Cherry Ames Boxed Set 13-16

by Helen Wells

  “He said his home was in Ohio,” Cherry remembered. “But his other statements proved false, so perhaps his thinking Ohio is his home is false, too.”

  “Perhaps or perhaps not. Let’s go talk to him.”

  They told him, without blame, that his memories of the other day had proved to be fantasy, not fact. Dr. Hope explained that he told Bob this only in the expectation that he would try harder and do better.

  “I will,” Bob said. “It’s strange. While I’m telling you things, I’m never quite sure whether it’s the story of my personal experiences, or other people’s that I half remember, or even a movie I’ve seen somewhere. Or maybe just something I’m making up. I don’t honestly know.”

  Dr. Hope said there was nothing alarming or surprising here. Bob’s subconscious mind developed these stories to meet the needs of the moment, and to cover up the actual situations which he found too painful or shameful to remember.

  “But I want to remember. And I’m sure I did go to college.”

  By means of free association of ideas—encouraging the patient to talk freely at random, so that one idea or memory led naturally into another—Bob recalled a good deal more. The first names of two classmates at college; a chemical formula they had argued about all one term; his dream last night of someone’s spaniel; a green-walled room in his grandparents’ house where, as a child, he had enjoyed his first Christmas tree. However, these recollections shed no light on Bob’s central problem, and, as Dr. Hope pointed out, Bob “selectively left out” the family members at the Christmas party. His mind blotted out whatever was really important.

  “Why a chemical formula, Bob?” Cherry asked. “Did you major in chemistry?”

  He thought hard. “Biochemistry, I believe.”

  “Whose spaniel was it?” Dr. Hope asked.

  “Heaven only knows! We never had a dog at our house. My mother doesn’t—” But he stopped.

  Later that afternoon, after Dr. Hope had gone, a man named Westgaard came in, asking to see Bob Smith. He said he was a local farmer, and had seen Bob’s photo with its “Who Am I?” caption in the newspaper. Today was the farmer’s first chance to come to town. He stated that a man who might be Bob had done odd jobs for him last summer for about two weeks. Cherry warned Mr. Westgaard that Bob was ill, then took him into Bob’s room.

  “That’s the fellow that worked for me,” the farmer said. “Nope, I don’t know nuthin’ about where he come from. He worked pretty well but he was strange. Wouldn’t say boo to anybody. Peculiar, dreamylike.”

  Bob did not recognize the farmer.

  Cherry talked a little to Bob about the farmer and gradually jogged his memory. He recalled that he had wandered and had different jobs at different places.

  “Some of them escape me. I walked endlessly. Must have been fourteen, sixteen hours a day, some days. I never begged, though, so far as I know. You can almost always get a job at some restaurant as a counterman or dishwasher. There was one restaurant man in particular who’d always help me out. What’s his name? Can’t think of the town, either. He’d always feed me, and let me wash windows if no other work was available.”

  “Mr. Field?” Cherry suggested. “In Glen Rock?”

  “Field? Maybe that was it.”

  Cherry was excited when the detective showed up at the hospital late the next afternoon, bringing Mr. Field. The restaurant owner was a plump, kindly man with a shrewd glance. Cherry showed the two visitors into the staff office where Dr. Hope was working with Bob’s tape recordings.

  “Why, sure, I know Bob Smith,” the restaurant man told Dr. Hope and Cherry. “Is it all right if I go in to see him?”

  “Just a minute, please,” the psychiatrist said. “We’ll go in with you, and I think it may do Bob good to see you. But first, Mr. Treadway probably has something to tell us, privately, if you don’t mind.”

  Cherry showed Mr. Field into an anteroom and said, “We’ll just be a few minutes. Would you like to look at a magazine?”

  “Ah—thanks. Miss Nurse? Bob Smith isn’t that boy’s real name, is it? He stumbled all over himself when I asked him his name.”

  Cherry explained about his loss of memory.

  “Ah! So that’s it! Well, let me tell you, he’s an awfully nice boy. I don’t care if he’s been in trouble or prison or whatever—I don’t ask questions of the men who come to me hungry and ragged and in need of work. They’re unfortunates, and entitled to a chance to work.”

  Here, Cherry thought, was a compassionate man. She told Mr. Field they did not really know what had happened to Bob, and excused herself.

  She returned to the office, where Dr. Hope was telling the detective what little the hospital people had learned from Bob during the past week. They had waited for Cherry to be present for Mr. Treadway’s report.

  “Not that there’s much to report,” said the detective. “The Missing Persons Bureau sent nothing but a negative report, so far. I sent Bob Smith’s fingerprints to all the armed services, and they report no record.”

  “So he’s accurate about never having been in the service,” Cherry murmured.

  “Mr. Field couldn’t supply any leads, either. But I thought you’d want to talk with him. Now, Doctor, I have to say something I wish I didn’t have to say. This is as much help as I’m authorized to give you. I’m a city detective, and there are a number of other cases waiting for me, and I can’t put them off any longer.”

  Dr. Hope did not hide his disappointment. “Honestly, Mr. Treadway? Can’t the Hilton Police Department let us have your services for a week or two longer?”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor. If I get any more replies on these inquiries I sent out, I’ll send them to you. And I’ll keep my eyes and ears open for anything about your patient.”

  The detective bowed out, leaving them feeling rather helpless.

  “Well,” said Dr. Hope, “let’s see what Mr. Field knows.”

  In the anteroom they counseled the restaurant owner that his visit with Bob had best be brief. Cherry went ahead to tell Bob that Mr. Field was coming, then the psychiatrist brought Mr. Field in.

  “Hello, Mr. Field,” Bob said, and held out his hand. “I’m glad to see you. Miss Cherry, this is the man I told you about—the man who always could find some job for me.”

  No doubt about it, he recognized Mr. Field and even better, remembered himself in connection with this man.

  Mr. Field pumped Bob’s hand. “Well, well, well!” he said, a shade too heartily. “What happened to your leg? We’ve missed you around the restaurants. Yes, sir, we certainly have.” He swallowed hard.

  Bob answered something vague and polite. He looked in Cherry’s direction for help, and Cherry wondered how much he remembered of the restaurants or the people there. He smiled anxiously at Mr. Field from his bed.

  “Well, Bob, you look to me as if you’re in better shape physically, and in a whole lot better spirits—except for the leg, I mean—than the last time I saw you a few weeks ago.” This much improvement was the first fruit of the hospital’s efforts. “Yes, indeed, Bob, whenever you’re ready for a job again, you come right back to me!”

  Mr. Field was started on another booming speech. Dr. Hope touched his arm, and suggested he say good-bye for now.

  In the anteroom Mr. Field mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. The visit to Bob had shaken him.

  “I never realized the boy had lost his memory. I could see when he came around several times asking for work—anybody with eyes in his head could’ve seen—that the boy was hungry and unhappy and in some kind of trouble. But I never guessed—”

  “Amnesia isn’t an easy thing for a layman to recognize,” Dr. Hope said.

  “He was secretive,” Mr. Field insisted to Dr. Hope and Cherry. “He didn’t talk any more than he had to, to anyone. A nice boy, though. It struck me at the time—maybe you’ve noticed this, too?—that he has abilities far above his present situation in life. This Bob Smith is no tramp, he’s an educated man, courte
ous, has a sense of duty toward other people—”

  “Yes, Mr. Field,” said Cherry. “We’ve noticed that, too.”

  “Though to be exact, we’ve had no chance to observe his sense of duty,” Dr. Hope said.

  “Well, I’ll give you an example—Say, I clean forgot to show this to the detective fellow! My wife reminded me this morning. Hal Treadway’s left, hasn’t he? Too bad.” Mr. Field dug in his pocket and took out a pawn ticket. “This will show you how conscientious Bob is.”

  Once last summer, when he was unable to repay a small loan from Mr. Field, Bob gave him the pawn ticket. So far as Mr. Field remembered, it was for Bob’s watch. Mr. Field never redeemed the pawn ticket. When Bob wandered off, he saved it to give back to him in case he returned.

  “Now I guess I’d better give it to you hospital people.”

  He handed the pawn ticket, which came from a Glen Rock shop, to Dr. Hope. The psychiatrist remarked on its date, last summer, and handed it to Cherry.

  “I have a heavy caseload at the University Hospital, so I haven’t time to look into this matter. Miss Cherry, can you take care of it?”

  “This young lady can drive back to Glen Rock with me right now,” said Mr. Field. “I could drive her to the pawnshop. Then she could catch the bus back to Hilton.”

  “That’s kind of you,” Dr. Hope and Cherry said in unison, then grinned at each other.

  Since Cherry had completed her ward duties before Mr. Field’s and the detective’s visit, she was free to drive to Glen Rock now. Mr. Field turned out to be a chatterbox. Cherry managed to listen with one ear, but she was speculating about Bob. How had he managed, confused as he was by amnesia, not to beg but to find and hold odd jobs? Basically he must be a self-respecting, steady sort of man. His habit of responsibility toward others must be ingrained in him, too, to continue even in his time of stress.

  After a half hour’s drive they entered the tree-lined streets of Glen Rock. In a rather shabby section of the town, Mr. Field stopped the car in front of a pawnshop. It looked dingy, but respectable enough. Mr. Field was obviously in a hurry to be at his restaurants before suppertime. Cherry thanked him and said good-bye to him, entering the pawnshop alone.

  She had no trouble in redeeming Bob Smith’s ticket. The man behind the counter handed over, without comment or questions, a man’s wristwatch. It was a good, standard American watch, in a stainless steel case, and with a simple leather wristband. Cherry waited until she was out on the street to examine it carefully. The wristband showed wear, and the watch did not look new. Unfortunately, there were no initials on the case.

  “But there is a lead here!”

  Cherry brightened as she remembered that every watch bears the manufacturer’s name and a serial number. On the bus ride home to Hilton, she managed to pry open the back of the case with a hair pin. She found some letters and numbers, but they were too small to see clearly on a moving vehicle at twilight. At home she borrowed her father’s magnifying reading glass and tried that. Yes, the manufacturer’s name and the serial number were clearly visible.

  Cherry copied them down. She would ask Mrs. Ball to write at once, on the hospital’s letterhead stationery, to the watch manufacturer. This was a large firm in New England. With any luck at all, the manufacturer should be able to supply the name and address of the retail shop where Bob’s watch had been bought. Then, by writing there, it might be possible to learn who—

  “Cherry!” her mother called from the dining room. “Aren’t you coming in to dinner? Dad is ready to serve you.”

  “Are you nursing or sleuthing out there all by yourself?” Charlie asked.

  “Both, you might say,” Cherry replied, and she came to take her place at the family table.

  CHAPTER VI

  Picture Tests

  “YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT TECHNIQUE DR. HOPE IS GOING to use next,” Cherry said to Mrs. Peters next day. The head nurse was curious and concerned about their special patient. “He telephoned and told me he’s going to try TAT pictures today—and said we’re not to give Bob any drugs or medication.”

  “TAT pictures?” the head nurse asked. “Is that a test or another uncovering technique?”

  Cherry shook her head and her dark curls danced under the white cap. “I’d imagine it’s more of Dr. Hope’s special brand of sleuthing, wouldn’t you?”

  “Well, describe it to me when you find out. And I wish to high heaven that you’d tell Tommy and Mr. Pape and the others something more about Bob. It’s all Ruth and George and I can do to keep the ambulatory boys from going in to visit him.”

  Cherry laughed. “Dr. Watson told me the men are curious. You know, he booms and thumps around so, Dr. Hope told him to take it easy with Bob.”

  “How is that boy coming along?” the head nurse asked.

  “Better, Mrs. Peters. He’s trying awfully hard.”

  “So are you, Cherry. I’ve noticed you’re putting in overtime hours.”

  Dr. Hope came in just then, and the head nurse excused herself.

  “Ever seen TAT pictures, Miss Cherry?” the psychiatrist asked her, just outside of Bob’s room.

  “No, Doctor.”

  “Well, they are carefully designed drawings that show, or rather suggest, all sorts of situations. The patient’s reaction to them reveals what’s shrouded in his mind. Not literally, but it gives the psychiatrists hints or clues. You’ll see how it works as you watch and listen.”

  “Is it really a scientific method?”

  The big, blond man grinned. “You mean it sounds like guesswork? No, it isn’t. The Thematic Apperception Test—that’s what TAT stands for—has been worked out experimentally by psychologists at universities, using large numbers of tests and patients. There’s a scale of interpretation that works as accurately as the intelligence tests or vocational aptitude tests. TAT pictures are a standard tool in many mental hospitals. Satisfied, now?”

  “Yes, Dr. Hope, but what do you want me to do?”

  “Just be there. You’re a soothing influence for Bob, as it happens. One thing. Show you’re interested, encourage Bob to talk, but be neutral about anything he says.”

  Dr. Hope rapped at the door, which stood partly open. “It’s us. We’re bringing you a kind of game.”

  Bob called cheerfully, “Come in.”

  Dr. Hope explained to Bob, “I’m going to show you some pictures, one at a time, and ask you to make up as dramatic a story as you can for each.”

  “I? I can’t make up stories, Doctor,” Bob murmured.

  “The pictures are exciting, they’ll suggest stories to you, you’ll see. I’d like you to tell what has led up to the scene shown in the picture, and describe what is happening at the moment—what the people feel and think—and what the outcome will be. Do you understand?”

  Bob nodded. He was becoming interested.

  “Since you have fifty minutes for the ten pictures, you can give about five minutes to each story. Here’s the first picture.”

  Dr. Hope handed Bob a picture that might have been a good-sized postcard, not in color but in black and white. Dr. Hope glanced at his wristwatch while Bob studied the first picture. Cherry could see that it showed a boy of ten or twelve in a living room, holding a violin. Behind him stood a woman, and further back in the room, a man. There seemed to be someone else present, or it might have been a shadow. No one in the picture was defined very clearly; it all was dreamlike, suggesting something moving and troubling here.

  “Come on, Bob,” said the psychiatrist. “Just tell the first story that comes into your head.”

  “Well—that’s the boy’s parents with him, the mother wants him to go on with his violin lessons, but his father thinks she indulges the boy. Farther back in the room, that’s the boy’s brother, listening to them argue.”

  “Very good. How does the boy feel?”

  “I guess he feels that he’s causing a family argument—makes him feel a little out of the family circle—”

  “How does
the brother feel?”

  “I—I don’t know. Unless—Maybe he doesn’t like it that the younger brother receives so much attention from their parents. It’s just a story I’m making up, you understand?”

  This was as much as Bob would or could say on the first picture. Dr. Hope remarked pleasantly, “Good try,” and handed him the second picture.

  For each shadowy, haunting scene presented to him, Bob told stories with only a little strain. In some cases his stories made no immediate sense. Cherry noticed that the stories were disconnected and did not link up with one another—at least not on the surface. She could not tell whether any single story stood out significantly. One or two pictures made him smile.

  Then Dr. Hope gave Bob the ninth picture. Bob reacted excitedly. It suggested—at least to Bob—a place on the water, sandy, rocky, on rough water—a place near the ocean, not inland like Hilton—with big jutting rocks. A few shadowy figures seemed to be walking there. Evidently something important and troubling had once happened to Bob in such a coastal place, for he broke into a sweat. The psychiatrist urged him to talk.

  “This is where the boys go to swim,” he said. “It’s a place where accidents can happen. Because of rough water—and because in heavy weather, it’s hard to see all those rocks, especially when fog envelops them.”

  “How many boys, Bob?”

  “Just two boys.”

  “Is one of them you?”

  “It might be me,” Bob admitted.

  Dr. Hope asked him what sort of accident it might be. Swimming or sailing or just climbing and slipping on the rocks, Bob said vaguely. Near which ocean was this spot? Of all the TAT cards, this beach scene absorbed him the most. Yet Bob was too agitated to answer. He could not remember where, he insisted.

  The psychiatrist let the question go, and offered him the tenth picture. By this time Bob was tired, and could tell only a sketchy, desultory story. Dr. Hope put the ten pictures away. The fifty minutes was up. He praised Bob’s cooperation, and said:

  “Tomorrow or next day, we’ll do the next ten pictures.”