Valley of the Dolls (49 page)

She ran into the bathroom. She had hidden the bottle behind the bath salts. Only six left! She swallowed them quickly. Six wouldn’t do it, though. Maybe aspirin? Maybe a whole bottle of aspirin on top of the pills? Shit! Only five aspirin left. She swallowed them. No more Scotch, but there was some bourbon Anne kept in the bar for Kevin. That on top of the Scotch . . . She started out of the bathroom, lurched—and the glass she was carrying crashed to the tile floor. Oh, Geez . . . Anne got so mad when she broke things. She stopped to pick up the fragments. It was just a bar glass, but knowing Anne, it was probably crystal or something. She picked up a long sliver. Boy, this would do it—one slash across the wrist and she’d have a funeral like Jennifer. Would they fight over her too? Would Ted Casablanca demand she be buried out there, or would her half-assed sister come to life and demand to take over? Geez, imagine spending the rest of your life in some stinking cemetery in Astoria. Anne would fight for dignity, but she wanted the biggest funeral ever . . . even bigger than Jennifer’s. Well, nothing could be bigger than that. Okay, as big
as
Jennifer’s. But what if there was no heaven or God? Then she’d be dead, but she couldn’t enjoy it. But—she held the sliver—if she were
almost
dead, there would be the same fuss. Like before in Hollywood . . . maybe they’d even plead with her to come back, and everyone would be sorry. Then, if she wasn’t nervous, maybe she could sing, and everything would be wonderful again. . . .

“Well, let’s get some bourbon first,” she said, wobbling to the bar. She found the bottle and a glass and poured a stiff drink. Still holding the sliver of glass, she made her way back to the bedroom. She got into bed, took a deep swallow of the bourbon, then studied her wrist. If she cut the side—not the big vein, because that could really kill you, but just a little nick on the side . . . just enough to bleed. She dug the glass in deep—make it about one inch wide, but not over the main vein—good, the blood was coming. She lay back and watched it ooze. Geez, it was a lot of blood and really coming fast. Hey! Maybe she really cut something important! Geez, it wouldn’t stop! She picked up the phone. Where in hell was Anne? The blood was coming faster, and now those goddam pills were working. It was the bourbon that was doing it. . . .

She dialed Operator. An impersonal voice answered.

“I’m Neely O’Hara,” she mumbled. “I’m dying. . . .”

“What is your number?” the operator asked.

“My number?” She looked down at the phone. Everything was getting fuzzy. “I don’t know . . . it’s unlisted . . . I can’t remember. Please help. I cut my wrist. . . the blood . . .”

“Your address?”

“East Sixty-second Street near Park. Apartment belongs to Anne Welles. . . .”

“The television star?” The operator was no longer impersonal.

“Sure . . . sure . . .” Neely let the receiver fall and her eyes began to close. She forced them open. God, she had ruined Anne’s sheets. Her arm was dangling lifelessly over the side of the bed and the blood was spotting Anne’s gold carpet. Geez, Anne would never let her stay here again. “Please, operator, hurry . . .” All that blood, and it was still coming . . . but she wasn’t going to die. You can’t die if you can think this clearly . . . I’m sleepy . . . not dying . . . just sleepy . . . damn the dolls . . . of all times,
now
they have to work. . . .

Neely opened her eyes and closed them quickly. It smelled like a hospital. That meant she was alive! She began to remember. The bells, the ambulance . . . She opened her eyes again. Anne was sitting across the room with Kevin. Anne sprang up. “Oh, Neely, you’re awake! Thank God!”

Neely smiled weakly. “I’m sorry about the apartment.”

“Forget it.”

“Where am I?”

“At Park North Hospital.”

Neely wrinkled her nose. “Why not Doctors? I hear that’s divine.”

Kevin crossed the room. “Listen, young lady, you’re damned lucky to be here. Do you know where they were taking you when we arrived at the apartment? Bellevue!”

Neely struggled to sit up. “Oh, Geez, that’s all I’d need.”

“It’s lucky we decided to come back. Anne wanted to look in on you. We found the ambulance and the police. They were taking you to Bellevue. It’s a law—all attempted suicides have to go to Bellevue and
stay
there for a period of observation.”

“Geez!”

“It was Kevin who saved the day,” Anne said. “He pointed to the broken glass and insisted it was an accident.”

Kevin frowned. “I had to spread around a lot of twenty-dollar bills to make them see it my way. And we had no time to pick hospitals—you were pretty far gone, and this was nearest.”

“It wasn’t really suicide,” Neely said.

“Well, it will do until the real thing comes along,” Anne said.

“Did I make the papers?”

“Front page.” Anne pulled a chair up to Neely’s bed. “Neely, we’ve got to do something about your life.”

Tears came to Neely’s eyes. “What’s there to do? I can’t sing any more.”

“It’s all up there.” Kevin tapped his head. “There’s nothing wrong with your throat.”

“So go tell that to my throat. I’m willing, but the notes won’t come.”

“All right. You’ll be out of here in a few days. Then what?” Kevin demanded.

Neely’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ll leave Anne’s apartment—don’t worry. I’ll check into a hotel.”

“It can’t go on like this, Neely . . . all the pills and booze. The next time you won’t be so lucky.”

Neely stretched out. “If I could only sleep, really sleep—like for a week—then I’d be all right. This way I never get more than a few hours. It’s been so long since I had a real night’s sleep . . .”

“The sleep cure!” Anne said suddenly.

Both Kevin and Neely stared questioningly. “Yes, the sleep cure,” Anne insisted. She explained how Jennifer had taken it in Switzerland to lose weight, but that it was created to help with emotional disturbances.

Neely was enthusiastic. “A week of sleep! Oh, God, then I bet I’d sing. But Switzerland—that would cost a fortune.”

“If it’s a legitimate treatment, I’m sure we have it here,” Kevin declared.

Dr. Massinger was against it. Yes, he knew about the sleep cure. But Neely’s disturbance was too deeply rooted. It was his feeling that she needed at least a year in a sanitarium. “This is no situational depression,” he insisted. “This girl is deeply disturbed. From her records it is obvious she had suicidal tendencies ten years ago. I recommended a sanitarium the moment she came to me, but she refused to go. She’s been going on sheer nerve and pills ever since. But now she has no choice. She must go away.” He recommended several sanitariums.

Neely would have none of it. “Me go and live with kooks? No siree. I want the plush treatment, like Jennifer had. Champagne for starters, a sympathetic nurse, a lovely needle . . . and sleep, beautiful sleep.”

After frantic calls, Kevin finally located a large private sanitarium in upstate New York. Yes, they knew about the sleep cure. They would be delighted to accept Miss O’Hara and administer it to her. Yes, it would be done with the utmost secrecy—the newspapers would never know.

On a balmy Sunday in March, Kevin and Anne drove Neely to Haven Manor. Anne felt confident when she saw the spacious grounds and well-tended lawns. Neely had fortified herself with a few dolls for courage.

They entered a large, ivy-covered Tudor mansion and were ushered into a drawing room lined with paintings of late benefactors. Dr. Hall, the chief of staff, greeted them. He shook hands with Neely. “I’m a great admirer of yours, Miss O’Hara.”

Neely smiled weakly.

“Now, if you’ll just complete these forms . . .

Neely signed her name to several papers. “Okay, let’s get to the sleep cure,” she said brightly.

Dr. Hall pressed a button. A large, stout woman in a white coat appeared. “This is Dr. Archer, my assistant. She will take Miss O’Hara to her room.”

Neely grasped Anne’s hand. “I can’t thank you enough. You’ll come for me in a week?”

Anne nodded. Neely turned to Kevin. “I know you’re paying the freight for this. Thanks a lot.”

He shook his head. “I offered to, but Anne is taking care of it. She insisted.”

Neely looked at Anne with a shy, sleepy grin. “Annie. . . always there, huh? Thanks.”

“Just get well, Neely,” Anne said.

“I jus’ wanna sleep for a
long
time.” She went out, leaning on Dr. Archer’s arm.

Anne rose to leave. Dr. Hall cleared his throat. “Miss Welles . . . and Mr. Gillmore. Could we talk about this?”

“About what?” Anne sat down again.

“This so-called sleep cure. I’ve been on the phone with Dr. Massinger, and I have Miss O’Hara’s past records here. He sent them on. A sleep cure is not the answer, you know.”

“But you said—” Anne was nonplussed.

“I said we could give it. But I hadn’t seen her records or talked to her doctor at the time. We still can, but I would hardly recommend it. Oh, she might come out of it refreshed. She might even function for a few weeks, a month—then she’d return to her old habits. Eventually she would kill herself. She’s bent on it, you know. She’s a great talent—we owe it to her to cure her.”

“But how?” Anne asked.

“Not with sleep cures or pills. This girl is an addict now. Sleeping-pill addiction can be as serious as any other addiction and harder to cure, because unfortunately it’s quite easy for a patient to get pills on the outside. It’s a little tougher to get cocaine, heroin or morphine. Did you know that on the day of the suicide attempt she had taken fifty pills? I checked with her druggist. Her prescription had been filled the night before. And Dr. Massinger never gave them to her—each prescription had a new physician’s name on it. And that bottle of fifty pills was empty when she was found, that and a good supply of liquor—a dangerous combination. Yet she still needed to cut her wrists to accomplish the act. Her tolerance is the tolerance of an addict.”

“What would you recommend?” This was Kevin.

“I’d like to try deep psychiatric therapy. Not shock—not yet, anyway. I hope she won’t need it. But I think, with real work, we can return a bright-eyed, talented girl to the world.”

“How long would it take?” Anne asked.

“At least a year.”

Anne smiled ruefully. “You’d never convince Neely. She’d leave immediately if she didn’t get the sleep cure.”

Dr. Hall’s smile was tired. “She signed this.” He tapped a paper. “She committed herself. Of course, she thought she was just signing in. But this states she must remain here for at least thirty days.”

“Thirty days,” Anne said thoughtfully. “But I know Neely. You’ll never convince her to stay beyond the thirty days.”

“If we can’t, you can commit her.”

“I?” Anne was horrified. “Never!”

Dr. Hall smiled. “Then we could have her certified.”

“What’s that?”

“If our psychiatrists agree that she needs further treatment, we present the case in court. Three outside psychiatrists are called in. If they concur, the court commits her for three months—and every three months she is automatically committed again. We often do this,” he said easily. “It takes the feeling of guilt away from relatives and friends.”

“But this is like railroading her,” Anne protested. “She thinks she’s going to have a week’s sleep. We promised her. . . .”

“Miss Welles, I admire Miss O’Hara. She’s a great talent. It costs fifteen hundred dollars a month to stay here, and there is a waiting list from all over the country. We took Miss O’Hara ahead of the others because she
is
an artist—she must be cured. I beg this chance for her. I beg it from you.”

“But Neely was so against a sanitarium—”

“Miss O’Hara is in no condition to make any decision about her future. In fact, if left to her own devices, she won’t have a future.”

Kevin suddenly took over. “I think Dr. Hall knows best. Let’s at least give it a try.”

Anne noddly dumbly. “When can we see her?”

“Not for two weeks. But you may call me every day, and I’ll report her progress. I guarantee you’ll find her much improved when you visit her.”

Anne was silent as they drove back to the city. “Fifteen hundred a month for a year?” Kevin said to her. “Anne, you’d better let me take over.”

“No, this is my responsibility. Kevin, I was thinking . . . If I signed with Gillian . . . they’re offering me two thousand a week. . . .”

“What about our marriage? And our trip?”

“It’s waited this long—what’s a few more months? Besides, I can’t leave on a long trip with Neely at Haven Manor. I’ll have to visit her.”

“You don’t want to marry me, do you, Anne?”

“I do, but—”

“No. That’s why you’re paying Neely’s bills. You don’t want to feel obligated to me.”

“Kevin, you kept me waiting many years before you decided you were ready for marriage. I think we at least owe Neely a few months.”

“So we don’t go on a honeymoon till Neely is set—okay, I’ll buy that—but why can’t we get married? And why should you keep working?”

“If I want to pay for Neely, I’ll have to work. I talked with Henry Bellamy the other day. He told me I was worth close to a million dollars. Of course, a great deal of it is paper profit, but it’s blue-chip paper. But I couldn’t carry Neely without touching my capital, and that would mean selling off some stock. Henry doesn’t want me to do that—he thinks A.T.&T. will keep soaring, that there will be a split. But if I sign with Gillian for another twenty-six weeks, I can afford Neely. That would bring us to next October, and by then Neely should be well on her way to recovery. Then we’ll get married and off we’ll go. I promise.”

Kevin stared off into the distance. He had to go along. Goddam that little brat—whenever she came to town she caused nothing but trouble.

Anne sighed. “Poor Neely. I guess they’ve broken it to her by now. I wonder how she’s taking it.”

At first Neely had been patient. She sat in Dr. Archer’s office, monotonously answering the questions the woman asked, lighting one cigarette after another and waiting for the blessed needle that would give her the wonderful sleep. Dr. Archer’s phone finally rang. Neely guessed it was Dr. Hall, giving orders. Dr. Archer answered with a terse, “Yes, Doctor. Of course, Doctor. I’m so glad. I’m in full agreement.”