What She Left Behind (31 page)

CHAPTER 22

C
LARA

 

Due to a continuous downpour over the last seven days, muddy water flowed in the drainage ditches along the tunnel walls below Chapin Hall, making the stone floors wet with condensation. Clara stood in line behind Esther at the bottom of the basement stairs, wondering if anyone would notice if she slipped out of line and hurried down the tunnel toward the morgue, toward the double doors that led outside, toward the green lawn. If she broke the window and squeezed through the pane, then ran as fast as she could toward the lake, she could make it into the water before anyone caught her. She could put an end to this.

She could put an end to sleeping on a hard bed in a cold, filthy ward, listening to women mumble and weep. She could put an end to eternal mornings when it took all her strength to pull herself out of bed and face another day of watching women staring out windows, banging their heads against walls, wailing that they just want to go home. She could put an end to a life spent sewing and playing checkers and eating tasteless food. She could put an end to watching people being mistreated and drugged. She could put an end to the black ache in her chest, every beat of her broken heart like a knife between her ribs.

She looked down at her hands, at the tiny cracks in her fingertips, worn into the skin from years of pulling thread, and the indent on the top of her middle finger left by hundreds of thimbles. Her nails were chewed to the quick, her skin dry and calloused; the hands of an old woman. She thought of her mother’s hands; soft and manicured, her nails polished and red, her skin smelling of lavender. She tried to picture her mother now, with gray hair and a wrinkled face, sipping tea from imported china while sitting on a velvet settee. She wondered if her father was still alive, if the two of them were happily living out their years, safe and warm in their mansion. Did they ever think of her? Did they ever wonder if she was all right, if she was still alive? Did they ever think about coming to Willard and begging her forgiveness, or telling the doctors to allow her to go free? Or were they so heartless that they never gave her a second thought? Did they ever doubt their decision to dispose of their daughter like a piece of rubbish?

Now, in the tunnel, the cold iron smell of wet cement reminded Clara of the night she and Bruno tried to escape. After all these years, she could still picture Bruno looking down at her above the coffin, his eyes sad as he slid the cover closed to nail it shut. If she’d known back then what she knew now, she might have asked Bruno and Lawrence to go ahead and bury her instead of Miss Annie Blumberg.

Her eyes began to burn and, as she’d done countless times over the years, she pushed the painful memories from her mind and tried to think of something else. She lifted her chin, remembering it was movie night in Hadley Hall and the annual Fourth of July picnic was coming soon. They were small distractions, but it was something different to look forward to. Something to keep her from going insane. Every day, she reminded herself it was never too late for a miracle to happen; someday she could be let free. If she gave in to self-pity, she would surely go mad. And she couldn’t let that happen. She had to keep her wits about her if she was going to survive, if she was going to find Beatrice someday.

The line moved forward and finally, she could see down the tunnel in front of her.

“What do they call this new treatment again?” she asked Esther.

“Electroshock therapy,” Esther said. “But I overheard the orderlies calling it ‘The Blitz.’”

“What does it mean?” Clara said.

Esther shrugged. Clara leaned sideways, trying to see around the line of women. Just then, two orderlies carried an unconscious woman on a stretcher out of the treatment room, a sheet draped across her body. The sheet slipped off and fell to the cement floor, revealing that the woman was naked. The orderlies took her into a room across the hall. A nurse picked up the sheet and followed them, her mouth pinched. The orderlies returned to the treatment room. A minute later, they brought another woman out, holding her upright as she stumbled toward one of the chairs along the tunnel wall. The woman behind Clara started whimpering. Clara wanted her to stop. The line moved forward again.

Dr. Roach came into the tunnel and strolled along the line, writing the patients’ names on a clipboard. Just before Dr. Roach reached Esther, the orderlies rushed out of the treatment room carrying another woman strapped to a stretcher. She writhed and screamed in pain, her hands clawing the air. Behind the orderlies, Nurse Trench raced toward Dr. Roach, her red face contorted.

“Dr. Roach!” she shouted. “I think her back is broken!”

Dr. Roach put the clipboard under his arm and hurried toward the patient. The orderlies stopped so he could examine her. He ran a rubber-gloved hand along the woman’s spine, pulled the clipboard from beneath his arm, and gestured toward the service elevator.

“Take her up to the infirmary,” he said.

The orderlies carried the stretcher toward the service elevator, struggling to keep it level while the woman thrashed and twisted. Nurse Trench stared at Dr. Roach, her lips pursed. “I told you it was too high,” she said.

Dr. Roach grabbed her arm and led her toward the treatment room, grumbling something in her ear. Clara clenched her jaw, her breath coming faster and faster. What were they doing in that room? She looked behind her, down the tunnel, wondering if she should make a run for it. Maybe she could reach the double doors leading outside before anyone noticed she was gone. Then she reminded herself what happened the last time she tried to escape. She started to shiver, remembering the ten months spent in isolation. She couldn’t do that again. She couldn’t. It had nearly killed her.

The line moved forward. Clara looked at the woman sitting in the chair. She was leaning back, her head against the tunnel wall, her eyes closed as if she were sleeping. Two more women were led out to sit beside her. Maybe the treatment wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was just bad for certain people, people with other problems. Then, before she knew it, an orderly led her and Esther by the arm into the treatment room.

Inside, Nurse May and seven other nurses stood waiting. Four beds lined the middle of the room, each mattress covered with a fresh sheet. Beside the beds, four wooden boxes sat on metal carts, each box filled with some kind of machine, dials and gages and wires coming out in all directions. The machines looked like giant batteries, plugged into wall outlets with thick, black wires. Two more wires connected each machine to handheld paddles. The orderlies led Esther and Clara to the beds, where the nurses instructed them to lie down.

Clara did as she was told, her arms and legs trembling, a slick sheen of sweat breaking out on her forehead and upper lip. Nurse Trench put her fingers on Clara’s chin and pushed down, forcing Clara’s lips open. She put a round piece of wood in Clara’s mouth. The thick, wet wood smelled like tooth decay and vomit. Nurse May appeared at the head of the bed and held the mouthpiece in place, telling Clara to bite down. Clara breathed through her nose, trying not to gag, her heart racing in her chest. Nurse Trench strapped Clara’s wrists and ankles to the bed. Dr. Roach held up the paddles connected to the machine.

“You’re about to receive electroshock therapy,” he said. “I’m going to put these paddles on the sides of your head and then you’ll feel a little shock. There’s nothing to be afraid of. My colleagues assure me they’ve had positive results with patients suffering from schizophrenia and delusions. This is going to help you, Clara.”

Two nurses held Clara’s shoulders down. All at once, Clara was overcome with the absolute certainty that she had to get out of the bed. She couldn’t let them do this to her, couldn’t let them shock her brain with electricity. She thrashed and twisted, trying to break free, struggling to push the wood out of her mouth with her tongue. Nurse May pushed down on the wood, making Clara gag. Just then, there was a commotion in the hall. Something rumbled, like distant thunder, and there was another sound, like splashing water.

Women bolted into the room, screaming and knocking each other over in their haste, trampling those who had fallen. Some tried shutting the door, piling against the entrance, while others tried pushing their way inside. Someone yelled, “Flood!” and the door flew open, slamming against the wall and tossing the women to the floor. A knee-high wall of brown water blasted into the room, knocking patients and nurses and orderlies off their feet. Clara gaped at Dr. Roach and Nurse May, silently begging to be untied. Nurse May stared at the door, frozen, still holding the mouthpiece in place. Clara thrashed her head back and forth. Nurse May finally let go. Clara spit the wooden plug out of her mouth and sat up.

“Untie me!” she screamed.

Nurse May disappeared, swept off her feet by the incoming flood. Dr. Roach watched her fall, his face contorted in fear. But instead of helping her, he went in the other direction, slogging through the water toward the back of the room, pushing aside nurses and orderlies. He climbed on top of a cabinet, took off his shoe and reached up, toward a high cellar window. The water filled the room, getting higher and higher. Nurse May’s head reappeared at the end of Clara’s bed, her wet hair clinging to her face, her nurses’ cap crumpled and wet, hanging on by a single black bobby pin. She lifted herself up and clamped one arm over the mattress, reaching out to Dr. Roach with the other.

“Victor,” she said, coughing. “Help me! My foot is caught!”

Dr. Roach glanced at her briefly, then turned and broke the window with his shoe. Without looking back, he hoisted himself up and crawled out. Clara held her breath and Nurse May went under, her pale hands clawing at the mattress, trying to hold on. But the water was rushing into the room too fast, creating a powerful current. It came over the edges of the stretcher and climbed up Clara’s legs, icy fingers turning her skin numb. She pulled on the wrist straps with all her strength, the veins in her forehead bulging. It was no use. The leather was too thick. The water climbed to her waist.

Nurse Trench surfaced to Clara’s right, rising out of the depths like a breaching whale. She gasped for air, spitting and pushing her wet hair from her eyes, and tried to keep her footing. She looked around the room, then leaned forward and slogged toward Clara, swinging her arms back and forth, grunting with the effort. Finally, she reached the bed, the water up to her chest, and undid the straps around Clara’s ankles and wrists, feeling her way underwater. Clara held her breath, the water at her chin, her mouth, her upper lip, waiting for the last strap to be unbuckled. Then Nurse Trench disappeared, forced sideways by the strong current. The lights flickered and went out, and Clara was lifted, the last strap coming loose just in time. Her head touched the ceiling. Then the water was up to her neck, her nose, her eyes, filling her nostrils and ears.

She held her breath and swam underwater toward the broken window, feeling her way through bodies and sheets and pillows, her pulse booming in her ears. Suddenly, she was disoriented, unable to tell if she was moving in the right direction. She opened her eyes and saw a faint glimmer of daylight, wavering beneath the water like a mirage of the sun. Then something dark moved in front of the mirage, blocking it out like a sudden eclipse. She tried to get around the obstacle, but someone grabbed her arm, pulling her in the other direction. Struggling to break free, she accidently inhaled, swallowing a mouthful of water. Someone grabbed her shoulders, as if trying to climb on top of her to reach the surface. Then she was floating, her pain gone.

CHAPTER 23

I
ZZY

Two days after her mother’s burial, Izzy stood beside Peg on the front porch of a pea green Victorian, her heart thundering in her chest. After a long hesitation, she took a deep breath, pushed the doorbell, and stepped back. On the other side of the door, footsteps hurried along a hard floor. A lace curtain drew sideways in the transom window, then sprang back into place. Someone fumbled with the doorknob. The door opened and a young woman with glasses and short brown hair smiled at them. Izzy wondered if they had the right house.

“May I help you?” the woman said.

“Is this the home of Miss Rita Trench?” Peg said, smiling.

“Yes,” the woman said. “And you are?”

“This is my foster daughter, Isabelle,” Peg said. “I’m Peg Barrows, curator at the state museum. I called earlier, asking if Miss Trench would be willing to answer a few questions about her time at Willard State?”

“Oh yes,” the woman said. She smiled and extended a hand. “I’m Renee, Rita’s nurse. Please come in.” Renee let them in, closed the door, and offered to take their coats. A swarm of multicolored cats wound around her ankles, meowing and stretching, their claws kneading a braided doormat. Curled-up cats dotted the stairs and slept on the foyer settee. “I hope you’re not allergic!” Renee said.

Peg and Izzy smiled and shook their heads, then followed Renee down a narrow hallway toward the back of the house. On either side of the hall, open doors led into a dining room and living room, both filled with antique furniture. Every shelf and flat surface was filled with ceramic vases, glass figurines, curio clocks, porcelain teacups, and more books than Izzy had ever seen in one house. Every wall was covered by oil paintings, black-and-white portraits, and gilded mirrors. Everything was covered, everything held something. Even the lamps were draped with ribbons and scarves.

“Does Miss Trench live alone?” Peg said.

Renee stopped and turned to face them. “Yes,” she said, her voice hushed. “She’s always lived alone. She doesn’t have any family. It’s very sad. But don’t let her age fool you. At ninety-five she’s sharp as a tack!”

“Does she remember her time at Willard?” Izzy said.

“Oh yes,” Renee said. She continued down the hall. “A lot of people come here asking about their relatives who spent time at Willard. She nearly always remembers who they’re talking about.”

Peg smiled at Izzy. Izzy’s heart beat faster. They entered a wide room at the rear of the house, with a kitchen on one side and living area on the other. Sunlight came in through three patio doors, reflecting off the white walls, filling the room with a bright, airy light. A gray-haired woman lay in a chaise lounge, a white blanket and white cat on her lap. Her slippered feet hung over the end of the chaise, and her shoulders took up the width of the backrest. Her heavily jowled face looked like it belonged to an old football player or heavyweight wrestler. Izzy had never seen such a large old woman. Apparently, shrinking with age didn’t applied to Miss Trench.

Miss Trench smiled and sat up, offering them a seat. “Welcome,” she said. “Would you like some coffee or tea?”

Peg and Izzy sat on a cream-colored couch opposite the chaise lounge. “No, thank you,” Peg said. “We’re fine.”

“Oh, come now,” Miss Trench said. “I don’t get many visitors. Humor an old woman and have a cup of tea. Renee, do we have any more of that chocolate cake?”

“I’m afraid not,” Renee said, grinning. “You ate the last piece for breakfast this morning.”

“Oh dammit!” Miss Trench said. She laughed and swung her feet over the side of the lounge, setting the cat beside her. “Well, we can still have tea, can’t we? Now, what can I do for you young ladies?”

“We’re hoping you remember a patient from Willard,” Peg said.

“I might,” Miss Trench said. “What’s the name?”

Peg nudged Izzy with her elbow. Izzy swallowed and sat forward.

“Clara Elizabeth Cartwright,” Izzy said.

Miss Trench leaned back, her brow knitted. “You related to her?” she said, directing her milky gaze at Izzy.

Izzy shook her head. “No,” she said, feeling blood rise in her cheeks. What if Miss Trench wouldn’t help? What then? “But we have Clara’s steamer trunk, the one she had with her when she checked into Willard.”

“It’s part of a museum project,” Peg said. “We’re trying to re-create the lives of several Willard patients. The state only allowed limited access to the patients’ records because they’re sealed, even to family members. Clara is one of the patients we’d like to investigate further. But there are a few things missing from her file. For instance, we couldn’t find her death certificate.”

Miss Trench snorted and closed her eyes, nodding. “I’m sure there are a lot of things missing from her file,” she said. She pulled the cat onto her lap again, stroking its fur with a large, gnarled hand. Her head dipped and her hand moved slower and slower until stopping on the cat’s neck. For a second, Izzy feared the old woman had fallen asleep. But then Miss Trench looked up, her eyes glassy.

“I remember Clara,” she said. “Pretty young thing.”

Izzy took a deep breath and held it. Renee appeared with the tea, setting a silver tray on the coffee table. She poured the tea, handed everyone a porcelain cup, then sat in a wingback chair beside Miss Trench. “Help yourself to lemon and sugar,” she said.

Peg dropped two sugar cubes into her tea, then did the same for Izzy. Izzy’s hand shook as she took the dainty cup and saucer. She took a sip to be polite, then set the tea on the serving tray and put her fists in her lap.

“Clara’s file says she gave birth to a daughter while she was at Willard,” Izzy said. “Do you know anything about that?”

Miss Trench nodded, her mouth set. “Yes,” she said in a small voice. “I remember Clara being very distraught after they took her daughter away.”

Izzy stiffened, something cold and hard pressing against her chest. Poor Clara. Not only did she lose her freedom and the love of her life, but she lost her daughter too. How could anyone survive such heartache?

“So Clara’s daughter was put up for adoption?” Peg said.

A thousand thoughts ran through Izzy’s mind. If Clara’s daughter was adopted, had she been brought up in a happy home, or was she sent from foster family to foster family? Had she grown up believing she was an orphan, or that her mother didn’t care? Did she even know who her mother was? And if she knew, was her life forever marred by the knowledge that her mother was in a mental institution? Did she ever think about going to visit her? Or did she block all thoughts of her mother from her mind, choosing instead to ignore her existence completely? Had she gone through her life with the same fears as Izzy, that she would find herself in the same boat as her mother, the genes of insanity running amok in her brain, with nothing she could do to prevent them from taking over?

Miss Trench shook her head. “Most babies born at Willard were sent to family members if they were willing to take them,” she said. “Or they were put up for adoption. But not Clara’s daughter.”

Izzy swallowed, a burning lump growing in her throat.

“Why not?” Peg said, frowning. “What happened to her?”

Miss Trench sighed, rolling a tuft of cat hair between her boney fingers. “Why are you asking me about Clara’s baby?” she said. “I thought you wanted to know about Clara?”

With trembling hands, Izzy pulled Clara’s journal from her purse. “Because we found Clara’s journal in her suitcase,” she said, holding it out so Miss Trench could see it. “It’s about her life before she came to Willard. I want to find Clara’s daughter so I can give it to her. If she’s still alive, I want her to know the truth about what happened to her mother.”

Miss Trench looked at Renee, her face somehow paler than it’d been seconds ago. “I’m going to need something stronger than tea for this one, sweetie,” she said. “Fetch me the brandy, would you?”

“It’s too early,” Renee said. “You haven’t even had lunch yet.”

“I don’t give a damn what time it is!” Miss Trench said, slapping a blue-veined hand on her leg. “I need a little sip, that’s all. Now do what I’m paying you for!”

Renee shook her head. “All right,” she said. She stood and went toward the kitchen. “But when your doctor finds out about this, he won’t be happy!”

“He won’t be finding out nothing if you don’t tell him!” Miss Trench shouted, her voice raspy. When Renee disappeared into the other room, Miss Trench smiled thinly at Peg and Izzy.

“Clara’s baby wasn’t put up for adoption because she was special,” Miss Trench said.

“What do you mean by special?” Peg said.

“She was born to a healthy mother,” Miss Trench said. “The doctor in charge knew the baby would grow into a healthy child. The odds were extremely high that she would not show any symptoms of mental illness.”

“So you’re saying Clara wasn’t sick,” Peg said, her eyes dark. “That she didn’t belong in a mental institution.”

“That’s right,” Miss Trench said.

“And the doctor in charge knew she didn’t belong there,” Peg said.

Miss Trench nodded.

“Then why keep her there?” Izzy said. “Why didn’t the doctor release her?”

“Things were different back then,” Miss Trench said. “There were a lot of folks who didn’t deserve to be locked up in an institution, especially women. But we didn’t know any better.”

“But you just said the doctor in charge knew Clara wasn’t sick,” Peg said.

“At first, he thought she was,” Miss Trench said. “We all did. But there were other things, other people, involved. By the time Dr. Roach realized Clara was just a troubled young woman with a difficult home life, it was too late. Her fate had been sealed.”

“Why?” Izzy said, surprised by her anger.

“Dr. Roach’s wife couldn’t have children,” Miss Trench said. “They tried, but the poor dear kept losing babies.”

Izzy put a hand over her stomach. She felt like she was going to be sick.

“Are you saying the doctor took Clara’s baby?” Peg said. Just then, Renee returned with the bottle of brandy. She poured a little into Miss Trench’s tea, then set the bottle on the coffee table. Miss Trench took a long, noisy sip.

“That’s right,” Miss Trench said. “Dr. Roach took her home and raised her as his own.”

“Do you know where the doctor is now?” Peg said.

“Yes,” Miss Trench said. “He’s buried in the Ithaca cemetery next to his wife.” She gazed at the coffee table, her eyes unseeing. “I never understood why she stayed married to him.”

“And Clara’s daughter?” Izzy said. “Where is she?”

“Last I heard, she lived in Ithaca,” Miss Trench said. “She was a teacher. Kindergarten, I believe.”

Izzy’s stomach tightened. “Was?” she said.

“I would imagine she’s retired now,” Miss Trench said. “She’s in her sixties, after all.”

Izzy sighed in relief. “Do you know her name?” she said.

Miss Trench nodded. “Susan,” she said. “Dr. Roach’s wife brought her to Willard to visit him once. Think Susan must have been around four years old at the time. Dr. Roach wasn’t too happy about that. Told his wife to never do it again. I just about keeled over when I realized who Susan was.”

“Did you say anything?” Izzy said. “Did you tell Dr. Roach you knew the truth?”

Miss Trench shook her head, frowning. “It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“Did they tell Susan she was adopted?” Peg said. She put a hand on Izzy’s knee, searching her face with kind eyes. “I know you want to do the right thing and give Susan the journal,” she said to her. “But if she doesn’t know she’s adopted, it might be best to keep it that way.”

“Oh, she knows,” Miss Trench said. “Dr. Roach’s wife was a lovely woman. When she introduced me to Susan, she said she never wanted her to find out she was adopted by mistake, the way she did. She wanted Susan to grow up understanding that God had decided she could pick her daughter, and she chose her.”

“How often did you see Susan after they took her?” Peg said.

“Just that one time,” Miss Trench said. “She was a beautiful little girl, just like her mother, but with dark hair and brown eyes.” The old nurse wiped her cheeks.

“Like her father, Bruno,” Izzy said.

“That’s right,” Miss Trench said.

Izzy straightened. “Wait a minute,” she said. “How do you know about Bruno?”

Miss Trench pressed her lips together, then took another long swig of tea and brandy. When she leaned forward to set the cup and saucer on the table, her hands shook and she nearly dropped it. Renee took the tea and set it on the serving tray.

“Maybe we should take a break,” Renee said. “This seems to be upsetting her.”

Miss Trench waved a blue-veined hand in the air, shaking her head. “No, no,” she said. “I’ve kept quiet for far too long. I need to get this off my chest before I die!” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Bruno came to Willard to rescue Clara.”

Izzy gasped, her face growing hot. “Did he get her out?” she said.

“No,” Miss Trench said, her eyes welling up again. “Dr. Roach locked Bruno up too.”

A chill slithered up Izzy’s spine, tracing her neck with an icy finger. She swallowed the burning lump in her throat, unable to believe what she was hearing.

“Are you sure?” Peg said, her eyes wide.

“ ’Course I am,” Miss Trench said. “I was there the day he was admitted.”

“Was that before or after Susan was born?” Peg asked.

“After,” Miss Trench said.

“So Dr. Roach had already taken the baby,” Izzy said, something hard and cold writhing in her stomach.

Miss Trench nodded, her lips pressed together. “I didn’t know where the baby was at the time. I thought she’d been sent to the Children’s Aid Society to be put up for adoption.”

“Did Clara and Bruno see each other after he was admitted?” Izzy said.

Miss Trench nodded. “It was nearly a year later. I’ll never forget the two of them dancing on Valentine’s Day. I could tell they belonged together. They didn’t think anyone knew they’d found each other, but I knew.”