Valley of the Dolls (51 page)

In an hour! Neely felt hoarse. Her throat hurt. She wanted to lie back and relax, but that’s what they expected, what they wanted. She was hungry . . . she wanted a cigarette, and some dolls. Oh, God, some dolls! She began to scream, cursing Dr. Hall, the nurses, the hospital . . . When she ran out of oaths she broke into sobs. But she noticed the little nurse at the table stopped writing when she sobbed. So that was it—write down every word the patients says so the great Dr. Hall can read it. Relax now, huh? Well, there would be no relaxation for anyone—not as long as Neely O’Hara was here.

She began to scream again. She used her most vicious language and noticed that the little nurse turned scarlet when she recorded the obscenities. In some part of her mind she felt sorry for the nurse. The girl was young—maybe nineteen—and it wasn’t her fault . . . she hadn’t made the rules. But she kept screaming all the oaths she had ever learned. Meanwhile she worked at the canvas with her knees, though they were getting scraped. Suddenly she found a way of slipping her head under the canvas. She dived down.

The little nurse sprang over and pulled her head out, then leaped back and rang a bell. Others came, and the neck opening was made smaller. Neely screamed louder . . . the nurse wrote faster. . .

While she had been under the canvas she had spotted a small hole near the faucet. As she continued to scream and the nurse continued to write, Neely worked at the hole with her big toe. It grew larger—soon she could put half her foot in it. She kept hurling violent oaths to keep the nurse busy writing. Then, with a superhuman effort, she put her foot in the hole and yanked her knee up to her chest. There was a loud rip and the canvas split open. Neely leaped out of the tub. The nurse sounded the alarm. A battery of nurses came charging in, led by Miss Schmidt. A new canvas top was placed on the tub, but Neely did have the small satisfaction of hearing one nurse whisper,
”No
one has
ever
torn a canvas!”

She must have been screaming forever. There had been a change of nurses. This one was young too, but Neely’s profanities didn’t make her bat an eye. Neely was hoarse . . . exhausted . . . her back ached . . . her knees hurt . . . her toe felt like it was broken from ripping the canvas—but she continued to scream. The door opened. A doctor entered. He pulled up a stool and sat near the tub.

“Good evening, I’m Dr. Clements. I’m making the rounds tonight.”

She noticed the hour on his large watch. Nine o’clock. She must have been in this tub almost three hours.

“Can I help you?”

I’m not crazy, they are, she thought. Here he is, sitting here, like maybe we’re passing the time of day, me with my head sticking out of this frigging tub, and he casually asks if he can help me.

“Is there anything I can do?”

She turned to him, and the tears began to stream down her face. “What kind of a psychiatrist are you?” she gasped. “Can you help me? God, every doctor in this place knows why I’m here. You all know I was double-crossed. I was promised a sleep cure, and because I want my rights I get dumped into this tub!”

“A sleep cure?” His surprise was real.

“Yeah, that’s why I came here. For eight days. To sleep. That stinking Dr. Hall promised. Then the moment my friends left, wham! Everything changed.”

He looked at the nurse. The nurse shrugged. He looked back at Neely. “I just came on duty. I know nothing about your case. I’m just making the rounds. I’ll hand in my report tomorrow, and I’m sure everything will be straightened out.”

“Just like that, huh?” She didn’t scream. She had sensed a look of concern in the young doctor’s eyes. Maybe she could reach him. “You’re supposed to help me,” she begged. “Is this why you studied? Is this how you help? Make a notation about me, then go home and sleep in your own bed while I lay here waterlogged? If you were a real human being with compassion, you’d give me a cigarette . . . something to eat . . . a few Seconals . . . not just make a note in your book and walk away.”

He left the room. She renewed her efforts at screaming. Her throat was sore and she was tired. If she could only stop. . . . The water was bubbling at an even temperature. Maybe she could sleep at that—but then they’d win! Everyone stays in the tub till they sleep. Not Neely O’Hara! If she lost the first battle, she’d lose them all. She screamed louder. . . .

An hour later the young doctor returned. He was accompanied by Miss Schmidt. He opened his bag, poured something into a glass and handed it to Miss Schmidt. “I spoke to Dr. Hall at home. He agrees the main thing is to get her to sleep. Tonight, at any rate.”

Miss Schmidt held the glass against Neely’s lips. “Drink it.”

Neely turned her head away. “I do nothing till I get out of here.”

“Drink it,” Miss Schmidt said softly. “You’ll fall asleep right away and we’ll take you out. I promise.”

Neely understood. They had said she wouldn’t leave the tub until she fell asleep, but they were giving her something to
make
her sleep. It was her victory. No barbiturates, huh? Well, what the hell was that smoky-looking stuff, an ice cream soda? She let Miss Schmidt pour the drink down her throat. She drained the glass dry.

Jesus! Now
this
was a recipe! She felt the effects instantly. It was marvelous! She stopped yelling. The most incredible feeling had come over her. They were taking off the canvas top . . . someone was rubbing her body with a Turkish towel . . . she was helped into a nightgown. . . .

“We’re full at Hawthorn,” Miss Schmidt said. “Miss O’Hara, can you understand? There is no private room left. We have to put you in a dormitory.”

Neely waved her hand. A bed . . . sleep . . . that’s all she wanted and she didn’t care where.

It was dark when she woke. Where in hell was she? In a long room with a lot of beds. Oh Geez, the funny farm! What time was it? She got out of bed. The nurse who sat outside the door jumped up. “Yes, Miss O’Hara?”

“What time is it?”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“I’m hungry.”

Some milk and crackers were immediately produced on a pretty tray. They let her sit on the bench in the hall. God forbid she should wake the other kooks. She finished the milk—now could she have a cigarette? She could not. They were polite, but she could not have a cigarette. Well, what were they gonna do? She wasn’t sleepy; besides, someone was snoring in the room. Miss Schmidt apologized. A private room would open in a few days.

Neely returned to her bed. A few days! She would leave as soon as it was daylight. They’d have to let her put in a call to Anne.

She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew there was great activity. Everyone was up. A nurse came in, a new one.

“Good morning, Miss O’Hara. Get up and make your bed. The bathroom is down the hall.”

“Make my bed!” Neely snapped. “Not at these prices, sister. I haven’t made my bed in fifteen years, and I don’t aim to start now.”

“I’ll do it for you.” A nice-looking girl with sandy hair rushed across the room. “My name’s Carole.”

“Why should you make my bed?” Neely asked as she watched the girl whip the sheets into order.

Carole smiled. “They’ll give you a black mark if they find it unmade. This is your first day. You’ll get with it.”

“What do I care about a black mark?” Neely asked.

“Well, you don’t want to stay in the Hawthorn Pavilion forever, do you? You want to move to Fir next, then Elm, then Ash, then the out-patient clinic.”

“Sounds like school.”

“It is in a way. This is the most disturbed ward. I was all the way up to Elm, but I . . . acted up. I’ve been at Hawthorn two months now. I hope to get transferred to Fir soon.”

Neely followed Carole into a large bathroom. There were about twenty women there, brushing their teeth and chattering. They were all ages. Some were in their forties; there was one lovely-looking woman about seventy; Carole was about twenty-five. There were six or seven girls her own age, and several who were even younger. They chattered like students in a school dormitory. Neely was given a toothbrush, and an attendant came over with a large box. “All right, girls, here’s your lipsticks.” Neely couldn’t believe her eyes. In the box were twenty lipsticks with names taped on. She saw her own; it had been taken from her bag and taped neatly. She used the lipstick and then handed it back to the attendant.

Then she was herded in line to get her clothes. An attendant handed her a bra, pants, flat loafers, skirt and blouse. To her amazement, they were
her
clothes, all name taped. She hadn’t packed them. Anne must have sent them by messenger during the night.

That meant Anne knew she wasn’t taking the sleep cure!

Her fear made her numb. She dressed slowly, trying to get some order out of her jumbled terror. She followed Carole into the large recreation room. The sun flooded through the windows, creating a false air of cheer. She looked at the clock. God, it was only seven-thirty! How could she get through this day?

Miss Schmidt had been replaced by a day nurse, Miss Weston. She was built on the same lines as Miss Schmidt, and the five or six young nurses leaped at her commands with the same alacrity. Neely joined everyone for breakfast. The dining room was bright and cheerful, with four women to a table and scurrying waitresses. She had decided not to eat, but the first whiff of the bacon and eggs reminded her she was hungry. She ate a large breakfast and trudged back with the others to the recreation room.

They were obviously well-bred kooks, she decided. She knew they recognized her, but they smiled at her politely and warmly, without making her feel self-conscious. She looked dreadful. The skirt needed a belt—there had been a belt, but they had removed it. Her hair was in strings and her knees were scraped, mementos of the night in the bathtub. She wished she felt the warm camaraderie and good humor the other girls seemed to share. They acted as if they liked the place!

Carole introduced her around. Geez, everyone seemed so sane and normal. She sat down, wondering what happened next. A nurse entered, and everyone surged around her. She was holding a box, and she called out every name, even “Miss O’Hara.” Neely went over. Geez, were they organized—even her package of cigarettes was labeled. The nurse handed each girl two cigarettes, and another nurse stood by to light them. Neely settled back and puffed gratefully at the first cigarette she had had in over twelve hours. The first draw made her dizzy, the second was satisfying and the third cleared her head. Imagine going without a cigarette since yesterday afternoon, she who smoked over two packs a day. She got up slowly, stabilized by the cigarette, and walked over to the desk where Miss Weston was sitting.

“I’d like to make a phone call,” she said. “Where do I go?”

“Phone calls aren’t allowed,” Miss Weston said pleasantly.

“Well, how do I reach my friends?”

“You are allowed to write letters.”

“Can I have a pen and some paper?”

The nurse looked at her watch. “I think it had better wait. The doctor is coming to see you in five minutes.”

“Dr. Hall?”

“No, Dr. Feldman. This is just a routine checkup.”

He was a medical doctor, not a nutcracker. He took some blood from her finger and her arm and checked her heart.

She asked a nurse to light her second cigarette. An attractive, dark-haired girl came over. “Don’t let the checkup bother you. They do that to make sure you’re healthy. It would be embarrassing to have you die of cancer or something while they were taking care of your brain.”

Neely looked at the girl. She could be beautiful with proper makeup, she felt. Her bone structure was good and her black eyes flashed. She must have had a good figure once, though now she was quite heavy. Neely judged her to be about thirty years old.

The girl sat down. She was holding a square box. “I’m Mary Jane. Let me break you in—when you get to gym, buy a box of writing paper. It costs a dollar.”

“But I have no money.”

Mary Jane smiled. “You charge everything—it’s put on your bill. But you can use it as a kind of pocketbook.” She opened her box. There was writing paper in it—and a pack of cigarettes.

“Where did you get—”

The girl silenced her with a quick gesture. “On visiting days, you’re allowed to sit with your visitors and chain smoke. Get whoever visits you to bring a carton. Then you hide it, and in smoking periods you can smoke a dozen.”

“But they light you up. They’ll notice if you smoke more than two.”

“The nurses are wise. You can always cadge a light from someone else’s cigarette. That’s allowed. It’s just matches we loonies aren’t allowed to have. But the nurses don’t care how many we smoke. They figure we have to have some pleasure in life.”

Neely smiled. “You’re not a loony, are you?”

“No, I came here to get even with my husband, only it backfired. He’s a bastard—loads of money—and he got himself another girl. He wanted a divorce, so I pretended to go ape—you know, have a nervous collapse. It was the biggest mistake of my life.”

“Why?”

“All I did was take a few pills—three pills—and leave a phony suicide note. The next thing I know, I’m in Bellevue. Boy, you could really go crazy there. Real nuts around you, screaming and carrying on. I guess then I actually flipped from fright. I began to scream and wound up in a straitjacket. So, since my husband could afford it, I came here. Signed myself in. Then, when I wanted to leave, he had me committed. I’ve been here five months. I was at Elm House officially, which was pretty good. You can smoke there and wear belts, even use more makeup. But when I learned he had committed me, I got hysterical, threw a tantrum. So here I am at Hawthorn. And I warn you—play ball with them. I didn’t. I threw tantrums every day, refused to eat, refused to cooperate. I spent three weeks in the damn bathtub. You have to play along. There’s only one way—
their
way. I’m being an angel, and soon I’ll get moved to Fir. A while there, then Elm, then Ash, then the out-patient cottage . . . then out for good.”

Neely was suddenly cold with fear. “But that sounds like months.”