One Dead Under the Cuckoo's Nest (5 page)

I got teary-eyed at that thought and grabbed the clothing. While I shoved on the hospital johnny coat with blue cotton pants, I said, “I want to go home.” The damn top only had a few ties in the back to hold it together. You know, the kinds of backless gowns that patients in hospitals wore. Who ever came up with these “fashionable” outfits? I know they were used so patients couldn't pretend to be a visitor and try to escape. Not in this attire.

Sister rubbed my arm. “Your doctor is due here any minute, child. Why don't you relax until then? Have your breakfast with the other patients.”

As I followed her to the communal dining room, I got a load of the unit. Not too drab-looking out here in the patient lounge, with colorful red, blue, and yellow printed wallpaper. Some nice landscape paintings like the ones sold at starving artists' shows hung on the walls above vinyl couches and seats sans pillows (obviously so patients wouldn't smother each other).

I figured since this was a private institution, it was kept up pretty nicely. The patients had to have damn good insurance or their own money to come here. I knew private places like this were not cheap.

When we got to the doorway, Sister Wacky stepped to the side—and I got a load of the patient population here.

Yikes!

And I thought the bunch in
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
were weirdos. Jack Nicholson would seem normal compared to this group. I looked at the staff standing around the room, half expecting to see Nurse Ratched.

No Nurse Ratched here. Only a hippie-type girl, with stringy, long brown hair and tight jeans, waiting by the
door. A very young-looking nun who had on a different type of habit stood nearby. Wait. I recognized her as a novice, in her black skirt and white blouse. Most likely a nursing-student nun, here for training. Hmm, maybe she could be my ticket out of here.

Sister Wacky gave me a little nudge. “Hurry in, child, or there won't be any food left.”

“No shit, Madonna,” a rough-looking teenager said from her seat near us. “Get the whacko some runny freaking eggs and burnt bacon.” She pushed her dish so hard, it slid off the other end of the table.

The hippie hurried over while the room burst out in an uproar. “Nice one, Ruby! Now it's off to solitary for you.” She grabbed Ruby with such force, it sure as hell shocked me. Ruby, however, cursed and yanked her shoulder free.

“Get your freaking hands off of me, Jennifer, before my old man sues you for molesting me.”

A beautiful blonde girl, who'd been on the other side of Ruby's dish, brushed her lap off with a napkin. “You'd need witnesses for that, Ruby, and none of us here saw a thing. Did we?” She eyed the crowd.

Several who'd been screeching about the mess calmed down and nodded, as if the girl had some kind of control over them. Hmm. Interesting.

Ruby spit at her. “I'm really scared, Jackie Dee. Ohhhhhh. You've got all these crazies on your side. Big shit.”

“Let's go, Ruby. And stop causing trouble amongst the patients,” said Jennifer—who must have been a psychiatric assistant—as she pushed her toward the door.

Sister Wacky made the sign of the cross and looked at me. “The courts cause so much trouble for us with these wealthy drug-addicted children.” Another sign of the cross. “It's either here or jail, and since their parents can afford the high cost, they always come here.”

I nodded and decided Sister Wacky must have gotten some good chemistry from me to slipand discuss another patient. Patient? Now I was thinking of myself as a patient.

Jagger was a dead man.

The scrambled eggs weren't nearly as runny as Ruby had said they were. Nope. They stuck to the inside of my mouth as if my saliva had dried up. Of course, maybe I'd lost my appetite after finding myself held captive here. That'd sure do it.

I took a drink of the milk they'd given me to wash down what I could while scanning the room for a means of escape. When I looked at Jackie Dee, I gasped.

An older lady sitting near me leaned over, “Jackie Dee pulls out her own hair.”

I wanted to say, “no kidding” when I'd noticed she had a gigantic, monklike bald spot on the back of her head, but merely nodded.

“Eats it too,” the lady added.

My milk sputtered out onto my dish of eggs. No great loss. The novice nun looked at me with a frown.

“Oh, boy. You've pissed off Novitiate Lalli,” the woman said, moving away from me. “I'm Myra Jackson, by the way. Depression. Two attempts at suicide. Call me Miss Myra. Lalli is spelled L—a—l—l—i.”

“I'm—” Damn. Who was I supposed to be? “Pauline. Mistaken identity.”

Miss Myra gave me a “yeah, sure” look.

Novitiate Lalli stood above me. “We don't spit out our food here. If a patient can't behave, as in the case of Ruby Montgomery, they are taken out of the dining room. Is that clear?”

Tight ass was pretty clear, but I smiled and nodded. “Yes, ma'am.”

“I'm Sister Appolonaria LaPierre. Novitiate Lalli for short.”

“Pauline Sokol.” I held out my hand. She raised her eyebrow.

“Nice to meet you, Mary Louise Huntington.”

I clucked my tongue.

There went her eyebrow again.

“Yeah. Nice.” I wiped up my mess with the napkin from my lap. Now I really had no appetite. I tried to sit quietly when one of the nurses announced it was time to count the “sharps.” I remembered from my days as a student nurse that the psychiatric patients couldn't leave the dining room until all the knives, forks, and anything sharp were accounted for. Risky group with a sharp in their possession.

A quiet-looking woman across the table stared at me. For a second I was glad the sharps had been turned in. But I noticed a faint smile and a pleading look in her eyes. She shifted in her seat and mouthed, “I don't belong here either.”

Yikes!

I turned toward Miss Myra and whispered, “Who is that woman in the green blouse?”

Miss Myra turned to me as if I'd disturbed her. Maybe I had. Maybe she was in some psychedelic daydream. “Margaret Seabright.” She laughed. “Claims she doesn't belong here. But if you ask me . . . What?” She turned in the other direction. “What?”

No one was there.

“Cut the shit,” she continued, and then turned back to me. “Margaret's as nutty as a chocolate-chip cookie.”

Suddenly Miss Myra was not a font of knowledge that
I could rely upon, and I think
her
chocolate-chip cookies were full of pecans.

Margaret, however, did look pretty sane to me.

“Come along, child, your doctor is here.”

I swung around to see the welcome face of Sister Wacky. I wanted to throw my arms around her in a big bear hug, but thought better. Physical contact had to be frowned upon in here. Instead I stood up and walked with her toward the door.

Then it hit me. My doctor! Had to be Jagger. Good. I was in a ripe mood to confront him.

Margaret looked at me and mouthed, “Please.”

“Don't start bothering the new patient, Margaret,” Sister said as we passed the table.

I turned and smiled at her, hoping she'd get my “we'll talk later” look.

“Which way?”

Sister took my arm. “The examining room is down the hall. Either it or the doctor's office is used for patient-doctor visits.”

Several of the patients milled around the main sitting area, some talking to themselves, some arguing with themselves, some so wrapped up in their own worlds they sat like statues. I said a silent prayer to Saint Theresa to help these poor souls—and not to forget my poor soul in the process. When we got to the door, I turned to Sister Wacky. “What day is today?” Sure, it sounded like something a mental patient might ask, but I had to know how long I'd been away from my family.

“Tuesday, child.” With that she opened the door and ushered me in.

I let out a sigh. As long as it was the Tuesday that followed the Monday I'd gotten my new assignment, I had only been gone overnight.

The stark room held a mint green examining table in the middle, with glass-front cabinets—all locked, I was certain—along the walls. A doctor in a white coat sat with his back to us, reading a chart. My chart, I guessed.

Oh, God. I had a chart in a mental institution.

Sister pulled the roll of paper on the table so I'd have a new sheet to sit on. She patted the table. I sat.

“Our regular doctor, Dr. Pinkerton, is out for a few days. We have another doctor who will cover for Dr. Pinkerton. He'll start with your intake exam. Dr. Richard Plummer.” She looked at the man reading the chart. “Doctor?”

He swung around on his chair. “Sister, I seem to have left my stethoscope at the nurses' station. Would you be a doll and get it for me?”

Her cheeks turned redder than this “visiting doctor's” hair. But as a redhead, he wasn't bad-looking. His mustache was a much deeper, more auburn shade. Damn. I had no business ogling the guy who got me in here. I had to smile at the nun's reaction to being called a doll.

The nun hesitated. “I'd be glad to, sir. Shall I send in another chaperone until I come back?”

“Just leave the door open.”

Great. Privacy is what we needed.

The sister walked out.

The hum of the ward filled the air.

The new doctor leaned forward.

And I fell off the examining table as I reached out . . . to
strangle
him—D E A D.

I grabbed the “doctor” by his lab coat's lapels and tugged. “What the hell! What on earth! What
were
you thinking? Why'd you do that to me, Jagger?” Okay, admittedly I did more than “tug.”

He, in return, kicked the door shut with his foot and yanked at my hands until my grip was broken. “Calm down before they really lock you up!”

My eyes grew large. “Lock me up? Really lock me up as opposed to . . . what? . . . the fake shackles I've had on my . . . Let me go. I won't touch you.”

For a second he paused, then released. “Are you all right, Sherlock?”

I slammed my fist into his chest. Ouch! Damn, the guy was solid as a stinking rock. Then I kept swinging like some pint-size boxer—careful not to touch his face. Only thing was, he again grabbed my arms and this time held on.

“I thought I could trust you, Sherlock.”

His voice came out in a sexy tone. Shit. I had to mentally order my hormones to cease and desist before my mind lost all control. Why'd he have to call me Sherlock? Damn
it all. Damn him. That could be my undoing. “Let me go.”

“Not a chance.”

“What are you going to do with me? Keepme hostage here until . . . until what? What the hell am I doing here?” Those last few words came out a lot louder than I'd intended.

The door swung open.

In rushed Sister Wacky, who was looking pretty good to me right then. I
really
wanted to hug her. I knew I could trust a nun. Behind her came running a million-pound fullback. He grabbed me so fast, my hands slid from Jagger's before he could even let go. Damn the king of disguise.

“Ouch!” I shouted.

Jagger yelled, “Stop that! Let her go.” He looked from the fullback to me. “She'll behave. Won't you?”

I bit my lip. Literally. Ouch again.

“Yes. Let me go, and I'll be fine. I'll be a good girl.”

The orderly looked from Jagger to Sister Wacky, who nodded. With a
thump
, I landed on my feet like a cat from a ten-foot-high tree. I looked Jagger in the eyes. “Thanks. For nothing.”

Sister Wacky came closer. “My child, Mary Louise. If you cooperate, things will go much easier for you.”

I wasn't sure if she meant that I'd get out of here faster or that while I was marooned here, the stay would be more pleasant. “Please—” I swung around to Jagger. “Please, Dr.
Dick
, discharge me from here.” I turned toward the nun. “And my name is
Pauline.
” Damn. The words came out on a shaky note. I felt heat burning in my chest and my eyes started to tear. I did
not
want to cry.

The sister made the sign of the cross.

The fullback orderly walked out the door, chuckling.

And I stared at Jagger.

He didn't take his gaze off of me this time. “I know this isn't easy on you.” He looked at Sister Wacky. “Let's humor her and call her Pauline.” He put his arm around the nun and guided her to the door. “I need a few more minutes alone with this patient.”

With her full cheeks bright red, obviously from his contact, she nodded. “Are you sure you'll be all right? I can have Spike chaperone if need be.”

Spike? The name fit the big lug like a size-million glove.

Jagger smiled at Sister Wacky.

Ah, that smile, I thought, until I remembered he was the reason why I was here.

What I couldn't figure out was . . . what the hell for?

It seemed as if hours had passed since the nun and orderly had left me alone with Jagger. I'd plopped myself on the examining table and shut my lips. Had to. If I started to talk, or answer his numerous questions, I feared I'd melt into a puddle of tears.

With a burning sensation in my throat, I watched the second hand climb ever so slowly around the clock behind him. A plain, stark, black-and-white office-type clock. Made me think of Adele's cat clock, which made me miss her and everyone else.

“Look, Pauline. It kills me to see you here, but there's a damn good reason for it.”

My interest peeked. Shit. I pulled my gaze from the second hand before it hit twelve. Midnight. The witching hour. I wished I was home in my own bed, snuggled with Spanky.

I tried to ignore my curiosity, but Jagger had used my real name. When he did that, instead of calling me Sherlock,
he was dead serious. I couldn't ignore that. “What is it?”

He looked at me. “What's what?”