One Dead Under the Cuckoo's Nest by Lori Avocato Page B

my age I would know what was good for me, but Ruby’s tone gave me pause. Did she mean she’d do something to me . . . or . . . that he would?
    Before I was able to ask her, Margaret was led out of the dayroom toward a locked door.
    â€œShit,” Ruby mumbled.
    â€œShit?” I repeated.
    She turned to me as if I didn’t know what the four-letter word meant. Maybe she, too, had heard that my version of cursing was “Jagger.”
    â€œWhy do you say that?” I asked.
    â€œCold wet packs,” she mumbled and I figured Ruby had been swaddled in them before.
    Now it was Margaret’s turn.
    I would have loved to go help her, but knew I couldn’t if I ever wanted to get out of here. A chill raced up my spine at the thought of the cold wet packs. That I remembered from the old days too. When a patient got “out of control,” their clothes were stripped off, wet sheets were wrapped around them like a cocoon of comfort to calm them down.
    Once I had to sit in a tiny closet of a room with a patient swaddled in the sheets, who kept seeing bugs on the walls. I had to take her temporal pulse over and over until, thank goodness, my shift ended . . . because I was starting to see those bugs too, and was ready to call my mother to borrow her flyswatter.
    My heart ached for Margaret. I looked at Ruby. “What’d she do?”
    Ruby gave me a vacant stare. “Grabbed his cell phone—”
    â€œâ€”And was going to call someone to help her get out of here. She said she doesn’t belong here,” I added.
    â€œShe doesn’t.” With that Ruby headed off toward the
    TV, plopped herself in front and stared at a commercial for low-carb snacks.
    I leaned against the wall and knew I had to find Jagger . . . fast. Maybe I could succeed at getting one of the staff’s cell phones.
    The instincts that had served me so well during my nursing career said Margaret Seabright was right. She didn’t belong here . . . and who else didn’t?
    I looked around the dayroom to make sure some staff was within listening distance. Of course, in a psych hospital you didn’t have to look too far to find any staff. The patients were never, or at least should never be, left alone. I shut my eyes and told myself I was Meryl Streep again. With that thought, I opened my eyes and started to wail.
    â€œOooooooh! Oooooooh! I need to seeeeeee . . . Dr. Carpenter.” I looked at Spike heading toward me.
    Ruby turned around from the TV long enough to whisper, “Plummer.”
    I paused my wailing to let that sink in. Oops. Wrong building trade. “Doctor. My Dr. Plummer. I need to see him!”
    By now Spike was within breathing distance, but hadn’t grabbed me yet. Sister Barbara was fast behind. Suddenly I worried that she might have some kind of “calming” shot in her hand, so I eased up on the Meryl bit and wiped at my eyes.
    â€œOh, Sister Barbara, could you please call Dr. Plummer for me? I’d really appreciate seeing him right now.”
    She stopped within a few feet, her forehead wrinkled in what I could assume was suspicion. Maybe my transformation was too quick. Maybe I was too good an actress. Or, maybe the nun bought my act and thought I was reallywhacko. Either way she didn’t stick any needle into my arm or any other body part.
    Phew.
    â€œWhat is wrong?” she asked.
    Damn. Now what? I couldn’t say I needed to fill my partner in on our fraud case. So, I said, “It’s . . . personal. You know, Sister, no offense, but it’s between my doc and myself. I really feel the need to talk to him.”
    From behind her I could see Ruby smirk. Hmm. Maybe I could use her. We seemed to have made some kind of connection and at least I knew Ruby didn’t eat her hair, talk to herself or throw herself at walls. Not that I took a drug problem lightly, but Sister Liz insinuated that Ruby