Ammie, Come Home by Barbara Michaels Page B

shoulder like an awkward, long-legged doll; the black boots sprawled pathetically across the rug. “Goddamn you, you young bastard, what the hell did you do that for? Get over here and give me a hand.”
    â€œOh, Pat, don’t yell at him; I was about ready to do it myself.” Ruth’s cheeks were wet with tears of nervous strain. She dropped onto the floor and touched Sara’s head. “Is she—”
    â€œJust fainted. Bruce!”
    â€œI’ll take her.” Bruce held out his arms.
    â€œYou’ll take her feet. Try not to joggle her. I don’t want her to wake up.”
    At the foot of the stairs Pat handed his part of the burden over to Bruce and let the boy carry her to her room. When Ruth tried to follow them, he held her back.
    â€œStay with her, Bruce,” he called softly. “If she starts to wake, let me know instantly. No, Ruth, you can’t do a thing. Come back here.”
    He took her with him, to the telephone on its little table behind the stairs. When he was about halfway through dialing Ruth woke up. She snatched at his hand.
    â€œWhom are you calling?”
    â€œWhom do you think?”
    â€œPut that telephone down! Pat, you’ve got to tell me—”
    They were both speaking in sharp whispers, their faces only inches apart.
    â€œI’m calling a doctor,” Pat said. He was pale; the session had shaken him severely. “If I had realized that matters were this serious—”
    â€œBut I told you—”
    â€œIt’s different when you actually see it.” Pat was silent for a moment, staring with creased brows at the telephone. “And I hoped my hunch was wrong. Damn it all—it need not have been this, not from your description. It is comparatively rare….”
    â€œWhat? What is rare?” With an effort that left her shaking Ruth kept her voice from rising. “What doctor are you planning to call, Pat?”
    â€œA friend of mine. He’s a fine guy, one of the best.”
    â€œIt’s after five. He won’t be in his office.”
    â€œI’m calling him at home.”
    â€œBut he won’t see her till morning anyhow. Can’t we—”
    â€œHe’ll see her tonight—now. Face it, Ruth. I know you love the girl—”
    â€œYes,” Ruth said blankly. “Yes. I do.”
    â€œThen you’ve got to keep your wits about you. This isn’t incurable, they’ve had excellent results with other cases.”
    â€œWhat cases? For God’s sake, Pat—”
    â€œHe’ll want her in the hospital at once, I’m sure,” Pat said. “You could go up and pack a bag….”
    â€œHospital,” Ruth pressed her hands to her cheeks. “What hospital? St. Elizabeth’s. That’s what you mean, isn’t it? An insane asylum!”
    He caught her by the shoulders and shook her.
    â€œStop that! St. Elizabeth’s is not an insane asylum; it is a hospital for the mentally ill. I thought you were an educated modern woman! Next thing you’ll be doing is muttering prayers and making signs against the evil eye! Anyhow, I don’t mean St. Elizabeth’s. I do mean, and let’s get it straight, the psychiatric ward of whatever hospital Jim practices at. Sibley, probably. Ruth, darling….” His voice softened. “After this is over we’ll come back and get good and drunk—absolutely stoned. Right now you must be calm or we’ll all start screaming. And what good do you think that will do Sara?”
    â€œAll right. All right. What is wrong with her?”
    He studied her face for a moment; then, as if satisfied, he nodded and let her go.
    â€œRuth, I’m only an amateur. But the symptoms are so obvious…. What you described last night might have been somnambulism—sleepwalking, as a result of some severe nervous strain. But tonight…. She really didn’t know me, Ruth; she