Alien Nation #6 - Passing Fancy (10 page)

A soothing office, Casey’s was, in soft earth tones, the swivel chair comfortable, with a substantial cushion for lower back support. She snuggled into it looking abstractedly at the office door. Closed now.

Procrastinating.

As long as she didn’t cross to the door, open it, face what was outside, she was safe. Safe from everything but her own thoughts, at least, which inevitably turned toward Matt.

Matt asking if she was angry. And her various responses: the noncommittal silences; the
nos
that meant
yes.
She hadn’t exactly been fair to Matt, but—

—as if prodded by electric shock, she shot out of the chair, walking purposefully toward the door. Safe from all but her own thoughts was not safe at all. She’d do better confronting the task at hand.

She threw open the door, began making her brisk way toward Fran Delaney’s room.

When she rounded the first corner,
they
were there.

“Ms. Frankel,” said the older woman, “my name is Iris McGreevey.”

“And I’m Dallas Pemberton,” the smaller, shaggy man said.

“Producer—”

“And director—”

“Of
A Doll’s House,”
they finished together, managing, by sheerest chance, to fall into a rhythm that sounded rehearsed.

“Hi,” Cathy responded, smiling in as kindly a manner as she could.

“If you need anything—”

“Anything at all—”

“We’re here . . .” finishing together again.

“That’s very good of you,” Cathy said. “I’m sure Fran will appreciate it.”

“She’s great friends with her other cast members,” Dallas said. “Should I arrange a visit or—”

“That,” Cathy advised, “would be premature. In fact, it would be best if you didn’t spread this around just yet.”

“Well, what
should
we do?” Iris asked primly. “There’s a performance tonight.”

Through a short laugh that was mostly shock, Cathy said the only thing she could think of to keep her anger in check. “I’m sure that didn’t come out the way you meant it.”

Pemberton interposed gently, quickly, “To be honest, Ms. Frankel, I have a feeling that . . . whatever we say under the circumstances, some of it’s bound to sound like insensitivity. You must know, we weren’t remotely prepared for anything like this. On the one hand, we don’t know what’s proper. On the other hand, there are pragmatic considerations that are unavoidable.”

Good save,
thought Cathy—then, upon a better look at Pemberton, thought that perhaps it wasn’t a “save” at all. He was genuinely confused, trying to make sense out of an insane situation. What was that colloquial expression Matt would have used?
Welcome to the flub.
Because we have all flubbed. Yes, that sounded right.

Cathy was less sure about the sincerity of Iris McGreevey’s concern. Cathy didn’t much like her flinty-eyed expression.
There is a coldness to this woman,
she thought. But the little man beside Iris was so pitifully distraught, so open in his vulnerability (and his willingness to admit it), that he balanced out the equation.

That decided her.

“Walk with me,” she said, heading toward a bank of elevators, setting the pace, speaking as briskly as she walked.

“You need to keep in mind that Fran did not enter into this situation lightly. In order to express herself, she had to deny herself, the very
idea
of herself at a fundamental Tenctonese level. You can’t tell anybody yet; she’s too ashamed.”

“I don’t think there’s a person in the company who won’t empathize,” Dallas said. “I think they’d rally to her support.”

They reached the elevators, and Cathy punched the Up button. She studiously kept watching the indicator lights above the doors. Some odd impulse she was unable to articulate made her want to look away from this nice man. They were on the first floor. The indicator read six.

“Even worse,” she sighed. “Empathy from those she set out to fool would probably only increase her shame . . . or reinforce her initial convictions. Both very dangerous during withdrawal.”

“What,” Iris asked, “would be so terrible if her original convictions were reinforced?”

“Iris,” Dallas said warningly.

Cathy kept her eyes glued to the indicator. Five now. Why, oh, why were hospital elevators so slow? Again, she spoke without turning.

“I assume by that you mean, Why can’t she just take the good stuff—pure Stabilite—and continue as before?”

Behind Cathy there was a palpable pause. She imagined that Dallas must have scowled at Iris in disapproval, because she was suddenly defensive. “Well, that
is
what I meant.”

Cathy said, “She can’t go back—”

Four now from the indicator.

“—because she has to thoroughly detox before any more foreign chemicals can be introduced into her system. And in order to detox, she has to revert. After that, assuming she
wanted
to do it all over again—even if she could afford to, which she can’t—she’d have to start from the beginning.”

“New surgery, too?” Dallas asked, stunned.

“Yes,” Cathy replied.

Holding on three.

“God,” he whispered softly. And then added, “I can’t help but feel responsible.”

Cathy hadn’t expected that. She sort of didn’t want to deal with it.

“You’re not,” she said, keeping it simple.

Holding on three. What in Andarko’s name were they
doing
up there?

“I wouldn’t have cast her if she’d come to me as a Newcomer.”

Bingo.
That
was why she didn’t want to face him. Because, nice as he was,
that
would always be the truth. She could hear in his voice, though, that it was not an admission he was proud of. And so she offered him a little slack . . .

“Ask yourself this. Given what you’ve learned in the last twelve hours, would you cast her now?”

Holding on three.

Ding!

Behind her.

It
would
be an elevator from the bank in the opposite wall that came first. Which meant she had to turn—and face him for his reply.

To his credit, he looked at her squarely.

“I can’t answer that. I’m sorry.”

She wanted to say,
Congratulations.
Now
you’re responsible.
But that seemed harsher, more judgmental, than she had any right to be. So she opted for the neutral standby.

“I’m sorry, too,” she said, walking past him and Iris into the waiting elevator.

“Ms. Frankel,” she heard Iris’s voice—that woman,
I don’t like that woman
—and faced forward, holding the Door Open button, wishing other people had been waiting for the elevator so she’d have a reason to excuse herself. But no . . . it was just her. And them. She didn’t prompt Iris, merely waited for her to continue.

“Fran Delaney’s situation does raise inevitable business questions. About whether or not we can continue to run the show with an understudy. About whether or not to look for a replacement. About what kind of damages, if any, Ms. Delaney is liable for—”

“What?” Cathy blurted, only a millisecond before it came out of Dallas’s mouth as well.

“She signed on to do a job. One she was clearly in no condition to complete. The entire company is at risk, not just the production. I’ve been left holding the bag, as they say, and I need some barometer by which to gauge matters. You being on the case, I thought—”

“Think again, Ms. McGreevey. The answers to those questions are between you and your soul.” Cathy released the Door Open button, the elevator began to enclose her, and she just had time to add, before the sliding doors broke their gaze, “If you can find it.”

On the third floor, a nurse told her that Fran had been moved to the fifth. Room 503, to be precise.

Already?
Cathy thought.
All I did was leave to make a phone call.

And she headed back toward the elevators.

The fifth floor was the psychiatric ward. Its west wing contained the patients with bent minds, who needed constant supervision, or restraint, or continuous medication—

Or, like Fran Delaney/Fancy Delancey, isolation.

The elevator doors opened, and Cathy was treated to the background noises that permeated the air like ceaseless, sad underscoring—intermittent cries of despair, muffled gibbering. Not nearly so profound or unsettling as they might have been in a specialized medical facility—this was, after all, but one part of a comprehensive hospital complex—but what she heard was unsettling enough.

She was almost used to it, though.

She’d spent enough time getting used to the layout last night.

Young Dr. Steinbach—it suddenly struck her like the name of some iconographic movie character,
Young Dr. Steinbach;
it was good to smile at that; it would probably be her last unburdened smile for quite a stretch—was waiting for her to return from phoning Matt.

“She’s a little more coherent now,” he began.

“You fellows don’t waste a minute,” she said, by way of greeting.

“I’ve learned that as soon as they come around, you gotta move them from an unsupervised bed to a detox cubicle. They need the bouncing-around room. Besides, she’s burning off the effects of the sedative unusually fast.”

“Does that mean anything?”

“I
think
it means her metabolism has unleashed itself, now that the cycle of Stabilite has been broken. I’ve seen withdrawal take anywhere from a week to two, but if she’s become conscious this quickly, my guess is the process is going to rip through her like a tornado.”

“Why doesn’t that sound encouraging?”

“Because it’s not. She’s going to be hit with every kind of trauma there is in a very short period of time.”

“Are you saying she won’t survive?”

“If I knew that for sure, I would’ve put you in a cab and sent you home. All I’m saying is, I’ve only had one other patient in accelerated withdrawal . . .”

“. . . and she didn’t make it.”

“He. And no, he didn’t.” A beat. “On the other hand, he didn’t have another Newcomer to take him through it minute by minute. Like what
you’re
about to do.” Another beat. “You’re sure you
know
what you’re about to do?”

“Yes. And no. But mostly yes. I think.”

“Well, either way, you’re braver by far than I.”

“I doubt that.”

“Don’t.”

He reached into a pocket of his lab coat, held out a wrist band.

“Here it is. Do I need to take you through it again?”

“No. The green button alerts the on-call nurse at the desk to check the closed-circuit monitor, in case there’s something I want you guys to see. The red button is the alarm for an emergency. If I need help getting out.”

“Right. Now, for leaving the cube on your own steam, do you remember the code?”

“Yes, 3051, and I’m to cover the keypad with my palm so the patient doesn’t figure out the sequence.”

“Okay.”

He strapped the band to her wrist and, when he was done, held her hand a few moments longer than necessary. She didn’t mind. It wasn’t a romantic gesture but rather an acknowledgment of admiration for her courage. She nodded, and he let go.

Then she moved to the door, looked through the small, wire-enforced window.
Studio apt, 1 rm, unfrnshd, padded,
she thought.

At first glance Fran wasn’t visible. Just the rubber-colored walls and floor. In the opposite right corner, a toilet and sink were installed. Cathy almost said, “I can’t see her,” and then remembered to look at the high left corner, to the rounded mirror behind the wire mesh shield, which gave a fun-house perspective of the whole room. It showed that Fran was huddled in the corner on Cathy’s left, against the wall that was flush with the door. (What it didn’t show was the video camera behind the mirror, which was, of course, a two-way affair.)

Fran’s position relative to the door meant that Cathy would have to exercise caution going in. As she’d been briefed, the cell door swung inward, left. Sometimes “they” liked to spring at you when you entered, using the door as a nice, versatile weapon. “They” could ram it into you if you were behind it; ram you into
it,
if
it
was behind
you;
sandwich you or any part of you between the door and the frame . . . a door could do all kinds of serious damage.

Not that Fran seemed poised to attack. She was seated. Leaning up against the wall, head back, dark circles under closed eyes, looking a little wasted, as if she’d merely slept badly. Feet apart, knees bent, in repose.

Attractive, human, unremarkable.

Except for the straitjacket.

Cathy reached for the control panel on the side of the door, punched in the code, and the electronic lock
snicked
open.

Steinbach waited until Cathy had entered the cubicle. Waited while the hydraulic loaded door had hissed shut behind her and the lock had
snicked
shut. Through the window, he saw her wince slightly at the sound.

Then he walked to the nurse’s station to check the monitor and make sure the camera was working properly.

It was.

He was watching Cathy speaking with Fran when his superior, Dr. Casey, showed up.

“How’s she look?” asked the big, basso-voiced Newcomer.

Steinbach guessed he meant the patient. “Too soon to tell,” he replied. “Every indication of being a rough ride, though.”

“How rough?”

“Industrial strength.”

Casey signaled the head nurse, addressed her and Steinbach both.

“Our Ms. Frankel is a noble volunteer, but you pull her out at the first sign of danger, I don’t care
how
vehemently she insists she has it under control. You’re not to make a judgment call, you’re to err on the side of caution.”

Steinbach and the nurse nodded soberly.

Fran’s head turned slowly to meet Cathy’s gaze.

“I know you?” Voice a bit dulled, still druggy.

“We’ve been touching base, on and off, since last night. I don’t expect you to remember.”

“What am I doing here?”

“Has nobody told you?”

“I need my medication. I tried to explain to them.”

“Your medication is why you’re here. I’m here to help you with your
Leethaag.”