Asylum

by Kristen Selleck

* * *

  There was just no making headway with Dr. Willard’s collection. It seemed for every one box Chloe sifted through, two more appeared. Beside her were two small, but neatly stacked piles of photocopied sheets. One for Dr. Willard’s list, one for her own. She had tried diligently to match the handwriting in the letter addressed to Ernest Mathers, signed ‘A.M.’ to other letters in the Traverse City Hospital Box, but it was impossible. Everyone seemed to write with the same slanted, fanciful handwriting. She had also looked for letters or notes that mentioned ‘George’ or more specifically, ‘George Townsend’, but so far, no luck. She had come across one more mention of Elizabeth Mathers Decker, but it had only been a passing note in a nurse’s log book. With gloved fingers, she grabbed another sheaf of yellowed papers.

  A muffled ring pulled her concentration away from the task at hand. It took her a minute to even identify the sound. It was the ring of her cell phone, deep inside her book bag. A sound she rarely heard. Sometimes her mother called, and left a message to call back. The only other person who had the number was Sam.

  She dug into her backpack and grabbed the phone. She knew the number on the caller ID immediately. It was from Seth’s room. She didn’t recall having giving him her number.

  She held the phone in her hand, watching it ring one, two, then three more times before it went silent. She waited, still watching the quiet phone. In the total stillness of the library basement, she could hear the round clock on the wall tick. And then the phone in her hand beeped…alerted. Message, it said. One message.

  Chloe opened the phone and hit the message button, then pressed it to her ear. It asked for a numerical password which she dutifully punched in. She closed her eyes and waited…

  “Hey…” Seth’s voice said in her ear. “I don’t-uhh, I don’t know if you use your cell phone or not, Sam said you don’t. I ran into her down at the Eat…she gave me the number.” A long pause followed.

  “It’s nice to hear your voice, instead of Sam always asking if I have a message. So maybe I’ll start calling this number instead…as long as you’re not going to talk to me anyways. In case you’re wondering, I don’t take it back. I’m not sorry I said it. I love you…so there. I’m a little drunk, kiddo. I don’t know what to do. You know what I mean? I want to come down there, and park outside of your door…but, you know…I don’t want to be the asshole pushy boyfriend or anything…Jesus, Clo-”

  A low beeping cut off his rambling message. Another call was ringing through. Chloe glanced at the caller ID. It was Seth’s room number again. She hit the ignore button and continued listening to him.

  “…so whatever. You know, I should be just as pissed as you are. I mean, what do you have to be pissed about anyways? I mean Clo, seriously…I’d do anything, I was telling you, I’d do anything and you just act like a robot. What the hell more can I do? My God Clo, I just thought that there was something, I thought maybe…maybe you felt the same way. I don’t care if you bashed a guy in the head with a fucking vase. I have an ex-girlfriend that slept with an economics professor, and seriously…I think that’s so much worse. Okay, I’m going down to your room. I don’t care. I’m walking right now. I don’t think that the phone cord is going to stretch that far but-”

  A louder beeping cut him off. Seth had gone over the time allotted to leave a message. Chloe listened to dead air a minute and then pulled the phone away from her ear. She would save the message. She had him saying that he loved her, and she could save it, and play it again and again. She hit the save button and snapped the phone shut. While she was still staring at the phone, the face lit up again and beeped to announce one new message. She smiled half-heartedly and retrieved the next one.

  “You weren’t home,” Seth’s voice said, a full octave higher than normal. “Or maybe you were and you just weren’t answering, and it just occurred to me…I was being rude in my last message, wasn’t I? If I can figure out how to delete it, I will, but if I can’t…I don’t mean it. Clo, I don’t mean it. I love you.”

  A full minute of dead air followed.

  “I’m drunk, kiddo,” he finally said, in his normal tone of voice again. “I’m stupid drunk and I’m going to bed. The door’s unlocked. Come down if you want, I can’t promise that I’ll be awake, but…Oh God Clo, please…come down. I miss the way you smell, and how cold your hands always are. Did you know that whenever we walk somewhere you tuck your hand under my arm and I don’t know if it’s because you like to touch me, or if you just want to make me walk slower, because your legs are so much shorter and you don‘t walk as fast. I don’t know, but I thought I’d have enough time to figure it out.”

  Another long pause.

  “I love you Clo, good-night, kiddo. If I remember this in the morning, I’m going to be kicking myself. And I’m drunk enough not to care how desperate it sounds, so come down. Come down?”

  Another loud beep cut his voice off, the allowed message time expired. The knuckles of Chloe‘s hand that held the phone were white. Come down. If she were at home, she might have actually run to answer the request, but a couple of miles away, at the library, she could think rationally.

  The clock on the wall read quarter past midnight. Come down, his voice tempted her. Go on, go there. Crawl into bed next to him, wrap his hot, heavy, sleeping arm around yourself, your cold hand on his hard stomach, across the scratchy plane of his jaw, his chin. He would let you press your lips against his neck, he would wake up then maybe. He would be happy to find you there, squeeze you to him-

  And in the morning you would remember that you’re rotting him away. You’re attaching to the healthy parts and festering…a disease he doesn’t know he has. They can find even him through you, the way they did Sam…

  Chloe placed the phone gently back in her bag. Squaring her shoulders she turned her attention back to the box. She picked up the next sheaf of papers carefully, flipping through them until she came to yet another letter. They were always interesting, letters. A window on a different time, so often words that sounded more beautiful, more thought out than the way people spoke in the modern day.

  You’re hurting him, warned the calm voice. When have you ever known him to be drunk?

  He ran into Sam down there, whispered the evil voice, him and Sam, drinking together. She’s always trying to come on to him…so he says…

  She tried to read. Tried to make the slanted, faded, looping words make sense. The beginning of the letter was damaged by water, impossible to read.

  “…and I’ve discovered something,” she read aloud to help her focus. “I’ve discovered that really, the choice has always been my own. Choose to be healthy, and stick to it with strength of will, or choose to be sick. I’ve chosen health. I’ve chosen sunshine and picnics near the brook, canning gooseberry jam and long walks in the grove near the house. I chose my family, my own dear children, my future. My future with you. I chose to live now, and leave all that was dark and foreboding in the past. I choose you. I am coming home.

  Bridget Shanahan

  April 7, 1897

  “I choose you. I am coming home,” Chloe repeated.

  It was silent in the basement room, the only sound the ticking of the large round wall clock. The phone buzzed again, the face lighting up. Chloe smiled and rubbed her forehead the way she had seen Seth do a thousand times.

  “Alright!” she said to the phone. “I get it already! Chose to be healthy, chose to be with you! I know…I know. Sam doesn’t even care about it anymore does she?”

  The buzzing of the phone seemed to agree with her.

  “And you’ll just forgive and forget everything?” she asked the phone suspiciously.

  The phone stopped.

  “And what’s that supposed to mean? Because I’m this close…I swear to God, I’m this close. You’re going to have to be a lot clearer than that. Tell me again and I’ll jump up and run all the way to Kirkbride Hall and George Townsend’s burned up corpse can rot in the storage room for all I care. Say it on
e more time, and I’m warning you, I’ll follow you to Costa Rica…or Botswana…or the ends of the earth. Say it again, I dare you!”

  The phone lit up once more and beeped to indicate a message. Chloe laughed to herself and reopened her messages.

  “Aww Clo,” Seth’s voice rasped in her ear, “I’m sorry, I just keep calling don’t I? Okay, last time for tonight. I wanted to say I love you. So…I love you. That’s it. There, I’m done making an ass out of myself. Good night.”

  She was on her feet and walking out the door before his message ended.

  * * *

  Chloe opened her door and peeked inside. From the light that followed her in from the hallway, she could just make out Sam’s empty bed. She flipped the light on. No purse on the desk, no kicked off shoes, true to form, Sam had not returned before last call. So far so good.

  Chloe stashed her backpack in the closet, kicked her shoes under the bed and quickly exchanged her long-sleeved tee and jeans for the long white cotton nightgown she had only ever worn in the store, modeling it for Sam’s opinion before she bought it.

  Before leaving, she stuck her head out into the hallway, to make sure it was empty, and then stealthily, she locked the door, and hurried down the hall, hugging the wall.

  She hoped it was unlocked. He had said to come down, and his last call had only been about twenty minutes before. He may have forgotten, and locked it anyways and passed out. If that was the case, she would knock, but not too loud. No…no actually she would knock loud, she would hammer on his door, kick it if she had to! He would see that she wasn’t meek at all that way. Chloe stifled a giggle at the mental picture of herself kicking down his door. Almost there…

  She laid one hand gently on the doorknob and the other on the door. Slowly she twisted. The unlocked knob rolled easily in her hand. She leaned against the door, opening it slowly.

  The first thing she noticed was that the light was on. Then, an empty bed…his coat on the floor…the empty recliner…a purse on the armrest…and finally Seth, with his back pressed to the far wall…and Sam, in front of him. Sam’s arms around his neck, her face just inches from his, their lips almost touching. Sam’s purse on the armrest of the chair. Sam…Sam!

  Seth’s eyes were open, and he saw her first.

  “Oh no, Chloe…no, no, no!” he said turning his face to the side, and bringing his hands up to break Sam’s grip around his neck.

  Sam turned, saw Chloe in the doorway, and froze. She looked terrified, her mouth opened to form words, but nothing came out. Chloe couldn’t remember ever seeing Sam at a loss for words before. Seth was walking…coming towards her slowly with his hands out, like she was a horse that might spook, something that would run. He was talking, she thought. Was he talking? Why couldn’t she hear him? What was that roaring sound in her ears? Like blood rushing, or a storm rumbling. She felt hot, did it suddenly get hotter? Her mouth felt dry. Why didn’t Sam move? Focus…what was he saying?

  “It’s not what it looks like,” he soothed, trying to keep direct eye contact with her. “I know what it looks like, but it isn’t Clo, you gotta trust me, it isn’t.”

  She laughed, one shrill, high-pitched note. Was that her voice? It didn’t sound like her voice. Seth winced. He was close now, his fingers too close to her. She felt numb, but something told her that if he touched her it would burn. It would rip all through her body, and then everything would hurt like hell.

  “Don’t touch me,” she whispered, taking a step back.

  He stopped, dropping his hands to the side, still trying to keep eye contact with her. She was careful to stare at a point just over his head.

  “Please,” he said. “Just come in, talk to me. This is not what you think-”

  “I don’t think anything,” she replied without a trace of emotion. “Nothing at all, and I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to talk to either of you.” Chloe took another step back, she glanced down the hallway. One part of her wanted to run back to her room and lock the door, the other part wanted to run down the hall, down the stairs, out the door into the night, and just keep running.

  Seth shook his head at her, his eyes huge…wild. Like he could read her thoughts, maybe. Could he? I hate you, she thought at him. I hate me for trusting you. He didn’t flinch, so maybe he couldn’t.

  “Clo…” he said. “walk with me, come with me, we’ll go for a drive, we’ll-”

  “I’m tired. I’m going to bed. I’d appreciate it if you’d let Sam stay here tonight, because I don’t think I want to look at her either for awhile,” Chloe said, keeping her voice low and impersonal. He made a face like she had punched him in the gut. How funny! Like she had hurt him. If he tried to follow her, she probably would hit him though. She could stay calm unless he tried to touch her, he had better not try that.

  “Good night,” she said robotically, and shut the door.

  She shuffled back to her room quickly, one hand on the wall. It seemed imperative to get there fast. Safe, she thought, somewhere safe. Shut and lock the doors, push the dresser in front of it in case Sam tries to come back. Would that be crazy? Probably, who cares though? I’ll cover the window too, with a blanket, and no one will be able to see in, and no one shall come in, and I’ll be safe. And I’ll think of something to do. I’ll think of where to go.

  Didn’t see this coming? asked the bad voice, Didn’t know this would happen?

  Oh don’t worry, Chloe answered it in her mind. Just let me get safe and you can have at me all you want, I won’t say anything. You’re right. You’ve always been right.

  Safe in her room, she locked the door and turned the deadbolt. She ripped Sam’s comforter off the bed and climbed onto the windowsill. She stuffed one end of it over the top of the rod that the bead curtain hung from. Jumping back, she eyed the dresser speculatively. With one arm, she brushed the make-up and hairdryer off the top, not even cringing when she heard something shatter on the floor. She put her shoulder to it on one side and shoved, hard. It shrieked forward a few inches. Straining she pushed against it as hard as she could. For all her effort, it hardly budged. It was just big, and heavy, and solid.

  In the end she was only able to move the desk across the room. This she jammed against the door lengthwise, and stood back to survey her work. She couldn’t be sure, but while she was moving the desk, she thought she heard someone knocking, they didn’t try to open the door however, so that was just fine.

  Safe, she decided. Now what? She had thought about making plans. Planning to move or drop out of school, maybe. She should see how much was in her account, see how far she could go and for how long. Or she could cry, maybe she should lay on her bed and have a good cry. That’s what most girls would do, wasn’t it? Sob hysterically into a pillow for a good hour or two? She didn’t feel like crying. Someone was knocking again.

  Chloe stopped and listened. Was it the door? I didn’t sound like the door, there was a certain sound that came from rapping your knuckles against a solid wood door, and it really didn’t sound like the door. The sound stopped. Chloe blew a raspberry at nothing and then glanced around the room. She didn’t feel like doing much of anything, to be honest. She was starting to wish she had run outside and just kept running. The room felt stuffy now, hot and stuffy. Her eyes fell on an unopened bottle of Smirnov on top of the mini fridge. Sam’s, of course. She had brought a couple of bottles from home, having plenty of older friends to buy them for her there. She was down to one bottle.

  “Well, share and share alike,” Chloe said, reaching for the bottle, “What’s mine is yours, what’s yours is mine, right Sam?”

  A shot first, and then she would see what they had to mix it with. She had a vague memory of there maybe being a couple twenty ouncers of pop in the fridge, but a shot first.

  Sam had the shot glasses. They were stacked inside of each other on the shelf next to her books. Chloe helped herself. There was that knocking again. What was it? Glass, maybe? Someone knocking on glass?

  “Ssss
sshhhh…” Chloe warned. The sound stopped.

  She poured herself a shot with a shaky hand. Over-poured, some spilled over the top of the glass and made a ring on the desk. She held the shot glass up to no one.

  “To college,” she declared, “to friends and boyfriends, and new beginnings. To all that bullshit!”

  Chloe tossed the shot back and shut her eyes against the burning that raced down her throat and into her stomach. It was a feeling. And since she had opened the door to Seth’s room, she had felt nothing. The burning in her throat was good.

  Another shot, she decided, and there was that knocking sound again.

  “Coming, coming,” she promised it, and poured another glass full.

  It got louder.

  “What the hell?” she asked the empty room. It wasn’t the door. She listened carefully, walking against the wall towards her bed. It was less like knocking, more like tapping, and it had to be glass, something tapping on glass. The window? She was on the second story, but the window, maybe?

  She pulled back the comforter and saw only a black wall, her room reflected back at her darkly. She pressed her face against the glass, placing one hand at her forehead to try and shield the overhead light from her eyes. Outside it was snowing, always snowing, the parking lights gave everything an orange glow. Nothing moved.

  “Screw it,” she said dropping the comforter back in front of the window. She raised her glass again.

  “To Seth and Sam!” she said, “I hope they both burn in hell!” She laughed and threw back the shot glass. She couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to burn a lot less this time. Now it just felt warm. Still good though.

  The tapping started again.

  “What the hell?!” Chloe demanded of the empty room.

  Tink, tink, tink… she whipped her head around violently, searching for the source. Her eyes came to rest upon the mirror and the tapping stopped.

  The strange star, the star of Bedlam, Sam had dubbed it, the sign for Abraham’s Men was drawn on the mirror in red lipstick.