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byCHARLES D. MUSGROVE, MD
NEW YORK, FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, 1913
CHAPTER 17
The soft, breathy voice blows right into the ear of Belman Hospital’s newest intern. “She’s notgoinganywhere, you know.”
Jordan Hassan spins around to see Michaela from Room 12 standing barely an inch away from him. Her skin is yellowish—is it malnutrition?—and her eyes are such a pale blue that they seem almost drained of color. She gives him a sideways smirk because she’s snuck up on him. Because she’s caught him peering into the quiet room again.
“I’m just checking on her,” he says quickly. “It’s part of my assignment.”
Michaela nods slyly, like,How come I haven’t seen you checking onmeevery two-point-five minutes?Then her expression softens. “It sucks in there,” she says quietly. “It’s so lonely. And it’s always freezing cold.”
Jordan hazards another glance through the window. Someone took Hannah’s shoes and socks away, and this morning, when Jordan asked if she could have a blanket, the nurse had told him no.
“We can’t have her trying to strangle herself with it,” she’d said matter-of-factly. “Or stuffing it into her mouth to try to choke herself.” Seeing the alarmed look on his face, she’d added, “Peoplecan hurt themselves with just about anything. Blankets, a staple, paper towels, a plastic spoon, you name it.”
Jordan can see Hannah darting around inside the room now. Her bare feet make little slapping sounds on the tile floor.
“I take it you’ve been in?” he says to Michaela.
She nods. “I hate it. It’s also haunted.”
Now she must be messing with me, he thinks. “What do you mean?”
Michaela exhales in a long, slow sigh and says, “Not to be, like, super dramatic or anything, but that room is basically filled with the echoes of mad girls’ screams.” She steps up to the glass and looks in on her friend. “When you’re alone in there, you can hear them.”
“That sounds … spooky,” Jordan allows.
“Those walls know our secrets,” Michaela says. Then she spins around and flings her arms up in the air. “So whatever! Who cares! Let’s go get some Paxil!”
“Didn’t you get some at med pass this morning?” he asks.
“Sure, but it’salwaystime for medication,” Michaela says. “Drugs! Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em! Wouldn’t you enjoy a pop of Ativan right now?”
Jordan’s wondering whether to feel amused or worried when Hannah’s voice comes ringing through the door.
“Run!” she screams. “Run!”
Jordan pushes Michaela out of the way so he can see in again. Hannah is crouched down in the corner, pleading with someone only she can see.
“Mary!” she cries, and there’s terror in her voice. “Oh, god, oh, god—don’t hurt my sister!” She collapses. Then she’s still. Silent.
Jordan gives an involuntary shiver, and Michaela puts her hand on his arm. He lets it stay there for a moment before he steps away.No physical contact.
“I’m going to get Dr. Klein,” he says.
“She won’t like to be bothered,” Michaela warns.
Too bad, Jordan thinks. He’s not going to pretend like something terrible’s not happening in that room.
Dr. Klein looks up from her desk when Jordan walks in, and Michaela was right: she’s not at all pleased by the intrusion.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” he says, “but Hannah’s really upset. She’s saying—”
“I’m not Hannah’s therapist,” Dr. Klein says smoothly. “That’s Dr. Nicholas, and she’ll see him tomorrow.” She taps something into her computer, and Jordan stands there, waiting, feeling like an idiot. “And I’m not her RN, either,” she adds. “If Hannah needs PRN medication, per her chart, a nurse can take care of it.”
“But she’s saying her sister’s been stabbed.”
