for us to speak on the phone. I’m sorry if I alarmed you.”

The doors open, and the orderly speaks to Dr. Ortega. She offers a professional smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and lets me know she needs to go, but if I would like to schedule an appointment with her, I am welcome to do so.

I hate this. I hate everything about this situation. I hate how my sister stares at me with her sad brown eyes. But most of all, I hate this helpless sensation. There is no action plan to follow. This facility, right here, is all I can do. And rehab failed twice before.