by Jane Toombs
Crawford fumbled the phone back into the cradle and pushed the button on his watch to illuminate the time. Four-thirty. He groaned and slipped down in the bed, pulling the covers up.
Status epilepticus—continuous convulsions. He tried to recall the toxic amount of Luminal per body weight but couldn't focus his mind. Sleep tugged at him with heavy fingers, dragging him under.
* * *
Sal Luera, RN, the night supervisor, turned to Joe Thompson. "So do the best you can," he said. "Dr. Greensmith isn't about to get out of his warm bed. The suction order is okayed, also the Thorazine you had to give to the other patient—what's his name? Benning?"
He hesitated a fraction of a moment. "Look, Joe, you've got to remember to check for an order before you zap someone—or at least call and ask me first. You can get stranded on shit creek real easy."
"Yeah, I know, but what the hell you expect me to do with the guy fighting wild, two of us holding him?"
"I realize that. Just reminding you."
"Jay-Jay doesn't look good," Joe said.
"The epileptic? No. I told Greenie we thought he'd aspirated blood from his bitten tongue. Even then I had to ask for the suction order. He wants you to repeat the Luminal. Stat."
"But I just gave Jay-Jay 325 milligrams."
"So repeat it, he's still in status and you got a doctor's order. Don't worry—Greenie must know the toxic dosage."
Zenda, who'd been hovering around the nurses' station, spoke up. "Joe, uh, Mr. Thompson, you better come down to Laura Jean's room. The night light was out in there and when I tried to turn on the bright, it was out, too. I used the flashlight and she was on the floor and the Preacher—you know, Mr. Jones—was in her room. I got him back to bed but Laura Jean..." Her voice trailed off. "You better come." She glanced at the night supervisor. "You, too, Mr. Luera." Spotlighted in the circles of two flashlights, Laura Jean lay sprawled on the floor, naked from the waist down, her legs apart, eyes staring at nothing.
"I thought she was dead at first," Zenda said, "but there's a pulse."
Joe and Sal Luera knelt beside the girl.
"Laura Jean?" Joe said. He repeated her name loudly, shaking her shoulder.
She didn't respond in any way.
Finally, the two men lifted her onto the bed and covered her up.
"There was a male patient in here?" Sal asked.
"Simpson Jones," Zenda said. "Just wandering around like. He wasn't touching her or nothing. He seemed pretty groggy—could hardly stay on his feet when I walked him back to his room."
Sal Luera took Joe's flashlight and scanned the room. "What's that step stool doing in here?" he asked, walking over and setting it upright. He flashed the light at the ceiling. "That cover's crooked. Someone changing a bulb?"
"Not that I know of," Joe said.
Sal positioned the stool, climbed up and removed the cover. He twisted the bulbs and the room flooded with light. Replacing the cover, he climbed down.
"Both bulbs were loose. What gives here?"
"I don't—" Joe broke off and turned to Zenda. "Did you find W.W.?" he asked.
"He was in the men's john. Wouldn't go back to his room, but I persuaded him into the day room."
"What's this guy have to do with the loose light bulbs?" Sal asked.
"Nothing," Joe said. "Not W.W. He's the ward queen and wouldn't dream of soiling his hands with any menial task. I just happened to remember he wasn't in his bed."
"How about this Simpson?"
"He was fourpointed, last I knew and pretty well zonked. Don't know how he could've got loose."
Sal stared at the step stool. "This should be kept locked up."
"It is," Joe said.
Bending over Laura Jean, Sal gave her a cursory exam. "Don't believe she fell out of bed or off the stool—no visible injury. Seems to be catatonic, besides. That usual?"
Zenda shook her head and Joe said, "Not to my knowledge."
Sal read her name off the door sticker. "Laura Jean McRead. McRead—isn't that the patient days did vaginal swabs on?"
"She's been having nightmares about sex."
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
Joe swallowed. "She dreams about a man fucking her at night."
Sal raised his eyebrows. "I remember. Does some man?"
"Shit no!" Joe exclaimed. "What do I want with a flaked out piece. Besides, the swabs were negative for sperm."
"How about your male tech?"
Zenda's eyes shifted from one man to the other, her mouth tightly closed.
"Willie?" Joe said. "Naw."
Sal focused on Zenda. "Do you know anything about this?"
She shook her head slowly from side to side.
"A classic case of not-me here, that right?" Sal asked. "Are you asking me to believe that this catatonic girl removed the step stool from a locked closet, climbed up to loosen both light bulbs, then stripped off her pants and laid on the floor? I think we'd better ask Willie."
"He's in with Jay-Jay yet," Joe said. "I'd better get the Luminal."
"You take over for Willie," Sal told Zenda. "Tell him to see me at the nurses' station."
Confronted by Sal, Willie launched into a heated protest. "Hey, man, what you think I am? You think I can't get no better cunt than a fucked-up loonie?"
"Did you take the stool in there to loosen those bulbs so the room would be dark?" Sal asked
"No way. Like I told Joe, I crapped out in the lounge. I know it's against the rules and all, but..." He shrugged. "No way for me to tell the Preacher was gonna break loose from the fourpoint and do all that stuff. Beats me where the stool came from. Evenings must have left it out somewhere—I never saw it."
"You calling the doctor about Laura Jean?" Joe asked coming into the station.
Sal shook his head. "Not much use with Greenie on. But I'll be writing up an incident report." He glanced from Joe to Willie. "Don't forget a copy of every one of those goes to Dr. Fredericks and I've heard tell he does read each and every one of them. How's the epileptic?"
"Twitching," Joe said. "Respirations labored. I wish the doctor had ordered him transferred to A East."
"Have Zenda or Willie stay with him till days takes over. They'll probably get the ward doctor to move him out. Lock up the stool and do your room checks more often. The state doesn't pay the night shift to sleep on duty. Before I leave, I'll take a look at the Preacher."
Once the supervisor was off-ward, Joe lit into Willie. "Keep it clean, man. We're going to have them bird-dogging as soon as that report gets to Old Nellie. Watch it, I'm warning you. Between your ass and mine, yours gets whipped— understand? I don't want to hear any more shit about sleeping when you should've been awake, either. Whatever you were up to—don't do it again. That's an order."
"Wasn't doing—"
"No more shit! Just cut it out from now on."
Willie shrugged. "Yeah, sure, whatever you say."
"There'll be so many spot checks in the next few weeks you won't be able to turn around without someone looking over your shoulder. Even Nellie himself. You haven't seen it happen but I have."
"I hear you talking."
"So listen. Now go take care of that damn stool. I left it in the hall."
Can't prove a fucking thing, Willie told himself as he stowed the stool back into the mop closet. Preacher's the only dude caught me in there and he don't know from diddley-squat. Willie grinned to himself. Could say it was part of this "milieu therapy" Old Nellie lectures about. Tell him that's what I thought he meant—he might even believe me. Joe'll have my ass though, he catches me messing with her again. Hell, she wasn't all that great anyhow.
* * *
The next evening, Alma checked Dolph on her first rounds, noting that, though he was sleeping, he hadn't curled back into fetal position. Days said he'd been lethargic but easily roused. Dolph had the room to himself since they'd moved Tate in with W.W. after Dr. Jacobs transferred Jay-Jay to A East, the acute ward.
&nbs
p; Sounded like nights had had one wild time. Alma frowned, thinking of the incident report on Laura Jean. She decided to recheck her.
"She just lays there," Sally told Alma. "I've been talking to her but I don't think she's receiving. Before, she didn't always answer but I was pretty sure she always heard me. What could have happened to make her like this?"
"She's catatonic. You know what that means."
"Staying in a fixed position, not responding, refusal to move or talk. But what made her catatonic?"
"Sally, you know she has a diagnosis of schizophrenia. Catatonic withdrawal is common with schizy patients."
"It's because of what happened last night, isn't it? The Preacher being in her room and all."
"They went over him carefully and there's no evidence he molested her. Think about it—Laura Jean's been having these nightmares. What if she roused to find Mr. Jones in the room with her and panicked?"
"But wasn't it dark? She couldn't've seen him. And it's hard for me to believe he could've climbed up on a stool and unscrewed light bulbs. That seems so planned, so unlike the Preacher."
"Being mentally ill doesn't mean you lose the ability to think. Except for Susie Q our patients aren't mentally retarded. They may slip in and out of reality but at times they're quite capable of planning ahead."
Sally sighed. "It hurts me to look at Laura Jean."
Alma glanced at Sally instead, noting the purple shadows under her eyes. "You have other patients assigned to you. Don't distress yourself by hovering over Laura Jean all evening. Actually, you can't because we're short-handed with David off ill and Connie home with a sick child. You'd better see to it that all your little old ladies are dry and comfortable."
The ward seemed unusually quiet without the Preacher chanting. Like Dolph, he slept soundly, having to be roused for supper. Alma finished rounds and went in to pour the evening meds.
No good will come of speculating about Willie Rhone, she told herself firmly. He'd have to be crazy to do such a thing and he isn't crazy—just piss mean and selfish.
* * *
Sally went into Margaret Flower's room.
"There you are, dear," the Duchess said. "It's always such a pleasure to see you. But you do look tired tonight. Like I am."
With an effort, Sally smiled at her. "I didn't get much sleep."
"Oh, neither did I. Tell me, how is that man they call the Preacher? He was tied down last night and was so unhappy. How is he?"
"All right. He's been sleeping a lot."
"Is he—did they have to tie him hand and foot again?"
"I don't think so—maybe a Posey vest. You seem quite concerned."
"I am. I think it's criminal to restrain a person in such a barbaric manner."
"Sometimes it's necessary to prevent them from hurting themselves or others," Sally explained.
"I've been tied myself, on the other ward, with one of those vests you call a Posey. A humiliating experience. Frightening."
"You're so much better now, though."
The Duchess drew herself up. "I was all right then— merely unsteady on my feet from the pills. Unable to think clearly. But they wouldn't listen, just kept poking more pills at me every day."
"Do you want some help?" Janet Young said, coming into the room. "I've finished and can give you a hand."
"Thanks," Sally told her. "I haven't done the women's four bed room yet."
"I'll start in there and you can come in and work with me when you're through in here," Janet said. "Okay?"
Sally nodded.
"I wouldn't trust her," the Duchess said in a conspiratorial tone when Janet had left the room. "I've seen her watching you and I'm afraid she's one of those."
"One of those?"
The Duchess primmed her mouth. "In my day no lady mentioned the word out loud."
Sally flushed, turning away. Em had been one thing, but that would never happen again. Whatever the Duchess might think, or Janet for that matter, she didn't consider herself "one of those."
* * *
"You think I'm stupid, don't you? Some kind of drecky schmuck?" Luba's voice twanged shrilly in Barry's head.
"Damn it!" he exclaimed. "It's after one in the morning and I've got a records committee meeting at seven-thirty. What the hell use do you see in going on like this?"
"What do you expect me to do? Ruminate like a—a cow?" Luba burst into tears.
Barry snorted.
She flipped her hair from her face and turned on him. "I'm not even showing yet and you—you're fucking someone else." Choking back sobs, she wiped at her eyes. "Oh, yes, you are—don't lie. You never even t-touch me anymore. I disgust you—I've seen how you look at me. I'm carrying your child and you don't even..."
"Must you be so goddamned dramatic? How do you know what I feel? Didn't I offer to marry you?"
Luba flung her arms wide. "The great martyr! You made it sound like it was an invitation to a funeral. How could I possibly marry someone who looks at me as though I'm a sack of garbage? No thanks!"
"Then go and see Lee about an abortion. You're practically over the safe period as it is. I'll call him and—"
"No! I won't, I won't."
Barry held in his rage with effort. "Look," he said in measured tones. "I offered to marry you, you rejected that. I offer you an abortion, you reject that. I don't want the damn baby—you do. Have you stopped to consider the problems you'll face as a single parent?"
"Don't you come on to me with your phony concern, Barry Jacobs. I can take care of myself. There's a women's group in town that does pregnancy counseling, they have a woman obstetrician—"
"Just who will pay for all this?"
"I will. Half. And you'll pay the other half."
Barry clenched his fists. "You are not going to saddle me with a kid, make me support a kid I don't want and who better not carry my name." He spit each word out.
"Shit on your fair name."
He raised his hand and she ducked away from him, her feet slipping out from under her so she fell sprawling onto the floor, where she lay sobbing.
Horrified at his intention—would he really have hit her?—Barry fled, finding himself in his car, heading onto the beach road without conscious thought.
What kind of a bastard am I? he asked himself. Never mind that Luba could make an abuser out of the kindest man in the world—I don't hit women.
Alma greeted him sleepy-eyed. "Hey, I can stay in bed till noon," she murmured, "but I wouldn't want to be you in three and a half-hours."
He reached for her, desire vanquishing rational thought.
When the alarm sounded, Barry got up and stumbled across the tiny bedroom to shut it off. He forced himself to stay on his feet, showered quickly and threw on his clothes. Since Alma didn't move, he figured she was sleeping until she rolled over and looked at him.
"Not this weekend," she said.
"What?"
"You can't come out this weekend. Starting from tonight."
"Why?"
She raised up on one elbow. "It's really none of your business, is it? We didn't exchange any vows. Or even promises."
Alma was nothing if not upfront. "You're right," he admitted.
"Just so you understand."
Barry hesitated, glancing at his watch. "Okay," he said finally.
That's how you want it, he told himself as he drove toward the hospital—no strings on either side. Luba's enough of an entanglement. If only she'd disappear, get out of the apartment without all this carryon, trying to turn him into the monster she made him out to be.
It might be none of his business but he wondered who else Alma was sleeping with. Someone from the hospital? The guy from L.A. she'd gone to visit? Was he black?
Barry grimaced, forcing the questions from his mind. Forget it. What difference did it make anyway? Each person was free to do his or her thing without interference from the other. Unless the other happened to be Luba.
He smiled wryly. Obviously Dr. Perls had never li
ved with a Luba or he wouldn't have written his glib little exposition about who was not in the world to live up to another's expectations.
His thoughts shifted to the hospital. He'd have to talk to Crawford this morning about Jay-Jay. Why in hell couldn't the man have transferred Jay-Jay to A East when the night shift had called him about the status? The acute ward had better trained personnel and decent equipment. You didn't have to get out of bed to order a patient to be transferred. Not that it would have killed Crawford to haul his ass over to Thirteen West and take a look at an epileptic who'd aspirated. Worst of all, Jay-Jay was probably going to survive—as a complete vegetable.
Thank God it was Friday. He had MOD coming up Saturday night, then call again, oh, damn, on Monday because he'd promised to trade Tony Newbold for the following Friday. He wouldn't be able to visit JadeBeach until Tuesday night.
Have to do something about the McRead girl. ECT seemed the only solution—get her started next week. Barry shook his head. Who the hell was he to be treating these unlucky wretches? It seemed everyone had gotten worse on Thirteen West since being transferred there, himself included.
Except for the Duchess. And that was probably due to the move away from old chronics to a place where she was noticed a little and made a fuss of. Milieu therapy at its best, if it had a best.
"The making of definite and usually substantial changes in the person's immediate environment or life circumstance," to quote Nellie.
Such as putting them in a state hospital to begin with? That was certainly a substantial change in anyone's book. Barry shook his head.
So, why was he in the field if he mistrusted the theories masquerading as treatment? Hell, he couldn't even deal with his own life.
Chapter Thirteen
On Thirteen West, Sally found Laura Jean still catatonic. She'd learned Dr. Jacobs had written an order for electro-convulsive therapy and was troubled. The thought of electricity arcing through the girl gave her the shudders. For some reason, days had left Laura Jean naked from the waist down—perhaps because the doctor had done a vaginal exam. Sally was struggling to get pajamas pants on her when Lew Alinosky stuck his head in the room.