by Jane Toombs
Sarah didn't think he knew her. In the five days they'd been holed up in this motel, he hadn't asked her name nor seemed to recognize her. She hadn't told him anything other than he was sick and she was taking care of him.
Her daughter, Linda, had been her delivery girl, disapproving but helping her despite that, with food and new clothes for Frank, plus bringing her own suitcase from their house. Luckily Kevin was a doctor and, though he'd protested, he'd come through with the necessary prescriptions to get Frank through the worst of the withdrawal symptoms.
Frank had finally stopped the constant shivering, but the trauma of withdrawal had left him too exhausted to get out of bed, forcing her back into the less salubrious aspects of nursing. She shoved the question of why she was doing this into a locked compartment in the recesses of her mind.
"Because I have to," had been her only answer to Linda and Kevin. She wasn't ready to probe into why.
With constant encouragement, Frank downed the soup and she withdrew her hand from under his head. Her first move after getting him into this motel room had been to strip him, force him under the shower and wash him as best she could, getting herself soaked in the process. A good thing she'd had the presence of mind to do that right away, because he'd grown progressively less cooperative as well as weaker.
With him helpless and in bed, she no longer saw him as the big man he'd once been. In fact, he'd lost so much weight he was about as skinny as a man of his height and breadth could be. Her mind had gradually relegated him to the status of patient. Someone who needed to be nursed.
Because of the original shower and the daily bed baths she gave him, at least he didn't stink any more, though the room did smell stale. She'd been fortunate that the motel was old enough to have kitchenettes and that a room with one had been available. Preparing the food Linda brought her was no problem.
"Tell me," Frank said, surprising her. He rarely volunteered words.
"Tell you what?"
"More."
"More about what?"
"Calafia."
She stared at him, momentarily speechless, finally saying, "So you've been listening to me."
"Listening. Tell me. More."
When he'd been seized with the worst throes of withdrawal, she'd discovered that, though the TV agitated him, the sound of her voice seemed to quiet him. When she ran out of poems she'd memorized, she found herself wandering back in her mind to the past they'd shared. Was finding Frank a sign she needed to dredge up that long-buried time and examine it for her own peace of mind? She decided to give it a try and began talking about what had happened during those fateful eight weeks, reliving them for herself while hoping the sound of her voice would soothe him.
Some things she talked about were her own personal experiences, others were what she'd heard during that period. Though she'd had no clue he'd been processing what she said, she realized now he had been. She didn't have a clue how much he'd taken in or how he felt about it. Since she'd started, though, she intended to finish. And, evidently, he wanted her to go on.
Propping herself as comfortably as she could on the second bed, Sarah said, "I'll tell you about Calafia if you'll promise to drink more soup after I finish."
"Promise. I remember—"
She waited, but he didn't go on. "What do you remember?" she prodded.
"Splinters. Sharp, like broken glass."
Deciding this lucidity might mean he hadn't completely fried his brain, she smiled for the first time since she'd seen him at HortonPlaza. Apparently the fragments of memory he did recall hurt. Like broken glass. She wasn't surprised.
Hers hurt, too, and her memory was far clearer than his could possibly be.
Chapter Seven
The patient conference was held in the visitor's lounge shared by both Twelve and Thirteen West, situated in an anteroom outside both wards. The plastic seats had been augmented with straight-backed chairs from the dining room and grouped into an almost circle. Sally clutched her papers, eyeing the others.
Alma grinned at her. "You'll do fine," she said in a low tone. "You're such a worry-wart. Think of the Duchess instead of yourself. Think of presenting her as you see her."
Sally nodded. She'd try.
Alma raised her voice. "We have two patients to discuss today, so we'd best move right along. Ms Goodrow will present Margaret Flowers first, then I'll do Laura Jean McRead."
"We all know Margaret Flowers as the Duchess," Sally began in a high, nervous voice. "I found she rather likes her nickname and, in fact, asked me to use it.
"She was committed to Calafia a little over five years ago with a diagnosis of alcoholism with hallucinations and chronic brain syndrome. There is also a history of angina. The commitment was involuntary by Miss—she prefers not to use Ms—Flowers' conservator who is her nephew. Originally placed on Eleven East, she was transferred to Twelve West due to extreme agitation, later becoming a part of the Thirteen West community.
"The Duchess receives 25 milligrams of Mellaril three times a day by mouth and may be given 50 to 75 milligrams of Thorazine every four hours by injection if necessary for agitation. She has not needed the Thorazine in four years. Her only other medication is 25 milligrams of aldomet daily if her blood pressure is above 180 systolic. This is necessary approximately twice a month."
Sally looked up from her notes. "I told Miss Flowers she was to be discussed today and we'd be seeing her in here. I asked how she felt about this and she said, "I never resist a command performance."
Sally glanced at Alma, who nodded to David. He left the room and a few minutes later wheeled in Margaret Flowers.
The old woman wore a shapeless navy blue dress, white cotton anklets and cracked black oxfords. Her face was garish with blue eye-shadow, rouge and bright lipstick. Her gray hair had been coaxed into curls around her shoulders.
"Good afternoon," she said to the assembled staff, looking at each of them in turn.
"We'd like to ask you a few questions, Miss Flowers," Barry Jacobs said.
"You may, of course. Also feel quite, quite free to address me as the Duchess. I've grown rather found of the distinction it implies." She spoke in a sharp, somewhat imperious tone, not at all in keeping with the painted face.
"Can you tell me where you are at present?" Dr. Jacobs asked.
"Certainly. On Ward Thirteen—a most intriguing concept—at Calafia State Hospital where my treacherous nephew incarcerated me five years, three months and some days ago. My mind is not as sharp as it used to be and I sometimes lose track of the exact number of days—you'll have to excuse me."
The Duchess went on to tell them the correct date, rattled off the name of the president and the governor of the state, gave her right age and the names of various staff members.
"Why do you think your nephew placed you here?" Barry asked.
"Because I met Richard, of course. Richard and I planned to marry and my nephew, a most unscrupulous man, became alarmed about the possible loss of my money. While it is true I may have overindulged in alcohol, I never so forgot myself as to lose touch with reality.
"My nephew gave me something, some drug, I know he did. LSD, perhaps. Naturally I seemed quite mad afterwards—I've never blamed the doctors who judged me. Actually, I don't object to staying here until Richard finds me. After all, I'm quite safe, shut away from my nephew. If I were somewhere else he might decide to do away with me altogether. I imagine he's terribly disappointed that I've survived and he can't touch my money except to pay my way here."
"And, er—Richard?"
"He was in South America on business when my nephew planned this. Oh, he's a sly fox, my nephew. Takes after his mother, my brother was as honest as the day is long. I suppose my wicked nephew made up some story for Richard, he's clever with words. But I don't despair—my Richard is a tenacious man and he'll rescue me in time. I waited seventy years to find him and so I know very well how to be patient."
"You don't mind being here?"
"One c
ould wish for more congenial neighbors, but on the whole I haven't minded too much. Especially since the voices went away. I'm sure you know I heard voices at first and saw things that had no objective reality."
"Thank you, Miss Flowers," Barry said.
"You're quite welcome." She allowed David to wheel her from the room.
Barry glanced around the circle. "Any comments?"
"I—I believe her," Sally said. "At least for the most part."
"Have you met her nephew?" Alma asked Barry. "Is there any possibility—?"
Barry turned up his hands. "There's always a possibility. We've all listened to plausible stories from patients, though, accounts they believed in passionately but had no basis in reality. Did everyone notice the incongruity of the elaborate make-up and girlish hair-do? Surely Miss Flowers didn't capture her Richard at seventy by painting herself into a caricature of youth. If Richard does exist, what kind of person do you suppose he is—or was?"
"That's her bag," David said, having returned. "She doesn't feel trapped in here if she thinks this Richard will bail her out sometime. It keeps her going."
"So, you don't think it matters whether he exists or not?"
David shrugged.
"Shouldn't we try to find out if her nephew could have done what she said—drugged her?" Sally asked.
"How?" Barry asked.
"I guess you couldn't ask him." Sally laughed nervously. "Either way he'd deny it. But couldn't she be released? It doesn't seem like she belongs here."
"Released to the nephew who's her conservator?" Barry asked. "Believing he plans to murder her?"
Sally shook her head. "Oh, no, she wouldn't like that."
"There are plenty of nursing homes," Janet Young pointed out. "She isn't confused except in the one fixated area. It seems to me she's an idea candidate for a nursing home."
"I agree with that," Barry said. "She certainly should be returned to the larger community. Maintained on her Mellaril dosage, there won't be agitation."
"I'll alert social service," Alma said.
"Why hasn't anyone noticed her improvement before now?" Connie Dominguez asked. "How long has she been so oriented and alert?"
"It apparently wasn't picked up until she was transferred to Thirteen West," Sally said, checking her notes. "I couldn't find any mention of it earlier. The nursing notes use the word 'seclusive' a lot and the doctor's progress notes—" she paused to glance briefly at Barry, "— list her condition as 'unchanged' or 'stable.'
Barry smiled ruefully. "I'll have to do something about that diagnosis. She's far too sharp to be a chronic brain syndrome. She has only the one delusion and is, as Mrs. Dominguez pointed out, remarkably well oriented."
"I don't understand why she was kept on Twelve West so long," Connie said. "It's the disturbed chronics ward. She's not like that."
"Her old chart mentioned she was lethargic and listless," Sally put in. "Could coming here have made such a difference?"
"I'd like to think it might be due to us," Alma said. "Any more comments before we review Laura Jean?" No one spoke, so she went on. "Okay, then. Before I start, though, I'd like to thank Connie and Lew for coming in on their days off for the conference." She smiled at them.
"Laura Jean McRead is seventeen years old and has been in and out of mental hospitals for the past four years. This is her first admission to Calafia. Her past history includes use of hallucinatory drugs and involvement with a cult whose members believed they were practicing witchcraft.
"She has a diagnosis of schizophrenia with hallucinations and delusions. In acting out one of these delusions, she insists on removing all her clothes, which has brought her into conflict with us. Ms Goodrow will recall seeing Laura Jean bite me on the Admission Ward while I was trying to dress her. She hasn't been aggressive unless we try to interfere with her stripping.
"Her medications include Thorazine 50 milligrams four times a day by mouth or injection, plus an additional 100 milligrams intramuscularly once daily if necessary for severe agitation.
"Laura Jean slips in and out of reality, sometimes fully aware of where she is and oriented to time. When delusional, she appears to be listening to voices but never speaks of this or admits it when asked. Admission here was involuntary by court order. Her only relative appears to be a stepfather who disclaims all responsibility."
"My sessions with Laura Jean haven't been productive," Barry said next. "She acts alternatively flirtatious and hostile and reveals nothing but resentment at being forced to stay here."
"I thought—well, I think she likes me a little," Sally said, "even though she claims none of us are honest except Susie Q. I've gotten her to let me brush her hair every day now but she won't do it for herself."
"I know what you mean, Doctor," Lew Alinosky said. "About Laura Jean being one thing and then the other. She's done that with me. It's like there's two of her."
"She doesn't like me at all," Janet said. "Pretends I'm not there."
"Our biggest problem on this mixed ward," Alma put in, "has been keeping clothes on her. She's young, with an attractive body. Not all our male patients are oblivious. But Laura Jean hasn't been stripping for the past few days. In fact, she doesn't even want to undress to get into her pajamas."
"I've asked her why she undresses," Barry said. "Her answer was, 'Why not?' I suspect when she's in touch with reality she really doesn't know why she strips. She's on as much Thorazine I as care to give her. Perhaps Ms Reynolds might try assigning Ms Goodrow to work with Laura Jean on a one-to-one basis since the girl seems to relate best to her own age group."
I'm no teenager, I'll be twenty next month, Sally thought indignantly. But she nodded because she felt Laura Jean might benefit from the doctor's suggestion.
* * *
Watching Sally, Frank Kent told himself she had to be older than seventeen, even though she looked younger than the McRead girl. With her slight figure, the barest suggestion of breasts, she might be pre-pubital, almost boyish. But her delicate prettiness was entirely feminine.
He saw Sally had caught his gaze and she looked away quickly, reddening.
She seems to be actually afraid of me, Frank thought. I wonder why? Yet she shared the death of her friend with me. I'd like to know her better even though it's probably not a good idea. Been a long time since any woman has attracted me, though.
* * *
Still embarrassed about her last meeting with Frank, Sally was careful not to look in his direction again. Whatever had possessed her to mention Em, and to Frank Kent of all people? It wasn't safe to even think about Em. Not yet. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to concentrate on what the others were saying.
"I'm hoping when I have all of Laura Jean's records available, we'll know a little more about her," Barry said. "So far none of the hospitals where she was a patient has sent us anything."
"I haven't spoken much to her," Connie said. "Maybe she will accept me, since I'm not a man and I'm smaller than she is."
"Non-threatening," Barry said.
Connie smiled. "Not even my children fear me." Remembering that Connie was the only one who'd spoken up to Dr. Fredericks that day they'd been in his office, Sally realized that Connie, small as she was, seemed afraid of nothing. Yet she, more than a head taller than the tech, was afraid of everything.
"David, please bring Laura Jean in," Alma said.
Laura Jean slumped on the settee next to Sally, her blond hair shielding her face.
"May we ask you some questions?" Barry began. When she didn't answer, he went on. "Do you know where you are?"
"In this damn hospital. I forget the name," she said. "I hate it here. I hate you all and I hate the food and the crazies and what happens at night."
"What happens at night?" Barry echoed.
"I don't want to talk about it." Laura Jean reached for a strand of hair and twisted it around her finger. She raised her head, but looked only at Sally. "I told you," she said. "You remember."
"About y
our nightmares? Yes, you told me," Sally agreed. "Why don't you tell the doctor, too?"
"Nightmares?" Laura Jean seemed to consider the word. "Are they? I don't know. But it's always dark with no light at all so I can't see who it is, the man." She twisted her hair, staring at Sally.
"There's a light in your room all night," Alma said. "Remember how we dim the overhead?"
"Yeah, but it's always dark and there's this man. I can tell he's male by his voice when he says the bad things and besides he fucks me so it has to be a man. He makes me do it, I don't want to. It hurts." Her voice rose. "I hate fucking!"
Sally put a hand on her arm, but Laura Jean shook it off and went on talking. "He doesn't care what I want. He pulls me onto the floor and he spreads my legs open and does it. He says all the bad words—cunt, cock, like that. He laughs before he starts. I hate him."
"Does it happen every night?" Barry asked.
"Yes. No." Laura Jean frowned. "Seems like every night. It didn't use to happen before. When I wasn't in this shithole."
No one said anything for a moment. Laura Jean continued to look at Sally, who suddenly reached out and grasped her hand, rising and drawing the girl up with her.
"Let's go back to your room, Laura Jean," she said. "We're all through here."
"She was going to strip," Alma said. "Somehow Sally caught her attention before she started. It's the first time in two days she's acted like she intended to strip." She glanced at her watch. "We've used up our time."
"Is there a possibility someone is actually molesting Laura Jean?" Barry asked.
"Not on my shift," Alma said. "I can't speak for nights. I've asked the day charge to examine her in the morning and she has, twice. There was no sign of semen. Some perineal excoriation and redness but Laura Jean does masturbate."
"Quite likely this fixation on sex is part of her psychosis," Barry said. "Still, let's get a vaginal swab and send it to the lab the morning after Laura Jean reports another nightmare."
Sally came back in time to hear this last. "You can't believe it really happens to her!" she exclaimed. "In a hospital?"