Her head felt funny, rather heavy and slightly foggy, and nausea was coiling in her belly. Rose opened her eyes slowly to dim, grey light. She was lying on a thin, hard mattress covered by a stiff sheet and a scratchy blanket. She pushed the offending edge away from her chin then peered curiously beneath the coverings.
She was dressed in a plain, white cotton gown. She glanced around the small room; her clothes were nowhere in sight. All she saw were bare walls and a thick door with a narrow, rectangular window in it. The scant illumination came from without; in the room no lights were lit.
Rose's eyes moved to the ceiling, where she saw a single bulb housed in a heavy wire cage. Her gaze returned to the walls. The room had no windows, and she was fairly certain that if she tried the door she'd find it locked. Through a narrow, open doorway she glimpsed a tiny bathroom with a toilet and wash basin.
Her stomach lurched uncomfortably when she attempted to sit up. She amended her motion to sink back down. Her eyelids were heavy and sore, too. Perhaps she'd just close them for a minute or two, just to rest them until she felt a little better. Then she'd get up and… do what?
She rolled onto her side with a small sigh.
After calculating precisely how Rose's body would require to metabolize the Thorazine fully, the Doctor had kept careful track of the time. He'd met with Poile and given a firm warning about administering any additional medications to the new patient. The psychiatrist had seemed dubious, but the Time Lord's rapid-fire explanation of the precise biochemical reactions invoked by the asthmatic's body in response to an aliphatic phenothiazine had seemingly convinced the man that his newest staff member knew a thing or two about medicine.
Poile had thanked him, albeit it rather perfunctorily, then bid him good night. The Doctor had managed to remain in the hospital, telling the nurses and orderlies that he planned to take an inventory of supplies in the infirmary. As the day staff departed and the smaller night shift arrived, he made a point of securing introductions from Nurse Brownlow then disappearing into the infirmary again.
He'd built his fourth tongue-depressor tower when he realized it was time to check on Rose. She should be waking soon. He ascended the stairs and walked casually to the nurse's station, where a rather sallow and haggard-looking woman sat reading a dog-earred novel.
He glanced at the book. "Ooh, Fitzgerald. Brilliant fellow, great characterizations, pretty accurate portrayal of the Twenties, though if you ask me he's a bit heavy on the social strictures. Hello," he extended his hand, "I'm the Doctor—the new doctor. Did Dr. Poile mention me to you? Just started today. Wonderful place you've got here, tip-top it seems."
The nurse gaped at him for a few moments then smiled in response to his affable grin. "Doctor Leeds, of course. I'm Marguerite Broussard. I have the night shift Wednesdays through Mondays." She tucked the book beneath the counter quickly. "I was just about to do the 4:00 check."
He clasped her hand warmly. "Lovely to meet you, Nurse Broussard. Perfect timing, too. You've got a new patient up here, and I need to see her for a few minutes. She had a rather bad reaction to the Thorazine she was given, and I want to check she's all right."
The nurse nodded. "She's in room 7-A, just down here." She reached into a drawer for a key; he made a mental note of its precise location at her station.
"Have you looked in on her?" he asked.
"She's been sleeping—hasn't really moved since I came on shift. But of course I've glanced in on her every hour. Her chart says she's asthmatic, so I've made sure she was breathing properly."
"Thank you."
"Of course."
They walked down the hallway to Rose's room. The nurse unlocked the door, and he stepped inside.
"I'll just be a minute or two—need to check her vitals, be sure her asthma isn't acting up."
"I should probably stay," she began.
"Nonsense. I mean, you have things to do, other patients to check. Really, I won't be a minute. Leave the door open if you like."
"Oh, I can't do that. We keep the doors locked at all times for the patients' protection."
"Fine, lock 'er up then. I'll just give a tap when I've finished."
He maintained a pleasant exterior, but the thought of keeping all the patients secured within these tiny, dismal rooms made him bridle. He'd been shown a dayroom during his tour, so at least some patients were permitted to leave their cells periodically, but he felt certain it wasn't enough. The more pressing issue, however, was precisely what the patients required protection from.
He stepped inside the room and closed the door behind himself. Rose lay upon her side. He moved to the bed and placed his hand on her shoulder.
"Rose."
She gave a small jerk then rolled over. "Doctor!"
He grinned in relief. "You recognize me."
"'Course."
"Had my doubts last night. What the hell happened?" He glanced over his shoulder to see Nurse Broussard standing outside the door, clearly watching him. He shifted around a bit to block the woman's view of Rose's face, then he pulled a penlight from his pocket and shone it into each of her eyes. She blinked at him in surprise.
"What're you doin'? I'm all right," she protested mildly.
"Yep. But play along; they think I'm their new doctor."
"Really? How'd that happen?"
"Probably the same way you ended up in here being mistaken for a patient."
"Wasn't a mistake."
The nurse still hovered by the door, so he reached into his pocket for the stethoscope and adjusted the earpieces as he asked her, "What happened? I thought you were going to get a job in the kitchens." He kept his voice low, but his tone was quite serious.
"Yeah, but they weren't hirin'. I met these two women who work here, an' they gave me a ride back to town. But as we were talkin', I realized that there's definitely somethin' weird goin' on here."
Expression full of curiosity, he deferred his question for a moment to say, "Sit up" as he waggled the stethoscope at her.
With his hand at her elbow, Rose complied, eyeing the instrument a bit warily. "That necessary?"
"Have to make this look real. I told them you had asthma to keep them from giving you any more drugs."
"Oh," she said softly, running a hand over her face. "Suppose that explains why I feel so crappy."
"You don't remember?" he asked with mild concern.
"Not really."
He pressed the stethoscope over her chest, although his attention was clearly focused upon her words. "Side effect from the drug, I imagine. So what did you find out from the kitchen staff?"
"Nothin' specific, but they seemed really nervous bein' outside for very long an' insisted on givin' me a ride back to town. An' they wouldn't answer any questions about the hospital. Usually people in that sort of job are the first ones to tell you every detail about where they work, how awful their boss is—"
"So you decided to go undercover as a patient," he finished, sliding his hand down the back of her nightgown.
"Don't you think you're takin' this a bit far?" she asked with an arch of her eyebrow.
"Me? You're the one who pretended to be incoherent and possibly psychotic—convincingly enough to warrant an injection of Thorazine, I might add."
"Yeah, didn't expect that. Didn't expect to find you here pretendin' to be a doctor, either."
"Wasn't my fault. The guard automatically assumed it when I showed him the psychic paper. But really, it's better than being an inspector; this way I can see all the patients, try to figure out what's wrong with them."
"You don't think they're really mentally ill?"
"Some may be, but I can feel that something's wrong—really, seriously, skin-crawlingly wrong." He drew back a bit and tucked the instrument into his pocket. "So you have to be careful, Rose. I mean it."
"I will."
"They aren't going to keep you here for much longer. As soon as Poile—the psychiatrist—thinks you've stabilized, he's going to have you transferred to a hospital in Montreal. You won't have much time."
"Can we stall him?"
"I don't know. He says the hospital only treats patients with severe emotional disorders, and he thinks you're psychotic—different animal, psychologically speaking. Besides, I'm not sure I want you to stay. I don't like you being in here when I don't know what's going on."
"Only one way to find out," she grinned.
But he did not return the smile. "I'll try to get him to hold you here for the day and we'll see what we both can learn. But after that I want you out of here." His hand dipped into another pocket, and he withdrew a tongue depressor. "Open up," he instructed.
She complied, and he leaned in to peer down her throat. As he did, his finger darted quickly into her mouth, depositing a pill upon her tongue. She blinked in surprise.
"Swallow it," he said.
"You're druggin' me, too?"
"Nope, just the opposite. Did a bit of jiggery-pokery with a few of the pharmaceuticals in the infirmary and came up with something that should counteract the effects of any psychotropics they might still try to give you. That way you can keep your wits about you."
Rose swallowed the small tablet. "How long'll it last?"
"About twelve hours. By then you're going to be out of here." He stood up. "I'll check back with you after breakfast. With luck you'll have a chance to observe some of the other patients and staff by then."
"Okay."
"And remember, Rose, be careful. If you need me, just pretend you're sick. Can you fake an asthma attack?"
"Suppose so. That or appendicitis."
He glanced at the door again. Nurse Broussard was walking past. "Right. Back to work for both of us."
He stepped outside without another look at Rose.
To be continued...
