On the cordless phone at the nurses' station, the one that they can bring over to her.
11:00 a.m. They said she was asleep. Could I try back at 11:30, when they'd bring her lunch?
1:15 p.m. They seemed uncertain that she'd recognize a phone, talk into it, remember to hold it to her ear. They were right, for the most part. She didn't get any comprehensible words out, either, except for asking about the weather and a slow, angry "I... WILL... NOT..." directed to the aides, not to me. But she laughed when I told her about a bureaucratic catastrophe that I hit when I got back to Granolaton, and she was dramatically silent, then dropped the phone, when I asked how she was doing and how they were treating her.
During my visit, it seemed like she understood far more of what was being said than she could respond to. Those two responses during this call, the laughter and the angry silence, convince me even more.
The aides got bored with handing her back the phone before I did.
I'd have to guess she was in the restraining chair.