"The Ward" by Roger Thomas, Part Ten

The next morning she did some more wandering about, still pondering the options she was considering. As the sessions with the doctors receded into the past, the sense of urgency was fading as well. Both had thought she needed treatment, though they differed as to the urgency and nature. But she was feeling well these days, and had been tempted to think that the whole matter had been a tempest in a teapot until she'd joined the session the day before. All the members there had taken the stern doctor's prognosis very seriously and had pressed upon her the gravity of her situation. In light of that, she wandered and thought. When she returned to her bed after lunch, she got a shock that brought the whole matter abruptly back to the forefront of her mind.

Dee was gone.

As long as Jillian had lived in the Ward, Dee had occupied the next bed over. Since Dee was so much older than Jillian, they weren't exactly friends, but they were cordial acquaintances and always asked after each other. Dee seemed to suffer from more than the usual number of ailments, but there had been no indication that she was doing worse than usual over the past few days – in fact, Jillian had passed a few words with her just that morning.

But now Dee's bed was empty and all effects were cleared away. There was no sign that anyone had ever occupied that bed, and there were no nurses or staff to ask. That was considered rude anyway – people just left the Ward, usually in the night, without notice or fanfare. There would be whispered speculation as to the patient's fate, but nobody knew whether the patient had been discharged Outside or simply died. Out of courtesy everybody presumed it was a discharge, but everybody recognized that death happened, too – in fact, Jillian remembered with a shiver, that was exactly what the stern doctor had warned her that she was in danger of. She stood at the foot of her bed, gazing at the empty space where Dee had been just that morning.

"Ah, another one gone", a voice said at her elbow, causing her to jump. She turned to see that the nice doctor had come quietly up beside her and was gazing at the empty bed as well.

"Yes – she was just there this morning", Jillian said in a quavery voice. "Doctor, do you know what happened? Was she under your treatment? Was she discharged, or did she just –"

"Now, dear, you know I can't go discussing the treatment of any other patients with you, no more than I can discuss your treatment with anyone else", the doctor squinted at her. "And speaking of which, how has it been going? Have you been finding the results – satisfactory?" He seemed to be looking about for the pill bottle.

"I keep it here – in the drawer", Jillian said, stepping over and pulling the bottle out. She didn't want him to go fishing for it himself and find it sitting next to the paper from the stern doctor.


"Ah, but have you been taking them? Morning and evening, like my instructions said?"

"Well – I took one in the morning", Jillian replied.

"Good, good", the doctor replied, though he still looked at her suspiciously.

"Every morning, now, and every evening, right?"

"That's what your instructions said", Jillian assured him.

"Very good, very good", the doctor smiled. "Well, I must be off. I'll be checking back."

As he bustled away, Jillian sat down on the bed and pulled the stern doctor's paper from the drawer. She looked at the bottle of pills, then at the paper, then back at the bottle of pills. Then she lifted her eyes and looked at Dee's empty bed.

The End.

"The Ward" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

"The Ward" by Roger Thomas, Part Nine

"Does this mean I can't stay to watch? I'm considering undertaking this treatment myself. The doctor was quite emphatic about the necessity, but I'd like to know a little more about what I'm getting into."

"Oh, you're perfectly welcome to stay as long as you like, dear", Angela reassured her. "We'll be happy to answer any questions. I was just trying to explain that there's only so much you can understand until you enter into the treatment."

Jillian stayed through the session, which entailed some exercises, some talks from older patients, and a meal together to which Jillian was invited, though she didn't eat much. Everyone was welcoming, and though most seemed shy about speaking much to this stranger, the most common encouragement she received was to sign her paper and start the treatment as soon as she could.

In talking to the patients, Jillian noticed something interesting about their attitudes toward the Ward. It was clear that they regarded the Ward as somewhere they were passing through on their way to Outside. Jillian would have thought this would have made them impatient and dissatisfied, but the opposite appeared to be true. Since they had low expectations for the Ward, it was not a disappointment that the Ward fell short of an ideal place to live. Their treatment was rigorous, but it served to remind them that little could be expected of their life here – in fact, they were even encouraged to use the difficulties of Ward life to toughen themselves. Their focus was beyond, on the Outside that they were aiming for.
Yet this did not make them cavalier about their lives in the Ward. They pitied those whose lives reached no further than the walls, and wanted to help as many as they could to join them Outside. Jillian would have asked them what they thought of the nice doctor's recommended treatment, but having felt the effect of the pill herself, she could guess what their response would be. These were not people who wanted to be numbed to the difficulties of life in the Ward. When Jillian bid them farewell, she left with much to think about.




"The Ward" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

"The Ward" by Roger Thomas, Part Eight

The next day Jillian found herself subject to her usual melancholy, but she sat on the temptation to reach for the pill to regain the glowing feeling. Instead she did something she'd never done before: wander about and observe people. Venturing out of her home wing, she sought other areas of the Ward, areas where she wasn't known. She wanted to see if she could find patients of both doctors, and talk to both groups about their experiences. This mission was complicated by the fact that it was considered rude in the Ward to flat-out ask someone about why they were there, and what treatment they were under. Those were private matters that could be offered by someone if they chose, but could not be asked – especially by a stranger – without risking deep offense.

So Jillian went far away from her usual haunts to try speaking to strangers. Having had one day of the nice doctor's treatment, she could more easily spot those who were taking the pills. They were genial and easy to talk to, though their attention seemed to wander and there was something fragile about their geniality. As long as circumstances were good, they were able to remain in the glow of the pills. But if anything went wrong, they could be quite disturbed. And "anything" meant even the most trivial things, such as the temperature of the soup or the responsiveness of the nurses. She wondered if the pills wore off sooner the longer you took them.
One thing that interested Jillian to see was the effect the nice doctor's treatment had on his patient's outlook. Given that these people were supposedly taking a simple treatment that would inevitably get them released Outside, she would have thought that they'd be much less concerned with matters in the Ward and more tolerant of minor inconveniences as they bided their time until their promised release. In fact, she found the opposite to be true. It seemed that, since these people assumed that Outside was theirs at such small cost, they were aggrieved that their current circumstances were not as good as they deserved. She found them eager participants in many improvement schemes, everything from trying to get an oversight board appointed to supervise the cafeterias to trying to implement a governance scheme to manage the television stations watched in the lounges. Given the momentous issues that still hung over Jillian's head, she was amazed to see people devote such effort so such trivial matters, but they dove into them wholeheartedly in the name of "making the Ward a better place."

Jillian was fortunate on her second day to stumble across a group of patients under the treatment of the stern doctor. They were assisting each other in their regimen in one of the small gyms. She'd heard whispers of such meetings, sometimes with the implications of strange or perverse doings, but the social constraint against discussing such things openly had prevented her from learning more. But when she wandered into the gym, nobody seemed surprised or ashamed at their activities or her presence. A few shied away from the stranger in their midst, but a couple of the older patients were glad to sit down to talk to her, even after they'd learned she hadn't yet signed up for the treatment.

"Does the doctor directly supervise your treatment?" Jillian asked the man, whose name was Steven.

"Occasionally, but mostly we help each other out. The instructions are simple, and we older patients can help the newer ones", Steven explained.

"Do you find the treatment – excessively, ah –" Jillian stumbled for words.

"Rigorous?" suggested Angela, the woman. When Jillian nodded, she gave a slight smile. "It can be at times, but far less than you'd think. You get accustomed to the discipline, and even come to enjoy the order it brings to your life."

Jillian looked skeptically at the exercises that the patients were doing with one another out on the gym floor, some of which looked far beyond her ability. Angela followed her glance and then laid a hand on her arm. "My dear, you'll never understand it by watching. I thought I could when I was – oh, younger than you are now. It made no sense to me just by looking at it from the outside. The regimen is something you have to experience to understand. You have to be inside it."



"The Ward" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

"The Ward" by Roger Thomas, Part Seven

Jillian was again alone with her indecision, and lights were going out around the wing. She put the paper on the bedstand with a surge of irritation – who was the doctor to be sending messengers to nag her? She'd told him she'd let him know, hadn't she? She looked at the bottle of pills – one in the morning and evening, it had said, and it was evening. Should she? She couldn't shake the notion that once she embarked on one of the treatments, she was irrevocably committed. She wasn't ready for that yet, so she put the pills on the bedstand unopened and crawled into bed. Sleep was long in coming.

The next morning the two items reminded Jillian of the decision that still lay before her, but she felt like some of the pressure had lifted. So she had two options before her – what was wrong with giving one a try? She could see how she liked it, and if it didn't work, she could try the other. She opened the bottle and swallowed one of the pills before she headed off for breakfast.

The only effect Jillian could detect throughout the day was a moderate restoration of the glowing feeling of well-being that she'd experienced following the nice doctor's visit the day before. Nothing seemed to worry her much – everything would work out. The prospect of having a minor and easily treatable condition seemed much easier to believe. Being released to Outside was an inevitability. As for the shadow of death, or the necessity of signing up for long, difficult treatment – well, it seemed impossible to get worried about all that. It was a trifle, a bagatelle. What had she been so worried about? She felt like she was floating along the hallways that just yesterday she had been plodding down.

As dinnertime approached, Jillian could feel the effect of the pill wearing off, which made her cranky and irritable. Dinner was tasteless, the conversation inane, and she once again felt as if everyone was staring at her and talking about her. She felt ready to burst into tears, and when Kim asked her if she was all right, she about bit Kim's head off. Fleeing the dining hall, she rushed back to her bedside to get another pill. But as she was fumbling with the cap, her eyes fell on the stern doctor's paper still lying unsigned on her bedstand. She looked at it, and then back at the pill bottle. It was clear that at least part of the nice doctor's regimen involved numbing her to certain things. With such vital matters in the balance, was that what she wanted? Resisting her body's urge to gobble another one of those pills, she put the bottle down and walked to the other side of the bed, out of reach of both items. Both doctors were right – she couldn't mix treatments. By nature, taking one meant turning from the other. From the craving she was feeling after just one pill, she guessed that taking a second would make it much more difficult to turn away from a third.

No. Jillian wanted to make her own decision about which treatment she'd select, not have the decision made by the treatment itself. She stuffed both the paper and the bottle into the bottom drawer of the bedstand and went off to refill her water bottle. She was very thirsty, but she wouldn't take any more pills until she'd made her decision.



"The Ward" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

"The Ward" by Roger Thomas, Part Six

The evening passed in a blur. Jillian remembered wandering halls and sitting in near-empty rooms – anywhere that people weren't. The conflicting prognoses she'd been given, and the choices they required of her, tumbled around in her mind like twigs trapped beneath a waterfall. What was she? Gravely ill or barely sick at all? What she facing death, or a short and simple treatment before being released to Outside? Should she undertake the more difficult treatment just in case? Did she have the stamina to see it through?

Eventually she found herself back at her bed. The paper and envelope that the stern doctor had given her lay on her bedstand, but on top of it was a small bottle of pills with a scrawled note that said simply "Take one every morning and evening." She sad down on the bed with the pills in her left hand and the paper in her right, looking back and forth between them.

"Miss Howard?"

Startled, Jillian turned to see a young man standing near, just outside curtain sweep as was customary here in the Ward. His face was familiar – he was a newer young man with whom she had a nodding acquaintance. She smiled to see that not everyone was shying away from her.

"Yes – Jason, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am – Jase more usually. The doctor sent me."

"The doctor?" That was an ambiguous term to Jillian at present, but Jase cleared it up.

"Yes'm. He was wondering if you'd signed the paper yet." Jase gestured to the form in her hand. "'Cause if you had, I could take it to him for you."
"Yes – well, ah", Jillian fumbled, "actually, I was still considering it. Does he need it right now?"

"No'm", Jase replied, "though he'd like it soon, if it's convenient."

Something rose inside Jillian at this. He wanted it soon, did he? He'd get it when she was good and ready, if that time ever came. She started to make a tart reply to Jase, but then backed down. "I understand. Please tell the doctor that I will give the matter full attention until I make a decision. I will let him know as soon as I know." She could not keep the cold edge out of the response, but Jase didn't seem to notice.

"Very well, ma'am", Jase responded with a slight nod and turned to go. Loneliness and desperation welled up inside Jillian.

"Ah – Jase?" she called.

"Yes'm?" he turned back.

"Are you under – that is, do you participate in the doctor's course of treatment?"

"Yes", Jase responded without hesitation. "Yes'm, I do."

"Do you find it – that is, it looks quite rigorous", Jillian said.

"It can be, ma'am. But it's not impossible. It gets easier the more you do it."
"But the doctor", Jillian probed. "He's rather – stern, isn't he?"

"Yes'm, he is", Jase responded. "Stern is a good way of putting it. But he's very good, and he takes care of us."

"Do you –", Jillian began, but cut herself short. Clearly the lad thought the treatment would cure him, or he wouldn't be taking it. That might be right for him, but was it right for her? How much weight did she want to be giving the opinion of a mere boy at a time like this?

"Do I what, ma'am?" Jase asked, reminding Jillian that she'd left the question half-constructed and hanging.

"Never mind, never mind", Jillian waved him off. "I'll – I'll ask the doctor myself. Thank you for your time." She gave him a small smile which he answered with the slightest of nods.

"At your service, ma'am. G'night."



"The Ward" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

"The Ward" by Roger Thomas, Part Five

Agnes didn't. She had plenty to say, of course. She heard Jillian's account of both doctor's visits, and then was quite free with her opinion of medical practitioners, life in the Ward, her immediate neighbors, and her own situation. She made clear that she didn't think much of the stern doctor and his dark predictions.

"That's why I try not to be around when he might come by", Agnes confided in a conspiratorial whisper. "If I see him about the wing, I head for the dining hall or the crafts hall or pretty much anywhere but here. I've seen him talk to people, people I'd considered my friends and – they've never been the same. And those eyes of his!"

Jillian agreed that his eyes were disturbing, but that was the most definitive statement she could get out of Agnes. Despite her distaste for the stern doctor, Agnes would not give a firm opinion as to the reliability of the nice doctor. Neither would she reveal which doctor was treating her, or if she was under treatment at all – in fact, she began to get testy when Jillian hinted that she'd like to know. The conversation didn't last long after that, as Jillian began to see that Agnes was getting nettled by her presence.

Jillian took her leave and wandered aimlessly down to the rec hall, not certain if she would be glad or sorry to see anyone she knew. She needn't have worried – most people in the hall were clustered around the big screen television, on which was playing a gaudy, noisy game show. The few that weren't watching were either dozing in their chairs or absorbed in books or needlework. She dawdled about the room, paging through tattered old magazines but unable to concentrate, distracted by the noise of the television and her own internal turmoil. Her thoughts kept returning to the paper and envelope on her bedstand, and what they implied.

The chime rang for dinner, and she trudged down to the cafeteria. Dinner was the usual nondescript stuff, and she sat alone with her thoughts, barely comprehending what she was eating. She was dimly aware of people glancing at her then turning away quickly to engage in subdued conversations. She could guess what the topic was. She'd taken part in those conversations herself. Though doctor visits were supposed to be confidential, everyone seemed to know when someone in the Ward had been visited – and she'd been visited by two doctors in the same day! There would be the whispered comments, the guesses as to the prognosis, the opinions regarding which treatment the patient would undertake. A person who'd received a visit was set apart, isolated. Even as she'd been chatting with Agnes, when Jillian had mentioned that she'd seen both doctors that day, Agnes' demeanor had chilled just a little. Now everyone was doing it. Leaving half her dinner unfinished, Jillian stood, dropped her dishes off at the window, and left the dining hall.



"The Ward" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

"The Ward" by Roger Thomas, Part Four

Jillian almost jumped at the frank use of the term. Almost nobody ever used it here in the Ward. A variety of euphemisms were employed, but few people said "die". It was almost considered rude, and some people got offended when they heard it.
Jillian clutched her robe about her and tried to gather her thoughts. "Thank – thank you, doctor. I appreciate your concern, and I'll take your advice under consideration."

"We need to begin the treatment soon, Jillian", the doctor warned, his tone grave.

"Why? Do I – is there that little time?" Panic surged within her again.
"I don't know", he replied, glancing at his clipboard. "In your condition – it could be any time. We have no time to waste. Shall I send someone to start you on the treatment?"

"I – thank you, doctor –", Jill fluttered. "This is all rather startling, especially after – that is, I was hardly expecting this. I'd like a little time to think, if I may. Do I have a day to think it over? Just a day?"

"I'll be honest, Jillian: I don't know how much time you have. My recommendation is to begin treatment – my treatment – without delay. But I understand that this is rather a shock, and that you'd like some time. I'll leave this here with you", he handed her a piece of paper and a manila envelope. "It provides the basic details about the treatment and what it requires of the patient. When you want to begin, just sign it and someone will pick it up. Once you undertake the treatment, helpers will be sent to assist you. My strongest recommendation is not to delay. A decision by tomorrow, or even tonight, would be wisest."

"I understand, doctor", Jillian meekly replied, staring numbly at the papers in her hand. "I'll – I'll let you know as soon as I make a decision."

"Soon, Jillian", the doctor admonished gently, "please make your decision soon."

Jillian didn't even hear the stern doctor part the curtains and leave. She sat silently on the bed, stunned. Grave condition. Dangerous shape. She stared at the paper in her hand, making no sense of what was written there. She was confused. She didn't know who to believe. Not twenty minutes ago she had been giddy with the promise of freedom, having been told by one doctor that she could be cured with a simple treatment and be released to Outside. Then another one tells her that she's in serious trouble and must undertake a difficult treatment of indeterminate length or she'll die. Which was right? Part of her wanted to dismiss the stern doctor's prognosis as doom and gloom. Grave condition? She didn't feel like she was in grave condition – oh, sure, she had her days, but – death? On the other hand, the nice doctor had been vague, and when he'd delivered his prognosis, the thought had flitted though her head: too good to be true. Was it too good to be true? Both claimed that only their treatment could help her. What should she do? Finally she stood – she'd still go visit Agnes, she'd just have more to talk about. She pulled the curtains back headed for Agnes' bed. Maybe Agnes would have some ideas.


"The Ward" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

"The Ward" by Roger Thomas, Part Three

But here he was, by Jillian's bed, holding his clipboard and looking at her gravely. Jillian swallowed hard and tried to look back, but found her eyes kept dropping.

"Jillian", came the doctor's calm voice. "I've been trying to find you for days now, but you're always off somewhere."

"I'm – I'm sorry, doctor", Jillian stammered. "I've been doing a lot of visiting – that is, I've been with friends. I've been feeling better, so I get around when I can."

"I see", the stern doctor replied. "No matter, I've found you in time."

In time? Jillian didn't like the sound of that. In time for what?

"I've been running some tests and looking at your case history", he glanced at his clipboard. "Your symptoms and numbers are distressingly familiar. I'm afraid," he looked up at her with those eyes of his, "you're in serious shape, Jillian. Dangerous shape. Your condition is far more grave than you think, and only serious remedies have a chance of helping you."

Jillian's breath caught in her throat, and she felt like time was slowing down. Dangerous shape! Grave condition! This didn't sound at all like what she'd just heard minutes ago. Her pink cloud of happiness had evaporated like mist in the harsh morning light. She clutched at her robe and stammered.

"Grave condition? But, doctor, that isn't – I mean, is it quite that bad? You make it sound quite hopeless."

"I didn't say hopeless, Jillian", he responded, dropping to his knee so he could look her in the face. "But I did say grave. I've seen a lot of cases like yours and know how to treat them. But the treatment is lengthy, difficult, and takes commitment and full cooperation from you. There are no shortcuts, and it must be the treatment I prescribe solely – no other treatment can be used at the same time."
Again Jillian had the disturbing feeling she'd known before when dealing with the stern doctor – that he was able to read her mind. She'd just been thinking about possibly undertaking the nice doctor's course of treatment while incorporating parts of the stern doctor's regimen. She dropped her eyes from his penetrating gaze.
"I – thank you, doctor, I believe I understand. But you say there is hope? That I could be cured and released to – to Outside?"

"There is certainly hope", the doctor replied in a kind tone. "There is always hope. And the goal of the treatment is to make you well enough to be released to Outside. The question is not the efficacy of the treatment – it always works – but whether the patient has the will to persevere with it."

"How long does it take?" she asked.

"It depends", the doctor shrugged. "For some, a very brief while. Others spend long periods here in the Ward before being released. But those who stay with the regimen of treatment are released. Those who refuse the treatment, or undertake it then stop – simply die."


"The Ward" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

"The Ward" by Roger Thomas, Part Two

"I know, I know, my dear", the doctor replied. "And I've just the treatment to get you there." He waved a sheet of paper. "I'll run along and drop this off at the nursing station. They'll get things going, and I'll be back in a couple weeks to check up. No, no, don't get up", he bustled to his feet and offered his hand, "I can find my own way out."

"Thank you so much, doctor. You've taken a tremendous weight off my mind", Jillian said fervently, clasping his hand.

"Oh, that's what I do, dear, that's what I do", the doctor replied, pulling his hand free and bundling off through the curtains, leaving Jillian sitting on the bed in what felt like a pink cloud of happiness. She was so relieved! Nowhere near as serious! A regimen that wasn't strenuous or difficult! The prospect of being released, of being able to go Outside! This was far, far better than her wildest hopes! For some while she just sat still, basking in the delightful prognosis. Nowhere near as serious!

Eventually she stirred herself. She had to tell Agnes – Agnes would want to know. Pulling on her robe and slipping into her buskins, she pulled back the curtains and gave a little shriek of surprise. Standing just outside her curtain, almost exactly face to face with her, was a tall man in a lab coat. His hair and beard were dark brown, and his eyes were sea gray. He held a clipboard in one hand and the other was raised as if he had been about to part the curtains. Only his unexpected presence had startled Jillian, for she knew him. This was the stern doctor.

"I'm sorry to have startled you, Jillian", the stern doctor said in the low voice which Jillian knew so well. "I was just coming to see you."

"Oh – ah – hello, doctor", Jillian replied, backing toward her bed and sitting down upon it. "It's been a while – I'm glad to – that is, won't you come in?" She beckoned toward a chair, but the doctor didn't sit. He stepped in, pulled the curtains closed behind him, and stood looking at her.

Jillian wasn't feeling happy any more. It wasn't that she disliked the stern doctor. He was always polite and his tone was always serene and his presence was both calm and calming. But his words were – well, stern. Those eyes of his seemed to see right thorough you. It was clear he took his responsibilities seriously. He was known as the doctor who treated the serious cases, which was why his presence in a wing was always a cause for concern. Nobody liked to see him coming.




"The Ward" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

"The Ward" by Roger Thomas, Part One

"Wake up, dear", the nurse nudged Jillian, "wake up, the doctor's here."

Jillian stirred herself from a nap she hadn't intended to take. "The doctor?" she asked, fuzzy-headed. "Which one?"

"The nice one", smiled the nurse. "I'll give you a minute to put yourself together." She pulled the curtains around the bed as she departed to afford Jillian a little privacy.

Jillian brushed her hair and arranged the bedclothes. She wondered whether she should stay in bed or sit in one of the chairs to confer with the doctor. She was feeling well today, and perhaps if she showed it a bit, it might persuade him – oh, right, this was the nice doctor. She didn't have to persuade him of anything.
Thus she was still sitting up in bed when the familiar face poked between the curtains. "Decent, I presume?" he grinned, getting a smile in return.

"Doctor, how good to see you", Jillian said. "Please, come in, come in. Have a seat."

"Don't mind if I do", the doctor said with a chuckle. He bustled in, plump and jovial with thinning white hair, red cheeks, and an almost perpetual smile. "You're looking awfully well today." He seated himself and looked around the little space, and Jillian couldn't help but notice he put a thick file folder he placed in his lap. Could that be...?

"I'm feeling well", Jillian replied, "but I've felt well before, and then – you know."

"I do indeed, my dear, I do indeed", the doctor mused, his eyes wandering about the walls and ceiling. "But today I have some good news for you."

Jillian's heart leapt at those words, and her hope soared as the doctor opened the folder on his lap and began paging through the documents.

"I have here the results of the tests we ran, and", he pulled out some of the sheets and handed them to her, "it seems that our concerns were unfounded. Your condition is nowhere near as serious as we'd feared."

"Oh, doctor, that's just what I wanted to hear", Jillian gasped, nearly dizzy with the news. She took the sheaf of papers that he seemed to be pressing on her and looked them over, but they meant nothing to her. Forms with tiny boxes filled with tiny type, and printouts with tables of intelligible numbers. But that didn't matter – as long as the doctor knew what they meant. Beaming with joy, she handed the papers back to him.

"I knew it would be", the doctor replied. "I rushed over here as soon as I had everything ready. I couldn't wait to tell you."

"Then – everything I'd heard – ", Jillian started to say, but the doctor cut her off.

"Now, dear, we've spoken before about the rumors that can float around wards like this. I trust you know who you should be listening to and who you should be ignoring."

"Yes, doctor", Jillian answered, a bit cowed. They had spoken of it before, and it had been the only time the doctor got anything less than nice. His eyes had grown steely and his voice took on a harsh edge, as it was starting to do now.

"That's my girl", the doctor said, his smile and geniality returning. "Now, I've drawn up a regimen of treatment for you which I'll be passing along to the nursing staff. Nothing strenuous or difficult, just a few pills and light exercise. It'll take a while, but you'll be making steady progress. In time, you may be well enough to be released to go Outside."

"Outside", Jillian whispered. "I've always dreamed of being able to go Outside."




"The Ward" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

Necessity

“You aren’t going, are you?” The small voice pleaded and the large young eyes filled with tears.

“Monica, dear”, her mother replied, leaning over and gently prying the little girl’s hand from her skirt. “We’ve talked about all this. I need you to be brave. I’ll be back for you soon.”

“But…but…Momma, please.” The little girl threw herself around her mother’s neck, burying her face in her shoulder and sobbing.

“Monica, baby…” the mother began, but a neatly dressed attendant stepped in and began prying Monica’s arms loose.

“It’s all right, Ms. Anderson, we’ll take care of her”, the worker reassured her with a sympathetic smile. “It’s a common occurrence. She’ll be over it in no time.” Applying a bit more force, she managed to pull Monica away.

“Please, Momma, please!” Monica cried, wiggling to escape the worker’s arms.

“I’ll be back soon, baby”, her mother reassured her, patting her cheek and turning away.

“Please, Momma!” the cries faded away as the mother briskly walked out to the hallway where her friend awaited her. As the door of the center closed behind her, cutting off Monica’s cries, she reached up to wipe a tear away from her eye.

“You okay?” asked her friend.

“It’s just – hard, sometimes”, the mother replied, fishing in her purse for a tissue.

“Now, Julia”, the friend said. “We’ve been over this so many times. You know you have to do this, for yourself and for Monica.”

“I know, I know”, the mother replied, waving her tissue and nodding. “But that doesn’t make it less difficult now and then.”

“Look”, her friend replied, deciding that a firm hand was needed at the moment. “Of course it’s difficult. But doing what’s right even when it’s difficult makes you stronger. It’s tough for both of you, but eventually Monica will see that you’re doing what is necessary, and she’ll respect you for it. Then she’ll grow up into a strong woman like you are.”

Julia smiled a little at encouragement. “I – I just don’t feel very strong right now.”

“You will”, her friend said, patting her shoulder. “After all, it’s not like you’re neglecting her. You’ve done your research. This is the most highly rated and recommended day care in town. She’ll get plenty of attention and stimulus – probably better than you could give her. She’ll be with children of her own age, and they’ve got plenty of games and activities. It’ll free you up to do what you do best, and you’ll both benefit.”

Julia sighed. “I know you’re right, and we have been over all this. Just getting a little – sentimental, I guess.” She straightened her suit jacket and turned to check her look in a hallway mirror. “Do I look all right?”
“Almost”, the friend said, taking out a tissue and patting dry the damp spot on Julia’s shoulder. “There. Ready to go?”

Back inside the center, the day care worker was trying distraction.
“Come on, Monica, would you like to come watch the video? Everyone’s watching.”

Though Monica had ceased crying, she pulled her hand from the worker’s and ran – not toward the door through which her mother had departed, but to a window overlooking the parking lot. Clambering up on the bookshelf beneath it, she looked out to where she could see her mother get into the white minivan with her friend and pull away. Monica just sat there, looking out the window, for a long time.

***********************************************

“You aren’t going, are you?” the frail voice pleaded as the rheumy eyes misted up.


“Mother, please – we’ve discussed all this”, the daughter patted the older woman’s hand. “It’s almost your suppertime, and I need to be going.”
“But – you just got here”, the elderly woman pleaded, taking her daughter’s hand and clinging tightly. “I thought – can’t you at least stay for supper?”

The daughter gave a halfhearted smile as one of the attendants stepped in and began tucking the wraps in around the wheelchair. “Now, mother…” the daughter began, but the attendant gave her an understanding smile.

“We’ll take care of her, Ms. Anderson. This – happens all the time.”
The daughter stood and picked up her purse while the attendant busied herself with her charge.

“Monica!” the elderly woman cried, reaching out a feeble hand.
“Now, mother”, Monica reassured her as she stepped toward the door. “I’ll be back before you know it. A couple of days.” The attendant gave an understanding nod and pulled the wheelchair back.

“Monica!” the mother cried again, leaning forward so far that the attendant had to put a hand on her shoulder to keep her from toppling from the chair.
“Bye, Mom! See you soon!” Monica said cheerfully, waving as she swept through the door into the hallway to where her companion waited. She paused briefly on the far side of the door to gather her composure, brushing a tear away with the back of her hand.
“You okay?” asked her companion.

“Yeah. It’s just – yeah, I’m fine. That’s just a little hard sometimes”, Monica replied.

“Monica, don’t beat yourself up. We’ve been all over this so many times. Sure, it may seem hard at first, but it’s the right thing to do. It’s the best thing for both of you.”

“Oh, I know, I know”, Monica said in a wavering voice. “We have been all over it, and I don’t want to go over it again. But she’s my mother.”

“And she’d want you to live your own life”, her friend persisted. “After all, it’s not like you’re neglecting her. This is the finest care facility in the city, and you were lucky to be able to get her in. You certainly wouldn’t be able to afford it without your career. Besides, you can come see her anytime you want – and it’s not like she’ll be alone. There are all sorts of people her age here, and their activity calendar is jammed. And the cafeteria is highly recommended.”

“Yeah”, Monica smiled. “Mom wanted me to stay for dinner.”

“Oh”, her friend grimaced. “Well, maybe not that highly. I’ve a better option, if you’re free.”

“Sure”, Monica replied, smiling in earnest now.

Back in the room, the attendant was trying to distract her charge. “Would you like to come down to the common room, Ms. Anderson?”

“No”, came the reply. The old woman just pointed to the window, as she usually did. The attendant sighed.

“Again, Ms. Anderson? Are you sure you don’t want to come down?”
There was not response but the pointed finger, so the attendant conceded. Wheeling the mother over to the window, she gave the wraps one final tuck and went to depart.

“Remember, the station is 14, Ms. Anderson. Please dial us if there’s anything you need.”

The old woman didn’t respond, but just sat looking out the window at the parking lot where she could see her daughter and her companion get into the white car and drive away. After they had gone, she just sat there looking for a long, long time.




"Necessity" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

Miriam Part Five

"All right, maybe for a dance or two", she dropped her eyes with a sigh. "I really am getting tired, Nick."

"That's my girl", Nick said triumphantly. "Come on, let's go. See ya, Josh ol' man!" Nick was tugging on her hand now, pulling her from the room. Tugging back and looking over her shoulder, Miriam called to Josh.
"You'll be here for a while, will you?"

"Can't say for certain", Josh answered quietly. "A little while, at least." But then she was out in the hall, pulled by a Nick who was almost running. The piano music followed them, a little sadder now.

Nick pulled her back to the main hallway and was dragging her toward the garden. They reached the hallway to the right when she remembered why she'd come here. Stopping dead, she pulled her hand clear of Nick's grip. He turned with an angry look.

"What is it, baby?"

"I need to go to the powder room. That's why I came in here, and I think it's down this hall."

"Yeah, it's down here. C'mon, I'll show you."

"Nick, I think I can find a bathroom by myself", Miriam bridled. "You go along ahead, I'll be along in a few minutes."

Nick looked at her like a rancher might look at a mustang. He glanced quickly back up the hall toward where the faint piano music could still be heard, then at her again. "You sure?"

"Yes, Nick, I'm sure. I'll only be a minute."

"All right, then", he conceded, though it was clear he wasn't pleased.

"I'll get you a drink and then we can get the good times rollin', right?" He pulled her to himself and gave her a rough kiss.

"Right, Nick", she said, pulling free and starting down the hallway to the restroom.

"Whiskey sour, right?" Nick called as he headed toward the party.

"Right!"

"I'll make it a double! And if you're not along in five minutes, I'll be back with the bloodhounds!"

"I'm sure you will, Nick", Miriam sighed as she opened the powder room door.

When she emerged a few minutes later, she was half surprised not to see Nick waiting for her at the main hallway. It was the sort of thing he'd do, but for whatever reason he wasn't there. She walked back to the hallway, still tugging at her hem and feeling dismal about going back to that blasted party. She stopped for a minute and listened. She could still hear the piano notes coming from the hallway to the left. At the end of the main hallway, where it opened onto the garden, she could hear the drums and guitars beginning to warm up. Still no sign of Nick. She started walking toward the party, then stopped and turned. She looked back up the hallway toward the piano music, then back down toward the party.

The End.

"Miriam" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

Miriam Part Four

The music again filled the room, but now it was interrupted by another sound – feet in the hallway outside, accompanied by a loud male voice. Josh kept playing. "Miriam! Are you down here?" The voice was at the door now, and Miriam turned to it with a forced smile. "Oh, there you are, baby! We were wondering where you were – oh, sorry, I didn't know you had company."
"Um – hello, Nick", Miriam said, suddenly aware that she was still tugging on her hemline. In his party clothes Nick looked like he'd just stepped out of a GQ advertisement – but then he always looked like he'd just stepped out of a GQ advertisement, right down to the three-day stubble. He was grinning and holding a beer bottle, just as he'd been when she slipped away. Feeling uncomfortable and embarrassed, she looked back and forth between Nick's grinning face and Josh, who kept playing gently.

"Hey, sorry, I didn't mean to barge in", Nick continued, walking up to her and slipping his arm around her waist. "It's just that – oh, hello there, Josh."

"Hello, Nick", Josh gave Nick a brief glance and continued playing.
"Long time, no see! I brought Miriam to the party", he pulled her close to his side. "What are you doing here?"

"Playing the piano", Josh answered with the slightest of smiles, not bothering to turn his head.

"Well – ah, right. Anyway, baby, the band's back and about to start another set. I thought you might want to get out on the floor with some of those signature moves of yours. Whaddya say?"

"Um, I dunno, Nick", Miriam hedged. Difficult as it was to stay here with Josh, feeling all the turmoil his presence caused in her, the prospect of leaving filled her with bleak despair. She felt she could not face the pounding rock music, the empty laughter, smoke and flickering lights from the mirrored balls. "I've got a bit of a headache coming on."

"Oh, come on, baby, don't be a spoilsport", Nick urged, tightening his arm around her waist and grabbing her elbow with that grip of his that was just a little too firm for comfort. "I know how much you love to rock and roll, and the band's well warmed up now. I was looking forward to the chance to – y'know, get down a little." He gave a little dance wiggle, his tight grip on her forcing her to do the same.

"I don't know, Nick", Miriam protested weakly, trying to wrench her elbow free from his grip. "I was hoping to lie down for a while."

"Baby, baby", Nick chided with one of his perfect grins, "I didn't bring you to this party to have you lie down in a room by yourself. I brought you to show you off, and have a little fun! That's why I asked you to wear that dress I got you. Great dress, eh, Josh?"

"We were just talking about the dress. It's beautiful", Josh said, not turning, continuing his beautiful playing in a more subdued key.

"See, baby! Even ol' Josh here doesn't think you should be hiding in a corner! So c'mon!" Nick slipped his arm from her waist but grasped her hand in an iron grip. "I'm not leaving without you." He was looking into her eyes now. His lips were smiling but his eyes were cold and determined, almost reptilian. She knew that look – Nick used it when he intended to get his way, and he always did. Resistance flared within her, but old habit overruled it. Her heart collapsed – she was too tired to fight right now.



"Miriam" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

Miriam Part Three

"Yes – er, that is, you play beautifully, as you always have", Miriam said, dropping her eyes from his and looking nervously around the room. They were alone, weren't they? She felt like she should say something else, but didn't know what. Josh's fingers swept over the keys with effortless skill, and the haunting melody filled the room.

"That – what you're playing – it sounds familiar", Miriam ventured. "Have I heard it before?"

"I doubt it", Josh replied, then corrected himself, "but then, maybe you've heard bits of it. I just made it up tonight, but it contains themes I've used before."

"Yes, I can see that", she replied. "It's very beautiful."

"Thank you", Josh nodded slightly and played for a bit more. "So – how have you been?"

Miriam dropped her head and smiled. She should have expected that – it was the perpetual "Josh question". Almost every meeting, phone call, letter, or even e-mail would include that little question; so casual yet so probing. How had she been. How had she been? Let's see, Josh – how long has it been? Years now? A lot of water under the bridge, a lot of distance between her and – oh, just about everyone. Lots of acquaintances, lots of cards in the box on her dresser, lots of memories that blurred together, lots of faces but no names to go with them, lots of meetings but few friends, lots of parties...

"Fine, Josh, I've been fine", she answered. "It's – I'm a little tired these days, but otherwise I'm doing well. And – and you?"

"You're looking good", he volunteered, his hands still sweeping across the keyboard. "Nice dress."

"Thanks. Nick got it for me, and since he brought me here, I thought I'd – you know, wear it", she answered. It was a nice dress, but in Josh's presence she was suddenly conscious of how short it was, and how low the neckline was cut. It certainly complimented her dancer's legs and the trim figure she worked so hard to maintain, and she could always tell that male eyes were watching her every move when she wore it. It certainly was sexy. Sometimes men would come and – talk to her. And keep looking at her. It was attention, but – they weren't the nicest men.

"You've always looked good in red", Josh continued.

Looked good in red. Yes, she did – everyone told her so. But then, she also looked good in white. Even more people told her that, especially when she wore the white dress that Josh had gotten her years ago. It wasn't at all like this red party dress – it was more a cool weather dress, with long lacy sleeves, a tea-length skirt, and a beautiful collar that framed her long neck. She'd joked with Josh about his taste running toward Victorian wedding dresses, but there was no denying that it made her look and feel more feminine and beautiful than anything else she had. When she wore that dress gentlemen would open doors for her with a little bow, and women would come up to tell her how beautiful she was, while Josh just looked on and smiled. Goodness, she hadn't worn that dress in years. Just last month she'd spotted it in the cleaner's bag at the back of her closet and had taken it out. Why was she still keeping it? She pondered donating it to St. Vincent, but she just – couldn't. She'd hung it back on the bar.

"Thank you", Miriam answered, tugging at her hem just a little. "I – thank you." The silence fell between them again, full of the melody and so much more. "How have you been?"

"I've been well", Josh said lightly. "Here and there, plenty to keep me busy, of course. You remember how it was."

"You always managed to make time for me", Miriam said, startling herself. Why had she said that?

Josh looked back at her with one of his small smiles. "It's easy to make time for the truly important things."

"Miriam" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

Miriam Part Two

She came to the doors and cautiously peered around the corner. Seated at a beautiful concert grand was a young man with his back to the door, playing with grace and passion. She could only see the back of his head, but the cut of his wavy brown hair and his posture were familiar enough – could it be? Her breath caught in her throat and her hand flew to her mouth, but her heart was racing. What if it was? Could she – after all this – ? Part of her wanted to turn away and return to the party, pretending that she'd never followed the music down the hall. But a stronger part wanted to know, to at least see if it was him, and if it was, maybe –

She walked quietly into the room, trying not to distract him. If she was quiet enough, maybe she could catch a glimpse without his noticing her, and then leave without having been seen. She could see more of the pianist's profile now. He was playing from memory, his eyes closed, swaying as he played, entranced with the music. She was almost alongside him now, and could see most of his face. He was still caught up in his music, oblivious to all around him. Her heart raced faster – it was him.

Images raced through her mind, images from a life she'd almost forgotten, a life she'd tried to forget. His deep brown eyes smiling into hers as they walked along the beach. His slight wisp of a smile, with the ever present edge of sadness. The brief touch of his hand – all the contact he'd ever ventured, yet, somehow, all the contact he'd ever needed. No, no – her heart turned away from the images, and she made a slight turn back toward the door.

"Hello, Miriam", he said without opening his eyes.

"Oh!" she caught her breath at the sound of his voice – that familiar, comforting, yet slightly disturbing voice. "He – hello, Josh. I – heard the piano – that is, I was just wandering by, and the music – I – I didn't know you were here. That is, I didn't see you at the party."

"I wasn't invited to the party", Josh replied, opening his eyes and looking at her as he continued to play. "But I'm an old friend of the family, and I have a standing invitation. I'm staying in the guest house, and happened to be over and decided to try tickling the ivories a bit."

Miriam heard him speaking, but was only half attending. She'd forgotten how penetrating his eyes could be. Calm and deep, yet when he looked at you, you could feel like you were the only one in the world. Yet at the same time they could discomfit you, make you feel like he was able to see thing you'd rather remained hidden. Josh was the only man she knew who could comfort and unnerve you with the same glance.



"Miriam" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories

Miriam Part One

Miriam was walking down the beautifully paneled hall when she first heard the music. At first she thought it might have come from the garden, but no – it was too delicate, too ethereal to have come from the hammering guitars of the rock band playing for the party. There it was again! Just a few bars, fading almost as quickly as they'd been heard, but clearly from a piano or keyboard – and also dimly familiar.

Had it been merely a piano tune, she would have ignored it and continued on her way. Perhaps it was a guest who wandered away from the party, or a family member enjoying a little quiet. But the haunting familiarity caught her attention. Where did she know those notes from? They stirred yearnings within her, pleasant feelings she hadn't known for quite a while – yet at the same time aroused disturbing images of things long forgotten. What was that music?

Hesitant and torn, she stopped at the intersection of two hallways and clutched her party purse. She'd been intending to follow this hallway to the right, but the music seemed to coming from a hallway further up that went left. There it was again! Her curiosity prodded her to follow the notes up to where the hallway turned left.

Her search was rewarded. From the head of the hallway she could hear the music dimly but steadily. The long hall was lined with doors, all closed except for one double door standing ajar toward the far end. It seemed that the music was coming from there.

She walked tentatively down the hall toward the music, searching her heart as she went. Why did the music seem familiar? Perhaps she recognized the melody, which seemed somewhere between classical and slow ragtime, but what seemed most familiar was the style. In contrast to the cacophony at the party, this was gentle and alluring. The strains seemed to float along the hallway, now soft and delicate, now swelling in a lively allegretto. The tenor of the music was sad and somber, not quite a lament, but there was an underlying theme of joy and hope that kept bubbling through. Whoever was playing knew much more than how to play notes off a sheet – he knew how to bring a piece of music to life, to make it express the artist's heart and soul. She hadn't met many who could do that – in fact, the only one she could remember was –

"Miriam" is a short story by Roger Thomas, author of The Last Ugly Person: And Other Stories