Cherry Ames Boxed Set 17-20

by Helen Wells

  At lunchtime Mrs. Ball, who headed the hospital’s Social Service Department, rapped and asked Cherry whether it would be advisable for her to see Bob Smith. Cherry hesitated about another interview. But she knew Leona Ball to be perceptive and kind, so Cherry said:

  “Well, Mrs. Ball, come in but just say hello.”

  Mrs. Ball took a long look at the dazed man.

  “No, I see I’d better not. Let me know what I can do for him—perhaps I could contact public or private agencies, or send out inquiries about him?”

  “That would be a great help.”

  One further, long interview did take place that afternoon. The team of psychiatrists came, as Dr. Hope had promised, to give Bob a further examination, and see to what extent they agreed with Dr. Hope’s first findings. Cherry was not present; she did her regular work on Orthopedics. After three o’clock, when the psychiatric team had gone, Dr. Hope called her into the staff office. He talked to Cherry privately.

  “Well, it’s agreed Bob is to stay at Hilton Hospital. Sit down, Miss Ames. Here’s what happened in consultation this afternoon, so you’ll have a clearer picture of our patient, and what you and I are going to do for Bob.”

  Cherry sat down, all attention. She watched this big, vigorous man pace around the office, stand still to think, pace, and then grin at her.

  “Now isn’t it reasonable for me to be disappointed that we can’t interview Bob Smith’s relatives? Relatives could fill in his life history, and tell us all sorts of relevant things. We always talk to the family first thing on admitting a patient—but with Bob, we don’t even know if he’s got a family. But we did take certain tests, and we’ll do more.”

  The team of psychiatrists had given Bob, so far as his illness permitted today, a psychometric test that measured intelligence and the Rorschach “ink blot” test. The latter helped bring out ideas that troubled him, but only in a very general way. Later on, the team might take an encephalogram or brain-wave photograph. So far, the psychiatrists were satisfied that “Bob Smith” had sustained no brain injury or disease, had better than average intelligence, and had lost his memory because of some severe psychological upset. Exactly what had happened to Bob to cause this, and exactly how to treat Bob, was up to Dr. Hope to discover.

  “We’ll have to feel our way, at first,” Dr. Hope said.

  “We, Doctor?”

  “Certainly. You’re Bob’s nurse and my assistant.”

  “But I’m not especially trained for this kind of case, you know,” said Cherry. “I had one course at nursing school, of course—”

  “The patient trusts you. You have imagination. That could be enough. At least I’m going to try you out.”

  Dr. Hope bent down and peered at Cherry.

  “What’s that worried look about? See here, better than fifty-five percent of so-called mental cases are temporary. After we help them analyze their problems and give them a few days’ ‘first aid,’ they come to themselves and can go home.” He laughed. “One man was brought in to our Mental Hygiene Clinic because he was standing on a street corner distributing dollar bills. Well, he was celebrating winning the sweepstakes, and he was always a generous man.”

  Cherry smiled, too. “I guess a sense of humor is going to come in handy.”

  “Not that Bob Smith is as mild a case as these. Yes, we’ll need humor, and kindness, and a hopeful outlook. We must listen compassionately to whatever Bob says, and not pass judgment on him but try to understand. You and I will have to do our very best for him. We’re the only people he has to help him.”

  “And he has me. I care about him, too.” Dr. Ray Watson stood in the doorway. “Hope, do you intend to work at the University Hospital or at this hospital—or both?”

  “Both,” Dr. Hope said cheerfully. “This young nurse is going to do double duty, too.”

  Dr. Watson mumbled something about “Hard work and idealism never hurt anybody—only way to cure the patients.” Then he said:

  “By the way, I asked Leona Ball to telephone the police department. They’re sending one of their detectives. Name of Hal Treadway. He’ll be here tomorrow to talk to our mystery patient.”

  “Well, Miss Cherry,” said Dr. Hope, “when you see the right moment, you’d better tell Bob that a visitor is coming to help him. Prepare him.”

  “I’ll try, Dr. Hope.”

  CHAPTER III

  First Steps

  THE DETECTIVE’S FORMAL QUESTIONING ON FRIDAY distressed Bob Smith and yielded no information. That was not the detective’s fault. Hal Treadway was an unobtrusive little man in sports clothes, perfectly agreeable to have Cherry and Dr. Hope in the room while he asked his questions. But Bob grew irritable. He broke out into a sweat and stammered:

  “I don’t know where I got the money to leave my hometown. Or anything! If I could remember I’d tell you.”

  “Take it easy, son,” said the detective. “Try and think where your folks are. Where’s your mother? Can you tell me her name?”

  “I don’t know! I mean, I haven’t any family.” Bob pulled himself up by the hand straps and sat bolt upright in bed. He was shaky and indignant. “If I had a family, wouldn’t they be looking for me?”

  “Not necessarily,” the detective muttered, but Dr. Hope stood up to put an end to the interview.

  “Sorry, Mr. Treadway, the patient can’t tolerate any more direct questioning. We can’t press him. Will you come into the hall with me? Nurse—” Dr. Hope indicated the enamel tray with its plain tepid water and sponge. “Take care of Bob, then join us, please.”

  “Yes, Dr. Hope.”

  Left alone with her patient, Cherry gently put cold applications on his burning forehead. She gave Bob another healing dose of silence and he quieted down. His eyes followed her as she lowered the window shades, then came back to the bed and turned his pillows over to the cool, fresher side.

  “Miss Cherry? I guess you think I don’t want to cooperate.”

  He sounded anxious. She reassured him.

  “You see, Miss Cherry, I realize I’m in an odd condition. I’ve realized it for a long time. Though I don’t know how long.” Bob’s brows wrinkled in his effort to grasp time. “Anyhow, all the time I was wandering and working at odd jobs—”

  Wandering. Working at odd jobs. Cherry filed these bits of information away in her mind. These were the first leads Bob had mentioned.

  “—I was afraid to talk to other people. Afraid they’d see how odd I am at present, and commit me to an insane asylum. I’m not insane.” He looked at her pleadingly. “Am I?”

  “No, Dr. Hope doesn’t think so. The other doctors don’t think so. You’re ill, and you’ll get well.”

  “I feel so alone.”

  Cherry took both the patient’s hands in hers. “You’re not alone. I care, and Dr. Hope cares, and Dr. Watson cares very much about you. We’re going to give you our very best, skilled medical care. If you’ll just trust us and work with us—”

  “I will.” Bob cleaned back and closed his eyes. “You’re nice.”

  Cherry left him to drift off to sleep. She rejoined Dr. Hope and the detective in the hospital corridor. Dr. Hope was explaining to Mr. Treadway that contact with the police would only aggravate Bob’s emotional upset, which accompanied and caused his amnesia.

  “Don’t you think, sir,” the detective asked, “that if this boy doesn’t like talking to the police, there might be a good reason for it? Apart from his—ah—state of mind, that is. How do you know he isn’t mixed up in some crime?”

  “We don’t know,” Dr. Hope said. “It’s possible. Anything is possible, with an unknown person. But as I told you—”

  “All right, Doctor, I’ll work with Bob only through you and the nurse. I’ll start right away to try to trace his identity and connections.”

  Cherry was curious about what methods Hal Treadway would use. Dr. Hope was curious, too.

  “Well, while I’ll certainly do all I can,” the police detective said, “you h
ave to understand what’s involved in a case like your patient’s.”

  In order to locate a missing person, or to identify a haggard, undoubtedly changed wanderer like Bob, required the cooperation of large numbers of police experts, long periods of time, long distances of travel, and often the almost endless study of great numbers of records.

  “We have urgent cases like Bob Smith’s turn up oftener than you’d think,” the detective said. “But we’re the Hilton police, and our first attention has to go to local cases and Hilton people. Unfortunately we haven’t enough men, nor enough time and expense money, to conduct a detailed investigation on every missing persons case.”

  In Bob’s case, Detective Treadway explained, he had no identifying features or scars as clues. He was just a nice-looking young man. At present he was so thin, wind-burned, and shaggy that he probably was hardly recognizable. As for the letter and calendar Cherry had found in his pocket, they revealed next to nothing. His blistered feet told rather more.

  “From past experiences with these cases,” the detective said, “I’d conjecture that Bob has kept moving.”

  “Kept moving,” Dr. Hope repeated. “Of course that doesn’t tell us whether he’s wandered a long way from his home, or whether he kept moving within a limited area.”

  “The chances are that he comes from some distant part of the United States,” Hal Treadway said. “Something inside them drives these wanderers.”

  The police detective promised to send out a teletype description on Bob to the police of other cities; to list him with the nationwide Missing Persons Bureau; to check his fingerprints with large agencies like Army, passport bureau, big employers, and civil service—at once.

  “It’ll take time for these people to check their files, though.”

  “Time!” Dr. Hope made an impatient gesture. “We can’t afford to wait around. The patient could grow worse. This young man won’t get well unless and until he can be helped to learn who he is. Then he’ll have to remember what forgotten situation is troubling him. Otherwise—no cure.”

  Dr. Hope’s warning registered with Cherry.

  “We can’t wait, Mr. Treadway!”

  “Well, Doctor,” the detective said, “I’ll take Bob’s clothing and try to find out, personally, whether it has any identifying marks, and if so, check these leads.”

  Cherry ventured to say that she had examined Bob’s garments and found no markings or labels.

  Hal Treadway told her, “There could be markings not visible to the naked eye. I’ll examine Bob’s clothing under our ultraviolet bulb. It’s a violation of the law for a laundry or dry cleaning establishment not to mark garments, and I’ve never seen a worn garment yet that wasn’t marked. When we hold Bob’s jacket under the blue bulb, the chances are we’ll see a series of numbers and symbols. Then I’ll check those with the Laundry and Dry Cleaner Mark Identification Bureau, which has national coverage.”

  “Then there’s some chance of immediate information?” Dr. Hope asked.

  “If we’re lucky. I’ll check also with all local employers who hire transient help.”

  Cherry brought Bob Smith’s garments for the police detective to take with him. He promised to get in touch with the hospital people as soon as he discovered anything. Dr. Hope thanked him, but after the detective left, remarked to Cherry:

  “The police procedures are going to take time, and it looks as if he can make only a limited investigation. I’m not satisfied. Are you, Miss Cherry?”

  It surprised her to have this doctor turn to her so informally and ask her opinion. Still, she was a member of his medical team and he seemed to want to talk over with her anything that affected their patient.

  “I should think all we can do,” Cherry answered, “is wait and see what the detective can accomplish.”

  “Bob can’t wait too long. I think we’ll try our first Pentothal interview with him tomorrow.”

  Cherry knew that Pentothal was a drug, to be administered by physicians, preferably in hospitals, and that Dr. Hope intended to use it as an uncovering technique. He explained exactly how and why.

  Whatever had happened to Bob, he resisted remembering it. Pentothal would relax him and help ease his fear of what happened—or what he feared was going to happen. Once relaxed, he would be able to break through his amnesia and recall a few facts about himself. Or so Dr. Hope expected.

  “We’ll have to be very easy and tactful with him,” Dr. Hope told Cherry. “If we press him too hard, we’ll only frighten him and he won’t talk to us.”

  Cherry nodded. “Will you explain to him first what we’re going to try to do?”

  “Yes. And we’ll tell Bob that we’re making a record of what he says, and why.”

  Since there were going to be several interviews, Dr. Hope would need a record so that he could review details and, later on, grasp the picture of Bob’s life as a whole. Bob’s memories would emerge in a confused manner, Dr. Hope predicted, because Bob himself was ill and disorganized. Dr. Hope and Cherry would have to piece the bits together into some sort of meaning. In order to keep records, they would place a microphone in Bob’s room; this would be piped to a tape recorder in the next room or in the closet. They would tell Bob about the microphone, and also tell him they would conceal it, so that the constant sight of it would not make him self-conscious and inhibit his talking.

  Cherry was intrigued. This promised to be the strangest kind of sleuthing she had ever done—pursuing a man’s forgotten memories of his past—and she commented on it.

  “We’ll have to explore two kinds of past with Bob,” said Dr. Hope. “One is his recent past, because some recent shock or crisis or facing an impossible situation has brought on his amnesia. But a sound person can face a crisis and not go to pieces. It’s fair to assume that in some respect Bob has a psychological weak spot or injury—and has had it for a long time. It probably goes far back to some deep-seated distress in his childhood. So we’ll also try to help him remember into his far past.”

  “That will make our puzzle all the harder to piece together,” Cherry said.

  “Yes.” Dr. Hope smiled at her.

  “And when we do bring his troubles to light? What then?”

  “If and when,” Dr. Hope corrected her. “Then we’ll have to help him face his troubles. Sometimes it’s a question of straightening out mistaken ideas a patient has. Sometimes it’s a matter of supportive treatment, giving the patient reassurance and strength to meet some difficult situation. Or sometimes, many times, the practitioner must do both.”

  “I—I’m not experienced enough for this case,” Cherry said.

  “Try,” Dr. Hope said. “If it doesn’t work out, I’ll have a psychiatric nurse from my own hospital work with me. But I think you’ll do fine.”

  Dr. Hope, of course, would take the lead with Bob, and that would guide her. Even so, the delicacy and complexity of the treatment left Cherry with some qualms. In comparison, she found that the physical nursing that Dr. Watson had ordered was simple.

  For the broken leg, all they could do these first few days was wait and make careful observations. In order to be sure the cast was not too tight, so that it interfered with the circulation and caused swelling, Cherry felt her patient’s toes to see if they were warm or cold. She frequently examined the edges of the cast and skin for pressure points and irritation. The cast itself was supported by pillows to keep the bones in alignment; pillows also provided Bob with other support. Cherry and the orderly helped him to change his position often; he had a light cast so that he could be moved and turned. This was important, for if the patient did not move or was afraid to turn, immobility could lead to slowing of his digestive processes, loss of appetite, bedsores, even some risk of pneumonia. Although Bob needed extended bed rest, Cherry knew how important it was to encourage him to turn and move, and to eat.

  Bob’s chart showed he was anemic, and he was a little irritable. But already he was improving, less exhausted, less panicky, after th
ree days’ bed rest and treatment. If only his sleep were not so restless, as the night nurse reported. … Cherry did not neglect her other patients, but her mind was on Bob.

  When she came on duty the next morning, she found Bob Smith just waking up. He was cheerful and even whistled a little. She hoped that augured well for the Pentothal interview. Mrs. Peters suggested, “Leave his door open, so that he can see the other people on our ward.” Cherry did so, and moved his bed so that he could look out. Bob watched with mild interest; elderly Mr. Pape and Tommy waved to him. But after half an hour his eyes took on that glazed, faraway stare again. Cherry closed the door. Well, he’d seen the ward and that was a start.

  “Who’s that young fellow with the broken leg?” the other patients asked. “Why is he in there?”

  “Sure, move him in with the rest of us busted bones,” Tommy said. “Everybody gets homesick in a hospital.”

  Mrs. Peters explained that Bob Smith had had a bad shock, and needed to be quiet and in a private room for a while. She, Ruth Dale, and the orderly knew more than that about his illness. There was no need for the patients to know, however; they might misunderstand. Dr. Hope wanted the other men to treat Bob naturally and easily, if he improved enough to be brought on the ward. Normal companionship could be part of his cure. If and when he came out of his long silences—if today’s first uncovering technique would work—

  That afternoon Dr. Hope went alone into Bob’s room. Cherry presumed he talked to Bob, to prepare him for the interview, and administered the Pentothal. After an interval, Dr. Hope summoned Cherry.

  She went into Bob’s half-darkened room where a softly lighted lamp burned at his bedside. It was quiet, almost hushed, in here. Bob appeared to be more relaxed than she had yet seen him. His face was flushed and the pupils of his eyes were dilated, but he smiled at Cherry.

  “Hello, Miss Cherry. I’m going to do my best.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  She sat down in the chair beside Dr. Hope’s, as he indicated, next to the bed.