What She Left Behind (17 page)

Clara tried to look away, but couldn’t. “Who are they?” she asked Esther.

“They’re too violent to be put in with the general population,” Esther said. “The doctors keep them locked up there, in the Rookie Pest House. I heard there’s no heat and they chain the patients to the beds.”

Clara shivered, even though she wasn’t cold, and looked out over the lake. A teakwood boat cut a white line through the waves, a string of colored flags from the mast to the bow flapping in the wind. She squinted, trying to see the people sitting in the open area behind the cabin, wondering what they thought when they looked across the water toward Willard. Did they know what this place was? Did they think of the patients as real people, or did they look at them as nonhumans who never stood a chance at a normal existence anyway? Were they happy the patients had been locked away, relieved that they could enjoy their lives unburdened by someone who might have a problem? Did they realize that most of the patients once had hopes and dreams of their own? That some were being kept locked up against their will?

Just then, Clara was pulled from her thoughts by someone shouting. A naked man ran out of the Rookie Pest House, wild eyes above a scraggly beard. He raced toward the lake as fast as his spindly legs would carry him. Two orderlies ran after him. The naked man tripped over a tree trunk and fell, then scrambled back to his feet. The orderlies caught up to him and wrestled him to the ground. Then they yanked him upright and dragged him backward, toward the brick building. Clara pulled her eyes away, relieved when the orderlies led her group in the other direction, toward the boathouse and dock, away from the Rookie Pest House.

Later, in the kitchen, she couldn’t stop thinking about the man from the Rookie Pest House, wondering what horrors he was running from. How could there be a place like Willard, where people are treated like cattle, while everyone else goes on with their lives? She wondered if her father knew how awful Willard was, or if he’d even care. From where she sat peeling potatoes, she could see Madeline at the sink washing dishes, sweat dripping from her brow. The woman in charge of the kitchen didn’t allow talking between workers, but Clara was just glad to have Madeline nearby, to exchange a smile or wave, to remind her that she and others at Willard were still sane. The woman sitting on a stool to Clara’s left never said a word. She just sat with her head down, peeling potatoes and mumbling to herself.

As if Madeline had heard Clara’s thoughts, she turned and raised a soapy hand, her eyes tired, but smiling. Just then the kitchen boss crossed the room, moving between Clara and Madeline, her mouth twisted into a determined scowl. Madeline turned and put a thumb to her nose and stuck out her tongue, making a face at the kitchen boss’s back. A wet plate slid from her other hand, shattering into a hundred white shards on the tiled floor.

The kitchen boss stopped in her tracks and spun around to see what happened. Without missing a beat, she rushed toward Madeline. Madeline edged backward until she was trapped in the corner between the wall and the metal sink. The kitchen boss dug her fingers into Madeline’s arms, pulled her forward, then shoved her into the counter. The back of Madeline’s head collided with the cupboards with a hollow
thump,
rattling the silverware in the strainer. The kitchen boss raised a hand to slap her, yelling something about the cost of supplies. Clara dropped the potato peeler and started toward them.

“Leave her alone!” she shouted. She grabbed the kitchen boss’s wrist, trying to pull her away from Madeline. The kitchen boss turned, red-faced and panting, and shoved Clara away with both hands. In what felt like slow motion, Clara flew backward, arms circling, eyes wide. She scrambled to keep her footing, slipped on the wet floor, then fell and hit her head on the tiles with a nauseating thud, a bolt of pain shooting through her skull. She looked up and blinked, black curtains of unconsciousness threatening to close in from every side. Then she felt a warm, wet gush between her legs and passed out.

 

Clara blinked and opened her eyes, trying to focus on the bright orbs flashing overhead. She was moving forward, feet first, drafts of foul-smelling air gliding across her face and arms. She had no idea where she was. Then she realized the fuzzy lights passing above her were ceiling lamps. She turned her head and saw dimly lit rooms and hospital beds, nurses bending over patients, giving shots, checking pulses, writing in charts. She was on a stretcher, being rushed along the halls of the infirmary. All of a sudden, her stomach muscles twisted and pulled, like a knife stabbing into her lower abdomen. She struggled to sit upright, to pull her knees up and curl into a ball, but a strong hand pushed her back down. Looking up to see who was pushing the stretcher, she saw a nurse she didn’t recognize.

The nurse directed the stretcher around a corner and inside an examination room, where a doctor stood waiting. He looked like a toad, short and swollen, his jowls sliding down into his double chin.

“What happened?” the doctor asked the nurse.

“She fell and hit her head,” the nurse said, coming around to stand beside the stretcher. “She just woke up.”

“How long has she been unconscious?” the doctor said. He bent over and held Clara’s eyelids open, looking into her pupils with a tiny, bright light.

“Maybe fifteen minutes?” the nurse said.

“How are you feeling?” he said to Clara in a loud voice. “Are you dizzy?”

Clara shook her head. Another contraction started and she pulled up her knees, trying to stop the ripping, burning pain in her lower abdomen. She felt like she was being torn apart. She bit down on her lip, moaning softly.

“Are you having pain in your head?” the doctor said.

“No,” Clara said. “I’m in labor.”

The doctor’s brows shot up and he looked at the nurse, a question on his face. The nurse shrugged.

“Can you get up and move over to the examination table?” he said to Clara.

Clara pushed herself up on shaky arms, her head pounding in time with her thundering heart. She swung her legs over the mattress and got down from the stretcher, one hand on her belly. Warm liquid ran down the inside of her leg, wetting her leather shoes. The doctor went over to the sink to wash his hands.

“She’ll need to remove her bloomers,” he said to the nurse.

Clara slipped off her shoes without untying them, the pain in her belly making it impossible to stand up straight. The nurse came over and started lifting Clara’s dress, reaching for her underwear. Clara pushed the nurse’s hands away and pulled her underwear off herself, trying to step out of them without falling. She climbed onto the examining table, struggling to take slow, deep breaths.

The doctor pulled the foot stirrups out and motioned for Clara to lie back. She did as she was told, her head coming to a rest on a small, lumpy pillow. The doctor guided her feet into the stirrups and she closed her eyes, trying to picture Bruno’s face, his dark hair and white smile. When the doctor’s hands touched her, she jumped and turned her head, staring at her reflection in the glass of a white cabinet filled with tongue depressors, cotton balls, and shiny, sharp-looking instruments. When the exam was over, the doctor patted her knee and told her to sit up.

“This poor girl is about to have a baby,” he said to the nurse. “Let’s get her into a room.”

The nurse glanced at Clara, her lips pressed together, then picked up a clipboard and handed it to the doctor.

“Who is her physician?” the doctor asked, scribbling something on the chart.

“Dr. Roach,” the nurse said. “Should I get a wheelchair?”

“Yes,” the doctor said. “And be quick about it.” The nurse left the room and the doctor addressed Clara. “Do you know who the father is?”

Clara nodded, unsure that she could answer. The contractions were getting closer and closer together. “My boyfriend, Bruno,” she said, gasping.

“And where is Bruno now?”

“I don’t know,” Clara managed.

“Is he a patient here?” the doctor said.

Clara shook her head, beads of sweat forming on her forehead and upper lip. The nurse came back into the room with a wheelchair and retrieved a hospital gown from a cupboard. Clara climbed down from the table and sat in the wheelchair, doubling over in the seat. Her insides felt like they were coming out, and would soon be a bloody pile in her lap. Suddenly, the urge to stand up overwhelmed her, and she tried pushing herself out of the chair.

“Sit down!” the nurse said, shoving her back into the seat. Before Clara could protest, the nurse started pushing the wheelchair across the room.

“The baby is coming!” Clara screamed.

The doctor threw open the door and the nurse pushed Clara into the hall. She turned right and ran along the corridor, yelling at other nurses and patients to get out of the way. An orderly pushed a wheelchair straight at them, one hand trying to keep the unconscious man in the seat upright. The orderly couldn’t turn fast enough and they nearly collided. Finally, the nurse turned down a short hallway and wheeled Clara into a room with a single bed.

“Stand up,” the nurse said.

A second nurse helped Clara out of the wheelchair and started stripping off her clothes. “Let’s get you into this hospital gown.” she said, yanking off Clara’s brassiere. “You’re about to have a baby. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” Clara said, gasping. “I told Dr. Roach I was pregnant but he didn’t care.” She slipped her arms into the hospital gown, climbed up on the mattress, and lay back. Another band of pain tightened around her middle and again she felt the overwhelming urge to push.

The first nurse covered Clara with a thin sheet while the second held her legs together at the ankles, telling her not to push until the doctor came. Clara thrashed on the bed, fighting the urge to bear down. Her body felt like it was being ripped in two, sinew and muscle twisting in opposite directions, veins stretching until they burst. Finally the doctor hurried in, instructing the nurses to get blankets, towels, and a basin of hot water.

“We’ll need morphine and scopolamine,” he said, his voice filled with urgency. The nurses hurried out of the room and he examined Clara again. She pushed herself up on her elbows and looked at the doctor, studying his face for any sign that might convey her baby’s condition. Her roaring heart clogged her throat.

If her estimates were right, the baby was two weeks early. And now, because of the sudden onset of labor, she was terrified that, along with everything else, her daughter was coming too soon and wouldn’t survive. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the powerful contraction eased. Clara collapsed back on the pillows, panting.

“Is something wrong?” she said.

“Just lie as still as you can now,” the doctor said. “I’ll take care of you.”

The nurses rushed back into the room, their arms laden with towels, a basin, a doctor’s bag, and a pitcher of steaming water. Clara’s stomach tightened again and another contraction started, every muscle feeling squeezed inside a giant vise. She took a deep breath, put her hands on her knees, and bore down. The baby was crowning; she could feel its wide, damp head forcing its way out of her body and into the world.

Clara started to hyperventilate, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. A rush of fluid gushed between her legs. The sting of a needle in her skin made her jump. She turned to see a nurse burying a syringe in her upper arm, her mouth pressed into a thin, hard line. Clara tried to sit up again, but her strength was gone. She looked down at the doctor, his determined scowl the last thing she saw before the world went dark.

CHAPTER 11

I
ZZY

 

In the backseat of Peg and Harry’s Mitsubishi, Izzy picked at the edges of her nails, watching the buildings of Willard State roll past the car windows. The sun was shining in a September blue sky filled with anvil-shaped thunderheads, hinting at a possible storm. Out the left side of the vehicle, Seneca Lake shimmered in the distance, shallow waves rippling toward the opposite shore. Treetops swayed in the gentle breeze and seagulls congregated on the sagging, shingled roof of Willard’s boathouse.

And yet, the buildings and grounds of Willard looked dead and still. Not a blade of grass moved, not one vine or leaf of ivy stirred. Not one bird flew past the roofs or landed on the chimneys. Against the red brick walls, the ward windows looked burned out and black, as if there had been a fire inside, or it was impossible for sunlight to penetrate the darkness within.

Izzy couldn’t believe she was back at the old asylum again, to go inside the abandoned hospital and look at old medical records. She did her best to take deep breaths and push her fears away, concentrating instead on the excitement of finding out more about Clara.

Three nights earlier, after supper and homework, Izzy had finally admitted to Peg that she had Clara’s journal. Peg was disappointed, but she wasn’t angry. She understood Izzy’s fascination and believed she had every intention of returning it. After thanking her for telling the truth and giving a gently worded lecture about the virtues of honesty, Peg seemed excited about everything Izzy had found out.

“Thank you for not being mad,” Izzy said.

“Just do me a favor, will you?” Peg said. “Next time, ask.”

Izzy nodded. “I will,” she said.

“And since you’re so into this project,” Peg said, “would you like to go to Willard with us on Saturday? I still can’t believe it, but the state has given us permission to search the medical records!”

“Will you be looking at Clara’s file?” Izzy said.

“Sorry,” Peg said, shaking her head. “But it was pretty simple to piece her life together from the things we found in her trunk. She isn’t one of the patients we chose to find out more about. And like you said, her journal explains a lot. But if you want to come with us, you can try to find her records. We’re only allowed a few hours inside the hospital, so it will have to be quick.”

Now, the closer they got to the abandoned structure, the faster Izzy’s heart raced. Harry pulled up a narrow road and parked the car near a four-story brick building. He shut off the engine and got out. Izzy climbed out of the backseat, watching two cars pull up and park beside them. Peg and Harry went around to the back of the Mitsubishi and opened the trunk. Two museum workers got out of the first vehicle while the second car parked on the other side. Izzy couldn’t see who was in the front seat, but she knew the second car belonged to Ethan’s father because Peg had told her the photographer was coming. The door opened and Peter hoisted himself out, the car roof springing up, the frame squeaking. Izzy held her breath, waiting to see if Ethan would be with him. Peter went around the vehicle and opened the trunk. No one else got out of the car.

In a way, Izzy was relieved. Instead of worrying about trying to avoid Ethan, she would be free to concentrate on looking for Clara’s file. It had been four days since the scene in psychology class, and Izzy hadn’t heard a word from him. When she passed him and Shannon in the halls, they ignored her. None of the other kids brought up Izzy’s mother or made fun of her. Suddenly, it was like she was invisible. The only one who talked to her was Alex. For reasons Izzy couldn’t put her finger on, Shannon’s indifference felt like the calm before the storm. Even Alex thought it was weird.

Izzy went around to the trunk of the car and was surprised to find Peg and Harry putting hospital scrubs on over their clothes. Peg handed Izzy a flashlight and a set of green scrubs.

“What is all this?” Izzy said.

“This old hospital is contaminated with asbestos and lead paint,” Harry said. “It’s important for us to wear protection.”

Izzy looked over at the other vehicles and saw the museum workers also pulling on protective gear. Peter lumbered toward Peg and Harry’s car with a wide grin on his face, his photography equipment slung over one shoulder, the wide strap of what looked like a giant flashlight over the other. Peg and Harry slipped paper masks around their necks and started toward the building, Harry carrying a flashlight and duffel bag, Peg carrying a canvas tote over one shoulder. Izzy and everyone else followed. When they reached a set of chained and padlocked double doors that had been boarded up from the inside, Peg gave each person a pair of protective paper booties to put over their shoes.

“Don’t you have something to put over your clothes?” Harry said to Peter.

Peter waved a dismissive hand in the air. “I’ll be fine,” he said.

“Well, you should at least wear these,” Peg said, holding out a mask and a pair of booties. Peter took the mask and put it on. He leaned over to try putting the booties over his massive shoes but they were too small. He smiled and put them on his ears instead. Everyone laughed.

“No Ethan today?” Peg said to him.

He shook his head. “Basketball practice,” he said. Then he smiled at Izzy. “He told me to say hi and he’s sorry he’s missing this.”

Izzy felt blood rise in her cheeks. She bent over and pulled the paper booties on over her sneakers, wondering why Ethan would bother saying hello. If he wasn’t man enough to say hi to her in public, what was the point? Was he ashamed to admit they were friends, or was he scared of his girlfriend? She clenched her jaw and straightened, hoping her face wasn’t red.

Harry pulled a set of keys out of his pocket, unlocked the padlock, and pulled the chain out from around the brass door handles.

“This is the newer hospital,” Peg said. “At first, Chapin Hall housed the medical wards, the operating rooms, and the morgue. Eventually, they moved the patients with infectious diseases into an old farmhouse and built this, the main hospital.”

Harry pulled the door open, a sudden swirl of stale air sending a slip of curling paper across the cracked threshold. A slanted rectangle of sunlight reached across the shadowy floor, illuminating layers of dirt and dried mold. Everybody pulled their masks over their faces and filed inside. Weak daylight filtered in through open hallway doors, crisscrossing the long, dark passageway. Harry flicked on his flashlight and looked around. Yellowed papers, pieces of drywall, paint peelings, plastic bottles, and trash littered the floor tiles. A wheeled chair sat against one peeling wall and a broken metal cart sat tipped over in the middle of the hall. Curtains of dust hung in the air, like millions of tiny larva floating in seawater.

“Think we’ll have enough light to see what we’re doing?” Peg said, her voice muffled by the paper mask.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Peter brought a battery-powered construction light, and there should be some light coming in through the windows. It will be fine. They said the records room is down the hall to the left.”

Izzy followed the group down the hallway and shined her flashlight through open doors, plaster and dried paint crunching beneath her sneakers. In a room to her right, a row of sinks lined a mold-covered wall, their porcelain basins filled with broken drywall and dust, rivulets of rust running from scale-covered faucets. A dozen showerheads hung from a long pipe along the ceiling, the metal couplings scaly and green. The next room was stuffed with wheelchairs, except instead of canvas or plastic, the seats were toilet seats without lids. One room was empty, except for a single, filthy mattress and a wide chunk of moldy plaster hanging from the ceiling. The sounds of dripping water echoed from somewhere down the hall.

Finally, they came to a closed door with a sign that read “Records.” Harry tried three keys before he found the right one. He opened the door and everyone followed him inside. Two tall windows on the far wall let in just enough light so they could see. Dust hung in the sluggish air, illuminated by shafts of weak sun.

Peg put a hand over her chest and looked around with wide eyes. The space was filled with an assortment of different-sized tables, filing cabinets, cupboards, and shelves, everything filled and piled high with folders and papers and boxes. Ragged-edged forms spilled out over the floor while others were bundled half a foot high, secured with a dried-out rubber band. X-rays and files littered the floor tiles, scattered around as if someone had thrown them in the room and closed the door.

“How are we ever going to get through all this?” Peg said.

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “We just have to work fast.”

Peter set up the battery-powered construction light in one corner, illuminating the center of the room. He cleared some boxes from the top of a small table, put the table in the center of the floor, and started setting up his equipment. Peg went over to the farthest corner and picked up a thick file. She looked at it for a few seconds then set it back down and picked up another one a few feet away. After looking at a half dozen files, she said, “It looks like there might have been some attempt to keep them in alphabetical order.”

“Why don’t we each pick a patient name and look for their files?” Harry said.

“Good idea,” Peg said. She pulled a paper from her tote, assigned a name to everyone but Izzy and Peter, and then handed out clipboards. “Write down the name of the patient and any information you think we can use. Let Peter take as many pictures of important files as possible. We’ve only got one chance at this so work fast. Izzy, you can help me.”

Everyone scattered in different directions and got to work. Izzy followed Peg to the far side of the room.

“What do you want me to do?” she said.

“The last name of the patient I’m looking for starts with a C, like Clara’s,” she said. “So maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for over here.”

Peg pulled out a four-inch-thick file and together they looked at the first page. Affixed to the folder were two black-and-white photos; one of a middle-aged woman wearing a blouse with a lace collar. She had bobbed hair, a shy smile, and kind eyes. On the wall behind her head were five digits, black numbers on a white strip. The second picture showed the same woman with gray, wrinkled skin and deep circles under her eyes. She was frowning, her lips sinking into her toothless gums. It was the saddest face Izzy had ever seen.

“Esther Baldwin,” Peg said. She closed the chart and put it back. “We’re in the Bs.” She moved along the wall several feet, picked another file off the top of a medicine cabinet, and opened it. Izzy kept her eyes on Peg, avoiding the photo of another face ravaged by years spent inside an institution.

“Dmitry Cabell,” Peg said. “Now we’re in the Cs.” She returned the file and lowered her voice. “Go ahead and see if you can find Clara’s records.”

Izzy moved along the wall and took a chart off the shelves. It belonged to someone with the last name Cahill. She put it back and pulled out another chart two shelves down. The woman’s last name was Callahan. Izzy took out another file, then another, clenching her jaw at every broken glance and toothless face. It was unthinkable that so many people had been put away, some for the rest of their lives. She wondered how many were like Clara, normal one minute, locked up the next. What would have happened if the patients had been asked what had happened to them instead of what was wrong with them? Most of the files were inches thick, spanning years of institutionalization. Something cold and hard writhed in Izzy’s stomach.

She started to wonder why she was putting herself through this, trying to find out more about a woman who was dead and gone. Someone who had never gotten a chance to live the normal life she deserved. Izzy had enough problems of her own. Why was she digging around in someone else’s mess?

One of the museum workers took a file to the center of the room, where Peter was snapping pictures of charts and X-rays and papers filled with medical text. Izzy watched for a second, then slid a thick file from beneath a thinner one. She opened the cover and nearly dropped it. Clara looked back at her with frightened eyes, her mouth in a thin, hard line, as if she was trying not to cry. Written beneath her name in bold cursive were the words
Paranoid delusion with hallucinations.

Izzy swallowed, her eyes growing moist. She sat on a step stool next to the cabinets and pulled out her flashlight, hoping no one was paying attention. She put the thick file in her lap, turned to the first page, and started reading.

 

 

Izzy gasped. Clara thought she was pregnant? Why hadn’t she mentioned it in the journal? Could she have been so desperate to escape that she’d started imagining things? Was being torn away from Bruno just too much? Izzy skimmed over the next few pages, reading as fast as possible.