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“Jackie Dee pulls out her own hair.”
    I wanted to say, “no kidding” when I’d noticed she had a gigantic, monklike bald spot on the back of her head, but merely nodded.
    â€œEats it too,” the lady added.
    My milk sputtered out onto my dish of eggs. No great loss. The novice nun looked at me with a frown.
    â€œOh, boy. You’ve pissed off Novitiate Lalli,” the woman said, moving away from me. “I’m Myra Jackson, by the way. Depression. Two attempts at suicide. Call me Miss Myra. Lalli is spelled L—a—l—l—i.”
    â€œI’m—” Damn. Who was I supposed to be? “Pauline. Mistaken identity.”
    Miss Myra gave me a “yeah, sure” look.
    Novitiate Lalli stood above me. “We don’t spit out our food here. If a patient can’t behave, as in the case of Ruby Montgomery, they are taken out of the dining room. Is that clear?”
    Tight ass was pretty clear, but I smiled and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
    â€œI’m Sister Appolonaria LaPierre. Novitiate Lalli for short.”
    â€œPauline Sokol.” I held out my hand. She raised her eyebrow.
    â€œNice to meet you, Mary Louise Huntington.”
    I clucked my tongue.
    There went her eyebrow again.
    â€œYeah. Nice.” I wiped up my mess with the napkin from my lap. Now I really had no appetite. I tried to sit quietly when one of the nurses announced it was time to count the “sharps.” I remembered from my days as a student nurse that the psychiatric patients couldn’t leave the dining room until all the knives, forks, and anything sharp were accounted for. Risky group with a sharp in their possession.
    A quiet-looking woman across the table stared at me. For a second I was glad the sharps had been turned in. But I noticed a faint smile and a pleading look in her eyes. She shifted in her seat and mouthed, “I don’t belong here either.”
    Yikes!
    I turned toward Miss Myra and whispered, “Who is that woman in the green blouse?”
    Miss Myra turned to me as if I’d disturbed her. Maybe I had. Maybe she was in some psychedelic daydream. “Margaret Seabright.” She laughed. “Claims she doesn’t belong here. But if you ask me . . . What?” She turned in the other direction. “What?”
    No one was there.
    â€œCut the shit,” she continued, and then turned back to me. “Margaret’s as nutty as a chocolate-chip cookie.”
    Suddenly Miss Myra was not a font of knowledge thatI could rely upon, and I think her chocolate-chip cookies were full of pecans.
    Margaret, however, did look pretty sane to me.
    â€œCome along, child, your doctor is here.”
    I swung around to see the welcome face of Sister Wacky. I wanted to throw my arms around her in a big bear hug, but thought better. Physical contact had to be frowned upon in here. Instead I stood up and walked with her toward the door.
    Then it hit me. My doctor! Had to be Jagger. Good. I was in a ripe mood to confront him.
    Margaret looked at me and mouthed, “Please.”
    â€œDon’t start bothering the new patient, Margaret,” Sister said as we passed the table.
    I turned and smiled at her, hoping she’d get my “we’ll talk later” look.
    â€œWhich way?”
    Sister took my arm. “The examining room is down the hall. Either it or the doctor’s office is used for patient-doctor visits.”
    Several of the patients milled around the main sitting area, some talking to themselves, some arguing with themselves, some so wrapped up in their own worlds they sat like statues. I said a silent prayer to Saint Theresa to help these poor souls—and not to forget my poor soul in the process. When we got to the door, I turned to Sister Wacky. “What day is today?” Sure, it sounded like something a mental patient might ask, but I had to know how long I’d been away from my