Music in the Night by V. C. Andrews
"What? What do you mean? Stop? Why should I stop?" I fired my questions like bullets that seemed to just bounce off his coldly analytical face.
"I don't like what's happening to you physically. It's classic. You're rushing back too quickly, I'm afraid. You're in danger of crashing into your trauma and that could cause irrevocable damage,
psychological damage. There are a number of similar cases in my ward for severely disabled patients. Some have become comatose and live off intravenous feeding, and some have to be led around like lobotomized people, mere shadows of themselves, never smiling, never laughing, blind and deaf, the walking dead. You don't want that to happen to you, do you?"
"No," I said, terrified. "Could something like that really happen to me?"
"Of course it could. I wouldn't tell you otherwise. I read here that you've already lost your ability to speak once. I'm telling you not to frighten you as much as get you to be more cooperative. I like a patient who wants to cooperate with his or her own treatment. It makes it easier for all of us, especially the patient."
He widened that short, tight smile.
"The brain is the most complex part of our bodies. There are layers and layers of conscious and unconscious thoughts. Your memories are like buried treasure right now," he continued, "and the pathways to them have been shut down. If we reach too quickly or too clumsily for them, they could fall deeper and deeper into the abyss. We must be very, very careful how we go forward."
He paused and flipped through the folder again, shaking his head with disapproval.
"I see that Doctor Southerby failed to prescribe any medication for you. From the way you've described your nights, I think it would be wiser at this stage if we did. I want to be very careful with you, Laura. You're very tender, very sensitive, raw at this moment, and we have medication that can cushion you, protect you."
"I don't like taking medications."
"No one likes taking them, except those who become addicted to them, of course," he added. He wrote something on a pad.
"Won't I ever see Doctor Southerby again?" I asked mournfully.
"Hopefully, you will be cured and gone by that time," he said. "I'm sure you'd like that better, wouldn't you? You do want to go home, home to that little sister who needs you, and your twin brother and your parents, who I am sure miss you."
"Well, where are they then?" I asked. "Why don't they come to see me?"
My question startled him.
"In your case, it is not advisable just yet. Too much too soon, as I said, could cause you to have a breakdown and do what I just described: drive your past even farther away."
"Why?"
He hesitated.
"I'm not sure it's wise to tell you that just yet." "I have to know. Why?" I insisted.
"Very well. It's because what happened to you is something you blame yourself for. You are the way you are because of guilt," he explained.
"So then, whatever happened was my fault? What did I do that was so terrible?"
"Maybe nothing," he said, "or maybe something that contributed to a tragedy," he continued. "You have to proceed in steps. First, gradually return to yourself and then deal with the guilt. Okay?"
"No. It's not okay. Why doesn't my family come to see me?" I exclaimed.
"There are frequent reports," he said.
"Reports? I would never be satisfied with only reports. Did I do something that hurt them? Is that why I suffer this guilt?"
"You know it's better if you make your own discoveries," he said rather dryly.
I thought for a moment. Could it be that my parents weren't any better than Lawrence's or Megan's?
"No, I don't want to wait anymore. I want to know everything, and now," I said.
"Miss Logan--"
"And I want to see Doctor Southerby. I have to see him. I have to tell him what's happened. He can help me. I know he can help me. Please." I started to cry, my sobs growing stronger, longer with every passing second.
"Miss Logan, get hold of yourself."
"WHY . . . DON'T MY PARENTS . . COME TO SEE ME?" I screamed.
He pushed a button on his desk and then he rose. The office door opened and Mrs. Kleckner and a male attendant came rushing in. The look in the attendant's eyes frightened me.
"We're acting out again," Doctor Scanlon announced, as though he and I were conspirators. "I think it would be better for now if she went upstairs."
"Upstairs?" I said, looking at them. "NO!"
I leaped up and stepped away from them, shaking my head.
"Easy," the attendant said, moving slowly toward me. "My name is Arnie. Don't worry, I'll take good care of you."
"I'm not going to the Tower!"
"Whoever gave that floor that ridiculous name?" Doctor Scanlon asked Mrs. Kleckner.
"One of our patients, I'm sure, Doctor." She turned to me. "Now, don't make this any harder on yourself than it has to be. You have to do what the doctor says. Come along," she said.
I shook my head.
"Please, I'll be good. I swear I'll be good. I'll go back to my room. I won't complain. I won't ask for Doctor Southerby anymore. Leave me alone. Please," I pleaded.
"Now, now, don't be afraid," Doctor Scanlon said. "We're here to help you, Laura. We won't let anything bad happen to you. You know, you have a grandmother, too, and she would be even more upset than your parents if we did anything to harm you," he added with a cold smile.
"My grandmother?"
Flashes of an older woman standing outside a car, looking in at me, shaking her head with disgust, returned. She had sent me here and I couldn't recall any expression of love in her angry face. What had I done to displease my whole family?
"NO!" I cried. "Stay away from me. Leave me alone." I held my hands out.
Arnie came around behind me and swiftly brought my arms down to my sides. I had little strength to fight him and soon he held me tightly in his grasp. Doctor Scanlon rushed around the desk and Mrs. Kleckner pulled up the sleeve on my blouse. I struggled and squirmed, but Arnie was too strong. Doctor Scanlon poked me with a syringe.
"You're going to be fine. Everything will be all right," he murmured. "Take it easy. Relax. That's it."
"My head," I moaned, "feels so heavy. It's felt so heavy all morning."
"That's right. Close your eyes. Get a wheelchair," he ordered.
Moments later, I felt myself being lowered into a wheelchair and then a strap was pulled tightly around my waist. Arnie's strong hand kept my shoulders back when I tried to sit forward.
"Just take it easy," Mrs. Kleckner said.
"Put her in three-oh-seven," Doctor Scanlon said.
As they began to wheel me away, I had barely enough strength to utter one last request.
"I want . . . Doctor Southerby. He can help me. I want to see him."
"I want, I want, I want," Mrs. Kleckner chanted behind me. "That's all you patients ever say."
Arnie laughed. I heard an elevator door open and opened my eyes as they wheeled me in. The door closed. Mrs. Kleckner smiled down at me.
"I knew this one belonged upstairs," she said.
And then, all went black.
15
I Remember You
.
When I opened my eyes again, I thought I was
still asleep, still dreaming. I felt like I was floating, hovering just above my bed, looking down at the empty shell of my body. My surroundings were white and sterile, more like an examination room. The walls were bare and the small windows had their dark gray curtains drawn closed so tightly they looked sewn together. The door of the room was slightly ajar and through the crack between it and the jamb came the only light, a dull, yellowish glow.
My bed smelled strongly of starch. The sheet was stiff and tucked tightly around me. Because my pillow was so soft, my head was barely raised. When I turned to look around the room, I saw there was a table with a long top drawer and a counter of some imitation wood beside the bed. On it was an ivorywhite bedp
When I tried to sit up, I was shocked to discover I was strapped down, thick belts of leather across the top of my body, just under my breasts, my arms tucked against my sides, and another belt across my legs. I could barely move.
It put a hot ball of panic in my stomach that rolled from side to side.
"Help me!" I cried. "Someone, please."
I waited, but heard nothing, no footsteps, no voices, nothing. I cried out again, waited, and cried out once more. The silence was maddening. Wasn't there anyone else here? My struggle against the straps was futile, even painful. I sighed deeply and gave up, closing my eyes and whimpering softly.
I must have fallen asleep again, because when I opened my eyes, I heard water running in the sink. There was someone in my bathroom.
"Who's there?" I called.
Moments later a tall, thin woman with rustcolor hair stepped out. I could see her shoulder bones outlined against her white uniform. She had long arms with jutting wrist bones and very long hands, hands that looked strong and capable. When she circled the bed and came around on my right, I could see her face more clearly.
She looked half asleep herself, her eyelids drooping so that there were barely two slits revealing small hazel pupils. She had a long thin nose and a very wide mouth above a cleft chin. She reminded me of Mary Beth and I wondered if she were suffering from anorexia, too. If so, why wasn't she a patient instead of an employee?
She didn't seem impressed with the fact that I was awake. She moved about the room as if she had been taking care of me for weeks and weeks. It made me wonder just how long I had been here. Without greeting me, in fact barely looking at me, she placed the basin of water on the table and pulled back the sheet to undo the straps.
"You have to sit up. I'm going to wash you down a bit," she mumbled. Her voice was so deep it sounded almost manly. This close to me, I could see tiny black hairs curled at the side of her chin. "And then I'll give you something to eat," she said.
As she spoke, she avoided looking directly at me.
"What happened to me?" I asked. "Why was I strapped into bed?"
She paused and finally glanced at me.
"I don't know," she said and continued undoing the straps. "Can you sit up by yourself?" she asked.
"Where am I? Who are you?"
"My name is Clare. You're in room three-ohseven," she said. "Can you sit up please."
I thought hard and vaguely recalled the events that led to my being brought upstairs.
"I need to see Doctor Southerby," I said. "Can you tell him Laura Logan needs to see him as soon as possible? It's very important."
"I'm just a nurse's aide," she said. "I don't tell anyone anything."
She began to wash my right hand and my arm with as much interest as she would have in washing a dirty dish.
"I can do that myself," I said, anger rushing in to replace fear. "Why was I strapped down in bed? Why can't I get up and walk around? Can't I just take a shower or a bath?"
She kept washing and rinsing as if I hadn't said a word. My anger began to simmer my blood into a rolling boil.
"Can't you tell me anything?" I demanded as forcefully as I could.
She paused.
"I have some meat loaf, mashed potatoes, peas and carrots, some bread, apple juice, and strawberry Jell-O."
"What?"
"That's your supper," she said. "That's all I can tell you. That's all I know."
She started on my other hand and arm. I pulled it back abruptly.
"I said I can wash myself."
She held the cloth a moment and then shrugged.
"Here. Do it. I'll get your food," she said and dropped the cloth in my hand before turning and walking out of the room. I put the cloth on my face and took a deep breath.
I have to get out of here, I thought. I have to find Doctor Southerby and get out of here. I put my legs over the bed and stood. My whole body swayed like the pendulum in a grandfather's clock.
Nevertheless, I turned to the closet, hoping to find my clothes. At the moment, I was wearing a loose hospital gown and was barefoot. The tile floor felt like ice beneath my feet. Taking a deep breath, I stepped away from the bed and walked to the closet. However, when I opened the door, I looked in at empty hangers. There were no clothes, no shoes, nothing but a layer of fine dust.
"What are you doing out of bed? Get back in, quick, or I'll get fired," the tall woman cried. She had my tray of food in her hands and moved across the room to the table quickly. As I turned, she took hold of my arm to help me back. The room spun around me.
"Why am I so dizzy? What did they give me? My legs feel like rubber."
"I don't know anything about medicines. Just get into the bed."
"Why don't you know anything if you work here? Where's the doctor? I need to talk to someone who knows something," I moaned.
She practically lifted me onto the bed, tucking the blanket around me. My head fell back against the pillow.
"I'll crank the bed up for you," she said and pushed a button that raised my head and upper torso until I was nearly in a seated position. Then she moved the tray table so the food was in front of me. "Can you feed yourself, or do you want me to feed you?"
"I can eat by myself," I said. "I can do everything for myself if you people will just let me."
"Good. I got two other patients on this floor and neither can do much for themselves. They can't even wipe their own noses most of the time and they're not much older than you."
She started away from the bed and then stopped and returned to fasten the straps over my legs.
"Please, can't you leave them undone?" I asked.
"You might fall out and then get fired," she said.
"Why do you work here if they'll fire you for anything that happens?" I asked.
She finally smiled.
"It's a good job. They pay me more than I can make most anywhere else, and there's just me and my mother now. She's too old to do anything for herself and she doesn't get much social security."
"How long have I been here? You can tell me that at least," I said.
She shrugged.
"Not more than a day, because. I would have seen you before," she said.
We heard the sound of footsteps in the hall.
"Uh-oh," she said, her face whitening with fear. "That's Doctor Scanlon making his rounds along with Mrs. Roundchild. She cracks the whip here."
A woman of about forty with hair the color of pencil lead turned into the doorway, a step ahead of Doctor Scanlon. She had gray eyes and a narrow face with a strong, full mouth and a nose so straight it could be used as a ruler. She wore a dark blue cardigan sweater with pearl buttons over her uniform. I thought she had a nicely shaped figure and a rich complexion. However, all that was feminine and soft about her body was negated by the firmness in her lips and the piercing chill in her eyes.
"What are you doing?" she asked Clare.
"I was just on my way to three-oh-four. I got her settled with her dinner and---."
"Well then, get on with it. See to the others. They can't complain for themselves, you know." Her words were sharply pronounced with an English accent.
"Yes, Mrs. Roundchild."
"Wait. Why is that closet door open?" she demanded, nodding at it.
"Closet door? Oh." Clare looked at me, her eyes frantic. She reminded me of some small creature looking for a way to escape.
"I was trying to find my clothes," I said. "I want to go back downstairs, Doctor Scanlon," I explained, turning my attention to him.
"You will," he said. "Soon."
Mrs. Roundchild spun on Clare.
"You let her get off the bed and open the closet?" "When I went to get her food, she did it herself," Clare said.
"You undid the straps and left the room?" Mrs. Roundchild practically lunged at Clare.
"She wanted to wash herself, so I thought to save time, I would go get her food and--"
"I know, but--"
"There are no buts when it comes to
regulations. You've been here long enough to know that."
"It's not her fault," I said. "I insisted I wash myself." Mrs. Roundchild considered me.
"It's admirable that you want to take the blame, but it's not honest now, is it?"
"Yes it is," I said.
"Are you a liar?"
"What? No, I just . . . it was my fault. I told her I would wash myself."
"She knows she's supposed to be in charge, not you. Why are you still standing here, Clare?" She swung around to look at the meek woman paused in the doorway.
"I'm sorry," Clare whined and hurried out.
Doctor Scanlon approached the bed with Mrs. Roundchild right beside him.
"That's good, you're eating," he said, nodding at my food. I hadn't touched a morsel.
"I'm not hungry," I said. "Doctor Scanlon, why can't I go back downstairs? Why am I being kept here?"
"You have to remain under strict observation for a while, Laura. Here, you can get more personal treatment," he added and glanced at Mrs. Roundchild.
"I don't need more personal treatment. I was doing fine until you wanted to start giving me some drug," I complained.
"First, it's not just some drug, Laura. I'm giving you something that's designed to keep you from being too anxious and having a bad reaction to your returning memories," he explained calmly. "Second, I really don't think you're in a position to know what's best for you."
He glanced at Mrs. Roundchild, who looked like she disapproved of his taking the time to defend his decision.
"I want my clothes," I moaned. "And I don't want to be strapped into bed like this."
"The medications I'm giving you can have some side effects, Laura. They can disorient you sometimes. This is just to protect you."
"I feel like a prisoner," I cried, the tears gathering under my lids and making my eyes watery and my vision hazy.
"You're now a prisoner. You're a patient, and we're here to help you get better. Mrs. Roundchild is one of the two specially trained head nurses who run this floor. I have the greatest confidence in her. She will see to all your needs."