Thirteen West (7 page)

"Thanks," he told
Alma
. "Haven't seen homemade cookies in a long time."

"Connie's always bringing us something—Mrs. Dominguez."

"The little woman with five kids?"

Alma
nodded.

"You live around here?" he asked.

"Not really close. I have a cottage at
Jade
Beach
and commute. I don't—" she hesitated, then continued. "I don't tell everyone where I live, though."

"The beach sounds like a great place." He pictured the ocean, cold in January, but cleansing. Filled with a burst of acute longing to be there, he thought of the free weekend coming up and sighed inwardly.

No use to ask Luba if she wanted to drive over to the ocean when all she really wanted was to make him miserable and that could be done as easily in the apartment. Which was so messy he'd probably have to spend half the weekend cleaning up while Luba drooped about retching and feeling sorry for herself and insisting he feel sorry for her too. "If you're ever over that way, drop by,"
Alma
said. "You might hit it lucky and I won't be working."

"Sunday?" he asked impulsively.

"If you come before noon. I'll let you know how to find my place." She set aside her coffee and rose.

He rose too, and they faced one another measuringly.

"There you are." Frank Kent said as he pushed open the lounge door, causing them to start. He entered, making the room seem crowded. "Here's the meds you called me about," he told
Alma
, handing her a plastic container.

"How's it going, Frank?" Barry asked. "Quiet so far?"

"So far, Doctor."

"Good. I've got one more ward to make before I cut out," Barry said. "See you both tomorrow."

"Goodbye, Dr. Jacobs,"
Alma
said. "See you."

When he was gone,
Alma
hugged herself and smiled at Frank. "At last, a doc who's a human being."

"A few of them are," Frank admitted.

"Is it true he has a live-in?"

"That's what I hear. Why?"

"No particular reason."

"I'll bet." Frank reached for a cookie. "Anything going on over here? I heard in report that Dolph Benning's not eating."

"All curled up like a baby, same as when the guards brought him in that first night. Dr. Jacobs mentioned ECT. I'm going to try feeding Dolph supper myself." She glanced at her watch. "I'd better get with it."

Sally dashed into the lounge, almost running into Frank. "Oh!"

"Hello, Sally," he said. "How are you liking us?"

"I—it's so different than I expected," Sally told him. She turned to
Alma
. "Medical records won't have the chart here till tomorrow so I'll go ahead with my patient assignment if that's okay."

"Fine. Why don't you hang around the desk and answer the phone—I'm going to see if I can coax some food down Dolph."

Left alone with Frank, Sally edged nervously toward the door, but he was in the way. He was so big.

"Do you think you'll be interested in becoming a psych nurse?" Frank asked.

"I—I'm not sure. Some of the patients frighten me—I think maybe they always would. I admire
Alma
—I mean Ms Reynolds."

"It's all right to use first names in front of me."

Feeling trapped because he was between her and the door, Sally stared at him, unable to remember what she'd intended to say about
Alma
. His eyes were brown, with the right iris having distinctive wedge of yellow. Unusual.

"Are you afraid now?" he asked suddenly. "Of me? You look so scared."

"Oh, no! Well, not exactly, Mr.
Kent
."

"Why don't you call me Frank?" He smiled at her. "I'm harmless."

"My—I had a—a friend once who claimed no man is harmless," Sally blurted. To her distress tears welled in her eyes and she ducked her head quickly. I shouldn't have mentioned Em, she told herself, wiping at the tears. Not yet, not here, not to him.

She felt Frank's arm around her, gentle, careful. "Something's the matter," he said. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

Sally pulled away from him, shaking her head. He must think she was as crazy as the patients, she told herself.

"Is it anything I said to you?" he persisted.

"Oh, no—no, it's not your fault. No." She had to give him some kind of explanation. "My—my friend is dead," she said, forcing the words past her aching throat. "She killed herself."

Chapter Six

Sarah Goodrow-Fenz, supporting Frank's head with one arm, raised the cup of soup to his lips. "Drink this," she told him in a calm but forceful tone. "We can't stay in this place much longer so you've got to get stronger fast."

"Don't need anyone feeding me," he mumbled.

"Yes, you do. Drink. It's chicken soup, guaranteed to cure man's ills."

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
Horton
Plaza
. 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."