What She Left Behind (28 page)

“We’ll find out, won’t we?”

Clara nodded. Then she remembered it was February and her stomach dropped. The lake was frozen. They’d have to wait until spring. But now that the chance to escape had been planted in her mind, she didn’t think she could wait that long. She couldn’t stand another day of being locked up inside Willard, let alone two more months. Given the chance, she’d try to escape this very minute. If she and Bruno had to wait until spring, if they had to hold out until the lake thawed, she might go crazy with apprehension. And besides, what if something happened between now and then? What if one of them got sick, or thrown into isolation? What then?

“When?” she said, holding her breath.

“Soon,” he said.

“But the lake is frozen!”

“The ice is thin right now,” Bruno said. “The last two weeks have been unusually warm. We should be able to break right through it.”

Clara’s stomach started doing flip-flops. She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and stood up a little straighter. This was their chance. Finally. Their chance to be free, to be together, to find Beatrice. But first, she had to figure out a way to get down to the tunnels beneath the infirmary. It seemed nearly impossible, given the fact that her daily schedule never brought her anywhere near Chapin Hall. Then she had an idea.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “We have to do it tomorrow.”

Bruno furrowed his brow. “Why?” he said.

“Just trust me, all right?”

“What are you going to do?” he said.

“I’m going to get myself taken over to the infirmary,” she said. “Then I’ll find a way down to the tunnels before nightfall. Can you get in the tunnels on a Sunday?”

“Yes,” he said. “Lawrence buries patients on Sundays too. We’ve got one to bury tomorrow as a matter of fact.”

“All right,” she said. “Tomorrow it is.”

Just then, “Am I Blue?” ended and Nurse May changed the record. Gertrude Lawrence began singing “Someone to Watch Over Me” and Clara’s throat constricted, remembering the first time she and Bruno danced at the Cotton Club. Now, they were dancing to the same song while locked up inside an insane asylum. The thought nearly brought Clara to her knees.

 

On Sunday afternoon, after making baskets with Esther and Madeline in the recreation room, Clara asked one of the nurses if she could return to the ward earlier than usual. Complaining her stomach hurt, she said she needed to lie down. The nurse instructed an orderly to take Clara back to the ward, her face indifferent. Clara glanced over her shoulder at Esther and Madeline, her heart squeezing in her chest. They were sitting together on a bench, working with their heads down. Clara had made the decision not to share her plan of escape, hoping what they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them. Besides, it was too big a risk. Who knows what they might reveal if threatened with isolation, an induced coma, or being locked up in the Rookie Pest House. Instead of saying good-bye, she sent a silent prayer, hoping Esther and Madeline would get out of Willard someday too.

Half an hour later, right before the nurses were scheduled to return the other patients to the ward, Clara took the saturated sanitary pad from between her legs and smeared menstrual blood across the grimy bed sheets, and the inside of her thighs. She hadn’t changed the pad all day and, since it was the second day of her period, when her flow was always heaviest, the blood was plentiful and dark. With her heart in her throat, she curled up on the bed, waiting. When she heard the keys in the door, she started moaning and crying, her hands wrapped around her middle. The patients filed in and gathered around her bed, staring, whispering, rocking back and forth. One of the women started petting Clara’s forehead, gently brushing hair from Clara’s eyes. A nurse ordered the patients out of the way.

“What’s the matter with you?” she said.

Clara grimaced and drew up her legs. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice straining.

“Turn over and let me see,” the nurse said.

Clara groaned and rolled onto her back, her knees bent, her eyes squeezed shut. The nurse pulled Clara’s hand away and palpated her abdomen. Clara howled and rolled over again, holding her breath so her face would turn red.

“Get a wheelchair,” the nurse said to one of the other nurses. “And take her to the infirmary.”

Twenty minutes later, Clara lay on an examining table in Dr. Slade’s office while he felt her stomach, his forehead creased. A nurse had helped Clara get cleaned up, giving her a fresh sanitary pad and a clean nightgown. Now, the nurse looked on with little interest.

“I don’t feel anything abnormal,” Dr. Slade said. “Can you be more specific about where it hurts? Show me where your pain is coming from.”

Clara put her fingers near her hipbone. “Right here,” she said.

“And has this been more painful than your normal monthly discomfort?”

“Yes,” Clara said. “But I think it’s starting to feel better now.”

“Send for Dr. King,” he said to the nurse. “The patient needs a gynecological exam.”

Clara shook her head and sat up. “I’m all right,” she said. “I think I just need to walk a little bit.” She slid down from the examining table and stood bent over, her hand on her lower abdomen.

“What are you doing?” Dr. Slade said. “I didn’t tell you to get up.”

“I need to move around,” she said. “It’s getting better.”

Dr. Slade glared at her over the top of his spectacles. “Are you telling me you made a fuss over a bad case of gas?”

Clara shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “You’re the doctor, not me.” She put both hands over her abdomen and winced. “There it goes again.”

“Lie back down and we’ll see what happens.” He looked at the nurse, frowning. “I’m not going to order more exams or X-rays if she’s just having a bad case of gas or a painful cycle.”

“Please,” Clara said. “I just need to walk. If that doesn’t help, I’ll do whatever you say.”

Dr. Slade considered her, then shook his head, motioning toward the door with a disgusted look. “Take her to the end of the hall and back,” he said to the nurse.

Clara followed the nurse out of the examination room, her heart racing in her chest. She checked both ways to see if there was a stairway leading down to the basement, knowing in the back of her mind it wouldn’t be that easy, yet hoping, for once, things would go her way. On both ends of the corridor, the hallway connected to other hallways, leading left or right. Her stomach dropped. She shuffled along the wall behind the nurse, one hand on her abdomen, the other gripping the wall railing. She wondered if she’d find a stairway right away, or if, somehow, she’d have to get herself committed to the infirmary. If she couldn’t find a way down to the tunnels now, she’d have to find a way to sneak out of her room later. It would be nearly impossible.

When they reached the end of the hallway, the nurse did a U-turn, starting back toward Dr. Slade’s examination room. Clara stopped, gripped the railing tighter, and looked down the hall to her left. The wide passageway was lined with patients strapped to chairs, leather belts tightened around their waists, some crying and moaning, others staring off into space. The hallway to her right was practically clear, apart from an empty wheelchair and a metal cart full of glass medicine bottles. The patient room doors on both sides of the hallway were closed. At the end of the corridor, a service elevator stood open next to a set of double doors below a green sign that read Basement. Beads of sweat broke out on Clara’s forehead. She turned right, toward the stairs.

“Where are you going?” the nurse said. “Turn around!”

Clare kept moving, fighting the urge to run. “I just need to walk a little bit longer,” she said. “I think it’s helping.”

“You should do as I say,” the nurse shouted. “Dr. Slade is waiting!”

Clara ignored her and kept going. The nurse sighed, her shoes squeaking as she hurried after her. Clara glanced over her shoulder. “Just to the end of this hall,” she said. “Then I’ll go back.”

The nurse marched past, her lips pursed, her arms pumping. Clara slowed, letting the nurse get ahead, trying not to hyperventilate. This had to work. It just had to. When they turned around in front of the set of double doors, Clara collapsed on the floor, her limbs jerking in stiff, violent movements. She rolled her eyes back and stuck out her tongue, twisting and thrashing on the cold tiles. The nurse spun around and gasped, eyes wide. She knelt and put her hands on Clara’s shoulders. Clara kept thrashing, pretending to gag. The nurse stood and ran for help. As soon as the nurse was gone, Clara scrambled to her feet, ran through the double doors, and scurried down the stairway toward the cellar beneath Chapin Hall.

She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, trying to determine which way to run. Long cement tunnels led off in all directions, left, right, and straight ahead. The air was filled with the cavelike odor of mold and wet stone. Dripping pipes of various sizes traveled the length of the ceilings, and caged lights emitted a weak, jittery glow, their yellowed bulbs encrusted with dirt and dried cobwebs. Every ten feet, a bulky archway lined each passageway, like cloisters below a medieval fortress. On the archway to the left, a sign read Morgue.

Behind Clara, shouting voices traveled down the stairway and the elevator motor roared to life, grinding gears echoing in the rusty shaft. Clara hurried left toward the morgue, thankful that the cellar was one enormous maze. Whoever came looking for her would have no idea which way she went. And she prayed that, because it was Sunday, no one else would be down there.

Her footsteps echoed in the empty tunnel, her hard-soled shoes banging on the stone floor. She stopped and took them off, then froze, certain she heard talking up ahead. A male voice drifted down the passageway, followed by what sounded like moaning and crying. She edged forward, keeping close to the wall, ready to turn and run. But the more she listened, the more it sounded like the voice was repeating the same phrase over and over. Metal struck metal, and chains dragged across stone. Up ahead, on the opposite wall, was a door made of thick iron mesh, the handle chained and padlocked. She crossed the tunnel and moved closer, her shoes clutched to her chest.

The closer she got to the door, the stronger the rank smell of urine and feces grew. She clamped a hand over her mouth and peeked through the edge of the iron mesh door, her heart booming in her chest. The stone room was lined with iron cages filled with patients, some naked, some in filthy hospital gowns, most chained to the wall, sitting on cots or lying on the floor. Clara stifled a gasp, her eyes burning. Why were these patients being kept in the cellar in cages? It was bad enough being locked up in Willard, but this? This was barbaric. How did the doctors get away with it? She vowed then and there that after she got out of Willard and went to the authorities to tell them about Beatrice, she’d inform the police about the mistreatment here. Wiping her cheeks and saying a silent prayer, she hurried down the tunnel, determined to find someone who would put a stop to this.

Finally, she saw a sign that said Morgue above two swinging metal doors. Farther down the hallway, a set of wooden doors marked the end of the tunnel, weak sunlight coming in through the grimy windows in the upper half of each panel. For a split second, she thought about running to the end of the tunnel and trying the door handles. Maybe she could get outside. Then she remembered the orderlies and nurses were already looking for her. Even if the doors were unlocked, she’d have no idea which direction to go. And what if they were already searching for her outside? It was best to stick to Bruno’s plan.

She pushed on the storage room door across from the morgue, the hinges screeching like a wailing cat. She stopped the door to silence it, then moved through the narrow opening, slipping sideways into the dark room. The smell of tree sap and sawdust filled the air, and long, rectangular shapes lined the walls. She put on her shoes and moved forward inch by inch, feeling her way in the dark. When she banged a shin on something hard, she reached down, her fingers brushing raw wood and what felt like the thick, sanded edge of a coffin. She pushed the lid to the side, stepped into the coffin, then lay down and pulled the cover closed, her heartbeat thumping like a train in her ears. Once inside, she pushed the cover up with her fingers, then let it down and felt along the edges, making sure there were no openings.

Satisfied that no one would see her if they came in and turned on the light, she closed her eyes, her breath coming hard and fast, her head pulsing against the bottom of the wooden coffin. After only a few seconds, it was nearly impossible to resist pushing off the lid and standing up, running out of the room and down the tunnel toward sunlight. It was all she could do not to bend her knees and elbows, to move and stretch and sit up. Every so often, distant shouts and banging doors echoed through the cellar halls. Who would find her first, Bruno or one of the orderlies?

The sound of close movement in the tunnel made her freeze. A heavy door opened and closed, then muffled scrapes and a
thump
outside the storage room. Keys turned in a lock. Then the door to the storage room screeched open. Clara held her breath. What would be the punishment for trying to escape? Isolation? Insulin coma? The Rookie Pest House? The door thumped closed. A switch clicked. Slivers of light filtered in through the edges of the coffin lid. Heavy footsteps plodded across the room. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Are we waiting here ’til she shows up?” a male voice said.

“That’s the plan, remember?” another man said. The hair stood up on Clara’s arms. It sounded like Bruno. But she had to be sure. She waited, trying not to breathe, certain she would pass out before he spoke again. And then, after what seemed like an eternity, the same voice said, “Did you lock the morgue?”

“Uh-huh,” the first voice said. “I locked the morgue, I did.” It sounded like an older male. His voice was deep and raspy, his words careful and slow.