The Wrong Girl
Just outside the door to Peter’s room, Judy paused, trying to think.
Serious trouble! What did Peter mean? Had the man, Lawson, the wolf in
sheep’s clothing, discovered his whereabouts? Would he be waiting for
him when he was released from the hospital?
“Oh, please! Keep him safe,” Judy said to the walls which seemed,
suddenly, to move dizzily before her eyes. The activities of the
hospital day were beginning. Night nurses were going off duty. Day
nurses were busy with breakfast trays. Carts were being wheeled—up and
down. Up and down. In a moment Judy feared she would find they were
being wheeled by golden-haired nurses with identical faces.
“Do you feel faint?” a voice asked quietly.
Judy turned to see one of the nurses standing beside her. The dizzy
feeling had passed.
“Thank you, nurse. I’m all right—now. I was looking for the night nurse,
but I guess I’m too late. Could you direct me to the patient who was
asking for the Golden Girl?”
“The patient is awake,” was the quiet answer. “But you must have a
permission slip to see her. Tell the guard you think you can identify
the patient in Room 334, and you will be allowed to go up.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Judy, catching her breath in an exclamation of surprise.
“Isn’t she identified?”
“Not yet,” the nurse replied. “She’s in a semi-coma. Sometimes we can
make a little sense out of what she says, and sometimes we can’t.”
“If she’s Clarissa, I don’t wonder. Didn’t she give her name?”
“No, not her own name. All she would tell us was that she had to see
Irene Meredith. Mrs. Meredith didn’t leave, did she?”
“I’m afraid she did. But I know her. I can identify her.”
“Good!” exclaimed the nurse. “The guard will probably let you go right
up.”
Five minutes later Judy was standing beside a bed with crib sides around
it. The next thing she saw was a white face—white and wholly unfamiliar.
Flaming red hair fanned out on the pillow. The woman looked at least
thirty. Judy gazed at her a moment. Then she turned to the nurse who had
escorted her to the room.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “My friend, Clarissa Valentine, disappeared. I
thought this patient might be Clarissa, but she isn’t. I never saw her
before in my life.”
“Can’t you tell me anything at all about her?” the nurse asked
anxiously.
“Nothing except what you probably know already. We talked with the taxi
driver after the ambulance drove away from the scene of the accident. He
told us what little we know about it. Apparently this woman was on her
way to the theater to see Irene’s—I mean the Golden Girl show. I’m
sorry,” Judy finished.
“Sorry,” mumbled the patient. “Everybody’s sorry.” Then, suddenly
grasping the crib sides, she cried, “I’ve got to get out of here.
Please, let me out.”
“And then?” the nurse prompted Judy.
“Well, then we heard the ambulance siren. The show was nearly over so we
waited until afterwards to find out what it was. That’s all I know. I’m
afraid it won’t be of much help.”
“No, I’m afraid not,” the nurse replied sadly as Judy turned to go.
Peter was sleeping when she returned to his room. He looked so peaceful
she decided not to awaken him. She’d help, though. Later on they’d talk
it all over. There was sure to be some way she could help.
“I’ll go out and have breakfast,” Judy told the new nurse who had just
come on duty. The day nurse assured her that there was no need for her
to come back until visiting hours that afternoon.
“You’ll notice a big change in your husband by then. He will probably
sleep most of the morning.” Judy tried to hide a yawn and the nurse
added, “You could use a little sleep yourself, Mrs. Dobbs. You must have
been awake most of the night.”
Judy didn’t say so, but she had rested more when she was awake than when
she had been dreaming. What had caused those terrible nightmares? Judy
dreaded sleep because of them. She ordered two cups of coffee in a
nearby restaurant, hoping to keep herself awake. Then she telephoned
Pauline Faulkner and told her about Peter.
“You poor girl! Why don’t you come up and rest at my house until
visiting hours?” Pauline suggested. “I expect Flo. It’s Sunday, or had
you forgotten?”
“I do need some sleep,” Judy admitted. “But I keep dreaming the same
dream every time I close my eyes. I’d never dare—”
“That’s funny,” Pauline interrupted. “So do I. And just now when I spoke
to Flo she said she’d had a rough night, too. She didn’t say why but, to
use an old expression of yours, I’d like to bet something precious that
it was because she had nightmares, too. Come up and we’ll compare notes.
I feel—” Pauline lowered her voice almost to a whisper. Judy could
hardly hear the word “bewitched,” but she knew the feeling.
When Judy arrived at the tall stone house which was Dr. Faulkner’s
combined home and office, she said, “Pauline, as you said, it’s Sunday.
Let’s go to church.”
“All right.” Pauline hesitated a moment. Then she said, “You may not
like my church, Judy. It isn’t at all like the one you attend.”
“Which one?” asked Judy. “The little white church in Dry Brook Hollow
isn’t like the one I used to attend in Farringdon, but I like them both.
I think it does a person good to learn different ways of believing,
don’t you? How is your church different, Pauline?”
Pauline shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just a little more formal. But if
you watch other people and do what they do you’ll get along all right.
The order of service is printed on the church calendar. They’ll give you
one as you come in. It’s a little church crowded in between two tall
buildings. They’re going to tear it down and build a new one farther
uptown. I’m rather sorry. But I guess it’s best.”
“In other words, you bow to the inevitable.”
Pauline laughed. “You sound like your brother Horace. Does he know about
Peter, Judy? It isn’t going to be in the newspapers, is it?”
“I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway. I telephoned home right after
breakfast. Horace will put something in after he checks with the
authorities. Publicity could be dangerous. That’s what I told him.
There’s nothing about Peter in the New York papers. I did find this,
though.”
Judy pointed to a review of _Sleeping Beauty_. A columnist, known for
his sarcasm, had called the play a triumph of youth over experience.
“As for the star, if that was Francine Dow, she has certainly discovered
the fountain of youth. She has lost her voice and gained the fragile
beauty of a china doll. This reviewer couldn’t believe his eyes.”
“There are others like it,” Pauline spoke up as Judy paused in her
reading. “Here, I’ll show you. This paper calls her a changeling.”
“No?” Judy stared at the paper. “That’s what Clarissa called herself. I
don’t get it at all. She was right beside us—”
“Was she?”
“I don’t _know_. I certainly thought she was. Here’s Flo. Maybe she can
explain it,” Judy finished as the doorbell rang.