Bumps in the crook of his arm caught my eye. Fi-brosed needle marks.
His eyes opened. “Get these things off,” he said, rattling the cuffs.
“The nurses got a little upset when you tried to hit one of them.”
“Never happened.”
“You didn’t try to hit a nurse?”
Headshake. “She aggressed on me. Tried to force juice down my windpipe. Not my esophagus, my windpipe, get it? Nasopharynx, epiglottis—know what happens when you do that?”
“You choke.”
“You aspirate. Fluid straight into the lungs. Even if you don’t suffocate, it creates a pleural cesspool, perfect culture for bacteria. She was out to drown me—if she couldn’t accomplish that, infect me.” A tongue, gray and fuzzed, caressed his lips. He gulped.
“Thirsty?” I said.
“Strangling. Get these things off of me.”
“How’d you get hurt?”
“You tell me.”
“How would I know?”
“You’re the doctor.”
“The police say someone hit you.”
“Not someone. Ones. I got jumped.”
“Right there on Poinsettia?”
“No, San Francisco. I walked all the way here because this glorious place is where I wanted to be treated.” His head rolled toward me. “Better get me outta here or give me my Tegretol. When I’m out of my Tegretol, I get interesting.”
“You suffer from seizures?”
“No, stupid. Cognitive dysfunction, affective scrambling, inability to regulate emotional outbursts. I’m
“Yes,” she said, “he claims he needs it to maintain ‘internal stability.’ He played that tune for me, too. I’m waiting to talk to the attending.”
“He’s self-medicating for assaultiveness and mood swings. If he’s already on Tegretol, he’s probably gone through lithium and the neuroleptics. Maybe in prison.”
“Maybe, but I can’t get anything out of him resembling a clinical history. Tegretol’s okay, but there’s the issue of side effects. I need blood levels on him.”
“Did you have a chance to talk to him?”
“He didn’t talk.”
“He’s a bit more verbal now,” I said. “There’s some IQ there. He knows how it feels before the assaultiveness comes on, is fighting to maintain control.”
“So what’re you saying?”
“I’m suggesting that at least in one respect he may know what’s best for him.”
“Did you see that skin of his?” she said.
“Hard to miss.”
“Pretty disorganized for someone who knows what’s best for him.”
“True, but—”
“I get it,” she said. “The police sent you to see him and you want him coherent so he’ll talk to you.”
“That’s part of it. The other part is he’s already been assaultive and if something works for him, maybe it should be considered. I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job—”
“No, actually you are.” She laughed. “But sure, why not? Everyone else does. Okay, no sense having him freak out and me getting a three A.M. call. I’ll try to get hold of the attending again. If she okays it, he gets dosed.”
“He says he’s been taking three hundred milligrams daily.”
“He says? The lunatics run the asylum?”
“Look at Washington, D.C.”
She laughed harder. “What do the police want with him?”
“Information.”
“On what?”
“A homicide.”
“Oh. Great. A murderer. Can’t wait to see him again.”
“He’s not a suspect,” I said. “He’s a potential witness.”
“A witness? Guy like that, what kind of witness could he be?”
“Hard to say. Right now, I’m trying to get some rapport. We’re talking about his family.”
“His family? What, good old-fashioned psychoanalysis? The stuff you read about in books?”
I returned to Donny’s room. He was facing the door. Waiting.
“No promises,” I said, “but the resident’s calling the supervising doctor.”
“How long till I get my Tegretol?”
“If she gets the okay, soon.”
“An eternity. What bullshit.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Salcido.”
He drew back his lips. Half his teeth were missing. The stragglers were cracked and discolored.
I pulled a chair next to the bed and sat down. “Why were you on your way to your father’s place?”
“He never came to my place, why should I go to his place?”
“But you did.”
“I know that, stupid! It’s rhetorical—Ciceronian. I’m questioning my own motives—engaging in introspection. Isn’t that good? A sign of progress?” He spat and I had to move away to avoid being the target.