The Bright Unknown

by Elizabeth Byler Younts

  I heard Joann’s voice in my head. You are strong. You need to be brave. You need to want a new life.

  Hot tears burned as my mind told me to listen to her voice while my heart ached at the idea of moving on.

  I pushed up, then stood. The shape I’d made in the bed of crinkled-up grass didn’t look like a girl had stayed there for a whole day. It didn’t look like anything but a disturbed place on the ground. And that’s what I was becoming. Disturbed. And invisible.

  It took all my energy and grit to grab my bag and begin walking.

  I winced when I flung my bag around my shoulder. There were scratch marks up and down my arms. When had I done that to myself? I started walking. My feet shuffled against the dead earthen field, then scraped against the paved sidewalk. Away from the empty field. Away from the broken-up pieces of myself, knowing I’d never have them back. Away from the lake in the east, where the sun would rise. Away from the kind woman in black and her little son. Away from Riverside, where the fragments of my soul could float away into memories.

  I heard Rosina’s voice in the wind. Our Father, who art in heaven. All the disturbed places in my mind rose to the surface, filling in the spaces and gaps inside. Hallowed be thy name.

  I stopped walking. In a world where only the sky and stars were familiar, hearing these words reminded me of home. Was it a sign pulling and wooing me back to a home that had almost killed me? But then I realized the words were not coming from my mind.

  “Thy kingdom come.”

  The voices were nearby.

  “Thy will be done.”

  I followed the words. It wasn’t Rosina’s voice but many voices—speaking together. I came back to myself, and the voices took me up the steps of a tall white-steepled church.

  “On earth as it is in heaven.”

  I stood in the open and ready door.

  “Give us this day our daily bread.”

  These voices spoke in unison and my breath escaped my lips in a whisper as I recited with them.

  “And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

  How could I forgive what had been done to me? Hot tears rushed my eyes.

  “And lead us not into temptation—” I spoke and faces turned toward me.

  “But deliver us from evil,” I yelled and I yelled. So loud my ears rang. Over and over again until finally I couldn’t speak another word.

  All the other voices had stopped. Every head had turned toward me. Every eye saw my rough, dirty clothing and the marks on my arms.

  But my eyes drew past them and to the Crux in front of me. But this time it wasn’t a star in the sky, sparkling at a distance, only to disappear shortly after, but a wooden one, hung high in front of me, with a man on it. He had restraints in the shape of nails, and his face was so sad.

  I couldn’t help him from his captivity, but I wondered if he could help me from mine.

  Then I fell. The wooden floor was softer than my heart, and all my pieces filled in the spaces between the nailed boards. I couldn’t hold myself together anymore.

  1941

  Pieces of Myself

  But there were hands and voices that held me together, and the image of that man wouldn’t leave me. I was picked up, or maybe I was floating. Being helped to live or allowed to die, I wasn’t sure.

  I could do nothing but dream. I dreamt of Conrad and Gabrielle and Becky and everything that had happened the last few days. But mostly I dreamed of Angel. How was it possible that days felt like years? I’d only been away from the hospital for a week, though it felt like months.

  I heard words like poor dear and where did she come from? and was she part of that carnival troupe? There were also many whispered prayers.

  The darkness behind my eyes fought against these gentle, velvety words. Evil was inside the dark, and I could find no delivery from it. So I let my mind roam into all the safe places and maybe I could find my way home. Maybe I could wake again.

  But before I did, I walked back—far back in my dreams—and found her. And the others who had loved me so well. Grace’s shadow was far away, though. How I wanted to see these dear ones, to hear them talk, to feel their nearness.

  “Where have you been, young lady?” Joann said, pushing a cart of medications down the hall.

  “I got lost,” I said and picked up behind her. “I couldn’t find my way.”

  I had to walk fast to keep up with her and passed by so many open doors.

  “You’re a fish out of water,” Lorna parroted and ran across the hall into Rosina and Carmen’s room. They called out my name and waved.

  But when I tried to wave back, my arms wouldn’t move. They were wrapped in dried grass and strips of leather. I could hear Mother hum softly. She was close. I walked into my old bedroom. The restraints were gone and Mother was sitting there with a nursing baby nestled in her arms. Her hair was a golden brown, softly cascading down her shoulders. Her face was rosy and full, and her smile was so real.

  She looked up and found my eyes. She found my eyes.

  “Come, look at my baby. I call her—”

  “Brighton,” a voice called to me, and I turned. Grace. She had her hair back and her rich olive coloring had returned. She smiled and without any effort pulled the restraints away from her arms, and suddenly her hands were outstretched and our film canisters dripped through her fingers.

  “Don’t forget. Don’t forget,” she said.

  “Where’s Angel?” she asked as I tried to catch the falling canisters, missing every one of them, then she faded away.

  “I lost him,” was all I could say.

  Then everyone vanished, and the image of my aunt was all that was left in my mind.

  1990

  Safe and Free from Violence

  Kelly Keene is right. More people are at the meeting than I’d expected. There are several hundred in the high school gymnasium, and the palms of my hands get sweatier by the moment. When I walk in I’m sure I’ll faint from heat and nerves. My stomach roils, and I have to find a bathroom before I can even think of talking to Kelly.

  When I’ve calmed myself, I see her. She’s talking to an oversize man with huge eyes, red cheeks, and a smile a little too big for his face. I have a feeling this is the mayor.

  She walks him over to me and I put on a calm, confident face—which almost breaks it in half.

  “I’m Mayor Vince Keene and you must be Nell Friedrich. Kelly has told me so much about you.” Hm, Vince Keene? I smell a rat. I eye Kelly Keene.

  I shake his offered hand.

  “Is that right? What have you heard?” I probe. I want to make this young woman feel a little on the nervous side for not having told me that she’s related to the mayor.

  “Well, Kelly here tells me you have some pictures to share and some stories that will help my constituents see the need to remove those run-down buildings. I’m counting on you to help.”

  “And how do you think I’ll be helpful with a few pictures and stories?”

  He leans forward then and becomes the world’s best close-talker.

  “Any attention that this proposal can get is good attention. Those buildings are an eyesore for a pretty town like ours, and something’s got to be done. Doesn’t really matter what you’re going to say, as long as you’re not planning to lobby against me.” He looks at Kelly with a raised eyebrow. “She’s not, is she?”

  Kelly shakes her head and smiles. “No, she’s not lobbying against you.”

  He winks at me, then moves on to the next person waiting to greet him.

  “So, you’re related?” I ask Kelly, looking at her from the corner of my eye.

  She tilts her head in that sweet way she does.

  “Yes, he’s my father,” she says. “But my motives are pure, I promise. When he asked me to be part of the cataloging for a summer job, I had no idea what I’d find. The attention helps his cause, but regardless of all that, it’s time people know what you and those women went through. I thin
k your story brings hope.”

  “Hope.” While I have gone through a lot in the last week in reliving and reconsidering my life as a patient at Riverside and my escape, I don’t know how that will affect anyone else. I’m not even certain what I’ll really share tonight—how deep I’ll go. They need to see that there were people mistreated in that building, that my fellow patients along with those before and after deserve to be remembered. That people are people—regardless of diagnoses. They need to see so that it will never happen again. I move in close to Kelly, whom I’ve grown to care about in the past few days. “I’m so nervous. I’m not sure what to say now.”

  “After everything you’ve shared with me about your friends, they’d be so proud of you. Just be yourself, Brighton,” Kelly says quietly before skipping away. She turns around and calls back to me. “Everything is set up. Just tell me when to change the slides. Oh, and your reserved seat is up in the front row.”

  I nod. But my mind is stuck on hearing her call me Brighton.

  The crowds are congregated in rows of chairs on the floor and in the stands. A local TV crew is set up. Not all of the crew look excited to be there, but they all have their cameras aimed at the microphone and the reporter standing in front of it is speaking.

  Why are so many people and a TV station here for a simple town hall meeting? Milton is a well-known tourist town with a downtown that boasts of the best food in Central Pennsylvania. Sure, the hospital is old and ugly and doesn’t fit in here, but even with all of that, it doesn’t seem newsworthy enough for such a crowd.

  I walk up toward the right side and find my reserved seat on the far end of a row. Then I wait. A woman wearing a red pantsuit taps at the mic on stage, startling us. She gives a sheepish grin and scans her eyes from left to right, taking in the crowd. She clears her throat, and the mic picks it up; it sounds like thunder across the domed ceiling. People around me chuckle, but my nerves just tighten.

  “I’d like to bring this town hall meeting to order,” she says with an official-sounding voice.

  The mayor takes a moment to greet everyone. They go through some of the administrative items. A few people shuffle on and offstage, and then he gets started on a few small community issues. Waste management. A library reading program for the summer season. And then a little excitement over high school football. Of course.

  “The main reason we’re all here today is because of Milton State Hospital. The hospital has not been used since 1965, and I don’t have to tell anyone what an eyesore it is now twenty-five years later.” He goes on to explain that for the last ten years there have been efforts to tear down the buildings, but the proposals were always voted down. He explains that the proposal this time comes with more than just a teardown, but a building-up as well.

  Maybe this is why so many people are here. They don’t want their taxes to rise because of this project.

  Then red-pantsuit woman, who is the community director for Milton, is introduced as Mari Silva. She flips through slides that show animated images of the current buildings disappearing and new ones being erected, bright and shining. She mentions that the main building is projected to be called the Wolff Community Center to commemorate a well-known hospital administrator and town councilman. She reminds everyone that he donated an unseemly amount of money to the town. When she finishes everyone claps. I do not.

  Mayor Keene shakes Mari Silva’s hand with gumption.

  “Now I have a special guest for you all,” he says with a smile. “As many of you know, these buildings were used as a hospital from 1845 to 1965. That’s a long time. As many of you also know, last summer we had a team of graduate students go through the buildings to catalog everything that was left behind. Listen, we don’t want these buildings around no more, but we still want to be respectful of what was left inside over all these years. My daughter, Kelly, was one of those graduate students, and as you saw in the paper, this special guest has some interesting things to share with you about this hospital that will give you some insights on how the buildings were used. Everyone likes vintage everything these days, so I expect it’ll be quite a treat to see these exclusive, never-before-seen vintage photographs.”

  I’d been mentioned in the paper? Kelly hadn’t said anything about that.

  A rumble moves across the audience like a physical wave. Whispers and smiles and people sitting a little taller. I hear someone saying they are hoping for pictures of crazy people and for the photos to prove that the buildings are haunted. Another woman cranes her neck to see the projection screen better, as if she’s ready to watch a movie.

  “Show us the freaks,” a loud voice shouts from the back of the stands, and there’s laughter throughout the gym. A few others hoot and holler in agreement.

  Is this why so many people came to this meeting? Because Kelly said something about me putting on some type of freak show? My mind returns to my days with the Fancies and Fears. Is that all I’d turned out to be, a freak onstage for everyone to gawk at?

  I get up and walk through the aisles. I won’t do it. I won’t be that person. Not again.

  “I’d like to invite my new friend Nell Friedrich up to the stage,” I hear Kelly say.

  I turn to see her behind the mic, searching the audience for me where I’d been sitting. Even at my distance I can see her eyebrows knit together. The crowd murmurs, and I imagine Kelly sharing my photos without me or not at all. It will be as if my photos are still stuck inside those black canisters. Our stories still hidden away.

  And what will the point have been for me to have taken the pictures if after all these years I continue to hide them? My mind goes back inside that building, inside the room I’d shared with my mother. Inside the halls where I’d wandered for so many years. Inside the solitary room where I’d been so isolated. Cat got your tongue? I can hear Lorna’s voice in my mind like she’s standing right next to me.

  “No, it doesn’t,” I respond to her in a whisper, and it gives me the courage to walk up the center aisle.

  Kelly smiles nervously at me, and I hope my knees won’t give out. When I stand in front of the microphone, I look out, and the crowd of faces looks so eager.

  “Thank you, Kelly, and hello, everyone,” I say first and get used to how I sound in a microphone. There is utter silence. In my nerves I clear my throat, take a breath, and then begin. “Milton State Hospital wasn’t always the name of these buildings. It used to be Riverside Home for the Insane. Some people call these hospitals names like loony-bin or a lunatic asylum.” A few laugh, and that same boy from the back screeches the word freaks again. I ignore him. “Asylum comes from the Latin word asylos, and it means ‘safe’ and ‘free from violence.’”

  I look at Kelly, and the lights dim and the first image is projected.

  A collective gasp sounds as they view a picture of Lorna. She’s standing tightly camisoled. Her mouth is wide in a scream and naked patients stand around her but aren’t paying her any mind. I can hear her scream in my mind still.

  “This is Lorna and this picture was taken in 1939. She was elderly by this point and diagnosed as schizophrenic. In her later years she only spoke in clichés. She was admitted to the hospital in 1900 when her husband decided she didn’t seem happy enough. This was a typical scene during the day in the Willow Knob building for non-dangerous female patients. To get put in a straightjacket like that she might’ve attacked a nurse or simply been a nuisance or yelled about being hungry.”

  I gesture for Kelly to click to the next picture.

  I go on to show images of Carmen in bed restraints, Rosina’s arm reaching out of the solitary door window, and many patients in hydrotherapy. I explain hydrotherapy and how it could last for days, even though it was never meant to. The crowd is captivated; I see open mouths, wide eyes, all completely still and silent.

  “Riverside also had a children’s ward. Being bathed with the spray of a cold-water hose outside the building was normal for these youngsters. Generally, many of them were diagnosed
with Down’s syndrome, mental retardation, basic erratic behavior, blindness, deafness, and a number of the children were simply unwanted or were orphans. There was even an albino there for almost twenty years—though he is not in this picture. We know now that albinism is not a mental illness, just as blindness and deafness aren’t, but there were many years when people believed otherwise.”

  I go through more. A dayroom full of naked patients. A plate of the food the patients were served that we wouldn’t give our dogs. A memory of getting this image in the kitchen with Joyful runs through my mind.

  Then someone finally stands. “How do we know these awful images are real?”

  “It’s creepy,” someone yells loudly.

  “Humor me for a few minutes and I will explain more,” I say.

  The woman is exasperated but sits back in her seat.

  The slide advances. I swallow hard.

  “This is Brighton. This picture was taken after she was in solitary confinement, where her basic needs were barely met. Most of the patients’ heads were shorn because lice were pervasive in the dormitories. But she didn’t have lice. She was dragged to a chair and strapped in leather restraints. Her head was held still by her nurse while another nurse shaved her head. She was angry and sad, and when the nurse put her hand over her mouth, she didn’t think she would ever tell her story to anyone.” Warm tears are running down my face, and my fingernails dig into my soft palms.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” the same woman demands.

  “To answer your question, how do I know if these images are real and why do I know these stories?”

  The woman’s shoulders slump as if in response.

  “Because I am Brighton. I am that girl in the picture. My friend Grace and I took all of the photographs that I’m sharing with you today.”

  The crowd isn’t simply murmuring now. They are all talking at once, and when I think I need to run off the stage, I find that my spine and heart have strengthened and my throat is open and my voice is strong. I raise my hand to quell the voices, and the simple gesture works.