Psychiatric Nurse

by Dan Ross

  "That's not true."

  "Well, we don't mean anything to each other!"

  Ken sighed. "I've been thinking about that. You've shown more than an average interest in Frank from your first meeting with him."

  "I find his case important. He shouldn't be here."

  "And you are involved in his welfare," Ken said. "Maybe you care more for him than you realize."

  He was so serious about it that she began to question herself. She felt herself blushing and filled with confusion. Of course she found the young millionaire attractive and was concerned for him. But she had never imagined that there was any romantic interest on her part. Had she been wrong?

  With a sigh, she said, "I like Frank, and that's strictly as far as it goes."

  Ken was studying her with particular intent. "I hope that's true," he said quietly. "Feeling about you as I do." And he took her in his arms for a kiss. He was still embracing her when she heard the door handle turn, and she frantically pushed him away before whoever it was came in and discovered them in that ardent pose.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Fortunately, they parted before the door opened and admitted Dr. Werner into the office with an expression of grim interest on his face. Jean felt that both she and Ken looked tense and guilty, but she hoped that Dr. Werner wouldn't guess the reason why.

  Dr. Werner coughed tactfully. "It was not my intention to intrude," he said. "I knocked."

  Jean was sure about this, but Ken was completely calm and assured as he said, "You weren't intruding, Doctor."

  The head of the hospital surveyed them with veiled sarcasm. "If you have something to finish discussing, I could return later."

  "Miss Shannon was just leaving," Ken was quick to say. And he turned to Jean. "Thank you for giving me the information on those charts, Miss Shannon."

  She at once picked up his cue. "Any time, Doctor Hastings," she said quietly. She gave Dr. Werner a pleasant nod and went out of Ken's office.

  Remaining outside the closed door for a moment, she could hear the men's voices as they began to talk. But she could not hear what they were saying. She was still standing there when Nurse Bertha Fraser came down the corridor and gave her a scathing look but said nothing. Jean was sure that there was still a lot of jealousy on Bertha's part.

  Hoping that their moment together wouldn't get Ken in trouble, Jean turned and followed Bertha down the corridor. She wasn't aware of how much the head doctor had seen or suspected, but she knew he would use anything against them that he could when he felt the time was right.

  She went directly to the reading room to find the tiny Peggy Chase sitting in an easy chair reading a popular ladies' magazine, and the long-haired Tom Crater immersed in a book as he sat a distance away from Peggy.

  The deceptively pleasant young man with a history of paranoia looked up at Jean and smiled. "Have you decided to do some serious reading, Miss Shannon?"

  She smiled in return, though she was not ever at ease in the young man's presence. He simply was so normal outwardly that she feared he was seething with inner emotions, the only hint of which showed in his strange, bright eyes. It bothered her that these two patients should be in the reading room with no orderlies in sight.

  "Have you any books to recommend?" she asked.

  "I don't think you'd like my selections," he said. "I'm only interested in murder mysteries. I'm reading one now about a strangler. I know you wouldn't enjoy it." It was too deliberate. He was taunting her about her near escape from Steve Abrams, and doing it in such a subtle way that she couldn't make a complaint about it.

  Peggy Chase had put down her magazine and now came to Jean's defense, saying, "Miss Shannon has to put up with enough stranglers around here not to want to read about one."

  Tom Crater smiled thinly. "Sorry. I forgot about that, Miss Shannon."

  Jean was determined to make the best of a difficult moment. "It's all right, Tom."

  His eyes fixed on hers hypnotically. "I just happen to like to read about murders," he said.

  She didn't flinch from his glance. "I like mystery stories myself. I think they make wonderful reading. It's always fun to try to solve the riddle—find out who the murderer was."

  The pleasant look vanished from Tom Crater's thin face. He said, "It's different in real life. No one wants to know who the murderer is. Not even when you tell them." There was a tense moment of silence in the room as he glared at Jean. She remained motionless, aware that any action or word might trigger him into a violent mood. Again she wondered despairingly where the orderly on duty might be. From the corner of her eye she saw that a pale Peggy Chase was also taking in the situation with horror.

  Tom Crater broke the silence by shutting his book with a snapping sound. Then he got up and gave Jean another of his cold smiles. "But then, real life is never the way it is in books, is it?"

  With a sigh, she said, "Only rarely, I'm afraid."

  "I know," he said. And he put the book down and walked out of the room with a set look on his face.

  When he had gone a safe distance down the corridor, Peggy jumped up from her easy chair and gasped, "That was some moment! I thought he was going out of his skull."

  Jean managed a weak smile. "I didn't like the way he acted, either."

  "You know he's crazy on the subject of being a murderer," Peggy went on. "I could tell he was working himself up to a rage."

  "And where is the orderly?"

  Peggy looked disgusted. "Morton was here. But Dr. Werner called him to his office. He probably took a side trip to the kitchen for a snack. He's always eating—the slob!"

  "So that's it," Jean said. And she supposed that Dr. Werner had gone to Ken's office to discuss the matter of the orderly with him. "I think you should go to your own room, Peggy. I'd rather you didn't stay here alone."

  "I'll take the magazine with me," Peggy said. She glanced around the reading-room shelves. "Why do they have murder mysteries here for that nut to read, anyway?"

  Jean gave her a reproving glance. "If we took away the reading privileges of that nut, as you call him, we'd have to censor what you read as well. Having mystery books around should help release Tom Crater's tensions, rather than enhance them. I don't think we should blame the books, but place it where it should be, on Tom's condition."

  "I'm sorry," the dark-haired girl said contritely. "He is very ill, isn't he?"

  "You must be aware of that."

  Peggy have her an admiring look. "I hear you stopped Morton from hurting poor old Mr. Maxwell today."

  "I didn't do much."

  "More than anyone else around here would have done," the girl assured her. "Frank and I were talking about it. And we both agree you're a wonderful person."

  Jean gave Peggy a look of amused irony. "Don't build yourself any false images."

  "We're not wrong about you," Peggy said earnestly. "You've changed things here. Even Dr. Hastings is different. Of course, Dr. Werner is the same, but no one could expect miracles there."

  Jean smiled at the petite girl. "You're as likely to be harsh as complimentary."

  "I try to see things truthfully," Peggy said. "And I'm beginning to realize I shouldn't have come here."

  "I'm glad," Jean said. "I couldn't agree more."

  "It won't be so easy to convince my father," Peggy confided. "But I've written to him."

  "That's a start."

  "I wouldn't have faced it if it hadn't been for Dr. Hastings."

  "I've worried about your being here from the first," Jean told her.

  Peggy's face suddenly became forlorn. "Of course, there's another worry."

  "Yes?"

  "Frank."

  "I know."

  Peggy looked at her with pleading eyes. "You don't think there's really anything wrong with his mind, do you? I know he's eccentric in his ideas and ways. But he's not really sick like Tom Crater."

  "He's not like Tom Crater," Jean assured her solemnly.

  "He has no more right to be here
than I have," the petite girl went on.

  "I'd say that is true."

  "I can't go and leave him," Peggy worried.

  "I agree that it would be better if you didn't."

  "But suppose my father arranges for me to get out of here and Frank is still committed?"

  Jean said, "You must encourage Frank to force his mother and the executor of his estate to give him a fair sanity hearing and a chance for a discharge. I'm sure he'd pass it."

  "So am I. He only acted crazy because he was disgusted and anxious to be put somewhere like this. He really doesn't mind now. He hates the world."

  Jean looked at her gravely. "Then would he want you facing it alone?"

  "I don't think so," Peggy faltered. "I hope not. I'm not sure."

  "If he cares for you deeply, he'll want to protect you."

  "He tries to do that in here," Peggy said. "And I think he'd want to go on doing it if we were outside."

  "Then it's only a matter of your both getting your freedom."

  "Frank doesn't seem to want to make the effort, though."

  "You'll have to tell him you're going anyway."

  "That's what Dr. Hastings says I should do."

  "I'd say he's right."

  Peggy still stood there, seemingly unable to make up her mind. In a troubled tone, she explained to Jean, "It will mean worrying Frank. I'll have to threaten to leave him here and go into the world on my own. It will upset him."

  "He has to be roused out of his apathy," Jean said firmly.

  "I don't like being the one to torment him."

  "Yet that small torment could save him," Jean told her earnestly. "He needs to care and worry about someone badly enough to be willing to endure a world he doesn't like. He came here because of his frustrations and his inability to change life around him. Now he's simply given up. He's living here protected, singing his songs and allowing the world to slip away from him."

  "That's so."

  "But if it becomes important to him to protect you, if he can focus his need to change things on the task of making your life safe in the outside world, he'll forget his frustrations. Once his world centers on you, he'll be saved from himself. And you're the only one who can help him do it."

  "I'm afraid," Peggy said in despair.

  "Of what?"

  "That he doesn't love me enough," the girl confessed. "That in the end he'll give up and not fight to get his freedom. He'll be content to stay here and let me go. He'll even forget me. And I can't bear to think that. I'm almost willing to stay here myself to prevent it. At least we're happy in a sort of way now. It could mean losing even that tiny bit of happiness."

  Jean was touched by her plight. "In the end, everything will be ruined if you stay here. There's always the frightening chance that one of you will break down from being institutionalized and really lose your mind."

  Peggy showed alarm. "You don't really think that could happen?"

  "I've encountered people in state hospitals who shouldn't have been there in the first place, but who after years of being a patient have lost the desire and ability to cope with the outside world."

  "You make it sound urgent." The dark girl shuddered.

  "It is," Jean said quietly.

  Peggy looked at her with sad eyes. "I'll keep talking to Frank," she promised. "I'll try."

  Jean walked back to Peggy's cottage with her. And then she headed for the converted country mansion now dubbed Hazen Cottage. It was beginning to snow as she hurried across the path and let herself into the comforting warmth of the building. Once in her own room, she began writing a letter to a friend with whom she had worked at Danvers.

  She had only written a page or so when there was a knock on her door. She opened it to discover Muriel Evans standing there. The friendly nurse looked rather embarrassed.

  "Are you busy?" Muriel asked.

  "Not really," Jean said. "I'm writing a letter, but there's no hurry about it. Come in."

  Muriel took a chair by the writing desk, and Jean sat down in the plain chair again.

  "I don't want you to think that I'm a talebearer," Muriel began, "but I think you ought to know that Bertha Fraser is doing a lot of talking about you behind your back."

  "That doesn't surprise me."

  "She wanted the job you have, and now she's saying that you're not doing it well."

  Jean shrugged. "I don't mind that."

  "You needn't," Muriel said earnestly. "You're doing better than Miss Hillman. But that's not all Bertha is saying."

  "Oh?"

  The other nurse hesitated. "She's gossiping about you and Ken Hastings. You know, she's always regarded Ken as her private property. They went around a bit before you came here."

  "I haven't tried to interfere with any of Ken's friendships," Jean assured the other girl. "I can't imagine why she should assume that I have."

  "Bertha is a very jealous type. She came upstairs a little while ago and said you were eavesdropping on Dr. Hastings and Dr. Werner. She caught you with your ear to the door of Ken's office."

  Jean laughed in disbelief. "But that's nonsense. She did pass by when I was standing out there, but I certainly didn't have my ear to any door."

  "She tells what she thinks rather than what she actually sees," was Muriel's opinion. "I'd watch myself when she's around. Anything she sees or hears, she'll make the most of, however innocent."

  "I gathered that from our first meeting." Jean sighed.

  "Of course, she's livid because Ken Hastings hasn't been dating her lately."

  "I don't think he's had much time to date anyone," Jean pointed out. "He's had plenty to do here. Things haven't been running all that smoothly."

  "I know," Muriel said with a nod. "And I have the feeling that more trouble is brewing. A lot of the patients hate Morton, and his abusing Herman Maxwell increased the tension."

  "Dr. Werner should get rid of Morton," Jean said. "I think he's a hazard."

  "A lot of us feel the same way, but I doubt if Dr. Werner will do anything about it," Muriel said, rising. "I hope I haven't worried you, but I wanted to warn you about Bertha."

  "I appreciate that," Jean told her as she saw her to the door. "And I'll remember what you said."

  She thought about it after the other nurse had gone. And she decided that it wasn't anything she should really concern herself about. Bertha's spiteful gossip was of such a petty nature that it would in all probability defeat itself in the long run. There were more serious problems to deal with at Tranquility Place.

  Before Jean went to bed, she glanced out the window and saw that the snow was coming down heavily. It was one of those quiet storms with no wind, but the white stuff was quickly piling up. She supposed that there would have to be a lot of plowing of the grounds and the roadway in the morning. It was the first big storm since she had arrived at the private hospital in Maine.

  That night she slept well. Toward morning, though, she thought she heard a noise in the corridor outside her room. It woke her, and she lay there listening for a few moments. It sounded like the shuffling of footsteps, but it was not repeated. She finally decided that it had been her imagination, and went to sleep again.

  The sun was shining in her window when she woke up later. The storm was over, but not before it had deposited almost a foot of snow on the ground. The trees and buildings wore a trim of the white sparkling stuff and everything had taken on a new beauty.

  After Jean had slipped on her dressing gown, she went to the door on her way to the bathroom to wash up. As she opened the door, she was startled to discover a medium-sized vase painted in an attractive block pattern of assorted colors on her doorstep.

  Picking it up, she studied the modernistic vase with a frown. It looked very much like the work of the former lawyer, Herman Maxwell. But surely he couldn't have come there during the night to leave it, as he, along with the other patients, was kept under strict security. She placed the vase on her writing table and went on down the corridor to the bathroom.
The puzzle of how the vase had gotten there continued to bother her even when she went across to the main building to have breakfast and report for duty.

  Plows were already at work by this time. Their clatter filled the morning air and replaced the quiet of the night with a bedlam of noise. A narrow path had already been shoveled between the old mansion and the entrance to the main building. Jean held her cloak tightly around her and clutched the vase in the other hand as she hurried toward the door.

  When she stepped inside, the first persons she saw were Dr. Firth Breton and Ken. The two seemed to be upset. Ken, in his white hospital jacket, turned to her at once. When he saw the vase, a peculiar expression crossed his handsome face.

  "Where did you get that?" he wanted to know.

  "Someone left it outside my door last night," she said.

  Dr. Firth Breton showed annoyance on his florid face. He stepped up to her and almost roughly snatched the vase from her hands. "It's one of Maxwell's, all right," he told Ken. "I knew something like this was bound to happen."

  She stared at them. "What's wrong?"

  Ken sighed. "Herman Maxwell somehow got out of here last night."

  "And he must have gone straight to your door first," Dr. Breton said accusingly. "Didn't you hear anything?"

  "I did wake up in the night," she admitted. "I was sure I'd heard someone in the hall. But there was only silence as I listened, so I decided I must have had a bad dream."

  The stout doctor scowled. "If you'd gone to the door and found this, you might have alerted us and we'd have gotten Maxwell before he escaped from the grounds."

  "How could she have guessed anything like this was wrong?" Ken Hastings asked his colleague with a touch of anger.

  Dr. Breton continued to look sullen. "There's been too much coddling of patients—too much interference with the orderlies in their disciplinary measures."

  Jean knew that he was deliberately inferring that she share the blame for coming between Morton and Herman Maxwell and that she had interfered with the orderly. But she knew that she had been right.

  Calmly she told the corpulent Breton, "I couldn't stand by and watch that kind of brutality without interfering. Morton abused that poor man. And that's undoubtedly the reason he decided to escape from here."