I do not own Ratched.
I do not own Huck. But I miss him and it's summer for me so I brought him back.
Huck Finnigan: Dreams and Nightmares; Best Life Lived
The Little Mermaid and Her Voice
And they just can't figure it out.
She eats.
She appears to sleep.
Her eyes track movement upon request.
Her balance is flawless.
There have been no reported recent injuries to the head.
They can find no physical reason for her ailment.
School records document an apt student, no educational, mental, or social concerns of any kind.
Beta Club, Young Homemakers Club.
Typing Club.
Well verbal, well socialized, well rounded.
And then, nothing.
It's as though one day she was herself and the next day she wasn't.
"Should we start her on tranquilizers? Diazepam? Lorazepam?"
"She's already tranquil, Nurse Gregg."
"Maybe something for seizures?"
"Has she exhibited symptoms of seizures?"
"No."
"She doesn't seem to be a risk to herself or others. Maybe we should wait until we know what she has before medicating her for something she may not have."
"Yes, Head Nurse Finnigan."
"Maybe The Little Mermaid's just a brat. You know, mad and punishing her parents or something."
This strikes Huck as highly unlikely.
"I don't think so, Director Bucket. And her name is Jillian Terrence."
Sometimes he wonders how this woman got her cape at all.
"I know that, Huck."
Who is even now waving an annoyed, dismissive hand.
"You don't have to be such a stick in the mud, you know. Nobody's here to hear right now but us."
And Huck continues gamely.
"I can't see her punishing her parents by getting herself locked in a treatment facility. And she exhibits no hostility or signs of rage."
Despite his growing irritation.
"She's just . . . not communicative."
Supreme Leader Director Betsy Bucket, on the other hand, . . .
"Well, I don't know. Sometimes it feels like we're running a babysitting service here or something."
. . . seems more than a little frustrated.
"At least when Dr. Hanover was here, it felt like we were gaining ground, new breakthroughs, treatments."
Yes, Huck has heard.
Lobotomies. Drilling holes into the skull to "relieve pressure on the brain".
The very thought of the hydrotherapy room still makes him shudder, though he does still utilize it from time to time.
". . . please . . ."
Only at patient's request.
". . . I'm just so hot all the time. An ice bath sounds like it would finally cool me off for sure . . ."
And that . . .
"Mrs. Doyle, you're experiencing symptoms of advanced climacteric. Freezing yourself in an ice bath isn't going to cure it-"
. . . quite sparingly.
"Oh, fiddle-faddle, what do you know about women and mid-life hysteria, Mr. Finnigan? You're a man."
He's actually learning quite a lot about all kinds of people.
All kinds of physical and mental ailments.
He studies in the evenings, reading through piles and piles of medical books.
Referencing his dictionary and an old Latin textbook he kept from school.
Dr. Hanover had acquired quite the collection of medical books.
Huck's mother, the Sacramento librarian, secures more for him.
He is learning, he is trying.
He is . . .
"Mrs. Doyle,-"
"Oh, leave me alone, I'll suffer and die from this and nobody even cares!"
"Mrs. Doyle . . ."
. . . doing his best.
Grace, of course, takes an interest.
". . . not talking? At all? Ever?"
"No. And she seems to want to. At least sometimes."
He had known she would.
Grace with her gentle heart.
Grace with her sharp mind.
Grace who, once or twice a week, shows up at St. Lucia.
"Well, hello there, Nurse Miller, how's that other fella doing?"
"He's doing fine, Mrs. Kee. Thank you for asking. And you can just call me 'Grace' now. I don't work here anymore. I just come to visit you."
"That's kind of you, dear. You know, if you don't mind me asking, are you carrying?"
"Yes, ma'am, I am."
"Well, congratulations, dear. You'll make a fine mother. You're always so kind and caring to all of us here."
"Thank you, Mrs. Kee. I appreciate that very much."
With her chocolate chip cookies and her angelic disposition.
And, of course, . . .
"Hello. My name is Grace Finnigan. I'm here visiting some guests for the day."
. . . she settles for a while across from the timid teenage girl . . .
"May I sit with you?"
. . . with no voice.
"More chicken, Huck?"
"Thank you, Grace. It's delicious."
"You're welcome. Have you noticed Jillian Terrance?"
"What about her?"
"She's always moving her fingers."
"How do you mean?"
"Like she's . . . tracing or drawing with them or something."
"Her mother says she refuses to write. Just makes swirls on the page."
"Mmm . . ."
"Huck. Huck."
"Grace, what is it?"
"Come stand here and watch this."
Huck is a good husband, a calm, confident, unegomanical man.
He does what his wife requests, even when he is Head Nurse of St Lucia Rehabilitation Center and she is but a guest visiting for the afternoon.
He stands.
Quiet. Unassuming.
Off to the side.
"Hello, Miss Terrance. I'm Grace. We've met before. Remember?"
He watches.
"I've brought you something I think you might like."
And he sees.
Grace.
Sees her.
Slip a piece of paper under Jillian Terrance's endlessly moving fingers.
A pencil as well.
The girl glances up at Grace, almost meeting her eyes.
Then down again, back into herself, lost once more.
Nearly motionless just long enough for Huck to almost decide Grace has finally been wrong on this one thing and that's alright because no one can figure this girl out and they've all been trying.
And then almost painfully shy and hesitant, she picks up the pencil.
And presses the graphite tip to the paper.
Her hand moves, wrist bends, finger flex.
Slowly, slowly, without any seeming intent or directed purpose, she makes marks.
Swirls and loops and circles and wavy lines.
She draws.
Grace sits.
Huck stands.
And the Finnigans both . . .
I'm not sure what we're waiting for.
. . . watch.
"Hair pretty."
And Huck's jaw drops.
It's the first words anyone has heard her speak here and in weeks anywhere, if her mother is to be believed.
"Bottle born."
Simple syllables running into each other, bumping and jostling as if they required training and practice to properly follow one another.
But spoken all the same.
And spoken directly to Grace.
Not looking at her, not quite.
But directed to her.
Through the paper, the pencil.
Grace who smiles, seeming very pleased with this new development.
Then solemns, gaze focused on the girl and her swirls, seeming to ruminate, consider.
Think.
And finally . . .
"Yes, this is my natural hair color. And thank you."
Huck stares and Grace watches and Jillian Terrence . . .
"Brown born not pretty plain."
. . . swirls and loops.
Proffered pencil to proffered paper.
And Grace replies.
"I think your hair is lovely as it is, Miss Terrance. Very soft."
With the types of swirls and strokes . . .
"Terrance Mother Jill."
. . . the girl's mother had so dismissively described.
"Jill then. It's very nice to speak with you, Jill."
And Huck Finnigan . . .
I need to write this down in her file.
. . . is almost slackjawed.
"You draw so well, Jill."
Grace has carefully edged the paper out from under the girl's hand.
"Did someone teach you?"
And just like that, . . .
"Jill?"
. . . the girl's mouth closes once more.
"Miss Terrance?"
And her words are dammed shut.
Huck watches Grace sit for a moment.
Patience and cleverness working through the abrupt change in the girl.
To Huck's observant eye, the girl does not appear angry or perturbed.
Only distraught, eyes shifting furtively again, face drawn.
Mouth shut tight.
And he can see she wants to open it.
But something disallows it.
And Grace regroups.
"I apologize."
Returns the paper carefully.
"Would you like this back?"
The pencil in the girl's hand . . .
"Carrot ju die brown stay."
. . . resumes its etching.
Grace sits.
Huck waits.
Jillian Terrance sketches.
And finally . . .
"You tried to dye your hair using carrot juice? And it didn't work?"
The girl smiles at her paper.
"Stoopid."
Grace smiles back.
"Actually, I find it rather resourceful and creative."
The girl blushes at her swirls and loops.
"Tank you."
"Well, what do you think, Huck?"
"I think we're going to need more paper."
The Little Mermaid, originally written in 1836 by Hans Christian Anderson. Which is something I didn't know until today.
Hence, the chapter title.
Also, probably already figured "advanced climacteric" and "mid-life hysteria" are both early 1900s terms for menopause.
Yeehaw.
Anyway, hope you enjoyed, more to come!
Thanks to DinahRay for reading and reviewing the previous chapter! :D
