by Kris Calvert
Ray had managed to save one rose bush and I’d replanted it in the center of the garden myself. I wanted to give it a chance—it deserved a chance.
I’d just finished my second book, a paranormal thriller. It was entitled The End, but the sales were showing me that it was really just the beginning of my career.
The ultrasound technician threw open the door and knocked at the same time.
“Hi, I’m Christine and we’re going to take a look at your baby today. This is going to be a little cold, even though the warmer has been on,” she said as she pulled a bottle from a tray in front of the screen and squeezed out blue goop until it made flatulent sounds.
Taking the transducer from the pocket, she began to smooth the goop over my belly, pressing inward looking for a heartbeat.
I smiled at the sound and Ray squeezed my hand in excitement.
“Did you want to know the sex of the baby today?” she asked.
Ray and I looked at each other and nodded. “Yes,” I said. “We’re renovating an older home and I’d kinda like to make the nursery something he or she will be happy with for a few years.”
“I completely understand.”
With a few rolls over my growing abdomen, she stopped to take photographs before adding more goop to my stomach and continuing to sweep the machine back and forth across my belly. “So….” She hesitated. “Have you picked out any names?”
“Just one,” said Ray. “If it’s a girl, that is.”
“Well you’re in luck,” the technician replied with a smile. “It’s a girl.”
I looked into the blue eyes of the man I loved and whispered one word. “Beauty.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Rosewood Center (once known as the Maryland Asylum and Training School for the Feeble Minded) was established in 1888 in Owings Mills, Maryland on the outskirts of Baltimore. Closing in 2009 amid controversy and complaints, the hospital now lies in ruins and is considered one of the most haunted places in Maryland.
Many insane asylums have their stories to tell and this one is no different. The incident that sets Rosewood apart from the other institutions known for their overcrowding, understaffing, patient abuse and neglect is the story of the Rosewood girls.
In 1937, Dr. Leo Kanner, a child psychiatrist from Johns Hopkins University mostly known for his discoveries in Autism, announced to the American Psychiatric Association in Pittsburgh that from roughly 1917 to 1937, some of Baltimore’s wealthiest families took girls from Rosewood and adopted them only to turn them into their own indentured servants. The mostly mentally challenged girls were slaves.
Although no one leader of the scandal has ever emerged, it is widely surmised because of the number of cases he represented, that an attorney named Harry Benjamin Wolf was most likely culprit. A prominent attorney and U.S. Congressman, Wolf used the judicial writ of habeas corpus, Wolf would ask a judge weigh in on the legality of a girl’s continued detention at Rosewood. If the judge deemed her sane, she was released into society—or rather into a family who served as custodians.
Of the 166 known to have left Rosewood under writs of habeas corpus from 1911 to 1933, 102 were tracked down when the scandal broke in 1937. Many were diseased, had turned to prostitution or crime, the others were missing or dead.
Because many of the girls had been dumped at the institution, the perpetrators never had a care as to whether the families of the girls would object or look for them.
For even more information on Jesse Bering and the author’s that inspired Beauty, go to Slate.com: http://goo.gl/8WhurY or www.jessebering.com.
Make yourself familiar with the angels, and behold them frequently in spirit; for, without being seen, they are present with you.
–St. Francis of Sales
PROLOGUE
A chill ran through my body as I stood at the foot of the bulky hospital bed. The feeling of otherness filled my open mind. I looked away from my fourteen-year-old patient, focusing on the loud floral wallpaper of her room. It had no doubt been hung to brighten the space now filled with bags of fluid, vials of morphine and pain patches. Nonetheless, it was where the girl would ultimately meet her fate. Meet her end. Meet her Maker.
Osteosarcoma had wrecked Erin’s tiny body—the body I was now charged with merely making comfortable. In eighteen months the stage-four bone cancer had turned the beautiful young girl from a champion volleyball player who’d never had a real kiss to a bag of bones draped in paper skin.
Erin was dying before she’d had a chance to live. It was tragic for those left behind, but a new beginning for her. Soon she would be crossing over.
I always felt the same at this point in my job. The hollow pit that filled my stomach was replaced by the tingling I felt in my body.
A second wave of chills ran the length of my spine as I gripped the railing of the hospital bed. I knew what was happening and I could tell by the look on the young girl’s face she knew as well. We weren’t alone.
Erin strained her neck as she tried to sit up, whispering one word through her dry cracked lips. “Gram.”
“I’m right here, Erin.” Her mother’s voice caught as she squeezed the frail skeleton of her daughter’s hand.
Erin again breathed the word into the air. “Gram.”
Her mother looked to me as if I had answers. I didn’t. After three years as a hospice nurse I had no idea what was on the other side. I only knew no one made the trip alone.
“Gram is what she called her grandmother.” Erin’s mother said the words and stroked her daughter’s face.
Erin reached into the air with both arms as if she was expecting someone to embrace and carry her away from the world. In and out of consciousness, it was the most movement we’d seen from her in a week. To her distraught mother it seemed as if another moment of delirium was taking place—the episodes had become more frequent and were lasting longer over the past few days. Erin knew better. I knew better.
I pulled my attention from the girl as the inviting warmth of the light behind me enveloped my body. Another chill overcame me and I physically shuddered as I breathed in the light that surrounded us.
Erin looked to me, expecting me to acknowledge what she was seeing. I did not, but instead gave her a reassuring smile to let her know that everything happening was just as it should be.
Constructed of pure love and light, Erin’s Gram smiled and held onto the young girl’s fragile, outstretched hands. I’m here, baby girl. Gram’s here. Let go.
“Erin, it’s okay to let go,” her mother repeated as she took her daughter’s upstretched hand. I watched as three generations of strong women held each other up in the beautiful moment of selflessness. Erin would soon be gone but I knew death was just a new door opening in the life of her reoccurring soul.
No matter how many times I stood witness to the phenomenal occurrence I was always amazed. Friends, relatives and others who’d crossed over would come back to assist with the transition of the living to the other side. It was something a hospice nurse who’d been on the job for any length of time had experienced. The difference was I saw what the dying saw—I saw Spirit. I was fine with the older folks finding their way home, but it was the young people—the babies, the children I had a difficult time watching. Everyone with a divine soul deserved a chance at an earthly life—at least in my eyes. Even those who’d made poor decisions—like my brother Jacob.
“I love you, Erin. It’s okay to let go.” The mother repeated Gram’s words as she choked on her own tears. I watched as the older woman who’d come move forward, placing a hand on the shoulder of her own daughter. Immediately the young girl’s mother released the tension she held onto so tightly with a sigh.
Erin took one last breath, and as she slowly exhaled left the imperfect world behind her. Her physical presence diminished as her soul vacated the sick earthly body she left behind. With a nod in my direction and a smile for her grieving mother, Erin was gone. She was free—free from the pain that held her captive.<
br />
I slowly walked around the bed to the mother and placed a single hand upon her shoulder just as I’d seen Spirit do.
The mother looked up to me as tears fell from her swollen eyes and onto her white shirt and simply nodded. “It’s over,” she whispered with a sob.
But I knew Erin’s existence was far from over. It was just beginning.
ONE
It’s dark. I can barely make out my hand in front of my face. The tile floor is cold and my toes involuntarily curl with each step I take on the bone-chilling surface. I look down at the white floor-length nightgown I’m wearing. I catch a glimpse of myself in a long mirror as I follow a dark corridor that leads nowhere. I hear it. Is it a kitten crying? Is it a child? I pick up the pace as I feel my heart pound. I’m completely aware of my shallow intake of breath. Filled with a feeling of dread, I run the length of the hallway that doesn’t end. A dim light forms in the distance and as I pick up the pace I watch the light grow brighter until I’m blinded. The high-frequency wail makes my ears ring in pain and my head pound in unison with my heart. The light surrounds me and as suddenly as it began, darkness and quiet takes its place. I turn in a circle trying to get my bearings. The quiet is deep and muffled—as if sound never existed. A whisper comes out of the empty world that surrounds me. “Indriel…Indriel…”
Piercing the darkness, a light from an open crack of a door seems to call to me. I push it and step into the light.
“Indriel.”
I try to call his name but my lips seem paralyzed as if glued together. I turn to my reflection. Staring back at me in a cracked mirror, my face is distorted as if I’m someone else. I touch my fingers to my mouth to feel my lips, only to find a row of black stitches lacing them tightly together.
“Indriel.”
Hearing my name, I spin around.
Glowing candles surround him as he lies in the claw-foot tub filled to the brim with water. His arms are resting on the edge of the white porcelain, his head unnaturally twisted to the side, his lips—blue. I try to scream. Clawing at the tight lace that holds my mouth together I watched the blood pour from my lips onto my fingers. I rushed to his side, removing the hypodermic needle from his arm.
Slipping the rubber tourniquet from his bicep, I slid to the floor sloshing the cold water over the white nightgown. Wrapping my hands around his face, I stared into his lifeless eyes. I wanted to scream. I needed to scream. Let me scream.
Gasping for air, I sat up in my bed and pushed the wet hair that was plastered to my forehead away as I tried to swallow. The dryness that clung to my throat made it impossible. I threw back the covers, turned on the lamp and rushed to the bathroom searching for my water glass at the edge of the sink. I turned the handle of the old brass faucet trying to catch my breath, but the drought in my mouth made it seem as if I wasn’t able to breathe at all. My hand trembled as I filled the glass, gulping the water as if it would help to calm my breathing.
The mirrored medicine cabinet stood ajar and my hand shook as I opened it and fumbled with a giant bottle of generic ibuprofen. Dropping three gels into my palm, I shoved them in my mouth hoping they would quickly go to work on the pounding in my head. They would do nothing for my quivering body.
Filling the glass again with one last drink of water, I shut the cabinet with my trembling hand and turned in horror as the water glass slipped and shattered on the cold tile floor.
Backing up and grabbing the edge of the sink behind me, I closed my eyes thinking if I opened them I would realize I was still asleep—still dreaming. I cautiously looked to the ceiling, panning my way back to the old claw foot bathtub—filled to the very edge with water.
I stood paralyzed. My heart was beating so hard I could see my chest heave and the old t-shirt I’d worn to bed moved with each pump. I jumped over the broken glass and shoved my hand into the tub. In one motion I yanked the chain freeing the black stopper. The ice-cold water soaked my shirt and I turned as calmly as I could, flipping off the light and shutting the door.
Grabbing a fresh shirt from my dresser drawer, I pulled the wet one over my head and tossed it into the corner of my bedroom. The clean shirt felt warm on my shaking body and as I climbed back into my bed, I yanked a rubber band from my wrist. I sat and began to pull my long hair back into a ponytail, pushing the dark sweaty locks away from my face repeatedly until I couldn’t slick my hair back any tighter.
With two twists of the hair band I was done. I worked my way back into the comfort of my old quilt-covered bed, pausing only to punch my pillow before I dropped my head into the goose down.
I took a deep and cleansing breath, feeling my body jump with adrenaline. “It’s just anxiety brought on by your fear of what Jonathan is going to say to you tomorrow. And you are just going to tell him that you are not burnt out and you would like to take on more patients—especially if it means overtime. You are not quitting, Indie. You are not a quitter.” I said the words to myself and stared at the ceiling fan as it slowly made its rotations.
I took a deep breath and realized the lamp was still burning brightly. I looked at the switch and then to the alarm clock by my bed. It was three a.m.—the light was just going to stay on for the rest of the night. At this point I didn’t care if it jacked up my bill for the month. One night wouldn’t hurt. Sleep would be harder to come by in the dark.
I stared at the ceiling as a million and one scenarios ran through my head. I tried to close my eyes, but each time I saw myself in the white nightgown. I touched my lips, now chapped from gasping through my nightmare, to make sure they weren’t sewn together. I opened my eyes, thinking if I had something else to concentrate on my crazy thoughts wouldn’t crowd my aching head. I counted the rotations of the cheap white ceiling fan until exhaustion won the fight.
I sat in the waiting room of the administration offices of The Path, the ultra-expensive and exclusive hospice program to the rich, famous and those with amazing insurance plans or connections. After my dream last night and the clean up I’d left behind for daylight, I was ready to think of anything besides why I dream of my dead twin brother or my lips. I licked them again, advancing the chapped skin to a new level. I wanted to get my yearly review over with and move on. I had plenty to do today and none of it involved talking about my feelings of burnout as a hospice nurse. God forbid they asked me to leave the program. What if I was here to ask for more patients, more hours and more money when what they really wanted was to can me?
“In-dree-al …er… Loose?” The obviously lost temp scanned the room from behind her glass reception box looking for anyone who might understand her phonetic drivel.
I stood, brushing my long dark mane from my shoulders and immediately adjusted the short black pencil skirt that hugged my narrow hips. Some girls got boobs, some were blessed with an hourglass figure. I got neither. Tall, flat chested and straight as an arrow, I had the body of an awkward thirteen-year-old girl who’d grown but hadn’t filled out. I did look good in clothes. I might be poor as a church mouse, but I had some fabulous items left over from my former life—when I had a better head on my shoulders and a trust fund. The money was gone, but exercise was free and between the stress of my life and a diet of mostly fruits and vegetables I’d maintained my figure—or lack thereof.
“It’s pronounced LOU-chay. It’s Italian and I’m her. Indriel Luce. But please call me Indie.”
As I stood, I knew I commanded the attention of all the men and most of the women in the room. I always attributed it to my distinct look—dark hair, pale skin and violet eyes. In fact, my eyes had freaked a few people out in my twenty-seven years of life. They only made me seem more mysterious than who I really was—a hospice nurse from the tiny town of Barlow, Georgia with recessive genes, a sign my Aunt Sally dubbed as being marked. I was nothing special other than the fact that my violet colored eyes made for good conversation and the only thing I ever seemed marked for was an IRS audit.
I accepted a job with The Path right out of school and after t
hree years I knew what was about to happen in this stupid evaluation. I paused at the glass reception area and raised an eyebrow at the temp. I knew where I was going, but I wondered if she did. “Through the door. It’s the second office on the right. Mr. Raye will join you shortly.”
“Thank you, darlin’.” It was my standard response and something I’d learned from my grandmother. She never failed to add a darlin’ to the end of every sentence that came out of her mouth. The same was true for my own mother and my Aunt Sally. Now that my mother and Grandma Indie were gone, Aunt Sally did her best to be my family but her battle with Parkinson’s had kept her from being the kind of second mother she wanted to be.
I sat in one of the leather chairs that faced Jonathan’s desk and scanned the basic taupe-colored room, wondering if decorators ever got a chance to use colors they’d like in an office. Earth tones were supposed to be calming. The fact they used the same color palette in mental hospitals as they did corporate settings was a little off-putting and one of the many reasons I never wanted to work in an office.
I fiddled with the hem of my skirt as I sat with my back to the door, scanning the photos on my boss’s bookshelf. I’d already decided if Jonathan wanted to move me to a new division I wasn’t going without a fight. We were great friends and I wasn’t above pulling that card to get what I wanted.
“Good morning.”
I could smell Jonathan Raye before he ever came into view and his cologne would stay with me for a few hours, gently reminding me of his presence. Jonathan was handsome, man–mid forties, dark and always sported a contagious smile. Also a nurse, Jonathan was gay, flamboyant and wielded the kind of humor that was brash and completely wicked. A former hospice worker at The Path, he’d only recently taken on his new role as a supervisor. It was a natural progression for him. His patients and coworkers adored him equally. He was the perfect choice when our former supervisor retired. Jonathan understood what most who worked in our type of healthcare with a high mortality rate knew—losing your sense of humor would be the end of you, mentally and physically.