The Bright Unknown

by Elizabeth Byler Younts

  Grace was already suffering, and the worst was yet to come. Angel was being worked worse than an employee, because he was just a patient, after all.

  An idea had come to me on how to get out. Maybe it was crazy to try, but I believed now that it was crazier not to.

  If we couldn’t find a way out, this life would be my second death. It was time to at least try.

  1941

  Lightning

  I woke to learning that Grace was in solitary again. So I would have to wait until she was released. I tried to act normal during our sparse meals and hid a slice of bread and a few boiled potatoes—we’d need to take any food we could pull together. I didn’t know how or where we’d get food once we were out. Angel wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and I had no way of getting a message to him. He slept in the tool shed now, and I believed if Grace and I could get out there, we could quickly find the tools to free us.

  When Grace was released the following morning, I said nothing to her about my plans, but I did tell her she had to behave. I was her shadow until bedtime so she wouldn’t lose her temper and get thrown back into solitary. With so little supervision now, I was able to hang around the stairwell door. The new aide with his strange shaven upper lip and dark beard framing his jaw was too new to notice me catch the door behind him when he rushed away from the floor. He didn’t see me stuff a piece of newspaper into the doorjamb space so that the latch could not catch. Things were changing in the ward and supervision was low. If we could get through this locked door, we had a chance.

  I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep in the hours before we’d make our escape. Not just because of the plan with the door, requiring me to be alert—but because these might be the last hours I’d ever have with Mother.

  I sat cross-legged a foot from her bed through the night and watched her. I didn’t have to memorize her face. I’d already done that every day for as long as I could remember. The spray of lines at the edges of her blue eyes. Her thin, dried lips. The patchy, dusky, gray-blond hair that curtained her ashen skin. This was my mother.

  But I knew that someday when someone asked me, “What was your mother like?” I would tell them that my mother had golden-blond hair, and I would describe how it would flow behind her when we ran through our huge flower garden, chasing butterflies. I’d say that she loved hide-and-seek and liked to eat cake more than anything else, even though she wasn’t much for kitchen work. Mother’s laugh was the sound of silver dewdrops, and she cried in the beautiful way that made other women envious. That was really who Mother was. I knew that was what she would’ve been like if she’d had the chance.

  I believed she loved me. Because I believed this, I knew our escape was what she would want for me. I knew I needed to do this. I needed to leave Mother behind.

  It seemed odd to me that in a few hours—the quietest time of the night—I would walk away from this place in the hope that I’d never see it again. I was so ready to leave. Leave the old Brighton, the unknown girl, dead at birth—for the bright unknown.

  Mother’s camisole lay over her bed rail. After a few days of wearing it, I was glad an aide I’d never seen before had come around frantically removing camisoles and relieving women in the hydrotherapy.

  Now her breathing was even, and her arms and legs had lost their stiffness. She seemed peaceful.

  Long gone was the safe and secure existence of the hall I’d been raised in. Joann had made my room and hall into some type of counterfeit world—a wonderland in comparison to the way the other patients lived. Isolated just enough but with lawns, friends, and a doting nurse-mother.

  Everything was different now. It wasn’t surprising to go more than a day without food. Patients were left in wet packs with drying sheets tightening around them or in hydrotherapy baths or restraints for days. I couldn’t do this for the rest of my life, and I wouldn’t subject Grace to it either. But what did it mean that I would leave these people for the outside world instead of staying and trying to help? Who would hear their cries? Wasn’t I bound to remain and help since I knew there would be no rescue?

  And how would I survive in the real world? I could sew. I could peel potatoes. I could garden. I could read. Were those ways I could take care of myself? I didn’t even know my father’s name. Grace knew about the world and had said we could become our own family and maybe make it out to San Francisco and find Jonah. I was sure Angel would want to find his mother, and I felt the same way about my father. These were three different directions—all our needs could separate us more than we already were.

  I got out of bed, and before I did anything I checked the hall. It was empty and dark. I ran across and down a little to see if the door was still unlocked. If someone had caught on to my scheme, my entire plan would be foiled. I checked, and the door hadn’t latched. This plan never would’ve worked in the days when we had someone on the ward every hour, so the understaffing was to our benefit. Now I could only hope that the door on the first floor would be abandoned. Thankfully, with the coming war, only a few night guards remained.

  I returned to the room I shared with my mother and stripped off my pillowcase to use as a bag. I put the few photographs I had, my death certificate, the bread I’d wrapped in a piece of cloth I’d torn from the corner of my sheet, the camera, and the hidden half-dozen film cartridges inside. I pulled my blanket into a sling around my back and shoulder. It had been rainy and cold this spring, and we might need it.

  I wished I had socks or shoes, but what I was wearing would have to do. It didn’t take long to gather everything I could take. My breath was held hostage in my lungs when I looked at Mother. It was time to say goodbye. I wanted to touch her. To give her one more hug. I put my hand on her arm—it was the best I could do. It was so thin and bony. Her skin was rough. She seemed entirely hollow, but I knew better—she was trapped inside herself. She wasn’t just a shell; she was still somewhere inside.

  I’d touched her for too long, making her stir. She turned over with fire in her eyes. The slap she sent across my face was so unexpected I gasped loudly. The second one came even harder. I put a palm to my face, and my eyes stung from the pain that came from every space inside of me. I wasn’t prepared to feel such rejection. All the words I’d wanted to say to her would have to be left unspoken. I had meant to tell her how I would miss her humming and that I loved her—but especially that I was going to find someone to help her and the other women on the ward. Someone to be a rescuer and savior.

  And then she turned away and faced the wall and curled up with her knees to her chest and quietly hummed. Her sudden calmness after such an outburst was unsettling. Maybe Grace was right and she really didn’t know me. But I knew her, didn’t I? I knew how to calm her and how to feed her.

  I took a step toward the door. I needed to wake Grace. When I looked back at my mother, one last look, her humming turned into groaning.

  I should stay. I can’t stay.

  I exhaled all of my doubt and ran quickly to Grace’s room. She woke with confusion and turbulence, but after a minute I calmed her and put her beloved letters in my pillowcase and pulled her blanket into a similar sling and fitted it around my friend. She just watched me do everything without a word. She had four roommates; two were dead asleep and two were away, either in some drawn-out therapy or solitary, I didn’t know. The room was crowded but quiet for these precious minutes.

  We scurried back down the abandoned hall toward the door I had rigged. I wouldn’t say goodbye to Lorna or Rosina or anyone else. I didn’t have the dark courage it took to rest my eyes on the incomprehensible misery and still walk away. I knew them in ways I’d never known Mother, and in the morning they’d recognize my absence in a way Mother could never express.

  They would understand—of course—but would they feel I’d abandoned them? What would they think about how I’d taken Grace with me but asked none of them to come too? When I lightly shut the stairwell door behind me and led Grace down the stairs, I let my second-floor thoughts go. Le
t them wander away with the women I’d loved enough to call family. I wanted to rescue them all, but I couldn’t begin to do that if I didn’t rescue myself first.

  I carefully unlatched the back door’s internal locking mechanisms, knowing that once we let it latch behind us, we would not be able to return inside. We would be entirely shut out. But as soon as I knew we were safe in the cover of darkness and I saw no security, I let it click shut and then we ran to the groundskeeper’s shed where Angel slept in Mason’s old space. The old groundskeeper Angel had assisted had passed half a year ago. Angel now did the job of two.

  I tried the door, but it was locked. I knocked lightly but heard no rustle inside. After a few slightly louder knocks, Angel opened the door. He stood with bleary eyes, but without explanation he pulled me inside the shed and into his arms. I wrapped my arms around him and recognized how bony and sharp he had become. My own thinness against his magnified our desperate situation and hunger. Grace stood outside the door until we together pulled her in and closed the door behind her. She was only half aware of what was happening and cried off and on and said almost nothing intelligible. I knew I’d waited too long to do this and that she might never regain herself.

  Without a word, like he read my mind, Angel understood it was time. And as though he’d been preparing for our escape, he was already wearing a coat and grabbed two more near the entrance.

  “I found these two in the trash barrels over the last few weeks. I think they were from incoming patients.” He gave one to each of us.

  I spoke quietly to Angel about needing something to cut the fence. Something strong. He showed us through to the back of the small shed and into a room filled with tools. They littered shelves, every wall space, and a large portion of the floor.

  “Mason wasn’t much for cleanliness. I’ve been weeding through these when I can—but time just . . . Well, we mainly just use grass mowers and shovels, you know.” Of course, for the dead. “I did put these aside after we found the fence, thinking they might work. They’re hedge clippers.”

  He produced a tool that looked like a large pair of shears only a giant could use. He looked so tired, and I grew angry at how hard he was worked. Why hadn’t I noticed before now how frail he’d become and that he was even more colorless than normal?

  “You’re dying, Angel.” I choked on my words.

  His hollow-eyed gaze lingered over my face, and such sadness was sewn into his skin.

  “We’re all dying,” he finally responded. “Come on, help me find an ax.”

  It took us at least twenty minutes to find an ax, and while Grace turned circles in the corner, I also found a hammer, another pair of hedge clippers, and wire cutters that didn’t look like they’d be able to cut through the fence but seemed worth bringing just in case. We’d each found old boots crusted with ancient mud. Almost too stiff to be wearable, but we decided it would be better than going barefoot.

  Then it was time to go. Angel moved close, so close, and our eyes locked. He snapped up my coat like he was my protector. His arms held mine longer than they needed to in our hurried state. And before he let go completely, his hand went to my face and his touch was so soft. He looked at me with such despair and care all at once that I never wanted to look away.

  “If I can’t keep up,” he said, cupping my cheek, “because of my sight—”

  “I’m not leaving you.” I gritted my teeth.

  “If I can’t keep up,” he repeated more sternly, “you have to keep going. I’ll find another way, another time.”

  “I’d rather die here with you.” I meant it.

  His eyes turned to glass but didn’t break open.

  “Come on,” he whispered.

  My entire body began to shake, even with the warmth of the stolen coat. Adrenaline. I’d learned that from Joann. My eyes scanned the edge of the hospital lawn and road. On the other side of the road were the large doctors’ houses and the nurses’ apartments. Joann was in there somewhere. With her husband. With a baby growing under her heart. She wasn’t thinking about me right now, so why was I thinking about her? That part of my life was over.

  We carefully stepped out of the shed. Storm clouds had moved in. Only an occasional star could be seen and I imagined the little Crux—that cross constellation. Why did crosses carry the weight of promise and hope? Rosina would have crossed herself if she’d been with us. I nearly did myself, but Angel gently taking my hand brought me back to what we were doing.

  We were standing in the darkness outside the circle of the electric light that cascaded from the lamp on the side of the little shed. Our eyes connected. As long as I could be with him, I knew I could leave this place. We were two pieces of a whole, he and I, and we had been ever since we’d met.

  “Here we go,” he said, and suddenly I was afraid those would be the last words I’d ever hear him speak to me.

  I pushed that thought away and nodded my head. We’d already wasted a lot of time. The sky lit up, and a loud crack ran across the sky. A moment later another bolt of lightning ricocheted, and the surge of energy startled the ground around us. The long, outstretched fingers of the trees in the horizon flashed, then disappeared.

  Suddenly awakened, Grace began running toward the back fence. Angel’s grip tightened on my hand and we followed.

  1990

  The Memory of Wind and Birds

  How many years has it been since I was in the town of Milton? Since that fateful day when I escaped? And even then, I hadn’t gone through the city or ever knew the town my hospital-home had been in. As I come into town, I don’t take time to take it in but drive straight to the old hospital grounds.

  When I was a girl I’d heard that the town was twenty minutes away, but the community has grown, so the town is closer now. A lot has changed, and Riverside Home for the Insane became known as Milton State Hospital before its doors closed. Of course we don’t say words like insane or mad in the progressive 1990s. We say mentally ill. Mad means something different now too. Words are veils and masks, and there’s always something more on the other side of them than we want to believe.

  Some tried to rectify the messed-up laws and inhumane treatment of people in those bygone asylums days. Some people think it’s just a myth that fathers and husbands put women away for not being happy and content enough. But I know the truth. Why anyone would think something akin to a prison sentence would bring back happiness and sanity, I will never understand. It is strange to think that people felt better turning those deemed flawed invisible. That putting them out of sight was what was important. I’m sure there were those who had good intentions and believed the doctors were only trying to help, with a copy of the Hippocratic oath on the wall in every office. No, many families weren’t to blame. Naivety and ignorance aren’t sins, after all. But I’m not sure the hurt they caused is entirely forgivable.

  From my infancy to now, an irritable sixty-something, much has changed with mental-health treatments. But it didn’t change my experience or the lives of all those women. Just because society finally realized some of the wrongs that had been done doesn’t mean that our stories have been told. The wrongs can’t be righted, but remembering and knowing are important. Without remembrance, there is often repetition.

  As I drive out of town, I notice a small subdivision and a strip mall with a gas station, a sandwich shop, and one of those new coffee places where people spend three dollars for a cup of something they can make at home. That’s what I find crazy—and I don’t use that word lightly.

  A ball’s throw away stands the main asylum building. My lungs and soul gather together like a straightjacket has been tightened around me. I can’t breathe. I pull over and get out of the car. I put my hands on my knees. Lines from an old mantra travel through my mind, but I push them away. It has been well over a decade since my last attack and I’m ashamed of myself. Shouldn’t I be strong enough now? I’m not even going inside today, but Kelly Keene has promised she’d make it happen another day.

>   When I’m breathing normally again, I stare at the administration building. I didn’t spend any time inside that place, but it is the iconic face of Riverside. It’s Willow Knob’s placid facade that was my reality for eighteen years and invaded my nightmares for the rest.

  I return to my car and drive the remaining distance. Many of the buildings have been torn down or have collapsed over the years. I wonder if the graveyard is still out there. I hope it is. The gravestones are probably all sunk and swallowed into the earth and planted like seeds. Lonesome seeds made of sand, rock, water, but mostly loss.

  I lose my very balance the moment I set eyes on Willow Knob. It takes my breath away, but not the way a new baby or a sunset does. My heartbeat changes to the pulse of courage. Am I really here? On the outside of the walls and fences? I almost turn around and return home.

  I haven’t seen these buildings since I left when I was just a girl. I park along the side of the road and take my camera from the bag on my passenger seat. It hangs around my neck, and as I walk, it taps against my middle in a rhythm that comforts me. The camera itself has become a veil of detachment for me. Giving me space. I am, after all, Nell Friedrich, photographer. Most of that identity has been as a teacher at a local art center, but I’ve also had the chance to travel with Doc and I have looked into the souls of many, holding this black box between us so that they can’t get a glimpse into mine.

  I stand where the main drive used to be. The pavement is broken up, and what’s left has grayed in the sun. The iron fences left are imposing and ugly. One side of the front gate is connected at the bottom hinge but is otherwise lying on the ground at an awkward angle. The other I can’t see anywhere. Long yellow-green grasses are blowing in the constant June breeze, reminding me of a warm, romantic westerly wind from some pioneer romance film. But this isn’t a romance.