Mickey Reichert - I, Robot - To Protect

Jasmine clearly noticed Susan’s hesitation. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“I believe you.” Susan tried to repair the rift. “I do. I’m just worried about Sharicka’s real intentions.”

Jasmine sighed. “That little girl can’t do anything to please you, can she?”

Susan had to admit, when it came to Sharicka, she always assumed the worst. “How does Monterey feel about the situation? How do we know she’s comfortable?”

Jasmine made a broad gesture. “Ask her yourself. See what happens.”

Susan saw no reason not to take the challenge. She had specifically come to reassess Monterey. Without another word, she left the charting room and headed toward the girls.

Both looked appropriately enraptured by the movie, one Susan did not immediately recognize but which had the timeless hallmarks of popular young girls’ shows: a young, beautiful princess, a friendly dragon, and a hyperactive squirrel. Susan had to step up directly beside them before either bothered to spare her a glance.

Sharicka’s face opened in a smile that certainly looked sincere. “Dr. Susan! You fixed her.” She jumped out of Monterey’s lap to give Susan a hug. Her hands seemed so small and warm against Susan’s sides, and she smelled faintly of urine. “If you can fix Monterey, you can fix anyone. Even” — she turned her face up to Susan — “me?”

Sharicka had never looked so innocent to Susan, like a small, lost child in a world where children never belong. She gave Sharicka a squeeze but did not lower her guard. Susan spoke softly. Only Monterey might overhear them, and she seemed focused on the movie. “Sharicka, I can’t fix people. I can only guide them to fix themselves.”

“I want to fix myself.” Sharicka’s voice and eyes matched perfectly, all sincerity. “I don’t want to live in the hospital forever. Please, Dr. Susan, help me.”

A doctor made of stone could not ignore that plea. Though she wanted more than anything to go home, Susan took Sharicka’s hand. “Let’s talk about this in your room.”

Sharicka pursed her lips, glanced at the television screen, then nodded. She touched Monterey’s arm gently. “I have to go talk to Dr. Susan now. I’ll be back, okay?”

Monterey looked at Sharicka and nodded. Then she turned her attention to Susan. “Nate,” she said.

Susan stiffened. Had she really just heard Monterey speak spontaneously?

Sharicka confirmed it. “She spoke!” Though she said it with emphasis, the four-year-old kept her voice appropriately low.

Susan paused, needing to choose between breakthroughs. She put a gentle hand on top of Sharicka’s head. “Can you give me a couple of minutes, Sharicka? I’ll meet you in your room.”

Susan anticipated a battle of some sort. Even regular children did not take well to losing a favored adult’s attention to another child. Children with mental illnesses often craved it with such ferocity that they went to bold extremes, even if it led to punishment or parental consternation. Susan shook aside her train of thought to concentrate on Monterey. “I’m sorry for the interruption, Monterey. What were you saying?”

“Nate,” Monterey repeated in a hoarse, raspy voice.

Susan’s mind raced. She could put the idea together without too much difficulty. Monterey wanted to assure herself that Nate was all right. Perhaps she wished to thank him, or berate him, or maybe just to see him again. She could suggest these possibilities one by one and allow Monterey to choose, but she went a different direction with it. “Nate. Okay. What about Nate?”

“Nate,” Monterey said, with more emphasis. “Nate.”

Susan shook her head, refusing to make it easy. Monterey would have to work for this one. “I don’t understand. I hear you saying ‘Nate.’ Of course, I know who Nate is, but you’re going to have to use a complete sentence for me to know what you want.”

Monterey closed her mouth tightly.

Susan did not allow herself to wince, to blink, to show any sign it mattered to her whether Monterey succeeded or not. Children had a tendency to turn deliberately oppositional when they felt they deserved something an adult refused to give them. The less something bothered the adult, the less likely the child would indulge in it.

Monterey started again. “Can I visit him again?”

Susan tried to remain neutral, but she could not keep her nostrils from flaring in surprise. She did not know what she had expected; perhaps for Monterey to speak like some sort of partially coherent movie monster. Want see Nate. “Sure you can. Anytime you want, and I’m here, I’ll try to make time to take you to him. It can’t be in the middle of rounds or while I’m examining another patient, but I’ll do my best to open my schedule for you.” Susan hoped Nate’s duties would mesh as well. She felt certain he would make time to assist her with Monterey if at all possible.

Monterey nodded and returned her gaze to the television. Apparently, the conversation was finished.

Susan wanted to draw it out, to ask a few questions and try to get Monterey talking but decided against it. Not only did she have Sharicka to handle, but she did not want to rush Monterey. If she pushed too hard too quickly, she might drive the girl back into silence. Susan knew she would have plenty of free time at the hospital while on call for the entire next day. She would have to deal with any new admissions or crises, but she would otherwise have open time to catch up on charting, work with the patients, and chat with the nurses. She touched Monterey’s shoulder to get her attention. “How does tomorrow sound?”

Monterey nodded, and Susan accepted that as reasonable communication. Turning, she headed toward Sharicka Anson’s room. After almost a week of observing the youngest patient on the PIPU, they would finally have their first significant conversation.

When Susan arrived at Sharicka’s room, she found the girl sitting on her neatly made bed. She wore her wavy hair in a thick ponytail, oiled and pulled back from her plump brown face. The dark eyes looked larger than Susan remembered, almost pleading, and the demonic sparkle had left them completely. For the first time, she truly looked like a little girl to Susan, a four-year-old with issues even most adults could not handle.

Susan stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “What can I do for you, Sharicka?”

The girl looked up suddenly. Her hands lay in her lap, worrying at each other. “Fix me,” she said without a hint of the childish lisp she had used the first time she had spoken to Susan. Her eyes developed a glaze Susan did not, at first, recognize as welling tears.

As the room had no chairs, Susan sat beside Sharicka on the bed. “I don’t know what you mean, Sharicka. Tell me.”

The words tumbled out; and, with them, the tears. “I miss my mommy and daddy. I miss Rylan. And Misty.” She sobbed. “I want to go home.”

Susan did not know what to say. For the first time since she had come on service, she believed Sharicka actually spoke the truth. The instinct to gather the child into her arms and hold her while she cried was strong, but Susan resisted it. “Sharicka, you tried to kill Misty.” She said nothing more, leaving the ball in the child’s court. The seriousness of Sharicka’s intentions would come through in how openly she spoke about the crime.

“I know,” Sharicka said, so softly Susan had to strain to hear. “I don’t know why I do things like that.”

Susan did not accept that explanation. “If you’re going to get better, you’re going to have to dig deeper than that. You do bad things, Sharicka. Horrible things.”

“Yes.” The girl continued to sob. “I did horrible things. I hurt Misty.”