"This is a mistake. Take me back."
"Just relax," Dr. Cheryl said.
"No. I don't want to relax."
The attendant on o y right moved quickly to block my retreat. He didn't touch me, but he stood behind me, intimidating me with his presence. I started to cry.
"Please," I said. "I want to go to my mother. This is a mistake. Just take me back."
"In due time, I promise to do just that," Dr. Cheryl said. "Can we show you your room? Once you see how comfortable it is. ."
"No. I don't want to see any room."
I spun around and tried to get past the attendant, but he seized my arm and held me so tightly at the wrist, it hurt. I screamed and Mrs. McDonald moved in, too.
"Arnold," she called to the other attendant. He came forward to take my other arm.
"Don't hurt her," Dr. Cheryl said. "Careful now. Ruby, just let them show you your room. Go on, my dear."
I struggled in vain for a moment and then began to sob as they led me forward to another door. Mrs. McDonald pressed a buzzer and the door was opened. My legs didn't want to move, but they were practically carrying me along now. Dr. Cheryl followed right behind. They took me down the dormitory corridor and stopped at an opened door.
"See," Dr. Cheryl said, entering first. "This is one of our best rooms. You have windows facing the west, so you get all the afternoon sunlight and not the sunlight in the morning to wake you too early. And just look at this nice bed," he said, indicating the imitation wood frame bed. "Here's a dresser, a closet, and a private bathroom. This bathroom even has a shower. And you have this small desk and chair. Here is some stationery if you care to write a letter to someone," he added, smiling.
I gazed at the stark floors and walls. How could anyone think this was a nice room? It looked more like a glorified prison cell. The windows had bars, didn't they?
"You can't do this to me," I said. I embraced myself tightly. "Take me back immediately or I swear I'll go to the police the first chance I get."
"Your mother has asked us to evaluate you," he said firmly. "Parents have the right to do this if their children are still legally minors. Now if you cooperate, this will be short and sweet and not painful, but if you persist in fighting everything we do and everything we ask you to do, it will be most unpleasant for all of us, but mostly for you," he threatened. "Now, sit down," he ordered, pointing to the chair. I didn't move. He straightened up as if I had spit in his face.
"We've been told something of your
background and know what sort of things you've done and how poorly you've been disciplined, young lady, but I assure you, none of that will be tolerated here. Now you will either listen and do what I tell you or I'll move you to the floor above where the patients are kept restrained in straight jackets a good deal of the time."
With a sinking heart, I moved obediently to the chair and sat down.
"That's better," he said. "I have to see to your mother and her visit and then I will send for you and begin our first interview. In the meantime, I want you to read this little booklet," he said, pulling a yellow, stapled booklet out of the desk drawer. "It explains our institution, our rules, and what we try to do here. We give this only to patients who understand, mostly patients who have committed them-selves in fact. It even has a place in the back for you to write in your suggestions. See," he said, opening the booklet to show me. "We consider them, too. Some of our former patients have made excellent suggestions."
"I don't want to make any suggestions. I just want to go home."
"Then cooperate and you will," he said. He started out.
"Why would I be put here? Please, just answer that question before you leave me," I begged. He looked at the two attendants who retreated and then he closed the door and turned to me.
"You have a history of promiscuity, don't you, my dear?"
"What? What do you mean?"
"In psychology, we call it nymphomania. Have you ever heard that term?"
I gasped. "What are you saying about me?" I asked.
"You're having a problem controlling yourself when it comes to relationships with the opposite sex?"
"That's not true, Dr. Cheryl."
"Admitting to your problems is the first step, my dear. After that, it's all downhill. You'll see," he said, smiling. "But I have no problem to admit to."
He stared at me a moment.