Read Online Legion by William Peter Blatty - Free Book Online
Authors: William Peter Blatty
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noticed that he never came back to the room. Grand rounds closed out with the Chief of Neurology shouting, “And I’m goddamn tired of the drunks on this service! Sober up or stay the hell off the ward, goddamnit!” This, all the interns and residents heard.
Amfortas had returned to Room 411. The girl with meningitis was sitting up, her gaze hypnotically glued to the television set that was mounted on the opposite wall. She was clicking through stations. When Amfortas entered, her eyes shifted down to him. She did not move her head. The disease had already caused her neck to be rigid. Moving it was painful.
“Hello, Doctor.”
Her finger pushed a button on the wireless control. The television picture sputtered out.
“No, that’s all right–don’t turn it off,” said Amfortas quickly.
She was looking at the empty screen. “There’s nothing on now. No good shows.”
He stood at the foot of the bed and observed her. She was pigtailed and freckled. “Are you comfortable?” he asked her.
She shrugged.
“What’s wrong?” asked Amfortas.
“Bored.’’ Her eyes came back to him. She smiled. But saw the dark sacs beneath her eyes. “There’s never anything good on TV in the daytime.”
“Are you sleeping well?” he asked her.
“No.”
He picked up her chart. Chloral hydrate had already been prescribed.
“They gave me pills but they don’t work,” said the girl.
Amfortas replaced the chart. When he looked at her again she had painfully angled her body toward the window. She was staring out. “Can’t I keep the TV on at night? Without the sound?”
“I can get you some earphones,” said Amfortas. “No one else will be able to hear it.”
“All the stations go off at two o’clock,” she said dully.
He asked her what she did.
“I play tennis.”
“Professionally?”
“Yes.”
“You give lessons?”
She didn’t. She played on the tournament circuit.
“Are you ranked?”
She said, “Yes. Number nine.”
“In the country?”
“In the world.”
“Forgive my ignorance,” he said. He felt cold. He couldn’t tell if she had knowledge of what might be awaiting her.
She continued to stare out the window. “Well, I guess it’s all memories now,” she said softly.
Amfortas felt a tightness in his stomach. She knew.
He pulled a chair up to the side of her bed and asked her what tournaments she had won. She seemed to brighten at that, and he sat down. “Oh, well, the French and the Italian.
And the Clay Courts. The year I won the French there was nobody in it.”
“What about the Italian?” he asked her. “Who did you beat in the finals?”
They talked about the game for another half hour.
When Amfortas checked the time and stood up to leave, the girl instantly withdrew and stared out through the window again. “Sure, that’s okay,” she murmured. He could hear the shields clanging down into place.
“Have you got any family in town?” he asked her.
“No.”
“Where are they?”
She angled her body away from the window and turned on the television set. “They’re all dead,” she said matter - of - factly. It was almost drowned out by the sound of the game show. As he left her, her eyes were still pinned to the set.
In the hall, he heard her crying.
Amfortas skipped lunch and worked in his office, finishing the paperwork on some cases. Two of them were epilepsies in which the seizures were triggered bizarrely. In the first case–a woman in her middle thirties–the onset was induced by the sound of music, and the girl of eleven in the second case had only to look at her hand.
All the other workups dealt with forms of aphasia:
A patient who repeated everything said to her.
A patient who was able to write, but completely unable to read back what he had written.
A patient unable to recognize a person from facial features alone, the recognition requiring a hearing of the voice, or the noting of a characteristic feature, such as a mole or a striking
Amfortas had returned to Room 411. The girl with meningitis was sitting up, her gaze hypnotically glued to the television set that was mounted on the opposite wall. She was clicking through stations. When Amfortas entered, her eyes shifted down to him. She did not move her head. The disease had already caused her neck to be rigid. Moving it was painful.
“Hello, Doctor.”
Her finger pushed a button on the wireless control. The television picture sputtered out.
“No, that’s all right–don’t turn it off,” said Amfortas quickly.
She was looking at the empty screen. “There’s nothing on now. No good shows.”
He stood at the foot of the bed and observed her. She was pigtailed and freckled. “Are you comfortable?” he asked her.
She shrugged.
“What’s wrong?” asked Amfortas.
“Bored.’’ Her eyes came back to him. She smiled. But saw the dark sacs beneath her eyes. “There’s never anything good on TV in the daytime.”
“Are you sleeping well?” he asked her.
“No.”
He picked up her chart. Chloral hydrate had already been prescribed.
“They gave me pills but they don’t work,” said the girl.
Amfortas replaced the chart. When he looked at her again she had painfully angled her body toward the window. She was staring out. “Can’t I keep the TV on at night? Without the sound?”
“I can get you some earphones,” said Amfortas. “No one else will be able to hear it.”
“All the stations go off at two o’clock,” she said dully.
He asked her what she did.
“I play tennis.”
“Professionally?”
“Yes.”
“You give lessons?”
She didn’t. She played on the tournament circuit.
“Are you ranked?”
She said, “Yes. Number nine.”
“In the country?”
“In the world.”
“Forgive my ignorance,” he said. He felt cold. He couldn’t tell if she had knowledge of what might be awaiting her.
She continued to stare out the window. “Well, I guess it’s all memories now,” she said softly.
Amfortas felt a tightness in his stomach. She knew.
He pulled a chair up to the side of her bed and asked her what tournaments she had won. She seemed to brighten at that, and he sat down. “Oh, well, the French and the Italian.
And the Clay Courts. The year I won the French there was nobody in it.”
“What about the Italian?” he asked her. “Who did you beat in the finals?”
They talked about the game for another half hour.
When Amfortas checked the time and stood up to leave, the girl instantly withdrew and stared out through the window again. “Sure, that’s okay,” she murmured. He could hear the shields clanging down into place.
“Have you got any family in town?” he asked her.
“No.”
“Where are they?”
She angled her body away from the window and turned on the television set. “They’re all dead,” she said matter - of - factly. It was almost drowned out by the sound of the game show. As he left her, her eyes were still pinned to the set.
In the hall, he heard her crying.
Amfortas skipped lunch and worked in his office, finishing the paperwork on some cases. Two of them were epilepsies in which the seizures were triggered bizarrely. In the first case–a woman in her middle thirties–the onset was induced by the sound of music, and the girl of eleven in the second case had only to look at her hand.
All the other workups dealt with forms of aphasia:
A patient who repeated everything said to her.
A patient who was able to write, but completely unable to read back what he had written.
A patient unable to recognize a person from facial features alone, the recognition requiring a hearing of the voice, or the noting of a characteristic feature, such as a mole or a striking
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