What She Left Behind (30 page)

She looked up at Lawrence. “What is all this?” she said.

“It is wrong,” Lawrence said.

Clara shook her head, confused. “What’s wrong?”

Lawrence grimaced, struggling to keep his emotions in check. “The people,” he said. “It is wrong to mark their graves with only a number.”

Clara held the light closer to the stone walls, peering at the tiny crosses. Three initials and a number had been carved into every one, the writing so small she could barely read it. Her eyes misted over. How did someone as kind and thoughtful as Lawrence get locked away in Willard for the rest of his life? It wasn’t fair. She put a hand over her heart and gazed up at him.

“You are a good man, Lawrence,” she said.

Lawrence smiled, his eyes glassy, and gave her a quick nod, blood rising in his wrinkled cheeks. “I should close the door now,” he said.

“Yes,” Clara said. “Thank you, Lawrence.”

Trying to ignore the returning grip of claustrophobia, Clara sat on the cold dirt floor, her legs folded beneath the skirt of her dress. Lawrence closed the trapdoor and again she was engulfed in darkness. The flame inside the tin can cast trembling shadows over the crosses, giving the illusion that the sticks had suddenly sprouted wings, shuddering as they tried to break free.

Above her, the rug slid over the trapdoor and the wooden bed frame creaked. Within minutes, Lawrence was snoring. Clara bit down on her lip and squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to cry.
It will be getting dark soon,
she thought.
Then Bruno will come and get me. I just have to hold on a little bit longer.
Then she had another thought, one that made her blood run cold. How was Bruno going to get to the shack after dark?

Normally, the patients were back in the wards by nightfall. Granted, Bruno held an unusual position, but wouldn’t someone wonder where he was? And who was responsible for bringing him back on time? Or was he, like Lawrence, given more freedoms than most? Her heart started racing, hot fingers of panic lighting up her chest. Then the front door to the shack opened. She blew out the flame in the can and held her breath.

“Lawrence!” a man yelled. Clara stiffened.

It wasn’t Bruno.

“Lawrence!” the man shouted again.

Heavy footsteps crossed the stone floor and plodded across the dirt bedroom. The bed started creaking, as if someone was shaking the frame.

“Wake up!” a second man shouted. “Get the hell out of bed!”

Lawrence snorted and the bed creaked again, as if he were rolling over or sitting up.

“What are you doing?” the first voice said. “Don’t you have work to do?”

“I am sick,” Lawrence said. “Bruno buried Miss Annie Blumberg.”

“You don’t look sick,” the second man said. “You look lazy.”

“I am sick. Bruno buried Miss Annie Blumberg.”

Clara cringed, worried the men would suspect something if Lawrence kept repeating himself.

“How long have you been sleeping?” the second man said.

“I don’t know,” Lawrence said.

“Come on,” the first man said. “We’re wasting our time here. We’re not going to get anywhere with this retard.”

“Have you seen anyone roaming around, Lawrence?” the second man said. “Did a female patient come here? Has anyone knocked on your door or looked in your windows?”

“I am sick,” Lawrence said. “I have been sleeping while Bruno buried Miss Annie Blumberg.”

“Let’s go,” the second man said.

“Wait,” the first man said. “What’s that?”

“What the hell?” the second man said.

“There’s smoke coming from beneath that rug!”

Clara’s stomach dropped. She clamped a hand over the can, biting down on her lip as the hot tin burned her palm. It was too late. Above her, the rug swished across the trapdoor. She crawled into a corner, her heart pounding so fast she could barely breathe. Someone fumbled with the iron ring and started lifting the trapdoor. A slice of light pierced the dark cellar. Then the door fell shut. Something heavy slammed into it. It sounded like a body.

A man shouted and the bedroom filled with the sounds of fighting—heavy breathing, fists meeting muscle and bone, grunting, wood splintering and cracking, furniture crashing to the floor. Then, muffled voices, and what sounded like something heavy being pulled off the trapdoor. Someone grabbed the iron ring and the door flew open. Clara gasped.

It was Bruno.

She wilted in relief, one hand over her roaring heart.

“Are you okay?” he said.

She nodded, scrambled to her feet, and bolted up the stairs on shaky legs. Lawrence was sitting on the bed, a trembling hand held to his bleeding lip. Two orderlies lay on the floor, one on his stomach, the other on his back, their eyes closed.

“Are they dead?” Clara said, her breath rasping in her chest.

“No,” Bruno said. “Come on! We have to get out of here!”

She went over to Lawrence. “Are you all right?” she said.

He nodded and stood, then retrieved his jacket and held it out for Clara. “It will be very cold on the lake,” he said.

At first, she hesitated, but then she slid her arms into it, turned, and gave Lawrence a hug. “Thank you for helping us,” she said.

Lawrence grinned, still holding his lip. “I hope you will find your baby soon,” he said, his eyes brimming.

“Come on,” Bruno said again, his voice tight. “We’ve got to go!”

The three of them hurried out of the shack and fled into the dark forest, Lawrence leading the way. The rising moon gave the night a bluish glow, providing just enough light so they could see where they were going. Clara held Bruno’s hand as she ran, dodging beneath branches, hurrying around trees and bushes. In the distance, lanterns bobbed around the dark monolith of Chapin Hall and oil lamps flickered along the patient wards, casting long, human-shaped shadows over the brick walls and barred windows. Flashlight beams swung across the lawn, while shadowy figures crept near the boathouse and dock. It had started to snow; thick, slow flakes drifting down from the sky. For some strange reason, the scene made Clara think of caroling with her family, and she nearly laughed out loud with the madness of it. Distracted, she tripped over a stick in her path.

“Careful,” Bruno whispered, catching her.

She stopped to catch her breath. “How are we going to get down to the water without being seen?” she said.

“The rowboat is hidden onshore,” Bruno said. “On the other side of a road at the end of these woods. No one will see us, but we’ve got to hurry.”

She nodded and they started running again.

When they reached the end of the woods, they stopped to check the road. The road was empty. Lawrence scurried to the other side, climbed a rocky embankment, and disappeared. Then his head popped up, and he motioned for Bruno and Clara to follow. They looked both ways, darted across the road, then scrambled up the embankment and down to the rocky shoreline below.

Lawrence and Bruno pulled the rowboat out from under a cluster of honeysuckle bushes and dragged it across the shore, the wooden keel scraping across the rocks. Once the boat was in the clear, the men pushed the bow into the water, backs bent over the stern. Clara looked out at the lake, the silver moonlight reflecting off the softly rolling waves, the snow falling silently through the cold night air. The ice had broken up days ago, and now small pieces floated here and there, jostling against each other in the water, thin layers cracking and clinking, like distant glass chimes. She took a lungful of air and held it, certain she could taste the cool, clean breath of freedom.

“Come on!” Bruno said, looking over his shoulder at her. “Get in!”

Waves lapped against the hull, rocking the boat up and down like a cradle. Lawrence held on to the stern while Bruno helped Clara step off a rock and climb in. She took a seat near the bow and waited, her breath shallow and fast. The men walked into the water up to their thighs, their shoulders hunching at the cold. Bruno lifted himself over the back of the boat and started to climb in. Just then, Clara saw lights at the top of the embankment. Dr. Roach and two orderlies appeared, their lanterns held high. One of the orderlies blew a whistle and they both scrambled down to the shoreline. Bruno let himself back in the water and tried to help Lawrence get in the boat, while still hanging on to the stern. Lawrence shook his head, resisting.

“You’ve got to come with us,” Bruno said. “They’ll lock you up!”

“No,” Lawrence said, vigorously shaking his head. “I don’t go in boats.”

“Please,” Clara said. “Get in! We have to go!”

“No,” Lawrence said, turning and trying to lift Bruno into the boat. “I am staying here.”

“Stop right there!” Dr. Roach shouted. He stumbled down the rocky embankment, slipping and nearly falling before he reached the bottom.

The orderlies charged across the rocks and rushed into the water, slogging through the waves as fast as possible, their arms swinging in the air. One grabbed Lawrence by the head and pushed him down, holding him underwater. Bruno let go of the boat and punched the orderly in the face, trying to get him to release Lawrence. The second orderly wrapped his arms around Bruno’s shoulders, pulling him away from the first. The boat started drifting away. Clara stood, scrambled over the middle seat, and put the oars in the water. She pulled the oar handles toward her, moving the boat farther from shore. Trying not to panic, she dipped the oars in the water again and pushed. This time, the rowboat moved toward the men.

A third orderly appeared and scrambled down the embankment into the water. He hit Bruno over the head with a truncheon, his face contorting with the effort. The second orderly let go and Bruno disappeared beneath the surface. The orderly reached down, his shoulders nearly submerged, and pulled Bruno up. Bruno’s eyes were closed, his face red with blood, his hair plastered to his forehead like wet seaweed. The orderly dragged him to the shoreline and left him on the rocks, Bruno’s lower half still in the water, then hurried back into the lake. One of the orderlies grabbed the boat and tried lifting himself over the transom. Clara stood, pulled an oar from its rowlock and hit the orderly over the head. He fell back in the water, his head lolling. Then he recovered and reached blindly for the boat again, rivers of blood running into his eyes. She lifted the oar a second time, ready to bring it down with all her strength.

A gunshot rang through the air. She froze and looked up, the oar wavering above her head. Dr. Roach stood at the edge of the shoreline with a smoking pistol in his hand, his arm stretched toward the sky.

“I said stop right there!” he shouted.

Clara dropped the oar, the wood clattering on the rowboat seats. Three more orderlies appeared at the top of the embankment, straitjackets and chains in their hands. The orderly holding Lawrence underwater pulled him up. Lawrence’s eyes were closed, his mouth hanging open. The orderly dragged him back to the shoreline and dropped him beside Bruno. Clara jumped out of the boat and slogged through the icy water toward shore, her legs like stone, the cold air like knives in her lungs. She fell to her knees on the rocks between Lawrence and Bruno, fear filling her throat like oil. She shook their shoulders, trying to get them to wake up. It was no use.

Lawrence lay on his back with his head to one side, his skin colorless, his lips purple. He wasn’t breathing. Clara pushed Bruno onto his back, moved his wet hair away from his eyes, and held his bloody face in her trembling hands, shouting his name over and over. His skin was ice cold, his white hands limp. She put her ear to his chest, holding her breath to hear his heartbeat. The only heartbeat she heard was her own. She screamed and slumped over his body, her limbs vibrating out of control, her shoulders convulsing. One after the other, before she could catch her next mouthful of air, violent sobs burst from her throat, wrenching the air from her lungs. A pair of galoshes appeared in front of her. With what little strength she had left, Clara looked up.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Dr. Roach said, gazing down at her.

CHAPTER 21

I
ZZY

Shivering despite her winter coat, Izzy sat on Peg and Harry’s deck, her hood pulled up, her fists in her pockets. The sky spit snow and a bitter wind made her eyes water. But she didn’t care. She needed to be outside. Earlier, she and Peg had gone to the Geneva funeral home to sort out the details of her mother’s interment, the dim chandeliers, heavy damask curtains, and hint of formaldehyde reminding her of her father’s wake. Sitting in front of the funeral director’s desk, she felt seven years old again, lost in a sea of black jackets and dresses, searching for her grandmother, begging to go home. It had taken all her strength to pick out her mother’s casket, decide on a grave liner, and explain why there wouldn’t be a service. What she really wanted to do was jump out of the Queen Anne chair, throw open a window, and ask why the place had to look and feel so damn depressing.

Now, she couldn’t get enough fresh air. She imagined her mother, lying on a metal slab inside a cold vault in the funeral home, her muscles stiff, her eyes sewn shut. All of a sudden, Izzy couldn’t breathe. She stood and trudged across the lawn, trying to fill her lungs, the frozen grass crunching beneath her feet.
So this is what it feels like to be an orphan,
she thought, her throat and eyes burning.
From now on, there will never be at least one person in the world thinking of me every day, loving me unconditionally. I am finally, truly alone.

For years, she’d told herself that after being on her own for so long, her mother’s death wouldn’t affect her as badly as if she’d seen her every day. But she was wrong. When Peg told her the news, Izzy fell to the floor, violent sobs stealing the air from her lungs. With tears in her eyes, Peg knelt on the rug and held Izzy, letting her cry, a gentle hand stroking her head. Nearly an hour went by before Izzy trusted her legs enough to stand.

Now, between her mother’s passing, worrying about turning eighteen, and the incident at Willard, the urge to cut herself grew by the hour. So far, she hadn’t given in, but she couldn’t stop imagining breaking the compact in her purse and using the shattered mirror to slice through the thin skin on her arms. Over and over, she reminded herself that the relief would only last a minute, and physical pain wouldn’t bring her mother back. She had to learn to be an adult, to find her way in the world without giving in to self-pity and misery. Her mother had sacrificed her life for her. The least Izzy could do was make the best of it.

Luckily, after the incident at Willard, Shannon and her friends had left Izzy alone. When they passed in the hallways at school, Shannon dropped her eyes. Izzy wondered if Shannon was afraid she was going to press charges. Shannon and Ethan weren’t together anymore, but Izzy ignored Ethan’s attempts to talk. He’d sent a note through Alex, apologizing for everything and begging to come over. Izzy threw the letter in the trash. When Ethan called the house, she instructed Peg and Harry to say she was in the shower or out with friends. She needed time to sort out her life and figure out what to do next. With everything else, the last thing she wanted was more heartache. Besides, who would want to date a girl with no family and an uncertain future?

“Izzy?” Peg called from the kitchen door. “Why don’t you come inside? Dinner will be ready soon.”

Izzy sighed, wiped her eyes, and turned toward the house, her stomach churning. She didn’t think she could eat anything, but Peg and Harry had been incredibly kind through everything. The least she could do was be polite. In the kitchen, Harry stood at the island counter, chopping lettuce.

“I’m making tacos,” he said, smiling at her. “They’re your favorite, right?”

Izzy nodded, fresh tears forming in her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone knew what her favorite food was, let alone taking the time to make it. But Peg and Harry had gone above and beyond making Izzy’s favorite dinner. They had paid for Izzy’s mother’s casket and burial, saving her from an eternity spent in a prison cemetery. She would be buried next to her parents in Geneva. Izzy had never known anyone to be so generous. She was still trying to think of an adequate way to say thank you. But every time the words formed in her mind, her throat closed and she couldn’t speak.

Izzy hung up her jacket and stood at the island counter, still shivering. Peg got the milk out of the refrigerator, poured some in a saucepan, and placed it on the stove.

“I’m going to make you some hot chocolate,” she said to Izzy. “And you’re going to drink it. You haven’t had anything since this morning.”

“Thanks,” Izzy said, managing a thin smile.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Harry put down his knife and hurried to answer it, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. A minute later, he came back, Alex and Ethan at his side. Despite Izzy’s decision to keep her distance from Ethan, her heart leapt at the sight of him. He was wearing work boots, a black jacket and black jeans, his cheeks ruddy from the cold. Izzy chewed on her bottom lip, fighting the urge to run into his arms. Alex hurried toward Izzy, her eyes wet.

“Are you all right?” she said.

Izzy nodded and let Alex hug her, blinking back tears. When Izzy drew away, Ethan wrapped his arms around her. He smelled like winter and spiced cologne, his cool cheek pressing against her temple. It was all she could do not to bury her face in his neck.

“I’m so sorry about your mother,” he said.

“Thanks,” Izzy said. She gave him a quick hug and pulled away, unable to look him in the eye. But he held on, his strong arms drawing her closer.

“I’m here for you,” he whispered in her ear. “Whether you like it or not.”

Izzy squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to cry. It was no use. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks.

“Why don’t you guys stay for dinner?” Peg said. “Harry is making tacos. He always cooks enough for an army, so there’s plenty.”

Ethan leaned back and wiped Izzy’s cheek with his thumb. “I love tacos,” he said, grinning.

“Me too,” Alex said, rubbing Izzy’s shoulder.

Izzy smiled, her heart swelling. Maybe she wasn’t alone after all.