What She Left Behind (13 page)

Nurse May scowled, retrieving more towels from beneath the cabinet. “Shall I get Nurse Trench to come take care of this?” she said.

“No,” Dr. Roach said. “Give Clara a towel to clean herself up and let’s finish.”

“I’m sorry,” Clara said, wiping splatters from her arms and legs. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just . . .”

“Are you not feeling well?” Dr. Roach said. “Have you been ill?”

“No,” Clara said. She drew in a breath and held it, unsure if she should tell him the truth. Maybe she’d be treated better if they knew she was expecting. Maybe they would let her go free. An insane asylum was no place to give birth to a baby. Surely the doctor would agree. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, fighting the urge to throw up again. “I’m not sick. I’m pregnant.”

Dr. Roach frowned, his brows knitted together. “Maybe you’re just nervous, or ate something that didn’t agree with you,” he said.

Clara shook her head. “No,” she said. “I have a boyfriend and the baby is his.”

Dr. Roach lifted his chin, nodding slightly as if having something confirmed. “You can tell me all about it later,” he said. “I’m here to help you, remember? Right now you need to go to the cafeteria and get some breakfast.”

“But you’re a doctor,” Clara said. “You can tell if I’m pregnant or not. Surely you agree an asylum is no place for a pregnant woman.”

“We have a female physician to do gynecological exams,” Dr. Roach said. “But I’m afraid she’s not here today.”

Clara thought about asking why he felt the need to examine her breasts if they had a female doctor to do those things, but knew it was a waste of time. The most important thing was to make him realize she was going to have a baby. She put a hand on her abdomen. “Look at my stomach,” she said. “It’s swollen.”

Dr. Roach gestured toward Clara’s clothes on the chair. “Get dressed,” he said. “If you’re really pregnant, we’ll know soon enough now, won’t we? Nurse May, will you take Clara down to the cafeteria, please?”

Nurse May was on her hands and knees cleaning up the floor, her mouth twisted. She pushed herself up and waited by the door while Clara got dressed. “Shall I send Nurse Trench to finish up in here?” she asked again.

Dr. Roach shook his head. “No, she’s got other patients to take care of this morning. Get one of the orderlies to help you.”

Nurse May’s face turned red, her jaw working in and out. Clara buttoned her sweater, thinking that, for now, she’d have to go along with what they wanted. Dr. Roach said they would talk later. She still had a chance to make him understand, to make him see that she didn’t need to be institutionalized. She followed Nurse May out of the office, through the lobby of Chapin Hall, to the end of the first wing. An orderly unlocked two iron doors and let them through, the screeching and slamming of metal echoing through the halls. Nurse May led Clara down a narrow staircase to the basement, where they followed a short, stone passageway to the cafeteria.

The cement walls of the cafeteria were a dingy, mottled gray, the upper corners and edges of the room revealing an old coating of white paint. The blue floor was scuffed and pockmarked; circular chunks missing as if someone had gouged the stone out with a spoon. The air smelled like spoiled milk, cabbage, and grease. Dozens of female patients sat and stood at long tables while attendants strolled the perimeter of the dining area, watching them eat. Nurse Trench and two other nurses moved back and forth on the far end of the cafeteria, keeping a row of patients in line. The patients carried trays, picking up their food from workers on the other side of a long counter. Among the women in line were the woman with the baby doll and the woman who constantly rocked back and forth in her bed. Everywhere she looked, Clara saw blank stares, puffy eyes, scowling mouths.

“Time to go to the Sun Room!” one of the orderlies yelled at the patients sitting at the tables. “Clean up your mess!”

The patients stood and picked up their dishes, but a few remained seated, chewing their breakfast in a daze. The orderlies pulled the uncooperative women off their stools, taking the utensils from their hands. One patient tried to climb on the table, her bare foot in the middle of a plate. An orderly reached up and grabbed her arm, swearing as he pulled her down. Finally, the orderlies got everyone to pick up their tableware and file out of the room. Four cafeteria workers picked up the remaining flatware and plates while the women from Clara’s ward shuffled over to the tables with their trays. Nurse May led Clara across the room to deliver her to Nurse Trench.

“This patient made a mess in Dr. Roach’s examination room,” she said to Nurse Trench. “Dr. Roach wants you to bring an orderly over after breakfast and get it cleaned up.”

“I don’t have time for that,” Nurse Trench said, frowning. “You’re his head nurse. It’s your job to take care of things over there.”

“I’m just following orders,” Nurse May said, her chin in the air. “He said to send you over.” She turned on her heels to leave, then changed her mind. “One more thing.” She wiggled a finger at Clara. “This one thinks she’s pregnant.” This last thing she said in a loud voice, as if making an announcement.

Nurse Trench’s eyes went wide. She uncrossed her arms and took a step toward Clara, but it was too late. Half a dozen patients dropped their trays and hurried over, one grabbing at Clara’s stomach, another touching her hair, a third wailing and pulling at her face. Clara ducked and put her arms around her head to protect herself. A cluster of dirty fingers touched her mouth and scratched her cheek. Nurse Trench and the orderlies pulled the women away, shouting at them to get away from Clara. Nurse May stepped back to watch, a satisfied smirk on her face.

“Leave her alone!” Nurse Trench yelled at the patients. “Pick up your trays and get over to the table! Right now or you’ll be put in isolation!” Most of the women did as they were told. One fell to the floor, howling with her head in her hands. Two orderlies yanked her to her feet and dragged her out of the cafeteria. Nurse Trench looked at Nurse May with fire in her eyes. “I’ll be writing you up for that,” she said.

Nurse May shrugged. “One other thing,” she said. “I’m just wondering. Does Dr. Roach realize what little control you have over your patients?”

“I’ve been working with Dr. Roach for over fifteen years,” Nurse Trench said through clenched teeth. “And I’ll be working with him long after you’re gone.”

Nurse May rolled her eyes and left the cafeteria. Nurse Trench took Clara by the arm and led her over to the counter to get her breakfast. “Whether what she says is true or you’re just making it up,” she said under her breath, “you better keep quiet about it. Telling everyone won’t do a thing to help you. The doctors won’t care and the other patients will rip you apart.”

She left Clara in line and walked away. Another group of women began filing in the doors at the far end of the room. Clara picked up a tray at the counter and tried to catch her breath, her heart thundering in her chest. The tray held a thick, milky mug filled with what looked like weak tea, and a plate with four prunes and a hard piece of bread. She carried the tray over to a table and found an empty seat. As soon as she sat down, the woman next to her snatched the bread from her plate. Clara hunched over her food and reached for her tea with shaking hands. She had no appetite, but knew she had to eat and drink for her baby. She took a sip of tea. It was barely warm and tasted like urine. She swallowed it anyway. The prunes were hard and dry and it was all she could do not to gag when she put them in her mouth.

The orderlies walked up and down the cafeteria, telling the women to hurry up so the next group could sit down. At the far end of the table, the woman with the baby doll stood and started screaming, pulling at another patient’s hands and hair. The other patient slapped at the woman’s arms, trying to push her away. The orderlies rushed over to break up the fight.

“My little girl is starving!” the woman screeched, clawing at the slice of bread on the other woman’s tray. “Can’t you hear her crying? She needs food!”

An orderly grabbed the screaming woman under the arms and yanked her away from the table. The other orderly struck her across the face, then ripped the doll away and threw it across the room. The woman howled and ran after it, her face contorted in agony. She dropped to her knees and picked up the baby doll, cradling it in her arms and crying. The orderlies pulled her upright and led her back to the table, their faces void of emotion. The woman sat down and started singing a lullaby, rocking the doll back and forth, her stringy hair hanging over her face. Everyone went back to eating.

Clara looked at the last shriveled prune on her plate, her stomach growing more and more nauseous. She thought about giving the prune to the woman with the baby doll, then picked it up and put it in her mouth, trying not to throw up as she chewed and swallowed.

CHAPTER 9

I
ZZY

By Monday afternoon, Clara’s journal still sat on the upper shelf of Izzy’s locker, resting on top of her math and English books. Unfortunately, the journal hadn’t provided Izzy with any answers. Instead, it left her confused. The glimpse into life during the 1920s was fascinating, and Clara’s words read like the diary of any normal young woman dealing with the confusion and frustration of being on the verge of adulthood. But there was nothing to suggest that Clara had lost her mind. Nothing at all. Except for what seemed like an overly strict upbringing and her grief over losing her brother, it seemed like Clara’s future was destined to be bright. Until she met Bruno. That was when things changed.

Could Clara’s fear of not being allowed to be with the man she loved have manifested itself into some kind of mental illness? Could her strict upbringing have caused her to grow nervous, paranoid, or delusional? No, it didn’t ring true. Clara’s journal read like that of a young woman with a firm grasp on reality. Izzy knew that, back then, doctors didn’t fully understand depression or women acting out, but she could barely comprehend Clara’s father sending her away because she was in love with a man he considered lower class. Even more unbelievable was that Clara’s mother had gone along with her husband’s decision! The whole thing was unimaginable. Now, Clara’s story haunted Izzy. More than ever, she wanted to find out what happened to her after she was sent to Willard.

During the short break between eighth and ninth periods, Izzy stood at her locker, chewing on her lip and wondering why Ethan hadn’t picked up the journal yet. He was in school that day; she’d seen him walking with Shannon in the halls. He had ignored Izzy when she passed, laughing and talking with his friends as if she were invisible. It was all she could do not to walk up to him and ask if he thought she was an idiot. She knew when she was being duped. She yanked her psychology book out from beneath her gym bag and slammed the locker door. What the hell was he up to? He’d had plenty of time to pick up the journal.

The bell rang and she hurried down the hall, her chest tight, thinking she would probably have to take the journal back to the museum herself. She wondered what Peg would do if she caught her with it. Then, halfway to class, she realized she’d left her essay on “Understanding the Criminal Mind” in her other notebook. She turned and rushed through the empty halls, swearing under her breath because she was going to be late. When she got to her locker, Ethan was there, reaching in to get the journal. He jumped when he saw her.

“Finally!” she said. “I was starting to wonder if you were full of shit the other night.”

“Sorry,” he said, red-faced and out of breath. “Shannon has been acting really weird today. She made me walk her to all her classes, even when it made me late for mine.”

“Don’t you have psychology with her right now?”

“Yeah,” he said. He glanced up and down the hall. “I told her to save me a seat because I was going to the boys’ room.”

“Why are you acting so paranoid?”

“I think she knows something is up.”

“What do you mean?”

“She knows I’m working at the museum with you,” Ethan said. “And she’s not happy about it.”

Izzy rolled her eyes. “So what? That doesn’t mean something is up!”

“You don’t know Shannon.”

She snorted. “Oh, I think I do. How did she find out we were working at the museum together?”

Just then, Ethan looked past Izzy. His face dropped and Izzy turned to look. Shannon was standing near the end of the hall, her arms crossed, watching them.

“Oh shit,” Ethan whispered. He shoved the journal into Izzy’s hands and hurried toward Shannon. “Hey, babe,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Izzy’s locker was stuck. She asked me to get it open.”

Shannon stared at him until he reached her, then glared at Izzy. Izzy put the journal back, shut her locker, and started toward them, her textbook against her chest like a bulletproof shield. Shannon watched Izzy walk toward them, frowning, until Ethan took her hand and led her toward psychology class. Izzy followed, hoping she wouldn’t have to sit next to them. Shannon kept glancing backward, whispering in Ethan’s ear and laughing: a loud, deliberate cackle, as if sharing a private joke. When Shannon and Ethan reached the psychology classroom, they stopped in front of the closed door. Shannon wrapped her arms around Ethan’s neck and kissed him with an open mouth. Ethan kissed her back, then pulled away.

“Come on,” he said. “We’re already late.”

Shannon glanced back at Izzy, her lip curled in disgust. “Who cares,” she said. “We’ll just blame it on Izzy Pop.”

Ethan opened the door and pulled Shannon into the classroom. Izzy followed, fighting the urge to tell Shannon the real reason Ethan was at her locker. At the front of the room, Mr. Defoe scribbled on the chalkboard, wet crescents staining the armpits of his blue shirt, his faded jeans tucked into his trademark hiking boots. No matter the season, Mr. Defoe wore his hiking boots. Rumor had it he lived in an apartment above the train station and gave most of his money to charity. He peered over his thick glasses at Ethan, Shannon, and Izzy.

“Nice of you to join us,” he said. “Hurry up and take a seat.”

To Izzy’s relief there was a vacant desk at the back of the room. She hurried toward it while Ethan and Shannon took seats up front.

Mr. Defoe finished what he was writing on the board, then sat at his desk and asked the students to pass their essays forward. When all the essays had been collected, he stood to give his lecture.

“Today we’re going to talk about what makes a seemingly normal person suddenly commit a horrendous crime,” he said. “Like murdering their spouse or bringing a gun to school to shoot their classmates.” He started pacing back and forth, his hiking boots scuffing along the floor. “Every now and then, the news explodes with stories about regular, everyday people who, without warning, do hideous things. They commit crimes that shock those around them, even those who know them extremely well. Everyone is at a loss, trying to understand what happened. When most people learn of the crime, their first thought is that the person they know could not possibly be the perpetrator . . .”

Izzy slouched in her seat, trying to shut out Mr. Defoe’s words. She picked up her pen and drew a square on her notebook, outlining the drawing over and over, pressing down harder and harder, until the point of her pen broke through the cover.

“So the question is,” Mr. Defoe said, “are these people acting out of character, or was the tendency to go off the deep end part of their personality all along? What do you think, Miss Stone?”

Izzy looked up. A few of the students had turned in their seats to look at her, eyebrows raised. “Um,” she said. “I’m sorry. What was the question again?” Everyone laughed.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d quit doodling and pay attention, Miss Stone,” Mr. Defoe said.

Shannon raised her hand and Mr. Defoe pointed at her. “Yes, Miss Mackenzie?”

“I have an idea,” Shannon said. “Maybe we can get Izzy’s mother to come in and explain the criminal mind to us.”

Izzy felt blood rise in her cheeks. No one had ever found out about her mother this fast. She glared at Shannon.

“What do you mean?” Nicole said with phony concern, a lip-glossed smirk on her face. “What did Izzy’s mother do?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Shannon said, feigning surprise. “I thought everyone knew.” She frowned and looked at Izzy. “Izzy’s mother shot her father while he slept. She’s doing life at Bedford.”

A collective gasp filled the room. A sea of heads turned toward Izzy. Wide, shocked eyes stared back at her. Girls put their hands over their mouths. Guys high-fived each other, laughing. Everyone started talking at once.

“Is she on death row?” one of the guys said.

“Can you bring her in for show and tell?” Luke said, snorting.

“Is her favorite color orange?” Nicole said.

Mr. Defoe stepped forward. “Okay, settle down,” he said, holding up his hands. “Everyone, be quiet!”

No one listened. The girl sitting beside Izzy got up and moved to another seat. Luke stood on his chair and held his hands out as if pointing a gun, his index fingers the barrel of a pistol.

“Bang! Bang!” he said, shooting fake bullets at Izzy. He fired at his friends. Several of them fell out of their seats and onto the floor, moaning and playing dead.

Izzy stood on elastic legs, gathered her books, and started toward the door. Ethan got up and put a hand on her arm, stopping her.

“Wait,” he said to her. Then he shouted, “Everyone, shut up! Why don’t you grow up and quit being such assholes!” Everyone stopped talking and looked at him, wide-eyed.

“What the hell, Ethan,” Luke said. “You got a thing for Izzy Pop?”

“Yeah, Ethan,” a red-haired, freckle-faced boy said. “Does your
girlfriend
know about your infatuation with the new girl?” His voice was high, like a female’s, in stark contrast with his brutish size. He wasn’t fat, just wide and muscular, like a bull, or a Mac truck. If Izzy remembered correctly, his name was Josh.

Shannon stood and yanked Ethan’s hand off Izzy’s arm. “What are you doing?” she hissed, her face contorted in anger.

While everyone waited to see what Shannon would do next, the room quieted.

“Everyone, sit down!” Mr. Defoe said, taking over. “One more word out of any of you and you’re all getting detention!”

Shannon pulled Ethan away from Izzy and sat down, pouting. Izzy glared at her, eyes burning, then headed toward the exit.

“Please return to your seat, Miss Stone,” Mr. Defoe said. “And don’t let this bunch of bored juvenile delinquents get the better of you.” Izzy stopped in her tracks, facing the door, her heart hammering in her chest. She blinked against the growing flood in her eyes. She wasn’t sure if she should stay or leave, not knowing how much trouble she’d get in for walking out. Then Mr. Defoe said, “And, Miss Mackenzie? A week of detention for you.”

“What?” Shannon said, whining. “What did I do?”

“What did I do?” a high, mocking voice said from the back of the room. “As usual, I’m just having a little fun at someone else’s expense.” Izzy turned to see who had spoken. It was Alex. She was leaning against the windowsill, scowling and talking in a sarcastic tone. “Everyone knows my mommy is an alcoholic and my daddy left. So I can get away with anything I want because I’m just a poor, confused little girl.”

“Shut your mouth!” Shannon yelled. She jumped out of her seat and started toward Alex. Ethan held her back.

“Miss Mackenzie!” Mr. Defoe shouted. “Are you trying to get yourself suspended?”

“She’s a liar!” Shannon said, struggling to break free from Ethan’s grasp.

Some of the other students looked at each other, shaking their heads and rolling their eyes. Others dropped their eyes, as if embarrassed to see Shannon falling apart.

“Calm down,” Ethan said to Shannon.

“You’re a whore!” Shannon shouted at Alex. “Just like your mother!”

“That’s it,” Mr. Defoe said. “Ethan and Shannon, go to the office. Right now. Get out of here!”

Ethan grabbed Shannon’s wrist and pulled her out of the room, Shannon yelling obscenities the entire way. The students erupted in excited conversation. Izzy stood at the front of the room with her books clamped to her chest, a burning lump in her throat. She couldn’t decide if she should go back to her seat or ask to go to the girls’ room so she could pull herself together. Mr. Defoe tried to regain control of the class. No one paid attention. Izzy wiped her eyes and went back to her seat. Eventually, everyone quieted and Mr. Defoe finished his lecture. Izzy didn’t hear a word.

Afterward, Izzy hurried to her locker, shoved her homework and Clara’s journal into her backpack, then went to the girls’ room. She could hardly wait for this day to end. Tonight, at home, she’d tell Peg she had the journal. Hopefully, Peg would forgive her and not send her to a different foster home. Izzy pushed open the bathroom door and turned the corner toward the row of stalls, then stopped in her tracks. Shannon was leaning against the radiator, her face red, her eyes swollen. Crystal and Nicole stood on either side, holding Kleenex and rubbing Shannon’s shoulders.

“Get the hell out of here!” Shannon shouted. Izzy started to leave, then changed her mind. She turned to face Shannon.

“Listen,” she said, staying near the exit. “I don’t know why you hate me so much, but I understand what you’re going through. It’s hard having messed-up parents.”

Shannon sniffed and sat up. “You listen to me, shooter,” she sneered, tossing a used Kleenex at Izzy. “You don’t know anything about me. And you never will.”

Izzy chewed on the inside of her cheek, fighting the urge to scream in Shannon’s face. More than anything, she wanted to tell her to grow up and stop taking her anger out on everyone else. But she was afraid that once she started yelling, she’d never stop. Besides, it wouldn’t do any good. If nothing else, maybe she and Shannon could come to some sort of agreement. At the very least they could be civil to each other until graduation. It was worth a try. Like her grandmother always said, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

“Well,” she said. “Maybe we could talk sometime? It seemed like you wanted to be friends when I first got here. Maybe we can start over?”

“The only thing you’re going to start over is a new job. I don’t want you working with my boyfriend anymore.”

Izzy shrugged and shook her head. “I’m sorry, but that’s not going to happen.”

Shannon moved toward her. Crystal and Nicole followed, arms crossed over their chests. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll make it happen,” Shannon said.

Before Izzy could respond, the girls grabbed her and pushed her up against the wall.

Izzy struggled, trying to get away, twisting her shoulders back and forth. Shannon moved in behind them, blocking any chance for escape. The girls held Izzy by the arms while Shannon tapped a finger on her lips, thinking.