The next afternoon, there are clouds in the sky. They hang low and oppressively over the countryside, dense as etched slate and so close that if there were no bars on her windows, Alma might have been tempted to reach her hand out and touch them. Radio reports are predicting a massive storm out in this part of the state, with high winds and unpredictable storm patterns, and the rolling winds that howl past the stone walls of Alma's room seem to indicate that the unpredictable storm is patterning its way toward Holbrook. That is how she ends up in her own room during her allotted free time this afternoon, when usually she would pack up her notebooks and pens and find a warm patch of sunlight in which to enjoy the simplicity of an hour of nothing but unrelenting peace, where there is no one to disturb her but the twittering of birds in the trees around her and the scratching of her pen as it flies across the yellowing pages of her notepad. Today, the incoming rain affords her no such luxury. Instead, she is inside her own four-walled, doorless bedroom, with no company of birds to keep her heart line in tune with the rest of the world. While any other day that might have caused her great distress or plunged her into the icy cold abysses of loneliness and isolation, today there is something else to occupy her mind, something else to hold her down to this world with reckless abandon.
For, when she woke up this morning, there was a man's business card on her bedside table. A handsome, well-educated man with the world at his fingertips, working for Congress on a bill that would most assuredly bring good to people who need it. Now, Alma isn't delusional. As a matter of fact, she's rather practical in her pursuits, whether they be mental, emotional or otherwise. For most of her life, she has known the sort of person that she is. A sick one. And though her experiences with love have been confined only to the novels she's devoured, the films she's locked away in her heart or the records she's never spent a day without, Alma knows that there is no man, much less one like Doctor Hank McCoy, could have any interest in her. It's just the way that she's been raised. Doctor Carrington has never steered her astray before, and in this matter he has always been definitive. No one could love her until she was healthy again; Carrington is the only one who has cared for her in the wake of her sickness, and for that she owes him her devotion.
She knows all of this, and yet when she is told that she will not be going outside today due to the impending weather, Alma's hands immediately reach for the record that's been on her mind since Hank left yesterday morning. Placing the needle where it belongs and turning the volume dial to its appropriate level, Alma lets the overture roll over her in dramatic, crashing waves until all she sees behind her eyes is the opera in her mind. As the story progresses, however, she cannot help herself but to sing along, her flighty soprano bearing no weight against the resounding voice of the woman on the record. The combination of song strikes the concrete walls of Alma's bedroom and she rises from her bed as the music fills her, commanding its rightful place in the alleyways of her heart. Eyes lighting up as if she were on some great London stage, her bare feet spin about her floor as she picks up the edges of her loose skirt with a wild, bohemian flare. The English translation has always been something that struck Alma in a place in the back of her mind that she could never quite pull out of a fog, and as she sings the voice of Carmen, along with the rusty echo of the record player, Alma runs over that translation in her head. I'm not talking to you. I'm singing for my pleasure. I'm singing for my pleasure! And I'm thinking, and thinking is not against the law...
"Je ne te parle pas, je chante pour moi-même, je chante pour moi-même! Et je pense! il n'est pas défendu de penser!" She croons, her eyes distant and wild, her movements sweet and budding; there is a vibration to her as though she's hanging over the precipice of something massively compelling that is waiting for her just beyond the horizon, if only she had the courage to leap off and pursue it.
It is in this state that Doctor Carrington finds her. Twirling quadrilles in a grey hospital-issued dress like it was made from miles of the finest silks in the deepest shades of crimson, Alma's enthused voice glides along the melody, her defiant eyes brushing the wall as though she were addressing an audience full of generous patrons. It's jarring and disconcerting, and with all that has gone on this morning, the Doctor cannot keep his face from contorting into a hot tempered grimace, nor can he keep his voice from shouting in a paternal rage:
"What is going on in here?"
Shame rises through Alma's body, boiling over under the white-hot fire of his verbal reproach. Her hands immediate fall from her skirt and the dancing stops, her face turns, caught like a child doing something naughty, toward the man in the doorless entryway to her room. Bones locking up against each other, she allows her body to shrivel under his narrow-eyed scrutiny. There are two orderlies standing at attention behind him, just out of the doorframe, but Alma doesn't pay them any attention. Instead, she attempts to play off what he has just witnessed her doing. That embarrassing execution of her fantasies, this bawdy love song that held the edges of her mind captive since Hank McCoy smiled at her yesterday, is a mortifying secret to share with anyone, much less her caregiver and psychopharmacologist. A fire of guilt rages through her, burning down her self-confidence as though it were an old nitrate film. Trying to control her breathing, which was made heavy by the singing and dancing she just allowed herself to be swept away by, she swallows the stone of sickness that threatens to rise up her throat.
"What?" She asks, her voice strained with the effort to seem like she's done nothing wrong even as the song continues to warble from the record player.
Raising his eyebrows in disappointment at the blatant evasion, Doctor Carrington forces himself to simmer down. He breathes in calm, counted breaths until he manages to return his body to its normal temperature and his heart rate back to its normal beats-per-minute. When he is certain that he will not unleash anymore reason for Alma to cower, he speaks, this time in a smooth, cordial voice, like a father coming over for tea.
"I asked what was going on in here," he repeats.
In the moments it has taken for him to bring himself back to Earth, Alma has subtly slid over to the bedside table that holds her record player, noisily sliding the needle off of the rotating disc without looking at it. The sound of the leading soprano's voice vanishes, leaving nothing between the patient and her doctor but the sound of the air conditioning unit.
"Nothing," she replies.
Another obvious lie. Finding himself a seat in the only available chair in the room, the doctor points out the obvious, opening his leather-bound notebook and uncapping his Mont Blanc pen, poising the latter above the former as if he expects there to be some sort of mental health development in the young woman singing about love, something he knows she's never felt for herself, not even once.
"You're singing," he states.
Bowing her head, knowing now that any resistance is poorly advised, Alma sits on the edge of her bed with a resigned sigh.
"Yes, Doctor Carrington. I was," she admits.
He begins to scribble down on the paper balanced in his lap.
"Any reason why?"
Alma thinks back to her schedule, wondering if perhaps she missed her appointment and if that is the reason that the Doctor has made such an unsuspected visit. But, she immediately counters, if she had an appointment, surely a nurse would have come to fetch her and walk her to his office. Alma's eyebrows narrow slightly.
"I'm sorry-Is this a session-?" She trails off, pointing to the paper he's currently jotting down notes upon.
Carrington leans back in the chair he's commandeered, raising a single eyebrow at her this time.
"Is that sass I hear in your tone?" He asks, levelly.
An answer rises to her lips immediately. When she was young, such a response would have come out of fear, fear of punishment, fear of neglect, fear of isolation. But now, such a programmed answer comes out of pure habit.
"No, sir," she says, shaking her head.
His grand tone rolling through the air, Carrington uses his hands to gesture as he attempts to make Alma feel small, something he has always had great success in.
"Hm. I see," he drones before continuing in a more brisk manner, "No, this isn't a session, but I was asking a question of you, one that I expect answered sooner or later. You know, since I have known you almost your entire life and wanted to know why you're suddenly singing opera, something you haven't done since you were fifteen and saw your first Rock Hudson film, let's suppose I was merely asking out of curiosity."
The serrated edge to his tone rolls like thunder and a tingle of childish fear wracks Alma's spine.
"Was I disturbing anyone?" She asks, as it is always her first instinct that she has done something wrong, not, as Doctor Carrington seems keen to suggest, that anyone could have simply been genuinely interested in anything she has to say.
Her naive tone forces a chuckle from the throat of the man sitting in her chair. What a foolish girl.
"Can people in this building get any more disturbed than they already are?" He asks.
"Good point," she says.
Without another word or any indication of his purpose, the man rises to his feet, crossing over to the still-running record player, though it is soundless without the needle that Alma removed only a moment earlier. The young woman twitches, a neglected nightmare storming in the back of her mind that he might pick the record up and smash it to bits, destroying one of her beloved, few treasures. But, he doesn't do anything of the kind. He merely flips the rotating plate into the off position and picks the record up to inspect it.
"Carmen," he intones as his eyes roll across the center identification sleeve.
She watches him with terrified eyes, certain that any moment now his steady hands would crumble the plastic and take away her music.
"Yes, sir."
He smirks to himself, though she has no idea what such a gesture could mean.
"You must be in a good mood, then," he offers.
It isn't something she wants to discuss with him, but her answer is simple enough. The record finds its way back into its jacket and into its place with the rest of her meager collection of albums, and Alma breathes a sigh of relief that it seems essentially safe, at least for the moment.
"Yes, sir," she agrees.
With that issue of conversation out of the way, her caretaker returns to his seat and folds one leg over the other. Leaning back, he looks the picture of civility and relaxation.
"Well, you're probably wondering what I'm doing here," he drawls.
A tight smile crosses Alma's lips. If she hasn't disturbed anyone with her singing, then surely this entire endeavor from him has felt rather pointless.
"I wouldn't be disappointed if you explained," Alma responds.
The doctor examines her for a long while, taking his time as he goes. She's always been loyal to him, unceasingly so given that there are no other options available to her, and that is what makes this entire affair so disconcerting.
"Alma, do you think that you're treated poorly here?" He asks.
Her protest edges on violent as she speaks to defend herself.
"No, sir. Not at all," she says.
What reason would she have for thinking that she's been treated poorly? They have always taken care of her here, and their science has been working diligently to find a cure for the sickness that plagues her mind. Doctor Carrington stews, but sees no trace of a lie in her eyes.
"Have I ever given you reason to think that I'm not happy here?" Alma asks.
Carrington clucks his tongue.
"If you had asked me when I woke up for morning, I would have said no. But at this moment, I'm not so sure," he says.
The sound of that sends thrums of discord straight into the depths of Alma's stomach. Swallowing back any fear she might have, she shields herself from what feels like an attack.
"I just want to get better, sir. All I've ever wanted was to get better, and living here has-"
But she is cut off by a command that refuses any rebuttal.
"You're needed in the Administration building. In one of our holding rooms," he states.
The holding rooms are infamous in the hospital for one reason, and one reason only. They're where one gets sent when the Administration is reprimanding you. Alma's eyes widen and she strangles out:
"Why?"
"Because it appears you've been subpoenaed by the United States government," he responds.
The words of that sentence are all words that Alma understands on a technical level, but strung together in that order and under this context, she finds herself completely at odds to derive any sort of meaning from them.
"What?" She questions.
Standing and straightening his tie, the doctor thinks back to only moments ago, when Hank McCoy showed up and began to intimidate the office workers, using his status as politician to win him some bargaining power. Apparently, it worked, because one of the nurses scrambled up to Carrington and stammered out that there was a handsome, young man waiting in holding room A for Alma Williams, and that he was hear to vet her about her treatment here. And while Carrington has no idea what McCoy needs from Alma, his suspicion is instantly riled. He immediately jumps to the entirely false conclusion that Alma has divulged the secrets of her treatment here to the young man who saw her only the day before. Carrington's struggle to maintain his composure in the face of this private meeting between a governmental agent and one of his patients- his most important patient- comes from a small man afraid that he has something to hide.
The reality is that he does have something to hide, but Alma would be the last person to divulge it, considering that she's never once in her life found her treatment to be anything out of the ordinary. Her blissful ignorance is just a small perk of spending the majority of her life in the custody of one man who, by the system laid out before them, cultivated perfect control over her entire life. All the same, in spite of these truths, Carrington still feels the suspicion that this meeting could blow his carefully constructed castle of cards to fall into a pile of nothing at his feet.
"You caught the attention of one of the politicians and now he wants to speak with you privately about how you're treated here," he snaps.
He continues to speak, but Alma stopped listening when he said holding room and politician. Holding rooms mean that she has done something wrong, and acting out of line can only result in punishment. Alma has lived here long enough to understand that the reality of punishment is one to be avoided at any and all costs. Panic begins to settle into her bones.
"What have I done wrong?" She asks, her breath picking up in wild pants.
Carrington waves in the two orderlies who have been waiting outside the door, and his eyes narrow.
"I'm not sure, but you can be sure that you and I will have a discussion once you've been released."
Alma tries to make him understand, to make him see that she didn't do anything wrong. She doesn't deserve to be punished, she doesn't deserve to be in trouble. She didn't do anything wrong.
"I was only answering his questions," she protests.
Four bulky arms wrap their way around her like pythons, curling her into submission as her erratic hyperventilation leads to unsolicited sobs. Carrington does not look as they drag her out of the room like a dog dragging a toy in his teeth. He keeps his tone level and takes the liberty of having the final word in this conversation.
"And when you're finished answering his questions, then you'll answer mine."
But an hour before any of this happened, when Carrington was treating himself to an afternoon Scotch and Alma was just sliding the needle onto the first Carmen album in the three record set, there was a young man and there was a desk clerk. Hank McCoy idles up to the front reception area of the Hospital, having driven the morning through to get here. The secretary smiles at the man as he tips his head in respect to her.
"Good afternoon," he greets with a smile.
She reflects his attitude, all cordiality and deference.
"Oh, hello, Mister-?" She knows she's seen him before, and she searches for his name in her mind; he was here just yesterday, she curses herself, she should remember a man like this.
Hank wastes no time in correcting her. Today, when he walks into this building, he feels none of the same pleasures he felt when he walked in the day before. All is essentially as it was, but now the mere taste of the air makes him sick.
"It's Doctor. And McCoy. Doctor Hank McCoy," he says.
Feeling a bit embarrassed, the woman looks around her desk, wondering if anyone had alerted her to his arrival and if she had simply missed the notification.
"Of course," she nods, "Did you leave something behind yesterday?"
Hank merely shakes his head.
"Not at all. I'm actually here to vet a patient," he says definitively, leaving no room for argument.
That expression isn't one that is generally used outside of Washington, and Hank almost rolls his eyes at the thought that she might know what it means.
"Vet?" She asks, seeking clarification.
With little patience for banter, Hank replies in the simplest of terms, though it isn't quite an apt synonym.
"Examine," he explains away.
This seems to make sense to her and is spoken in a language she understands. She reaches for the collection of patient files on her desk, eager and willing to help facilitate whatever this young politician needs.
"Ah. Which patient is that?" She asks.
It spills over his lips.
"Alma Williams."
She doesn't need to reference a file or see this one's paperwork. Everyone knows Alma. The secretary shakes her head and tucks away the files she was pulling to deliver the news.
"She's in Ward Four. And they have restricted visitor access. You'll not be able to-"
Hank has never been accustomed to throwing his weight around. He isn't comfortable with intimidation or using the powers that he's been given to manipulate the situations he's thrust into, melding them into something more agreeable to his tastes. But in this moment, Hank turns to steel, his eyes piercing the woman as he does just what he's never wanted to before. He uses his position to gain an advantage. And the branch of government most directly addressing the people is not a bad card to have in a deck that is already stacked. Someone's life is at stake; Alma's wellbeing is a stake and that doesn't sit well with him.
"M'am, I am at the liberty of the United States Congress. I don't have not able to in my job description," he bites out.
The woman swallows back her fear before standing and speaking in a tiny, timid voice that almost makes Hank pity her.
"Of course, sir. I'll contact her doctor."
Alma has been locked in holding room A for a few minutes now, and she hasn't been able to control the fear that's wracking her chest. She pounds on the door miserably, wondering if anyone will come to hear her in this rectangle of a room that look like the interrogation room out of any number of crooked cop films. The single light above her flickers, though whether that is a product of the storm raging around this building or of the terrible maintenance that this room endures, she isn't sure.
There is no longer blood running through her veins; her heart is pumping out pure terror. She thinks of what was said between her and the man the day before, what she possibly could have done to incur what Doctor Carrington assures her is the wrath of both the government and the hospital where she's spent nearly her whole life.
"What did I do?" She begs.
No reply. More tears form in her eyes.
"I'm sorry for whatever it was," she offers to no one.
Again, no reply. Alma sinks into one of the two metal chairs waiting on either side of the desk.
"I'm sorry," she blubbers.
She assumes that no one will answer her this time either. But, that assumption lands her in a state of shock when Hank McCoy appears, pushing himself through the door.
"Doctor McCoy-" She nearly shouts, standing to her feet out of respect, as Doctor Carrington always taught her.
He looks at her face, rubbed raw from fearful tears, and concern instantly etches itself across his features before he can stop himself.
"Are you alright?" He asks, tersely.
Alma stumbles to apologize, to make things right, to avoid whatever conflict will inevitably rise out of whatever wrong she has unknowingly committed.
"I'm so sorry for whatever I said that-" She begins.
But there is no time to finish that statement.
"Sit down, Alma," he nearly commands.
With the tension properly created between them, Hank crosses to the door of the grey concrete room and reaches out a single hand to lock the deadbolt. And with a sickening smack of metal against metal, Alma finds herself trapped with the young doctor about whom she was only just singing opera.
Please, please review! I worked really hard on this chapter and getting the feeling of it just right, so I would love to hear what all of you think about it! Please give me some input! I can't wait to hear your thoughts!