The PMS Outlaws: An Elizabeth MacPherson Novel Read Online Free PDF

someone who was not cowed by the enormity of her loss. This madwoman seemed to think the statement was simply an interesting bit of trivia. Elizabeth didn’t know whether to be outraged or intrigued. She was still tryingto decide how to take it when the madwoman said, “Can they give you pills for grief?”
    “Not indefinitely. Sooner or later you have to learn to manage on your own.”
    Emma O. considered this. “Okay,” she said. “Who brought you on the hall today? Thibodeaux?”
    “I think so. Tall, blond guy in a white uniform.”
    “Yeah, that’s Tibby.”
    “He didn’t seem very friendly.”
    “He’s all right.” Emma O. smiled again. “I told you that this was a different world. In here you have no currency of any value to him, that’s all.”
    Elizabeth blinked. “Was I supposed to tip him?”
    “No. I mean social currency. For instance, you may be smart—are you?”
    “I have a Ph.D. in forensic anthropology,” said Elizabeth with a touch of pride.
    “Okay. We’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Say you’re smart, but: you’re a psychiatric patient, which nullifies your claim to mental superiority. There’s obviously something wrong with your mind or you wouldn’t be here. Besides, anybody could say they had a Ph.D. in forensic anthropology.”
    “I could tell a lot from looking at the suture closures in your bare skull,” said Elizabeth, in tones suggesting that she would enjoy it.
    “Remarks like that will get you sedated to four rungs down the food chain,” said Emma O. “Any hint of violence makes the powers-that-be uneasy. They like things to stay peaceful. Where was I? Oh, yes. Currency. Money isn’t a factor in here, either,beyond having enough change for the snack machines, so nobody cares if you’re rich or not on the outside. You can’t spend it in here. And fame or family prestige don’t count for much, either, because there’s always a chance that you’re lying about who you are. Remember that guy in here who claimed to be Jesus. Nobody was impressed. Not even the people who believed him. He couldn’t—or wouldn’t—turn the Salisbury steak into anything else, so we lost interest.”
    Elizabeth considered all this. “There must be some sort of hierarchy,” she said at last. “It’s human nature to form a social order. We like to know who we’re better than.”
    “When you get right down to it, there is only one universal currency.”
    “And that is?”
    “Beauty. Beauty is the one status symbol that cannot be taken away. If you’re beautiful, you can be set down anywhere in the world, without your I.D. or your credit cards, and people will treat you well. Cleverness won’t help you if you wind up in a place where they don’t speak your language, or if your wisdom is not recognized, but beauty is the universal wealth.”
    “There are different standards of beauty …” Elizabeth began, thinking of foot binding and neck rings.
    “Not so much any more. Hollywood tells the world what pretty is these days. And I think people just know instinctively who the pretty people are regardless of differences in culture. It’s like radar. Maybe they emit rays or something. Anyhow, pretty people matter. The rest of us don’t.”
    Elizabeth stared at the heavyset young woman, owl-eyedand scowling behind her glasses. “What are you in here for?” she asked.
    Emma O. shrugged. “Well, I have Asperger’s syndrome, but that’s not treatable. It’s just the way I am. They don’t put you away for that.”
    Elizabeth had never heard of Asperger’s syndrome, but she thought it might be impolite to ask about someone’s illness. She made a mental note to broach the subject with some knowledgeable third party, perhaps Dr. Freya herself, at their next session of therapy. Given the present drift of conversation, Elizabeth thought that this patient could be more useful to therapists outside the institution, drumming up business by making homely women even more