Almost worse was to think that Harald and Norine had persuaded themselves that Kay was a mental case. They might have chivvied her in here with benevolent intent. If Harald imagined he was acting from laudable motives, poor Kay was a cooked goose. Remembering the bread knife, Polly shuddered. A man who could convince himself that Kay was dangerous could readily convince a psychiatrist—the burden of proof rested on the patient, and how could Kay prove what had been in her mind?
But there was another possibility, a more cheerful one. Supposing Harald had had no notion of putting Kay in Payne Whitney but when he found that this had happened, through some administrative mistake (which Polly might be able to check up on), he had signed the commitment papers as a sort of sardonic joke? That would be quite in Harald’s style. Polly nodded to herself. She could just imagine him yielding to a prankish impulse and signing with a flourish while raising a baleful eyebrow and mentally shaking an owlish forefinger. But in that case he would surely be back this morning to take Kay out. He might be here already, waiting downstairs, with a bouquet, to move her grandly to that room with the rough-weave yellow curtains.
This idea relieved Polly’s mind. Given Harald, it was the most natural explanation. She smiled. It occurred to her that the whole thing was a little bit Kay’s fault; if she had agreed to go to Harkness Pavilion, she might be listening to a radio now while a student nurse rearranged her pillows and offered her a mid-morning fruit juice with a glass straw.
The metabolism test was finished. It was an unexpected boon to be able to tell Kay that she had a perfect score. The figures worked out to zero, which was extremely rare. No doubt this explained her energy. Her organism was in absolute balance. Polly knew that this was not a proof of sanity; nevertheless, she felt it was a good omen. And Kay glowed as if the machine had paid her a compliment. “Wait till I tell Harald!” she exulted. Polly must be sure to impress on him that Kay was the first patient in all her experience to score zero.
While the maid was serving Kay’s breakfast, Polly slipped out to inquire whether Harald, by any chance, was waiting downstairs. The nurse said no message had come through. “Call and check up, please,” said Polly. “Mrs. Petersen is an old friend of mine.” She went back into Kay’s room. In a moment, the nurse appeared. “No, Mrs. Ridgeley.” “No, what?” said Kay. “No, I don’t have a ten o’clock appointment on my calendar,” Polly lied quickly. Since Kay had not shared her hope, there was no reason for her to share her disappointment. “I’m going to call Harald,” she said. “Wonderful,” Kay answered, putting jam on her toast. The result of her basal metabolism seemed to have restored her natural optimism. “We’re feeling better this morning, aren’t we?” said the nurse. “Finish up, dear, and I’ll help you dress.”
There was no answer at Kay’s apartment. All the better, Polly said to herself; Harald must be on his way. Nevertheless, she called Jim at his Center and told him briefly what had happened. He promised to come early and stop in to see Kay before lunch. “If she’s still here, of course,” appended Polly. “She’ll be there,” said Jim. “Now don’t be cynical,” said Polly. In her room, Kay, wearing a brown dress, which did need a belt, was packing her bag. “Did you get him?” she said. Polly explained that he must be on his way to the hospital. The nurse winked at Polly. “Mrs. Petersen doesn’t seem to like us here,” she jested. “She’d rather go home to hubby.” “She doesn’t want me to pack,” Kay said to Polly. “I’ve been explaining to her that it’s all a mistake. I’m meant to be in New York Hospital.” The nurse smiled delicately. What Kay did not know was that one of the commonest delusions among the patients was that they were here through a mistake. “I’ll be running along now, Mrs. Ridgeley,” the nurse said. She turned to Kay. “Mrs. Ridgeley has her own work to do. You mustn’t keep her here talking.” Polly came to Kay’s support. “I’ll stay with her a few minutes,” she said. “Her husband will be coming to take her out.” “I see!” said the nurse, with a slight sniff. She evidently felt that Polly was erring in encouraging the patient’s false hopes.
“He really will come, you think?” said Kay, when they were alone. “Of course,” said Polly. She lit cigarettes for them both. They looked at their watches. “He ought to be here in fifteen minutes,” Kay said. “If he’d just left when you called.” “Twenty,” said Polly. “It’s a five-minute walk from the First Avenue bus.” “Maybe he took a taxi.” They smoked. Kay’s volubility had deserted her, and Polly’s attempts to introduce impersonal topics failed. They were both concentrating on Harald and willing him to come soon. Kay picked up yesterday’s paper, to read Lucius Beebe. “Harald’s met him,” she said. Suddenly they heard screams from the far end of the corridor and the sound of running, rubber-soled feet. “Oh, my God!” said Kay. “It’s nothing,” said Polly. “One of the patients has got ‘excited,’ that’s all. The nurses will take care of her.” “What will they do?” said Kay. “Send her upstairs,” said Polly. “The violent wards are up above, on the seventh and eighth floors. When a patient in isolation shows signs of improvement, they send her down here on trial, to see how she does with the group of new patients. But quite often she has to be removed. That’s probably what’s happening now.” They could hear sounds of a scuffle. “Will they use a strait-jacket?” Kay wanted to know. “If they have to,” said Polly. They listened. A new voice, closer to Kay’s room, had begun to howl like a dog. More feet came running, and Polly could distinguish the heavier tread of a doctor or of a male orderly from the violent floors. Kay clung to Polly. They heard a man’s voice give an order. Then all was quiet. “Do they have padded cells up there?” Kay whispered. “Yes,” said Polly. “I think so. But I’ve never been up.” She was inwardly furious, for Kay—why had this had to happen this morning? Jim was right when he criticized the hospital for what he called the bedlam on the admissions floor; it was callous to bring the very sick into contact with people who were tottering on the brink of sanity. New patients with nothing more than a mild nervous breakdown or very young, almost children, were terrified by what they heard and saw in their first days. Polly had just been given a living illustration of this; Kay was still trembling. “I remember at college,” she said, “when we used to visit the state asylum for Psych. I never thought then—” Her eyes filled with tears; she did not finish her sentence. “Polly!” she said. “What if he tells them I’m crazy?”
But Harald had not come when, at the end of half an hour, Polly had to go. The nurse came to say that she was wanted right away in the main building for a blood analysis. “Go ahead,” said Kay. “I’ll be all right. I’ve got some books to read.” Polly lingered. “I wish I could leave you some matches. …But I don’t want to get you in trouble. …If the psychiatrist comes—” She broke off. What she had started to say was “Be careful.” Instead, she said, “Don’t worry. Whatever happens, Kay, Jim will be here before lunch.” Kay nodded and produced an unconvincing smile. She watched Polly pack up her equipment. “Go on,” she said. “What are you waiting for?” Polly wheeled her tray out the door. The corridor was empty. All the doors were ajar; the other patients must be at morning exercise. There was nothing else to do—those were the regulations—but Polly felt horrible doing it: “Am I my sister’s jailer?” said her conscience. What were those lines in Dante’s Inferno that her father recited when they locked him up in Riggs? “E io senti chiavar l’uscio di sotto/all’orribile torre. …” She took the key and locked Kay in.
On the other side of the door, Kay heard the key turn and knew that Polly had turned it. She did not blame her. She did not even blame the perfidious Harald. Soon in her office, she supposed, Polly would be trying to call him. But Kay had lost hope that he would answer. Probably he had not spent the night in the apartment; he was with a woman somewhere. Nor did she think he would turn up at the hospital. The thing she had been dreading for five years had happened: he had left her. Not the way other husbands did, after long discussions and lawyers and dividing up the furniture. She had always known that Hara
ld, one day, would simply disappear. Neither she nor his parents nor anyone who had known him would ever see him again. He would surface, like a submarine, in the Middle West or South America with a different identity. He had been a mystery to her from the beginning and he would vanish mysteriously into nowhere. To leave her locked up in a mental hospital, like somebody tied up in a closet by robbers, would be just the kind of thing he would relish. Eventually, she supposed, she would have to have him declared dead, and he would relish that too. She could hear the cock’s crow of his laughter, like that of the Pathé rooster, coming from the four corners of the earth.
And to the day she died, she would never know whether he had been unfaithful to her. She would not even have that last satisfaction. To deprive her and tantalize her was his whole aim. She had tried to bind him with possessions, but he slipped away like Houdini. If he left her, he would not even take his typewriter, which she had got him for Christmas at a discount. That was another thing. He knew she admired him and wanted him to be a success, but he circumvented her as if on purpose. Sometimes she felt that he was postponing being a success till he could wear out her patience; as soon as she gave up and left him, his name would mock her in lights.
She had really thought of leaving him. Last year Norine had had a pet plan, that they should both hitchhike to Reno. Norine said that if Kay gave Harald his freedom, it would liberate his creative energies. The idea had half tempted Kay, as a glorious sacrifice, though she had insisted they go on the train. But she did not tell Harald for fear he would agree, which would take all the zest out of the project. Then Harald had said to her, smiling, one night when they had company, “I hear, Kay, you’re planning to divorce me.” And again she had been unable to tell whether he would have minded or not. He had had an air of being secretly amused, but, question him as she would, she could never make him say what was funny, if there was something funny, about her wanting to get a divorce.
Probably he did not take it seriously because he thought she loved him. There he was making a mistake. She had loved him at first, she reckoned, but he had tormented her so long with his elusiveness that she did not know, honestly, now whether she even liked him. If she had been sure of him, she might have found out. But things had never stood still long enough for her to decide. It sometimes struck her that Harald would not let her be sure of him for fear of losing his attraction: it was a lesson he had learned in some handbook, the way he had learned about those multiplication tables. But Kay could have told him that he would have been far more attractive to her if she could have trusted him. You could not love a man who was always playing hide-and-seek with you; that was the lesson she had learned.
Well, Harald might say, if that was so, why was she grieving? Why did she feel now as if her heart was broken? Kay tried to answer this question. She was grieving, she decided, for a Harald-That-Never-Was, not for the real Harald. But if she lost the real Harald, who was not such a muchness, she lost her only link with the Harald-That-Never-Was. Then it was really finished—her dream. She lay on the bed, thinking. There was something else. She had always despised failures, but if Harald had left her, she was one.
At eleven-thirty there was a knock. A young psychiatrist with glasses had come to talk to her. “We were hoping to see Mr. Petersen this morning,” he said with an air of disapproval, so that Kay felt she ought to apologize. He took notes while she told him her story. When she had finished, breathlessly, and was waiting to hear his verdict, he sat for a few minutes in silence, riffling through his notebook. “Why do you place such importance on your belt?” he suddenly demanded. “The night nurses reported that you first became very unruly when they asked you to give it to them. And I have a note here that you spoke about it to Mrs. Ridgeley too and to Mrs. Burke, the day nurse.” “Polly told you that?” Kay exclaimed, hurt and bewildered. “Mrs. Ridgeley wondered whether we couldn’t make an exception and give you your belt back. But of course, as Mrs. Ridgeley should know, we can’t make an exception until we’ve seen your husband.” Again he looked at her accusingly, as if it were her fault that Harald had not come. “It’s not my fault—” she began. “Just a minute,” he said. “I see that you’ve used the expressions ‘his fault,’ ‘my fault,’ and their equivalents thirty-seven times in the course of our talk. I wonder if you’d like to give me your thoughts on that.” Kay was dumbfounded. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I was promised that when I saw a psychiatrist, I could go to the regular hospital.” “No one in authority could have given you such a promise,” he replied sharply. “I’m afraid that’s your own phantasy, Mrs. Petersen.” Kay flushed. It was true that Polly had only said maybe.
The psychiatrist frowned at Kay’s suitcase. “I wanted to avoid this discussion,” he said. “Which will be quite unprofitable for both of us while you’re in a state of great emotional tension and your judgment is affected. You’re in no condition, just now, to make an important life-decision. You have a black eye, which you claim your husband gave you. I have no way of knowing whether this is true. In any case we’re better equipped here to take care of you than they are across the way. There seems to be nothing wrong with you physically except the eye. We’ll begin tests later on in the day to make sure; in the course of your stay here you’ll have a thorough medical and dental check-up. But you appear to be in good health. The regular hospital is designed for patients who are physically ill. It’s not a rest home or a sanatorium. If you feel you’re not in need of psychiatric treatment, you can go home or go to a hotel.”
“All right, I’ll go to a hotel,” promptly retorted Kay. He raised a finger. “Not so fast. If your husband consents. Let me be open with you. You can’t leave here till we’ve had a talk with Mr. Petersen. He committed you last night, and we would be negligent if we released you on your own say-so. After all, we know nothing about you. And on your own account you did threaten your husband with a knife.” Kay opened her mouth. “I don’t say you are dangerous,” the doctor intervened. “If we thought so, you would be on one of the violent floors. You are here for your own protection, believe me.” “But what if Harald never comes?” The doctor smiled. “That seems very unlikely. Don’t go borrowing trouble, Mrs. Petersen. But I’ll answer your question. In that eventuality, the head of the hospital, after making a careful study, can release you if he thinks it’s warranted.”
“And if Harald insists I stay here?” “I think you and your husband, with our help, will reach a harmonious agreement about what’s best to be done.” These words chilled Kay’s bones. “But supposing Harald contradicts what I’ve told you?” “We have experience in getting at the truth.” “And if you believe me, instead of him, will you let me out?” “Under those circumstances, the head of the hospital can release you.” “I demand to see the head of the hospital!” “Dr. Janson will see you in due time.” “When?” For the first time, the psychiatrist looked human. He laughed. “You’re certainly a persistent woman.” “I always have been,” Kay agreed. “Tell me honestly, do you think I’m insane?” He considered. “Frankly,” he said, “you’ve made a favorable impression on me.” Kay beamed. “That is not to say,” the psychiatrist warned, “that you don’t have severe emotional difficulties. Possibly of an hysterical character. My advice to you is to relax. Have a good lunch and get to know the other patients. You’ll find some of these women very interesting. They come from good homes too. Some of them are highly cultured. Later in the afternoon you can have hydrotherapy—you’ll enjoy it. And you can go to art class or weaving. Do you like to work with your hands?” Kay did, but she refused to admit it. “Kindergarten,” she said scornfully. “Our other patients—” began the doctor. “I’m not your other patients!” interrupted Kay. He got up. “Good-by, Mrs. Petersen,” he said coldly. She had not meant to sound so rude. He closed his notebook. “When your husband comes, I’ll be happy to have a talk with him. And I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Tomorrow!” He nodded. “I shall strongly recommend your spending at least another night in the hosp
ital. Even if the interview is completely satisfactory.” He removed a metal rod from the pocket of his white coat. “Excuse me,” he said and tapped her knee. Her leg jerked. “Just a formality,” he said. “Your reflexes are normal, as I expected.” He shook hands. “Oh, one thing. Mrs. Ridgeley is much concerned about you. I’ve given permission for Dr. Ridgeley to see you when he comes.” He went out briskly.
When Jim Ridgeley came, Kay was in the dining room with the other patients. The psychiatrist had left orders that she was to join them in the lounge for recreation before lunch. Immediately, a squabble had broken out as to which of them was to sit next to Kay at table, which the nurse in charge had settled by placing her between a grey-haired woman, who said she was a manic-depressive, and a pretty girl of about Kay’s own age, who told Kay she had been brought to the hospital in a straitjacket. “I was on the seventh floor for a long time; now I’m better,” she confided. “My husband’s coming to take me home soon.” At this a noisy towheaded girl burst into loud laughter. “She hasn’t got a husband,” the grey-haired woman whispered to Kay. “He’s left her.” Across the round table from Kay sat a catatonic with a boyish bob; she was the only one whose face did not move a muscle when Kay, replying to a question, announced that she was here through a mistake. Some laughed; others looked anxious. “You mustn’t say that,” the pretty girl whispered. “Even if it’s true. They’ll never let you out if you say that. They may even send you back to the seventh floor.”
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