by Jane Toombs
"Everything's quiet—why don't you leave? Lew can make your last rounds. No point I can see in waiting and worrying."
"Thank you." Connie hurried into the lounge to get her coat and purse.
Alma turned to Sally, who'd been hovering. "That's the trouble with having kids. Problems. I don't think I could stand any more problems than I already have."
"I—I've made the Duchess angry and she won't let me help her to bed," Sally told her.
Alma raised her eyebrows. "You? What on earth happened? I thought you were her confidante."
"I told her Richard was dead."
"You did what?"
"She gave me his full name, well, not gave me exactly—I coaxed it out of her. So when I was off yesterday I called information in L.A. and—anyway, he's dead. The Duchess refused to believe me. She thinks I made a mistake. But how many Richard Ardith Szolds could there be?"
"The mistake you made was telling her," Alma said. "Why didn't you ask me first?"
"I'm sorry," Sally said, tears filling her eyes again. "I—I asked Frank and he said don't tell her. I shouldn't have. I don't seem to do anything right."
"I'll look in on her," Alma said. "She may need a sleeping pill."
* * *
Crawford shut the door to his apartment and threw himself on the bed. Christ, he'd been running his tail off since eight this morning. All those extra wards and every damn one with a problem. Then he'd hardly had a chance to sit down to supper when Ten East called about some woman who'd drank a bottle of hydrogen peroxide—what the hell was it doing where she could reach it?
So he'd had to talk to poison control and it took an hour to wash her out, always a nasty mess.
By the time he'd finished, C West had called about a non-epileptic patient with a fever and convulsions. Good thing he'd decided to take a look at the kid. A subdural hematoma. Of course, no one admitted to having seen the boy fall. Had to ship him out for possible brain surgery. Surgery to save a gork who'd be better off dead, for Chrissake. But old Nellie got uptight at a death, so no choice.
"I don't want to be called again unless someone is actually dying," he'd told Frank Kent. "Pass that along to the night supervisor, if you please. Tell him to sit on anything until morning."
Get some sleep. He'd still have half Barry's wards tomorrow and he'd promised Taylor a tennis game.
Crawford glanced at his watch. Almost twenty-three hundred hours. He got up and changed into pajamas, but when he flipped the light off and slid under the covers he couldn't relax. His muscles felt like someone had hooked him up to the ECT box—in tonic contracture.
He let the thought of a Seconal drift across his mind. Though he wouldn't even feel one, it might blunt the tension so he'd slide under. Maybe two? Not Nembutal, he'd be too groggy if he got called later.
No, don't think about being called. Everything that's going to happen tonight already has. Take the barbs. Sleep. Crawford rose and plucked the flowers from the copper pitcher.
* * *
Alma returned to the nurses' station after soothing the Duchess into bed and insisting she take a chloral hydrate to help her sleep. She sat down to finish the charting but heard noises from the lounge and sighed. Why did Sally have to pick tonight for her emotional overflow? With Connie leaving early, they were already one short and she was in no mood to comfort anyone. Nor did she have time.
Frowning, she got up and went into the lounge.
David was standing awkwardly over the sobbing Sally, collapsed onto the settee.
"I don't know what's wrong with her," he told Alma, obviously relieved to see someone else. "Maybe you can find out."
"Make her rounds, will you, please, David," Alma said. "I'll take over here."
David went out and she bent over to lay her hand on Sally's shoulder. "Why don't you let me give you something?" she asked. "A Valium might help."
* * *
David walked down the hall, looking into each room.
Most of the patients were asleep—Laura Jean, Dolph, even the Preacher had his eyes closed. He met Lew at the far end of the ward.
"Don't go in the lounge," he advised. "Sally's all upset."
"Heard she went out with Frank," Lew said. "Surprised the hell out of me."
"Frank and Sally?"
"Yeah—when you were off. Never knew old Frank to take up with anyone from here. Or any girl, for that matter. You talk to her a lot—what's she really like?"
"Sally's okay," David mumbled.
Frank Kent of all people, he thought. Did they—had Frank made it with her? Frank was a big guy—hung, too, you could tell. Conscious of a stir of desire, he turned away from Lew.
"Got to finish rounds," he said.
* * *
David wasn't bad for one of them, Lew told himself as he walked toward the nurses' station. Not too la-de-dah. Personally, he couldn't understand what one guy could see in another. No tits, just another male body. He shook his head. He preferred Becky, headache that she was.
Two days off after tonight, then he'd be on day shift. Even if he had to watch ECT it'd be worth it to be sure of Becky. Lucky the ward was quiet his last night.
Wonder what Frank saw in Sally. She might be nudging twenty but she looked and acted younger. No tits to speak of. Alma Reynolds now—there was a build. He'd miss having her as charge nurse. She didn't have it in for men like some on the bitches he'd worked with.
The new woman was sitting up in bed when Lew went into her room. "Mrs. Cobb? Everything all right?"
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"I'm Lew, the tech, who took you in to supper. It's late, time to sleep."
"I'm dead, you know," she said. "They took me away this morning and shot the final rays into my head, the ones that kill."
"Mrs. Cobb, you're receiving shock therapy to help you get well. That's where you went this morning."
She pointed her finger at him. "You're one of the false people. They made you look real, but I can tell you're not. You're one of them."
"It's time to go to sleep," he repeated.
"The dead don't sleep." She got out of bed. "Your face is too white. That's how I can tell you're not real." She lunged at him suddenly, hands clawing.
Lew jerked her arms behind her, but not before she'd raked his cheek with her nails.
"You won't bleed," she shouted. "You're not flesh and blood."
"David!" Lew yelled. "Ms Reynolds!"
When they had Naomi Cobb restrained and sedated, Alma cleaned Lew's face and applied disinfectant.
"Should heal okay," she said, "but you'll have to have a doctor check those scratches 'cause I have to fill out an incident report and they'll ask about that."
The phone rang.
"Alma? Barry. Just wanted to let you know Willie's been demoted from critical to serious. Looks like he'll live."
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Stiff. Hurts when I move. How's the ward?"
"Fairly quiet. Days had to give Dolph a shot and I just gave Naomi Cobb her second one."
"Thorazine?"
"Yes."
"About Dolph. Seems to me he had a problem with Thorazine on admission. I thought I took him off it. Someone must have written a new order?"
"I'll look. I was on the Ad Ward when Dolph was admitted. He drank a pint of whiskey before he got the Thorazine." She shuffled through the chart. "Here it is, telephone order off Dr. Greensmith, to be given whenever necessary."
"DC it. I don't want him on Thorazine."
"Consider it done."
"He's okay, isn't he? No reaction this time?"
"I'll check him myself before I go off to be sure," she said. "Have to tell you something. I'm transferring south. Dr. Fredericks arranged for me to leave next week. I'm sorry about what happened."
"So am I—especially when I move. Sorry you're leaving too. Charlie?"
"You got it. Is Luba all right? The cops didn't—?"
"She's fine. Taking care of me whether I wan
t it or not. The law is apparently going to consider it self-defense."
"In case I don't see you—goodbye."
"You're working this week," he said, "so I'll be talking to you on the phone. Let's hold the goodbye." He hung up. Alma wrote the discontinue order on Dolph's chart, then leafed through it. Dolph had had Thorazine one time after the Ad Ward—during an incident when he'd been fighting with Tate. That's when Dr. Greensmith wrote the order. No unusual reaction then.
"How was Dolph when you made rounds?" she asked David when he came up.
"Sleeping."
"You go in the room?"
"No—why?"
Alma got up. "Let's check him again." She turned to Lew, who was leaning on the counter. "You listen for the phone—I think Sally's gone to sleep in the lounge."
In Dolph's room, Alma shook his shoulder. No response. "Turn on the brights," she told David. "I don't like the way he's breathing."
She sat on the bed, bending sideways to check his pupils. "Oh, my God!" she exclaimed.
"What?" David asked.
"I can smell whiskey on his breath. Where the hell would he get any? Help me sit him up."
She and David propped up a limp, nonreactive Dolph. "Never mind," she said. "Let him down, he's completely out of it." She pinched Dolph, pressed on his closed eyelid. "No reaction to painful stimuli. Damn. Frank'll have to get Dr. Greensmith over here."
"Can't Dolph just sleep it off?"
"You were there on the Ad Ward when he came in. Remember how he reacted to the alcohol/Thorazine combination? Well, he's had it again. Stay with him."
Alma hurried to the phone.
David leaned over the unconscious Dolph. He was breathing funny, all right. Color wasn't all that great. David watched him uneasily.
"I'll be right over," Frank told Alma. "You're probably right about needing to call the doctor but I better take a look first. Dr. Greensmith ordered me not to call him unless a patient was dying."
"I think maybe he is," Alma said. "Hurry, Frank."
She hung up and turned to Lew. "Keep an eye on the rest of the ward, okay?"
Lew glanced at the clock as she hurried back to Dolph's room. Forty-five minutes till the shift ended. Shitty time for anything to happen. Specially on his last evening on this shift.
The phone rang and he picked it up, finding Connie on the other end. "I wanted to let Ms Reynolds know that Maria has chicken pox," she said.
Lew talked to her for a few minutes before hanging up. He was getting up from the chair when Sally emerged from the lounge, blinking sleepily.
"I feel just awful," she said. "Alma gave me something—Valium, I guess—and it's made things seem so weird. I shouldn't have fallen asleep, didn't mean to make everyone do my work."
"As long as you're awake you can listen for the phone," he said. "I'm going to make final rounds. Dolph's in bad shape—Ms Reynolds and David are in with him."
"Dolph?" she asked. But Lew was already walking down the hall.
Sally tried to clear her head. Dolph had been acting oddly earlier. She'd meant to recheck him but then the Duchess got so upset and all....
A key clicked in the door and a moment later she looked up at Frank. "How is he?" Frank asked.
"I—I don't know."
He strode toward Dolph's room while she stared apprehensively after him. She ought to do something to help, but she didn't feel able to move. Her mind seemed so cloudy. Maybe she shouldn't have taken the pill. Maybe she was one of those who were unduly sensitive to Valium.
Frank came running back to the station and grabbed the phone.
Chapter Twenty
Crawford groped for the bedside stand. Ringing, damn the ringing, got to stop that noise.
"Dr. Greensmith?"
"Uh."
"Frank Kent. We have a patient in coma on Thirteen West. I think he's on his way out."
Crawford cleared his throat and raised himself on one elbow. "'S wrong?"
"He got hold of some whiskey after having a shot of 100 milligrams of Thorazine. He's the man you sewed up on the Ad Ward a couple weeks ago that went bad after the same combination. He nearly died then."
"You tried adrenaline, Coramine, like that?"
"How much do you want given?"
Crawford shook his head, trying to organize his thoughts. It'd come to him in a minute what dosage to order. In a minute.
* * *
In their apartment, Barry was lying in bed while Luba stood stubbornly over him with a capsule in one hand and a glass of water in the other.
"I don't like to take drugs. You know that," Barry said.
"Dr. Yettleman told me to make sure you did. He said otherwise you'll worry yourself sleepless thinking they can't get along without you at the hospital. You've already been on the phone to them."
"I don't need it."
"I know you don't like me hovering, but I won't leave you alone till you swallow the damn thing so you might as well."
Barry stared up at her. She'd braided her hair in one thick plait and pulled it atop her head, making her look fragile with her long neck exposed and her high cheekbones free of drooping strands of hair. She wore jeans and a faded blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. When she bent over, her breasts were visible under the loose shirt. Barry wondered if they showed the increased markings and fullness of pregnancy yet. He realized her hadn't seen her naked in weeks.
"So take the pill," she repeated.
He flipped it into his mouth and gulped water.
"You feeling okay?" he asked. "I mean the nausea and all that."
She shrugged. "I sort of forgot about it."
"Sit down."
Luba perched on the edge of the bed and Barry smelled a faint odor of Clorox.
"You've been cleaning all day," he said. "Take it easy."
"I can't stand how this place looks. I don't know what happened to me to let everything slide." Unconsciously, her hand caressed her lower abdomen. "God knows, you're no housekeeper. You're a hell of a companion in equality."
"I never promised to split the chores with you," he said.
"I know." She grinned, a brief exposure of the Luba he'd been attracted to. "I suppose I thought I could manipulate you. You seemed so mild and equitable."
He shook his head. "Like I thought you were so well-adjusted and reasonable."
They smiled at each other.
"Truce?" she suggested. "When you're better we can work out a peaceful parting of the ways instead of all this hostility."
Barry could see the outline of her nipples under the thin fabric of the shirt. A definite desire to touch her breasts grew in him. He reached up with his good arm and unbuttoned the shirt. Her pupils dilated and she caught her breath.
She felt different, somehow, not only the breasts.
Naked beside him, she moved carefully over him. He thrust upward and winced with pain.
"Relax—let me do the work," she murmured.
Drowning, he was drowning in waves of drug-induced dreaminess where the climax of passion was a soft explosion that sent him drifting into non-awareness.
* * *
Crawford sat on the side of the bed, staring at the copper pitcher. When had he tipped it over and spilled the contents on the dresser top?
I know I took two Seconals, he thought fuzzily. Two. Had he also taken Nembutal? He couldn't remember. His eyes dropped and he jerked awake. Had to get over to A East. Frank was sending a patient over there by ambulance. Wasn't he?
Crawford stood, swaying. He stumbled into the bathroom. Cold water on his face didn't help. He stared blearily into the mirror. Jesus.
What if he used one of the packets of cocaine? Jazz him up a bit, let him make it over there. Lucky he'd picked them up the other night.
* * *
Eyes closed, Simpson clutched the empty bottle he'd found in his bed in one hand, covers pulled to his chin. A sign. Macardit's sign. He listened carefully to the unusual bustle going on outside his door. Not yet. Wai
t for quiet. Wait for the darker bowels of the night—Macardit's time.
* * *
Tate peered out his door as the gurney was rolled past him. He nodded his head in confirmation as he saw the face of the occupant. Serve that bastard, Dolph, right, pinching his jacket, guzzling his booze. Hope he was damn sick.
* * *
Margaret Flowers fingered the tissue under her pillow where she'd wrapped the green capsule after she'd spit it out. No use arguing with the head nurse, better to pretend to swallow and dispose of it later. There was too much confusion out there yet to make it safe to venture forth to flush the tissue down the toilet. Really, the measures one must take in this place to maintain any control.
She very carefully avoided thinking of what had disturbed her in the first place, upset her enough to bring the head nurse in with the pill.
* * *
"Everything's quiet," Lew told Alma as the door closed behind the gurney. All asleep except Tate and he's okay— just nosy."
"I hope you're right," she said.
Lew shrugged. "I didn't want to wake everyone up to be sure, but I went into all the rooms and took a good look."
Alma managed a brief smile. "Thanks."
Sally got up from the desk where she'd remained all through Dolph's removal. She staggered into the door of the med room when she tried to walk.
"I feel funny," she said, clutching at the door knob. "The Valium..." Her voice trailed off.
Alma closed her eyes briefly. What else could go wrong? Why had she given Sally the pill?
Helping Sally back into the chair, she watched uneasily as the girl's head drooped down onto the desk. "You still with us?" she demanded.
"Sort of," Sally mumbled. "Can't walk right. Head's fuzzy."
Alma jerked the PDR off the book shelf. The gold letters stared up at her. Physicians' Desk Reference.
Coming on shift, Joe Thompson walked into the ward. "What's with her?" he asked, jerking his head toward Sally.