Chapter Eight
The Good Doctor
The guard tilted his head as I approached, a birdlike motion that seemed to fit his ominous mask. When I got closer, I heard his shrouded breathing and saw his eyes through the dark glass lenses. He held a gloved hand out for the card. Pulling it out of the sleeve, he gave it a quick glance, then narrowed his eyes at me.
My skin prickled as he closed the accordion gate, shutting us into the lift. As he pulled the release mechanism, a steam generator hissed to life above our heads. I heard the grind of gears clicking into place as we descended.
We passed the basement level to Sub-Basement One. Out of the corner of my eye, I stared at the strange gun sticking out of the guard’s holster. It wasn’t like any of Father’s weapons. This one, made of brass, had a chamber attached to its side, which held a glass vial filled with amber liquid. My father had told me it was a tranquilizer gun. The sight of it was as unnerving as the masks.
The guard’s beak-like profile made my skin crawl. I smoothed my features, trying to calm the rolling feeling in my stomach.
We exited into the lobby, if you could call it that. It looked more like an underground cave. It smelled damp, and the stone walls were marbled with strings of green algae. Three hallways branched out of the main space, a tangle of tubes and wires clinging to their low arched ceilings.
“Wait here.” I jumped at the guard’s request.
Although the air was cold, I began to sweat. My father had told me a little about the layout of the asylum, but nothing he’d said had prepared me for the disquieting and grisly reality. A clock on the wall ticked out loud seconds, instructing me to run. A reeling sensation overwhelmed me, squeezing at my throat. My eyes darted around the murky space. I reached for the comfort of my knife before I remembered it was no longer there.
The guard approached the desk where a nurse sat watching us. Instead of a proper nurse’s dress, she wore a sleek white coat that buttoned diagonally from shoulder to hip. A wide apparatus-laden belt cinched it tight around her waist. Cut low in front, the coat extended almost to the floor, covering all but the toes of her boots. The guard leaned over the desk, clearly eyeing her breasts.
The skin of the nurse’s face was pulled taut under her goggles. It was a wonder she could smile, but she did more than that—she actually laughed at his muffled comments and coyly adjusted her starched white cap. Do they know how disturbing they look?
As if they’d heard my thoughts, they simultaneously glared in my direction. She handed him the visitor log and a pencil.
“Sign your name.” He pointed. My hand shook as I wrote Miss Olivia Greene.
The guard escorted me along the central hallway, the sound of his boots echoing around the narrow space. We turned down one corridor, then another. Here and there the new electrical bulbs hung bare, connected by drooping wires. It made sense that government buildings would be among the early installations. I disliked the weak, pale light they emitted. I tried to mentally keep track of directions, but the dimness and lack of signage made it impossible.
Along the halls, nurses walked pale vacant-eyed patients and doctors strode with purpose, their noses buried in leather-bound notebooks. I noticed the nurses all wore the same dark goggles, but the doctors’ goggles seemed to be a source of personal pride. Some had mirrored or iridescent green lenses, while others had intricate arrays of smaller lenses, or instruments that could be flipped down in front.
The metal doors along the way were closed tight, except one, which I glanced into as we passed. It looked to be some sort of operating room. Large mechanical arms hung above a thick wooden slab with straps at the top and bottom. The guard rushed me by before I could see more.
Finally we stood in front of SB 1-12, my mother’s room. The guard unlocked the door, peeked inside, then stood stiffly against the hallway wall, a few feet away. I removed my hat and found myself wringing it like a rag as I entered and closed the door.
The acrid smell of her room reminded me of the dishwater thrown onto the street outside the sixpenny eatery kitchens, astringent and moldy. Everything was white, including the bedsheets, which rose and fell with her breath. Behind her, an instrument ticked a steady rhythm, like a slow beating heart. A bulbous glass inside a metal cage dripped fluid through a rubber tube and into the vein of her arm.
My stomach knotted at the thought of my mother’s life within these walls. No windows, no sunlight. She used to study the sky, said we could tell a lot from the clouds. If she wasn’t crazy when she came in, this place was enough to drive her there.
She was sleeping, tightly tucked under the sheets. I watched her for a moment, so peaceful, so beautiful, her auburn curls fanning out around her creamy pale face. I’d always wished I had her stark beauty. My features were similar, but I had my father’s coloring: plain brown hair, olive complexion. My mother reminded me of a porcelain doll, except for the dark circles now staining the skin below her closed lids.
I bowed my head as a dreadful thought came to me. What if she doesn’t know who I am? I’d changed so much these last three years, and she’s being medicated, just as Father had said.
I went to her bedside and sat next to her. Placing my hand on her shoulder, I gave a gentle shake. “Mother, wake up.”
Her eyelids fluttered but did not open.
“Please, wake up,” I repeated. “Mother, it’s me, Avery.” Nothing. I shook her again. “Mother, please . . . I must talk to you. Would you like some water?” I poured a cup, then slid my hand behind her head, gently lifting it off the pillow, and held the cup to her lips. The water dribbled down her chin as she swallowed. Tears welled in my eyes.
I laid her back down and glanced at my timepiece, every second pulling at the knot in my stomach. I’d forgotten to ask how long I could visit, but I had a feeling the guard outside the door would not wait long. On a shelf below the table, I found a hand towel. I dipped it in the water and pressed it to her forehead and cheeks. “Mother, wake up.” I dared not raise my voice lest the guard hear me.
Blinking, she glanced blearily around the room. “Avy,” she whispered. “Avy, is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me. I have to talk to you. Please, Mother—please try to focus.”
A tear slipped from her watery eyes. “I’ve . . . missed you, Avy.”
I reached my arms around her and lifted her to me. The sheet slid down and I saw her hands, wrapped in gauze. I recalled my dreams—had she been beating the walls?
Gingerly, she put her arms around me. The rubber tubing moved with her. I’d forgotten how much I craved her touch. Her head rested on my shoulder. My eyes stung, and before I could stop it, a deep choking sob gripped my lungs.
This place, this hospital, it’s killing her. I buried my face in her hair. All the confusion and fear of the past twenty-four hours churned inside me. All the years of feeling loss, and guilt, and even betrayal, swept over me, shaking my body with uncontrollable tremors. I wanted her to hold me and tell me everything was going to be all right, like she used to when I was small. But she was not capable of that, at least not now. I cried until I felt empty inside.
At last, I whispered into her ear, “Mother, I’m seeing things. It’s happening more and more. Please tell me . . . am I going mad?”
I felt her head shake ever so slightly. “Avy . . .” Her voice was faint and rasping; she took long breaths between her words. “You’re not . . . mad. You’re . . . an aura seer.” She swallowed hard. “A healer—like me.” The effort seemed tremendous as she fought the fog that gripped her. I felt her chest lift, heard her breath in the back of her throat. “Go . . . to the Gypsies,” she whispered. “Find . . . Niko.” Her head rolled to the side as if it was too heavy for her. “He has a—”
Whatever else she intended to say was cut off. Her arms fell limply to her side.
“Mother, wait! What’s a seer?” She remained silent. I laid her down. As I did, the sleeve of her nightgown pushed up. Around the metal needle taped near the i
nside of her elbow, her skin was mottled with bruises. I slid the other side up. The same injuries.
My poor, poor mother. I covered my mouth with my palm. What are they doing to her? I thought about a time when I was young and developed a terrible fever. The doctor had used a tool to open my vein and let the blood flow into a bowl. The treatment had left me similarly bruised. Are they performing bloodletting on her?
I wiped my own face with the damp towel, forcing myself to stop shaking. She said I was an aura seer, a healer. I wasn’t sure what she meant, but . . . I’m not mad. I’m not mad. A chilling thought seized me. If I’m not mad, then neither is she.
I tried to swallow, but my throat constricted. If she’s not insane, why are they keeping her here? My heart felt like it would burst.
I’d seen aura-reading booths at the Gypsy festival. Maybe that was why she wanted me to go there. I would go, and I would find this person, this Niko.
A loud knock on the door made me jump. Out of habit, I grabbed my hat and stuffed my braid under it.
The knob turned, and a stocky goggled nurse plodded in, leaving the door ajar. She smiled at me with oversize horse teeth.
“Well, hello, dear,” she said, an English accent coloring her words. “Is this your mum?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “Friend of the family.” I gripped my mother’s bandaged hand. “She’s . . . she’s sleeping,” I stammered.
“Must be hard on you to see Mrs. Kohl like this. But don’t you worry, the good doctor is taking care of her. In fact, the front desk told me he planned to stop by. To my surprise, they said he’d like to meet her visitor.” She lifted her chin and nodded. “Doesn’t make the rounds anymore, being as important as he is and all. You should be honored. He’ll be here any moment.”
My mother’s hand stiffened. Though she lay still, I saw a bead of sweat break out along her hairline. The muscles of her jaw clenched. She’s afraid, I realized. She’s afraid of the doctor.
The nurse busied herself with the charts hanging at the end of the bed. Before I could decide whether to flee, I heard footsteps in the hallway. The doctor stepped into the room, his crisp white lab coat and pressed suit at odds with the straggly hair hanging from his scalp. My body went frigid. He wore no goggles, and when he looked down at me, his eyes bored into mine. His left eye, in particular, looked dead, as if its spark had gone out, and the lid puckered around it like the skin of a rotten apple. He was tall, but it was his face, his white waxen face, that sent quivers down my arms. His skin was pulled tight over his lips, which seemed to be painted on, a thin red line. It was one thing seeing him at the window of a coach but quite another meeting him face-to-face in a small room. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
He spoke. His voice, high and scratchy, chilled me to the bone. It was as if his vocal cords had holes in them. He eyed me like a lab specimen. “Ah, I had a strange inkling . . . a young lady coming here all alone. I recognize you now—Cassandra Kohl’s daughter. I am Dr. Spector. My, you’ve grown up.” My tongue, a dry lump, was unable to utter a word, and his cold stare told me it would be useless to disagree. His grating voice continued. “Last I heard, you and your father left town. I’ve never seen your names on the log before. And now I know why, Miss Olivia Greene, and judging from previous logs, your father is Mr. Isaac Greene. Clever.” He ground his teeth. Under his breath, he muttered, “Incompetence.”
Dr. Spector smiled, if you could call it that, a slit across his face. “May I ask you a question, Miss Kohl?” Without waiting for a response, he said, “Do you understand why your mother is here at this esteemed asylum? Do you know what we are treating her for?”
I shook my head no, afraid to say the wrong thing and not trusting my voice. The doctor took a step closer. I noticed his eyebrows were drawn on and his eyelashes seemed to be missing. The air in the room felt heavy in my lungs.
“She is a rare case, your mother. We are studying her particular form of hallucinatory degeneration and have recently discovered it is, quite possibly, hereditary. The mind is a delicate instrument, wondrous at times, but her condition, left unchecked . . .” He stroked his pointed chin with a gloved hand as his gaze raked over my mother. “Well, let us just say it is critical to get the proper treatment. Tell me, Miss Kohl, have you ever seen something that was not really there?”
“No,” I blurted out. “No. Never.” I gave my mother’s hand a squeeze, trying to tell her without words that I loved her. Then I let go and took a step toward the door. I did not want to leave my mother but I had to. “Please excuse me, sir, but I’d best get home. My father is waiting.”
The doctor held up his hand, stopping me. “Miss Kohl, before you rush off, I would like to do a harmless test on you. I have developed a device to detect conditions such as your mother’s. If we catch these mental infirmities early, we can stem their advance on the brain. I’m sure your father would approve. For your own safety, I must make sure you are not harboring this illness.” He stepped into the hall and nodded to the guard. “My technician will escort you to the testing room. I will prepare, and meet you there.”
With that, he strode from the room. The nurse beamed at me, as if proud the good doctor was taking the time to test me personally, no matter that I’d lied to her about this not being my mother.
The guard entered and clutched me by the arm. “Nothing to be afraid of, miss,” he said through his crow-shaped mask.
This can’t be. “Mother? Mother, what’s happening?”
“She can’t hear you,” the guard said. “Come with me, please. As the doctor told you, it’s for your own safety.” He forced me toward the door.
“Go along, dear,” the nurse said. “Mustn’t keep the good doctor waiting.”
I tried to turn back toward my mother, but the guard held me tight. My mind froze. They are going to test me. They are going to lock me up.
Behind me, I heard the nurse cry out. The guard spun, taking me with him. My mother lay half off the bed, the nurse desperately trying to hold her up. A rivulet of blood dripped onto the floor from a hole in my mother’s arm.
“She ripped it out!” the nurse screamed. “Don’t just stand there. Help me get her back onto the bed!”
The guard dropped my arm in his rush to help. In that moment, my mother lifted her head and her eyes found mine. Breathlessly, she mouthed one word: “Run!”
For a split second I hesitated. How can I leave her like this? But the fear in her eyes forced me into action. I spun through the door and ran in the direction opposite to the one Dr. Spector had taken.
At each door I passed, I grabbed the knob and tried it. Locked. They were all locked. Terrified, I kept going. I had to keep going. The blood pounding through my veins drowned out the sound of commotion behind me. Nurses stepped back, pulling their wards aside to avoid a collision as I hurtled down the hallway. One called out for me to stop, another tried to grab my arm, but I swerved away, almost tripping over her as she tumbled to the floor.
The end of the hall loomed ahead. I was trapped. There was one more door, and I rammed into it. It opened into a mechanical room. I slammed the door shut, my first thought to hide amid the machinery. But as I raced to the far side of the room, I saw a door. I opened it slowly and peeked out. The hall was dark, deserted.
I swept through, once again trying doors as I went, this time cautiously, quietly. The third door opened to a stairwell. I sprinted up. My lungs ached, but I was afraid to slow down.
Counting the flights, I stopped at the ground floor. I held my breath and peeked out. Beyond was the iron door to the entrance vestibule. Looking in the other direction, I saw the guard standing by the lift. He did not see me. I could make it.
I gave myself a moment to get ready, then sprinted forward.
“Stop! Stop!” the guard called out.
I slammed into the iron door—it didn’t budge.
Chapter Nine
Still as Stone
Frantically, I stabbed at the button on t
he wall. The door slid open. Ahead of me I saw the exit to the street. I saw freedom, and I ran toward it.
A piercing alarm blared directly overhead. Across the vestibule, another door banged open. The black-masked guards flocked into the space like a murder of crows.
The guard who’d told me about his dog jumped up from his chair, startled by my sudden appearance. As I sprinted by his desk, I swiped my knife off the top. He was too slow to hinder me, but from across the vestibule I heard a high-pitched command, “Stop or we’ll shoot!”
The exit was too far. I skidded to a halt, raising my arms in the air. I’m caught.
I swiveled just enough to see guards fanning out. From the middle of the black swarm, Dr. Spector emerged. Guards flowed around him like an oil slick. My muscles stiffened. The barrels of five of the strange tranquilizer guns were pointed directly at me.
“I do not want to hurt you or your mother,” Spector said. “I can help you.” He glanced at the guards and nodded. They lowered their weapons.
He’s lying. My mother told me to run. It was now or never, while the guns were down. I ducked my head and raced toward the exit.
“Sedate her!” Spector’s command echoed around the small space.
A pop, and something whizzed through the air. A dart hit the wall, the vial exploding in a spray of liquid and glass. Another shattered to my left. I felt my boots slipping on the mess. Before I knew what was happening, I fell, shards of glass ripping into my hands and knees.
The crows advanced. I stumbled up and smashed my shoulder into the entrance door, forcing it open.
Tripping down the steps outside, I ran from the Tombs, hoping to get lost in the bustling traffic. I had one foot on the sidewalk as the other hit the street. A sudden shout from a carriage driver stopped me in my tracks. A team of horses thundered by, but not before a huge horse clomped down onto my foot. Searing pain crumpled me to the ground. The iron-edged wheels of the wagon cut across the cobblestones, spewing mud into my face. A few inches closer and the wheels would have severed my legs.
The Tombs Page 6