What She Left Behind

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  The nurse glanced at Clara, her lips pressed together, then picked up a clipboard and handed it to the doctor.

  “Who is her physician?” the doctor asked, scribbling something on the chart.

  “Dr. Roach,” the nurse said. “Should I get a wheelchair?”

  “Yes,” the doctor said. “And be quick about it.” The nurse left the room and the doctor addressed Clara. “Do you know who the father is?”

  Clara nodded, unsure that she could answer. The contractions were getting closer and closer together. “My boyfriend, Bruno,” she said, gasping.

  “And where is Bruno now?”

  “I don’t know,” Clara managed.

  “Is he a patient here?” the doctor said.

  Clara shook her head, beads of sweat forming on her forehead and upper lip. The nurse came back into the room with a wheelchair and retrieved a hospital gown from a cupboard. Clara climbed down from the table and sat in the wheelchair, doubling over in the seat. Her insides felt like they were coming out, and would soon be a bloody pile in her lap. Suddenly, the urge to stand up overwhelmed her, and she tried pushing herself out of the chair.

  “Sit down!” the nurse said, shoving her back into the seat. Before Clara could protest, the nurse started pushing the wheelchair across the room.

  “The baby is coming!” Clara screamed.

  The doctor threw open the door and the nurse pushed Clara into the hall. She turned right and ran along the corridor, yelling at other nurses and patients to get out of the way. An orderly pushed a wheelchair straight at them, one hand trying to keep the unconscious man in the seat upright. The orderly couldn’t turn fast enough and they nearly collided. Finally, the nurse turned down a short hallway and wheeled Clara into a room with a single bed.

  “Stand up,” the nurse said.

  A second nurse helped Clara out of the wheelchair and started stripping off her clothes. “Let’s get you into this hospital gown.” she said, yanking off Clara’s brassiere. “You’re about to have a baby. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes,” Clara said, gasping. “I told Dr. Roach I was pregnant but he didn’t care.” She slipped her arms into the hospital gown, climbed up on the mattress, and lay back. Another band of pain tightened around her middle and again she felt the overwhelming urge to push.

  The first nurse covered Clara with a thin sheet while the second held her legs together at the ankles, telling her not to push until the doctor came. Clara thrashed on the bed, fighting the urge to bear down. Her body felt like it was being ripped in two, sinew and muscle twisting in opposite directions, veins stretching until they burst. Finally the doctor hurried in, instructing the nurses to get blankets, towels, and a basin of hot water.

  “We’ll need morphine and scopolamine,” he said, his voice filled with urgency. The nurses hurried out of the room and he examined Clara again. She pushed herself up on her elbows and looked at the doctor, studying his face for any sign that might convey her baby’s condition. Her roaring heart clogged her throat.

  If her estimates were right, the baby was two weeks early. And now, because of the sudden onset of labor, she was terrified that, along with everything else, her daughter was coming too soon and wouldn’t survive. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the powerful contraction eased. Clara collapsed back on the pillows, panting.

  “Is something wrong?” she said.

  “Just lie as still as you can now,” the doctor said. “I’ll take care of you.”

  The nurses rushed back into the room, their arms laden with towels, a basin, a doctor’s bag, and a pitcher of steaming water. Clara’s stomach tightened again and another contraction started, every muscle feeling squeezed inside a giant vise. She took a deep breath, put her hands on her knees, and bore down. The baby was crowning; she could feel its wide, damp head forcing its way out of her body and into the world.

  Clara started to hyperventilate, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. A rush of fluid gushed between her legs. The sting of a needle in her skin made her jump. She turned to see a nurse burying a syringe in her upper arm, her mouth pressed into a thin, hard line. Clara tried to sit up again, but her strength was gone. She looked down at the doctor, his determined scowl the last thing she saw before the world went dark.

  CHAPTER 11

  IZZY

  Willard

  In the backseat of Peg and Harry’s Mitsubishi, Izzy picked at the edges of her nails, watching the buildings of Willard State roll past the car windows. The sun was shining in a September blue sky filled with anvil-shaped thunderheads, hinting at a possible storm. Out the left side of the vehicle, Seneca Lake shimmered in the distance, shallow waves rippling toward the opposite shore. Treetops swayed in the gentle breeze and seagulls congregated on the sagging, shingled roof of Willard’s boathouse.

  And yet, the buildings and grounds of Willard looked dead and still. Not a blade of grass moved, not one vine or leaf of ivy stirred. Not one bird flew past the roofs or landed on the chimneys. Against the red brick walls, the ward windows looked burned out and black, as if there had been a fire inside, or it was impossible for sunlight to penetrate the darkness within.

  Izzy couldn’t believe she was back at the old asylum again, to go inside the abandoned hospital and look at old medical records. She did her best to take deep breaths and push her fears away, concentrating instead on the excitement of finding out more about Clara.

  Three nights earlier, after supper and homework, Izzy had finally admitted to Peg that she had Clara’s journal. Peg was disappointed, but she wasn’t angry. She understood Izzy’s fascination and believed she had every intention of returning it. After thanking her for telling the truth and giving a gently worded lecture about the virtues of honesty, Peg seemed excited about everything Izzy had found out.

  “Thank you for not being mad,” Izzy said.

  “Just do me a favor, will you?” Peg said. “Next time, ask.”

  Izzy nodded. “I will,” she said.

  “And since you’re so into this project,” Peg said, “would you like to go to Willard with us on Saturday? I still can’t believe it, but the state has given us permission to search the medical records!”

  “Will you be looking at Clara’s file?” Izzy said.

  “Sorry,” Peg said, shaking her head. “But it was pretty simple to piece her life together from the things we found in her trunk. She isn’t one of the patients we chose to find out more about. And like you said, her journal explains a lot. But if you want to come with us, you can try to find her records. We’re only allowed a few hours inside the hospital, so it will have to be quick.”

  Now, the closer they got to the abandoned structure, the faster Izzy’s heart raced. Harry pulled up a narrow road and parked the car near a four-story brick building. He shut off the engine and got out. Izzy climbed out of the backseat, watching two cars pull up and park beside them. Peg and Harry went around to the back of the Mitsubishi and opened the trunk. Two museum workers got out of the first vehicle while the second car parked on the other side. Izzy couldn’t see who was in the front seat, but she knew the second car belonged to Ethan’s father because Peg had told her the photographer was coming. The door opened and Peter hoisted himself out, the car roof springing up, the frame squeaking. Izzy held her breath, waiting to see if Ethan would be with him. Peter went around the vehicle and opened the trunk. No one else got out of the car.

  In a way, Izzy was relieved. Instead of worrying about trying to avoid Ethan, she would be free to concentrate on looking for Clara’s file. It had been four days since the scene in psychology class, and Izzy hadn’t heard a word from him. When she passed him and Shannon in the halls, they ignored her. None of the other kids brought up Izzy’s mother or made fun of her. Suddenly, it was like she was invisible. The only one who talked to her was Alex. For reasons Izzy couldn’t put her finger on, Shannon’s indifference felt like the calm before the storm. Even Alex thought it was weird.

  Izzy went around to the trun
k of the car and was surprised to find Peg and Harry putting hospital scrubs on over their clothes. Peg handed Izzy a flashlight and a set of green scrubs.

  “What is all this?” Izzy said.

  “This old hospital is contaminated with asbestos and lead paint,” Harry said. “It’s important for us to wear protection.”

  Izzy looked over at the other vehicles and saw the museum workers also pulling on protective gear. Peter lumbered toward Peg and Harry’s car with a wide grin on his face, his photography equipment slung over one shoulder, the wide strap of what looked like a giant flashlight over the other. Peg and Harry slipped paper masks around their necks and started toward the building, Harry carrying a flashlight and duffel bag, Peg carrying a canvas tote over one shoulder. Izzy and everyone else followed. When they reached a set of chained and padlocked double doors that had been boarded up from the inside, Peg gave each person a pair of protective paper booties to put over their shoes.

  “Don’t you have something to put over your clothes?” Harry said to Peter.

  Peter waved a dismissive hand in the air. “I’ll be fine,” he said.

  “Well, you should at least wear these,” Peg said, holding out a mask and a pair of booties. Peter took the mask and put it on. He leaned over to try putting the booties over his massive shoes but they were too small. He smiled and put them on his ears instead. Everyone laughed.

  “No Ethan today?” Peg said to him.

  He shook his head. “Basketball practice,” he said. Then he smiled at Izzy. “He told me to say hi and he’s sorry he’s missing this.”

  Izzy felt blood rise in her cheeks. She bent over and pulled the paper booties on over her sneakers, wondering why Ethan would bother saying hello. If he wasn’t man enough to say hi to her in public, what was the point? Was he ashamed to admit they were friends, or was he scared of his girlfriend? She clenched her jaw and straightened, hoping her face wasn’t red.

  Harry pulled a set of keys out of his pocket, unlocked the padlock, and pulled the chain out from around the brass door handles.

  “This is the newer hospital,” Peg said. “At first, Chapin Hall housed the medical wards, the operating rooms, and the morgue. Eventually, they moved the patients with infectious diseases into an old farmhouse and built this, the main hospital.”

  Harry pulled the door open, a sudden swirl of stale air sending a slip of curling paper across the cracked threshold. A slanted rectangle of sunlight reached across the shadowy floor, illuminating layers of dirt and dried mold. Everybody pulled their masks over their faces and filed inside. Weak daylight filtered in through open hallway doors, crisscrossing the long, dark passageway. Harry flicked on his flashlight and looked around. Yellowed papers, pieces of drywall, paint peelings, plastic bottles, and trash littered the floor tiles. A wheeled chair sat against one peeling wall and a broken metal cart sat tipped over in the middle of the hall. Curtains of dust hung in the air, like millions of tiny larva floating in seawater.

  “Think we’ll have enough light to see what we’re doing?” Peg said, her voice muffled by the paper mask.

  “Yeah,” Harry said. “Peter brought a battery-powered construction light, and there should be some light coming in through the windows. It will be fine. They said the records room is down the hall to the left.”

  Izzy followed the group down the hallway and shined her flashlight through open doors, plaster and dried paint crunching beneath her sneakers. In a room to her right, a row of sinks lined a mold-covered wall, their porcelain basins filled with broken drywall and dust, rivulets of rust running from scale-covered faucets. A dozen showerheads hung from a long pipe along the ceiling, the metal couplings scaly and green. The next room was stuffed with wheelchairs, except instead of canvas or plastic, the seats were toilet seats without lids. One room was empty, except for a single, filthy mattress and a wide chunk of moldy plaster hanging from the ceiling. The sounds of dripping water echoed from somewhere down the hall.

  Finally, they came to a closed door with a sign that read “Records.” Harry tried three keys before he found the right one. He opened the door and everyone followed him inside. Two tall windows on the far wall let in just enough light so they could see. Dust hung in the sluggish air, illuminated by shafts of weak sun.

  Peg put a hand over her chest and looked around with wide eyes. The space was filled with an assortment of different-sized tables, filing cabinets, cupboards, and shelves, everything filled and piled high with folders and papers and boxes. Ragged-edged forms spilled out over the floor while others were bundled half a foot high, secured with a dried-out rubber band. X-rays and files littered the floor tiles, scattered around as if someone had thrown them in the room and closed the door.

  “How are we ever going to get through all this?” Peg said.

  “I don’t know,” Harry said. “We just have to work fast.”

  Peter set up the battery-powered construction light in one corner, illuminating the center of the room. He cleared some boxes from the top of a small table, put the table in the center of the floor, and started setting up his equipment. Peg went over to the farthest corner and picked up a thick file. She looked at it for a few seconds then set it back down and picked up another one a few feet away. After looking at a half dozen files, she said, “It looks like there might have been some attempt to keep them in alphabetical order.”

  “Why don’t we each pick a patient name and look for their files?” Harry said.

  “Good idea,” Peg said. She pulled a paper from her tote, assigned a name to everyone but Izzy and Peter, and then handed out clipboards. “Write down the name of the patient and any information you think we can use. Let Peter take as many pictures of important files as possible. We’ve only got one chance at this so work fast. Izzy, you can help me.”

  Everyone scattered in different directions and got to work. Izzy followed Peg to the far side of the room.

  “What do you want me to do?” she said.

  “The last name of the patient I’m looking for starts with a C, like Clara’s,” she said. “So maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for over here.”

  Peg pulled out a four-inch-thick file and together they looked at the first page. Affixed to the folder were two black-and-white photos; one of a middle-aged woman wearing a blouse with a lace collar. She had bobbed hair, a shy smile, and kind eyes. On the wall behind her head were five digits, black numbers on a white strip. The second picture showed the same woman with gray, wrinkled skin and deep circles under her eyes. She was frowning, her lips sinking into her toothless gums. It was the saddest face Izzy had ever seen.

  “Esther Baldwin,” Peg said. She closed the chart and put it back. “We’re in the Bs.” She moved along the wall several feet, picked another file off the top of a medicine cabinet, and opened it. Izzy kept her eyes on Peg, avoiding the photo of another face ravaged by years spent inside an institution.

  “Dmitry Cabell,” Peg said. “Now we’re in the Cs.” She returned the file and lowered her voice. “Go ahead and see if you can find Clara’s records.”

  Izzy moved along the wall and took a chart off the shelves. It belonged to someone with the last name Cahill. She put it back and pulled out another chart two shelves down. The woman’s last name was Callahan. Izzy took out another file, then another, clenching her jaw at every broken glance and toothless face. It was unthinkable that so many people had been put away, some for the rest of their lives. She wondered how many were like Clara, normal one minute, locked up the next. What would have happened if the patients had been asked what had happened to them instead of what was wrong with them? Most of the files were inches thick, spanning years of institutionalization. Something cold and hard writhed in Izzy’s stomach.

  She started to wonder why she was putting herself through this, trying to find out more about a woman who was dead and gone. Someone who had never gotten a chance to live the normal life she deserved. Izzy had enough problems of her own. Why was she digging around in someo
ne else’s mess?

  One of the museum workers took a file to the center of the room, where Peter was snapping pictures of charts and X-rays and papers filled with medical text. Izzy watched for a second, then slid a thick file from beneath a thinner one. She opened the cover and nearly dropped it. Clara looked back at her with frightened eyes, her mouth in a thin, hard line, as if she was trying not to cry. Written beneath her name in bold cursive were the words Paranoid delusion with hallucinations.

  Izzy swallowed, her eyes growing moist. She sat on a step stool next to the cabinets and pulled out her flashlight, hoping no one was paying attention. She put the thick file in her lap, turned to the first page, and started reading.

  January 1, 1930: Patient seems in good physical health. She is clean in her habits and has settled quietly into the ward. She is rather withdrawn and seems to be at a complete loss as to why she was brought here. Dr. Thorn has warned that patient does not believe she is mentally ill. She may be hallucinating and delusional. She is fairly cooperative and eats and sleeps well.

  January 2, 1930: Upon examination, no physical cause for patient’s maladies. Temperature and pulse normal. Thoracic and skeletal examinations revealed nothing abnormal. She is under the delusion that she is with child, but no signs of pregnancy could be found. She is rather thin. Patient’s delusion could be in part due to the growing hallucinogenic manifestations of her illness.

  Izzy gasped. Clara thought she was pregnant? Why hadn’t she mentioned it in the journal? Could she have been so desperate to escape that she’d started imagining things? Was being torn away from Bruno just too much? Izzy skimmed over the next few pages, reading as fast as possible.

  March 5, 1930: Patient attempted escape. She is definitely paranoid in her thinking and continues to express delusions about her commitment and detention here. She was hostile during the interview. Confined to isolation for six days in an attempt to adjust paranoia.