Music in the Night by V. C. Andrews
"You have to take your medication. Besides, you told Doctor Scanlon you would. Why are you being obstinate now?"
"I'm afraid," I said. "Too many drugs might burn out my mind."
"That's ridiculous. Who told you such a thing?" She turned to Clare, who was hurrying to clean up the bathroom and leave.
"No one told me," I said. "I'm just afraid."
"I'll stand here all night if necessary until you take your medication. And if you don't, we'll have an I.V. hooked to your arm and we'll feed them to you intravenously," she warned.
"But they make me so groggy. I'm already exhausted just from that little walk," I moaned.
She held out the pills, her expression
unchanging and unsympathetic.
"Are you going to take these pills voluntarily?" she finally asked.
Reluctantly, I took them from her. She watched me wash them down, her hands on her hips, her eyes beady.
"Strap her in," she said.
"But Doctor Scanlon said I don't need to be strapped in. He promised," I cried.
"As head nurse I have to make decisions on the spur of the moment if necessary. You just said the walking made you tired. I don't think you'll be safe tonight without being strapped in," she said.
"Look at my legs, how red they are," I said.
"That's nothing compared to what could happen if you fall on your face. Strap her in," she
commanded.
Clare moved quickly to obey her.
"I want to see Doctor Scanlon," I demanded.
"He'll be here tomorrow at his usual hour."
"I want to see him now!"
"Don't raise your voice to me, young lady. Your grandmother might be paying for your treatments and making big donations, but you're still a guest of this clinic. We don't take just anyone--no matter who they are," she said and marched out of my room.
Clare gave me a look of sympathy and then quickly followed after her.
"I want to see the doctor!" I shouted at the nearly closed door.
No one returned or responded.
Soon, the pills began to take effect again. My eyes drooped and I felt weaker. It was futile to struggle against them. Sleep and remember, I thought. Sleep and remember who you are and then you will be free.
Vaguely, I thought about something Mrs. Roundchild had said . . . something about my grandmother. What did all that mean? That was my last conscious thought.
I knew the dosage Mrs. Roundchild had given me was considerably greater, as Doctor Scanlon had promised, because I didn't wake during the night. Lawrence had been in my room, too. I knew because when I woke, I found a tissue in my hand with the words "I love you. Guess who--" scribbled on it. It made me smile, but also put fear in my heart because I was afraid someone would find it. I quickly crumbled the tissue into a ball and put it in my bedpan. No one would want to look at it now, I thought.
Doctor Scanlon didn't come to see me the entire day. I kept asking about him, but as usual, neither nurse's aide knew anything and Mrs. Roundchild simply said, "He'll be here when he'll be here."
The only thing I could count on regularly was my medication. They had me taking it twice now, once in the morning, once at night. The night dosage affected me just the way it had the night before. Soon after I took it, I was asleep, but this time, my dream woke me, or at least I thought I woke.
Once again, I saw a hand come out of the ocean and then a head began to rise to the surface. When I saw his eyes, I started to scream. He was sinking again and I was struggling to reach him. I heard his voice. I heard him say, "Help me, Laura. Help me. I want to be with you always. Help me. Come to me."
I felt his lips on my face and reached out to embrace him and cradled his head against my breast where he could fall asleep safely. Just before morning, I woke with a start. I wasn't imagining it now. I did feel something against my breast and turned to see Lawrence, his head resting on me, his body curled up beside me.
"Lawrence," I cried. His eyes fluttered. "When did you come? I don't remember."
"I was here, Laura. I've been here for hours and hours."
"They're giving me more medicine, Lawrence. It makes me so tired. I'm afraid not to take it, I'm afraid of what might happen to me. Lawrence," I said, seizing his hand, "Megan, Megan wasn't transferred to another hospital. She's here. She's in what they call the Zombie Ward. I saw her. She looks terrible."
"Zombie Ward? I know about that place. She's really that bad?"
"I almost didn't recognize her. She looked so wild she frightened me. Oh, Lawrence," I moaned, "what if that happens to me? What if the medicine and my dreams drive me mad? Don't let them put me in that place."
He shook his head sharply.
"Never. I'll never let them lock you away in there."
"If only I remembered everything they would let me go," I said with a small sob.
"I think it's happening, Laura. I heard you cry out in your sleep for someone, someone you were losing. That must be your traumatic experience, the event that caused your illness," he said.
"You did? Who was it? Did I say a name?"
He hesitated.
"I'm afraid to tell you. After what you just told me, I'm afraid of doing something wrong," he said.
"You've got to tell me. I can't stand this emptiness, this darkness. Please. Whom did I cry for?"
"It was the same name I heard you say before." I thought a moment.
"I can't remember what I said before, Lawrence. The medicine that they're giving me has already turned my mind into a glob of mush. Whose name did I call out?" I repeated more firmly. "You must tell me, Lawrence. I don't want to end up like Megan. Please.".
"Someone named Robert," he replied.
The sound of his name took my breath away. I stared at Lawrence.
"I think it was someone you cared for very much," he said sadly.
"Yes. Yes," I said, seeing the darkness begin to retreat and the light begin to slip in from behind the cloud of my memory. "He was. He is."
And I knew that today, today I would
remember everything. I was filled with mixed emotions, anxious, terrified, and yet hopeful it would mean the end of my ordeal. Finally I would be free.
16
Reunited
.
"I hate to leave you," Lawrence said.
Through the slight opening in my window
curtain, we could see the dawn beginning. The light that cleared away the darkness gave me hope that something similar would happen to the darkness in me as well.
"You have to go, Lawrence. I'll be all right now," I said, smiling. "I will. Somehow," I said, my eyes shifting as I gazed ahead, "I know I will."
"I wish they wouldn't give you so much medicine. It doesn't seem right," he worried aloud. He leaned over and kissed me softly on my forehead and then smiled. "I'll see you later," he promised, squeezing my hand and walking toward the door. He paused to check the hallway and in moments, he was gone.
"Robert," I whispered in the silence that followed. It was as if my lips were trying on the word to see if it fit. "Robert."
I closed my eyes and a series of pictures rolled maddeningly by. I concentrated, slowing them down until I saw my family clearly, heard their voices clearly, the sounds of their laughter, their chatter at dinner, Daddy reading from the Bible, and then-- Cary. His name emerged in a bubble rising out of the confusion, and with his name came a litany of his words: his compliments and his complaints, his warnings and his hopes.
A small sailboat bobbed on the surface of a pond. I understood it to be one of Cary's models. I had memories of him working hard on them, hunched over his table with his soldering gun and his glues, his fingers turning and fitting the miniature parts into their tiny places. I realized I was remembering his workroom. With each memory, each vivid picture, my home was returning. I saw my own room, my stuffed animals, my beautiful, beautiful bed. I saw Mommy in the kitchen making a delicious clam chowder. I saw Daddy sitting in his favorite c
I saw myself running up to the front door and tugging on the door knob when it didn't turn. The door wouldn't open. Why was it locked? I pounded and called.
"MOMMY! DADDY! CARY!"
No one came to the door. I turned and looked
around desperately, but instead of seeing my front yard, I saw the sailboat, only now it began to grow larger. The pond became the ocean. Someone was in the boat, steering it toward shore. He was calling to me, beckoning. The boat drew closer and closer until I saw him vividly, my Robert.
"Laura," he was calling. "Come back. Laura . . ."
Now I was running down the beach toward the boat, but the more I ran, the farther away it became. I ran harder and began to call to him. I seemed to run over the same sand repeatedly, never making any progress as he continued to call and to beckon.
"What's wrong with you?" I heard someone ask and instantly all my memories evaporated. Mrs. Roundchild stood by the side of my bed with my medication in hand, gazing down at me. "Why are you crying?"
"I . . . can remember lots of things now. I remember my family and my home," I said. "And I remember Robert and a boat and--"
"That's good. Here," she said, "take your medicine. Clare's bringing your breakfast."
"Maybe I shouldn't take any more medicine now," I said. "Now that I'm really remembering things, maybe it's better I have a clear mind."
"Why is it everyone wants to be a doctor here?" she asked, almost with a smile. "I'm sorry, but you have to spend a little time in medical school first."
"I'm not trying to be a doctor, but it just feels right that I shouldn't take anything."
"Really? Well, up until now, has Doctor Scanlon been wrong? Haven't you begun to remember things and do it in a fashion where you don't hurt yourself or get mentally incapacitated? Isn't that true?"
"Yes," I said "I suppose."
"You suppose? Well, I know. I've been a head nurse on this floor for nearly five years now and I've seen many, many different kinds of illness, a number of cases similar to your own. I've seen Doctor Scanlon treat them successfully, too. So, I don't have to suppose," she said.
Tears filled my eyes once more.
"I just want to go home," I said.
"You will if you do what you're told." She paused for a moment, her expression softening. "I don't mean to be cruel to you, Laura, but I must be firm. I have an awesome job here. I am responsible for a number of people who are not able to be responsible for themselves. Many of these people have and will continue to hurt themselves if I don't follow doctor's orders in regards to them. There is a lot to do and little time to do it. Everyone needs specialized, personal treatment. It makes it hard to waste time, do you understand?"
"Yes," I said in a small voice.
"Good. Then take your medicine. Doctor Scanlon will be here to evaluate you and your progress and we'll see what he wants to do after that."
With trembling fingers, I plucked the pills out of the cup and put them in my mouth. She handed me the glass of water and I swallowed them down.
"Very good," she said. "Your breakfast is on its way."
She left the room and moments later, Clare arrived with my tray. She raised my bed and moved the table over me.
"I'm getting better," I told her. "I'm
remembering things quickly now. I'll be able to go home."
"That's nice. I'd like to have less to do," she said. She paused. "But whenever someone leaves the floor or gets moved to the Zombie Ward, there's always someone else to take their place. I heard they have a waiting list as long as my arm," she added.
"Can you find out about a patient for me? Can you find out about Megan Paxton?"
"They don't like me asking about patients. If anyone working here is caught talking about the patients, they could be fired instantly," she said. "I gotta get breakfast to the others," she added before I could plead with her any more. She quickly left the room.
I sighed with disappointment and frustration and began to pick at my breakfast. I ate what I could, then closed my eyes, and dozed off. When I woke, my bed had been lowered and my tray taken away. I stared at the white ceiling.
Robert's face began to form on the white background. It looked like he was emerging from a cloud. I saw his soft eyes and gentle smile. Strands of his light brown hair fell over his forehead. He was laughing and then suddenly, the white background began to whirl around him. His head started to spin along with it and the white ceiling turned into water. His arm emerged, his hand reaching out for me.
"Laura . ."
I screamed.
Maybe I fainted. Maybe I fell back to sleep. I don't know, but when I woke this time, Doctor Scanlon was seated beside the bed. He had just taken my pulse and was making some notes on his pad. He looked very calm, so calm that I couldn't imagine he heard me scream.
Suddenly, I noticed there were two younger men in doctor's hospital coats standing at the foot of the bed looking at me. Both carried clipboards. One had dark brown hair and wore glasses; the other had longer, light brown hair and light blue eyes. He was taller and wider.
"Hello, Laura," Doctor Scanlon said. "This is Doctor Fernhoff and Doctor Bloom. They're both interns, studying with me. From time to time, they'll each look in on you, too. So," he continued, "Mrs. Roundchild tells me you've remembered a lot more about your family and your home. Is that so?"
I nodded.
"Good. Now, let's talk a bit about those memories. Were they all pleasant?"
I shook my head.
"I see. What was unpleasant?" he asked.
I gazed at the two interns. Doctor Fernhoff, the man with the glasses, was staring at me so intently, I felt self-conscious.
"I . . remember . . . there was someone," I said, "someone I cared for and something happened to him."
"Yes," Doctor Scanlon said. He glanced at the two interns. Neither cracked an encouraging smile nor changed expression. "Go on. What happened to him?"
"I think . . . it has to do with the ocean. He was in a sailboat."
"Yes, go on, go on," he urged, as if he were playing a tug-of-war with my mind.
"I don't know. I. . . think he might have fallen out of the boat,"
I gazed at Doctor Bloom. Something in his softer face told me I wasn't far off.
"What else do you think, Laura? You must tell me what you remember and what you believe happened."
"He and I were in the boat," I said, "and I think we were caught in a storm. Is he all right?"
"Who?" Doctor Scanlon pursued. "Who is this person in the boat with you?"
"Robert," I said and it all tumbled out. "Robert Royce, a boy from my school."
Doctor Scanlon sat back, a look of satisfaction on his face.
"That's good, Laura," he said, nodding. "You've come a long way."
"But is he all right?"
"Is he?" Doctor Scanlon fired back at me.
"I don't know. I can't remember," I cried frantically. "He's not all right. He can't be all right. Please, say I'm wrong. Tell me!" I begged.
"You must not think of it as your fault," he said.
"Why would it be my fault? Was it my fault? What did I do?" I demanded.
"That's enough for now," he declared with finality. He gathered up his charts and stood.
"No, it's not enough. How can it be enough? You've hardly been here five minutes."
"The length of time I'm here isn't what's important. It's what happens during the time I'm here," he said, as if I were one of his interns, too.
"I can't remember everything, but I remember a lot. Can't you help me remember it all, finally?"
"I think it's best we take it one step at a time, Laura. Tomorrow is another day," he declared with a regal air. His two interns made quick notes on their clipboards as he turned to them.
"I
"Perhaps they will very soon," he said. "Classic case," he said, nodding at me. The two interns widened their eyes and pressed their lips
simultaneously. "As you know," he lectured to them, "dissociative amnesia most commonly presents a retrospectively reported gap or series of gaps in recall for aspects of the individual's life history. As illustrated here, these gaps are usually related to traumatic or extremely stressful events."
"It's a common battle-fatigue syndrome," Doctor Fernhoff said.
"Precisely. However, today, we're seeing it more and more with early childhood abuse. I'd like you both to keep a close observation on this case. She's on the verge of crashing through her trauma and the immediate aftermath is most instructive."
They nodded and stared at me. I felt like an amoeba under a microscope. The way their eyes fixed on my face made me cringe.
"I want to go home," I moaned.
"We have to deal with the patient's perception of the event," Doctor Scanlon continued. "It's critical we deal with her sense of guilt as soon as she recalls nearly one hundred percent, for it is precisely that sense of guilt that put her into dissociative amnesia. Again, classic symptoms for classic cases, i.e., mothers who survive accidents when their children don't, husbands or wives who survive, et cetera.
"I'm giving her a series of EEGs. As you know," he continued in his teacher's voice, "regions of the brain that are involved in memory function also affect the stress response. Traumatic stress results in changes in these brain regions; alterations in these brain regions in turn may mediate symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder.
"Unfortunately," he continued, looking at me, "Doctor Southerby neglected to give her an EEG on admittance, so we lost a potential comparison there, but . . ." He smiled at them. "We'll make the best of it."
He gestured at the door and they turned.
"Please let me go home," I cried. Why wouldn't they answer me?
"Our next patient is a more classic case of child abuse," he rattled on as they walked away. "We have a twelve-year-old Caucasian male . . ."
I watched them leave the room and then I dropped my head to the pillow because it suddenly felt like it had turned to stone.