Valley of the Dolls by Jacqueline Susann
“Who the hell are you to tell me when I can smoke?” she screamed. “This is no charity ward. This place costs money—I want to be treated with respect.”
“We respect you, Miss O’Hara. But in turn, you must respect the rules of Haven Manor.”
“I don’t follow rules. I make the rules! I’m Neely O’Hara.”
“We know that. We all admire your work very much.”
“Then do as I say!” she demanded.
“We follow orders from Dr. Hall and Dr. Archer.”
“Well, call Dr. Hall!” She turned her back on the nurse. She felt a gnawing terror. Maybe this Dr. Hall was trying to pull a double cross. No, she was just scared, that’s all. There was just some mixup. Dr. Hall wouldn’t dare. Why, if Anne and Kevin found out there’d be hell to pay!
Ten minutes later the nurse returned. “Miss O’Hara, if you’d like to smoke before dinner, please come out. There are only ten more minutes left.”
“I won’t join those kooks!”
The nurse disappeared. Neely began to pace. Boy, she sure needed this sleep cure. She needed some dolls—her hands were shaking. Geez, lately it was getting so she needed a couple of dolls every hour just to keep calm. But the sleep cure would break the habit. Dr. Massinger thought she had just built up this tolerance. Geez, after Spain, what were twenty or thirty dolls a day? But it was lucky she’d left, or she mighta really gotten sick. Damn that Dr. Madera—he had given her that first shot of Demerol. . . . Oh, God, that was an exquisite feeling. It had removed all cares. After the first shot, she had lain in bed for six hours, feeling a silken happiness and a sense of well-being such as she had never known. She felt she could sing better than ever; reach notes that weren’t even there; remain thin without the green dolls; act better than ever.
Of course, when it wore off she felt lousy. How could she face another day, another lover, another party? But there was always Dr. Madera to fix her “bad back.” She had learned that on the movie set in Hollywood—claim a bad back. X-rays can’t pinpoint it; studio doctors can examine you and can’t dispute it. It had often brought her a few days’ release from work. It had worked with Dr. Madera, too—only Demerol was Dr. Madera’s contribution. They never gave that in Hollywood. And Dr. Madera had been very generous with the Demerol. Gave her three shots a day for a whole wonderful year.
After a short time she didn’t just lie in bed. She could function with the Demerol. She’d get up and go nightclubbing, and sing—she never sang better. The picture she had made in Spain—Geez, if only it had gotten an American release. She had reached a new peak in it; she had been thin and vibrant—you didn’t want to eat as long as you had Demerol—and her eyes had been like burning coals. Sure, that was because the pupils went so big and black, dilated from the Demerol. But her voice . . . clear and pure.
Then there’d been the money situation, the wire from California. Ted was going to sue for custody of the twins if she didn’t return and take care of them. As if she’d let her sons live with that whore he married! And then, to top everything, Jennifer’s suicide. She had had to leave Spain—and the Demerol. The dolls helped, but now she needed so many—at least thirty a day. Thirty Seconals . . . God, she had only had about six today, and the last had been two hours ago. Where in hell was Dr. Hall? When did this thing begin?
A nurse came to inform her that dinner was being served. Would she please come to the dining room? She would not! “I want a cigarette and some Seconals—at least six—to last until Dr. Hall starts this sleep cure.”
She flopped on the bed. Her throat was parched. Geez, a drink, anything . . . This two-by-four cage was beginning to crowd in on her. If something didn’t happen soon she’d just walk out of here. They couldn’t stop her—it wasn’t like she was in jail. She heard footsteps. She sat up. Maybe now they were going to put this show on the road. A nurse appeared, carrying a dinner tray. “Miss O’Hara, if you wish to eat in your room—”
The nurse never had a chance to finish the sentence. Neely’s patience snapped. She picked up the tray and hurled it across the room. The nurse ducked. Another one came running. Neely exploded with rage. “I don’t want to eat and I don’t want to socialize. I just want to sleep. Now get me my cigarettes—and give me the sleep cure this minute or I’m leaving. I’ve had enough!”
One nurse, who seemed more important than the others, took charge. “Miss O’Hara, there is no sleep cure.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have checked with Dr. Hall. No sleep cure, no barbiturates. You are going to get well with psychiatry and therapy.”
“I’m leaving!” Neely started for the door, but she was restrained by four arms.
“Get your filthy hands off me!” she screamed. “Let me alone!” She started flailing at them with her fists.
A nurse started shouting orders. “Take her to Hawthorn!”
“I’m going home!” Neely screamed. More nurses appeared, and Neely found herself being dragged down a hall. It couldn’t be happening! She, Neely O’Hara, being dragged by four nurses. And this unearthly screaming—it was coming from her! But she wasn’t having a fit, she was just goddam mad at this doublecross.
She fought them all the way—through halls, while doors were locked and unlocked, into another building, down another entrance hall. Two new nurses leaped to take charge. She was dragged down another hall, to another two-by-four room—but even in her fury she noticed the difference. This one had no carpet, no drapes, no bureau. Just a bed—like in a cell! She was deposited on the bed. Her slacks were torn. Thank God she had packed another pair.
A young nurse came and sat down beside her. “Come on now, Miss O’Hara, let’s have some dinner.”
“I want to go home!” Neely shouted.
“Let’s have dinner. Come on and meet the other patients.”
“I want to sleep.” Neely began to sob. She was trapped. She had never felt so trapped in her life. She looked toward the window. No bars . . . that was something. Just a screen, and screens could be cut—but with what? She dashed out of the room, ran into a large lounge. There were patients sitting around, quietly watching television. She looked around wildly. What would cut through a screen? She looked at the bookcase. It was stacked with books, puzzles . . . a chess set! She grabbed a pawn. It had a small head . . . if she poked it hard enough, it might cut through the screen. She ran back to her room clutching the chess piece.
The nurse was sitting on the bed, calmly watching. Let her watch, Neely thought. I’m stronger—let her try and stop me. She opened the window. The nurse didn’t budge. She tried the chess piece on the screen, poking, slashing, sobbing all the while. There must be a weak spot where it could poke through and rip. There had to be . . .
“It’s a steel screen,” the nurse said calmly. “And even if you broke out, you’d be on our grounds. We have twenty-five acres here. And the main gate is locked.”
Neely dropped the pawn. She sat on the edge of the bed and sobbed. The nurse tried to calm her, but her sobs grew more violent. She thought of Anne and Kevin. They were back in New York, probably thinking she was blissfully asleep. She thought of Anne’s apartment. Why hadn’t she stayed there? You could walk around there, light a cigarette whenever you wanted, take as many dolls as you wanted, have a drink. . . . She thought of Hollywood. The Head . . . who was he dictating to now? And Ted . . . It was earlier in California, maybe only three o’clock—and it was warm and the sun was shining. Ted was probably at the pool with his wife. And she, the great Neely O’Hara, she was locked in a fancy fruit farm! She sobbed louder.
She must have sobbed for an hour, because when she finally looked up it was dark outside. The head nurse appeared. She had a pin on her starched uniform that stated her name was Miss Schmidt. A big bull dyke—that’s what she looked like, Neely decided.
“Miss O’Hara, unless you get hold of yourself, we’ll have to do something to calm you.”
Okay, so that was the answer. She could get a few dolls or
In no time she had some action. The husky nurse reappeared.
“Come, Miss O’Hara, this has to stop. You are upsetting the other patients.”
“Let them all go fuck themselves!” Neely shrieked. Her screaming increased in volume.
Miss Schmidt gave a quick nod to the two nurses. They took Neely’s arms and hauled her down the hall. She fought, kicked, screamed—but she was outnumbered and overpowered. She found herself in a large bathroom. Miss Schmidt and the two nurses told her to undress.
“What! And give you dykes a big thrill!” she shouted. Miss Schmidt nodded her head and the two nurses forcibly undressed Neely. Naked, screeching, she was forced into a bathtub. A huge canvas top was hooked over it, leaving just her head exposed. A pillow was placed behind her head. A nurse sat at a table nearby, poised with a notebook and pencil.
Neely continued to scream. Actually the bath felt very good. She loved baths as a rule, loved to lie in one until her skin became waterlogged. And this bath was something special—water kept coming in and going out, bubbling all around her. The sensation was relaxing. She sifted these thoughts as she continued to scream.
Miss Schmidt returned and knelt at her side. Her eyes were kind. “Miss O’Hara, why not try and relax and let the bath do its work?”
“Get me out of here!” Neely screamed.
“You will stay in this tub until you stop yelling—or until you fall asleep.”
“Hah! There’s not enough water in this whole goddam state to put me to sleep!” Neely took a breath and shrieked into Miss Schmidt’s face.
“We’ve had patients in the tub for as long as fifteen hours,” Miss Schmidt answered. She stood up. “I’ll drop by in an hour. Maybe you’ll be more relaxed by then.”
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 th
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.