Cherry Ames Boxed Set 13-16

by Helen Wells

  “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 have 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 lo
ng 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 three 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.

  “Would you like a cool drink, Bob? Chewing gum?” Dr. Hope offered them.

  “No, thank you. I’m not thirsty. I just had a cool—” His voice trailed off.

  “Just relax, Bob.” Dr. Hope nodded and leaned back in his chair. He was unhurried. “You must have had a hard time. Can you tell Miss Cherry and me where you were just a few days ago?”

  “I guess it was around here.”

  “Mmmm. What did the place look like?”

  “Trees. Streets. People. No one I knew.” Bob broke into a sweat. “Can you tell me what town this is? Hilton, I think you said, but what state?”

  “Illinois.” Dr. Hope answered as if Bob’s question were a perfectly natural one. “Have you ever been in Illinois before?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “When I say home to you, what do you think of? Close your eyes and think. Take your time.”

  Bob made an effort. “A large white frame house,” he said vaguely.

  “I suppose that’s where your family lives.”

  “I have no family!”

  Dr. Hope nudged Cherry. She said pleasantly, hoping it was the right cue:

  “Everyone has a family.”

  “Well, I haven’t. I—I’m the sole survivor.”

  Cherry was inclined to believe him, but she saw a tiny frown between Dr. Hope’s eyes. He said:

  “Haven’t you anyone at all? Who were your family members?”

  “No one—no one—”

  “Your father,” Dr. Hope prompted. No answer. “And your mother. Where is your mother?”

  Bob grew so distressed that Dr. Hope said:

  “Never mind. Let it go for now. Unless you want to tell us why you believe you’re the sole survivor?”

  “I—My father is dead.”

  “Yes. How long ago?”

  “While I was still in school. In college.”

  “I see. By the way, which college did you attend?”

  Bob turned his face away. A minute went by. “I can’t remember,” he said painfully.

  Dr. Hope said that was all right, he would remember everything in good time.

  “And your mother?”

  “She’s dead, I tell you! How many times must I say so—I beg your pardon. Very rude of me.”

  Bob’s excitement about his mother—he had replied calmly about his father—was not lost on either Dr. Hope or Cherry. Cherry smoothed over the bad moment by offering Bob a drink of water. He was glad of the lull. Dr. Hope resumed:

  “Well, let’s see now, Bob Smith. That isn’t really your name, is it?”

  “No, I made it up when I was in a town—around here, I think—and I was applying for an odd job in a—possibly a restaurant? The man in charge asked my name and—”

  Dr. Hope nodded. “What is your name?”

  Bob forced a grin. “I’d like to know that myself.” For that much humor and courage, Cherry patted his hand.

  “Miss Cherry?” said Dr. Hope. “You have a brother, I hear,” and gave her the lead.

  “Yes, a twin brother, in fact.” She tried to think what events in her brother Charlie’s life might be paralleled in any young man’s life. “He’s seen service in the Air Force. Have you been in the armed forces, Bob?”

  “No, I haven’t.” He seemed entirely calm and certain about this.

  “But you’re the right age for it,” Cherry said.

  “Yes, but I haven’t. I know when I was in my teens I went to a boys’ summer camp and they taught us how to handle rifles—marksmanship—we had a shooting range—and I know that I attended college, because I remember the long quiet hours of study. But I haven’t been in any of the armed services,” he said very definitely.

  This seemed unlikely to Cherry. She glanced at Dr. Hope for his reaction, but his expression was noncommittal, friendly.

&n
bsp; “You’re about twenty-five, I’d say, aren’t you, Bob?”

  “Twenty-six, I think, sir, if I’ve got the present year right.”

  Cherry told him the year, matter-of-factly, as if she were telling him the hour. Poor Bob was lost in time.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I wish I knew what date it was when I left home.”

  Cherry remembered the calendar she had found in his pocket, with the paper torn off at last April. She had better not mention it unless Dr. Hope did so. He chose instead to pick up another thread of Bob’s remark.

  “When you left home, you say. That was the large white house. Picture the house in your mind’s eye, Bob, and tell me what feelings it stirs up in you.”

  Bob threw his arm across his eyes, and thought. When he took his arm away, he looked bewildered.

  “I know there is something I should be worried about, but I can’t remember what it is.”

  “You know? How do you know?”

  “I just do. I’m sure of it. It troubles me.”

  “It?”

  Bob said sadly, “I only know that I do—or rather, I ought to feel terribly worried and responsible.”

  “Some trouble about your family,” Cherry murmured. “With the large white house.”

  “No.”

  “With what place, then?” Dr. Hope asked.

  Bob sank back, tired. “I don’t know. It just doesn’t come clear to me. I almost see some place to tell you about, and then it’s as if a wall of mist rises up.”

  “All right, you’ve done fine.” The doctor signaled to Cherry that the drug was wearing off. “A good start. See if you can’t take a nap now, Bob.”

  He was already dozing off.

  Cherry tiptoed out after Dr. Hope. They held a brief conference in the hall. Dr. Hope held up one hand and counted off on his fingers what this first interview had yielded.

  “First, Bob denies he has a family, but he recalls a white house and grows upset at mention of his mother. Very cloudy there. Second, he says he’s been to college. I’m inclined to believe that; he talks like an educated man. Maybe he’ll remember or describe what college, and we can trace his identity through college records. Third, he’s sure he never had military service, but can’t explain why not. Yet he’s the right age and physically fit. He probably was balanced enough until some unbearable stress caused this breakdown—”