by Lydia Kang
A voice spoke from miles away.
“I told you it was time to celebrate.”
Tom gently pulled Tillie from her chair, and he twirled her waist in his thin hands. Dizzy and laughing, she gently fell onto the bed. She blinked luxuriously, working her hands open and closed to examine how everything felt different—good and also bad. There was no question there was always a bad feeling too—like taking a bite of a poisoned cake that was so delectable you didn’t mind if it killed you in the process. Tillie felt a hand brush the hair at her temples.
“By God, you’re beautiful when you’re like this.”
There was laughter. Countless, echoing laughs, like a Coliseum’s worth of people were all jubilant and enraptured along with her. She heard a door open, shut, open again, and shut forever. There were voices far away, murmurings that were silk against velvet, and a goodbye.
And then there was darkness. It dragged Tillie into its thick, syrupy blackness. She let it take her, oh so willingly.
The dream was a terrible one.
She was fighting a thick, swampy mire that had somehow trapped her arms and legs. No, they were ensnared beneath a tree. Or tree roots. Or vines. They were stuck fast, and there was no escaping.
A boulder-size weight had fallen on her chest, limiting her breaths to shallow rasps.
And then there were the teeth. She always thought that being bitten would be a cold affair, but the fangs were warm against her neck, just as the lips were. She could feel the throbbing of her pulse, those teeth that grazed her skin without cutting.
It would take only one bite, and she would bleed. One bite, and she would bleed every blessed drop of herself away.
Tillie’s eyes opened.
She was in a darkened room, one that stank of camphor and illness, like the dust of a thousand old memories all within one single, stifling room. She couldn’t move—something was on top of her.
Not something—someone.
It was Tom.
Tom had pinned her to his bed, and despite being thin and apparently sickly, he was remarkably strong. Tillie had lost her strength from not eating in the past weeks, and her limbs were already tired without having done much to fight back. Her legs and hips were trapped under his, and her good right arm was locked above her head by his strong grip on her wrist. His head obscured her vision.
His mouth was on her neck, kissing and suckling the skin there. She could feel his teeth scrape against the tender area beneath her jaw.
Tillie opened her mouth and screamed.
“Shhh. Be quiet. You’ll be fine in a few minutes,” Tom murmured in her ear. “Let me get some more morphine.”
“No, no more. Stop. Let me go,” she yelled. But her voice was hoarse, and it hardly came out louder than a whisper. “Hazel—Hazel is coming back for me.”
“I told her you already went home.”
“No. Your mother—”
“She’s still out seeing patients with Father. It’s all right.” He kissed the other side of her neck as she flipped her head, refusing to face him. “I’ll tell anyone who asks that you wanted to be here. That you lay with me, and what will happen to your reputation? Who will believe that someone as sick as me could overpower you? You’ll be ruined. So this is what we’ll do. You’ll come visit me every so often, and I’ll send Mother away. And we’ll have our little time together, with the morphine. You’ll hardly feel anything. You won’t even mind it.”
Tillie began to hyperventilate. Her bad arm could hardly push him away. With his free arm, he reached for the syringe at his bedside. In one swift movement, he stabbed the needle into her thigh, right through the silk and cotton of her skirt. It hurt so much more done callously, and she shrieked when it pierced her flesh. She felt the morphine expanding under her skin. How much longer would she be able to fight him off before the medicine subdued her to complete senselessness? She kicked, but her movement only drew her legs apart, and Tom’s hips slipped between her knees. She felt his hand scrabbling between them—on her bodice, reaching lower for the hem of her dress.
“Please, Tom. Please stop,” she gasped. She kicked harder this time and loosened her good arm from his grip. “Stop!” Her voice was angrier, louder.
Tom’s teeth sank into her neck.
The door burst open. John O’Toole paused for a second, seeing everything at once. Tom scrambled off Tillie, sheer surprise on his face. Tillie looked down and saw what John must. Her rumpled clothing. A bloodstain on her bare thigh from the injection. She could already feel the bruise forming on her neck from the bite. Her terror mutated to shame and relief.
John swept in, shoving Tom so hard that he landed with a thump against the table. The bottles toppled in a tinkle of broken glass. John scooped up Tillie into his arms like she weighed no more than a child. She hid her face in his shoulder as he strode out of the house, banging through the front door and leaving it agape as he went to the carriage waiting outside. Her carriage.
He placed her gently inside, climbed in, and slapped the front of the carriage wall. It jolted forward.
“How . . . how did you find me here?”
“Your friend Hazel came to us. She said that you had left the doctor’s house to go home alone, and as that is exactly what befell your sister before she died, your mother panicked and called for me to find you. We looked through the streets between there and home and in the park as well. And then it occurred to me that perhaps you’d never left the doctor’s house. When no one answered, I thought it odd because I could hear a voice inside. A woman’s voice, in distress.”
“I don’t know how—I know, but I didn’t think—I’m so sorry! I’m an absolute fool.” Her hands clasped her arms as she sobbed. “I . . . I can’t believe Tom . . . what will Mama think?”
“You can’t even breathe. Here, drink this.” John handed her a small green bottle of spirits, and she drank it. It was bitter and strong and reeked of licorice.
“Oh God. What is this?” She held the bottle away to read the label. “Absinthe? Why on earth do you have this?”
John didn’t answer. “Drink it,” he said.
“Why do you have absinthe with you?” Tillie shrieked.
“You don’t want to know.” He looked out the window. “Drink it, and you’ll feel better. It would be best if I didn’t return you to your mother in absolute hysterics.”
When she protested, John put a hand on her neck, and the gesture was both repelling and terrifying. His fingertips were over the most tender areas of her neck. Press but a little, and she would lose consciousness.
“Drink it, Mathilda.” He spoke in such a commanding tone that she took one more mouthful of the bitter spirit, forcing it down. She was already so drowsy she could barely open her eyes. The last injection of morphine that Tom had given her might have been big enough to fell a bear.
Unconsciousness was coming quickly. For all she knew, John could be delivering her straight to a fresh grave at Woodlawn Cemetery.
Right next to Lucy’s.
CHAPTER 21
We seem to be drifting into unknown places and unknown ways.
—Jonathan Harker
There was a terrible smell.
A combination of old rose perfume rotting together with a faint scent of stomach acid. Someone had vomited recently and covered it up with scent.
It took a monumental effort for Tillie to open her eyes. Every sinew of her body felt like the foundations of a building—unmovable, perhaps, for centuries. She forced herself up on her elbows and looked around her room.
It wasn’t her room.
She was lying on a narrow bed, neatly made with brown blankets and a slightly musty pillow. The room was tiny and wallpapered with faded yellow flowers. A trunk had been placed near the door. She recognized a dress of hers folded neatly on the top. A window near the bed had its curtain drawn. Tillie shuffled to it, pushed the fabric aside, and looked outside.
It was midday, wherever she was. On the small street outside, birds
chirped merrily on a cherry tree. Across the street was a beautiful home, three levels with a pretty veranda skirting its main floor. A line of men waited to enter its front door. Some were barely twenty years old, others nearing seventy. Some were wealthy, some shabbily dressed. One of them was staggering away, and several others reeled him back to the queue. A couple walking down the street made a wide berth to pass the house. A group of schoolchildren laughed on the veranda, on tiptoes peeping through the windows to watch whatever spectacle occurred within. One girl grinned and pointed at her friend.
“Take your dope! Or you’ll get the shot!” The friend screeched in mock fear, and they chased each other around the back of the house.
“Where am I?” Tillie croaked. She was still wearing the dress she had worn when she had been found in Tom’s room.
Tom’s room. Tom. Her stomach lurched with nausea. John O’Toole had rescued her and then plied her with absinthe. Where was John now? He needed to explain why he’d forced her to drink that awful stuff. Where had he taken her? She put her hands to her face.
What had happened? Why was she here?
There was a gentle knock on the door. It opened to reveal an older lady with gray-and-brown hair. She closed the door; in her hand she held a glass bottle filled with a brownish liquid. A spoon appeared from the depths of her apron pocket.
“Well! Good day to you, Miss Pembroke. I am Mrs. Ricker, the manager of the boardinghouse for women.”
“Mrs. Ricker?” Tillie shivered, and her stomach lurched again. She sat unsteadily back down onto the edge of the bed. “Where am I?”
“Why, you are in White Plains, New York. At the Keeley Institute. We are here to rid you of your dreaded morphine habit, my dear.”
“But how did I . . . how long must I be here?”
“Four weeks.”
“According to whom?” Tillie said, her voice rising.
“Your good family has paid one hundred dollars in advance for your four-week treatment. You will get good, plain food. Plenty of rest. You must drink Keeley’s Tonic every two hours while awake, and Dr. Millspaugh will be here to administer your shot four times a day.” She smiled merrily. “You needn’t wait in line with the men. With our ladies, we are far more discreet to protect you and your privacy.”
Mrs. Ricker unstoppered the bottle, poured out a teaspoon, and mixed it in a glass of water from a pitcher on a very plain bureau. She offered the pale-amber liquid to Tillie. “Drink this.”
“No.”
“You won’t get better if you do not. And your belly will gripe until you do.”
Tillie’s shoulders sank. She reached for the glass and sniffed it. It smelled like herbs and a touch of alcohol. It was bitter, and she drank it all down.
“Very good. Dr. Millspaugh will be here shortly for your injection.”
“What injection?”
“Why, our Gold Cure, of course! Bichloride of gold. It’ll make you forget all about that morphine.” She stood and took the bottle with her. “Are you also a slave to the drink, dear?”
“Good God, no,” Tillie said.
“Well, if you are and you aren’t being truthful, we have whiskey available if you are feeling particularly wretched.” She smiled again. “Your family didn’t provide a maid, so you’ll have to attend to yourself and come downstairs for your meal. I shall see you soon.”
She shut the door and was gone. Tillie dressed in fresh clothing, but her body felt sore everywhere. Inside the little trunk was nothing to write upon, no jewelry, no perfume, which meant, of course, no morphine bottle. What had happened to the article she had written? Had Ian received her letter?
She was so angry at herself. If she had just drawn up her own morphine, she wouldn’t have become intoxicated with too much. She had had no idea that Tom was so much stronger than he seemed. She had always considered him like a child—nothing of immediate danger to her.
Now, she thought—could he have killed Lucy? He had sickened Tillie with morphine and offered spirits. Perhaps he had offered Lucy absinthe and made her senseless. But how had he gotten her from there to the park? He didn’t seem healthy enough to do that. And what about Albert Weber? And that other girl?
A child’s scream of laughter drew her to the window.
“Drink your dope! Drink it, drink it!” A little girl in a brown wincey dress was thrusting an empty Keeley’s Tonic bottle upon a rag doll she’d pinned to the grass. She stopped when a dark-haired gentleman with a small doctor’s bag walked up to the front of the house. When he disappeared, the girl hollered, “Catspaw is here!”
Tillie sighed. How had she gotten here? And more importantly, how could she get out?
A knock on the door made her stand up abruptly. The same man from outside walked in her room and set his black leather bag on the bureau. He had oily black hair, a rosy nose, and tiny dark eyes. His person was thin and proper, but something about his expression immediately put Tillie on her guard.
“I am Dr. Millspaugh.” (Catspaw, Tillie said to herself.) “I’m here for your injection.”
“What’s in it?”
“Bichloride of gold, our special proprietary treatment. It shall not be so foreign to you once you are used to the schedule. Nothing to be afraid of.” He took out a syringe, then withdrew three different bottles with tinted liquids inside. Red, clear, blue. He took the red one and drew up a portion into the syringe. “May I see your arm, please? Please push up your sleeve, Miss Pembroke.”
Tillie did as she was told. If there was any chance this would make her feel better, or at least as good as the morphine did, then she would try it. Dr. Millspaugh readied the needle. Tillie could have sworn she saw streaks of someone else’s dried blood. She opened her mouth to protest, but the thick needle punctured her skin.
“Oww.”
It hurt worse when he pushed the medicine in. Without wiping off the needle, Dr. Millspaugh put the syringe back in his bag with the other bottles.
“I shall see you every day at eight in the morning, noon, five in the afternoon, and seven thirty in the evening. One hour later on Sundays.” He started to leave, then popped his head back through the doorway. His mouth unkinked from a frown to a flat line. “Oh, and congratulations on your publication, Miss Pembroke.”
Though she asked everyone she saw, no one gave her any further information on “your publication,” as Dr. Millspaugh had called it. Tillie stopped asking, thinking it was more dream than truth.
The first two days passed in one long monotonous blur. She was not allowed outside, and Mrs. Ricker guarded the stairs to check any attempt at escape. Tillie’s schedule was painfully repetitive.
Wake up, receive shot.
Drink the tonic.
Breakfast of bread and milk.
Drink the tonic. Another shot.
Lunch of boiled chicken and bread.
More tonic.
Supper of overcooked, unseasoned white fish, consommé, and a dish of vegetables so bland it made Tillie want to cry.
Tonic. Shot.
Bedtime.
Repeat.
On the second day, because she had been so utterly bored, she’d called Mrs. Ricker to her room and asked for some whiskey, for her “nerves.” Mrs. Ricker had complied all too readily and poured out a jigger of alcohol, which was supposed to help the drunkards from having too severe a time in their first days.
It had tasted foul, like putrid gutter water in medicinal form. Within fifteen minutes, Tillie had been vomiting like a fireman’s hose. Mrs. Ricker had smiled sweetly later and asked if she wanted more whiskey. Tillie had said no.
By the third day, she had memorized the pattern of yellow vines on her wallpaper. She grew used to the pain of the large needle and the woozy feeling that the tonics left in her. True, her cravings for morphine had settled quite a bit. Perhaps there really was something to Keeley’s Tonic. But Tillie also knew what morphine felt like. It caressed her from within her veins, and when it was gone, her body seemed to crumple upon
itself in want. She suspected that Keeley’s shots contained some small amount of morphine. Gold? Who knew. The liquid didn’t sparkle like gold. How was she expected to get over her habit by using morphine all the time?
She learned that there was another “morphine fiend” in the lady’s boardinghouse. Only one. Apparently it was a wealthy woman from the Continent who lived in New York with her sister. She had spent every day in her room for the last year, taking her injections and hardly eating, until her sister had brought her to White Plains to stop using the stuff. The other two ladies in the house were trying to stop their liquor habit. One had managed to escape after lunch and was seen staggering blindly in the center of town and was brought back immediately.
Because of her good behavior, Tillie was allowed visitors. She expected her mother to arrive or possibly Ada. But the first person to show up was James.
Mrs. Ricker accompanied her to the large parlor at the institute across the street. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, so none of the men were lined up for their injections. James was shown in.
“Tillie. You are looking well!” James said. He grasped her hands in his and kissed her cheek. It was an effort not to act as if she’d been kissed by a dead fish. He looked at her hand, then glanced at her, concerned.
“They took away my jewelry. No ornaments for drunks,” she lied. She didn’t want to say she hadn’t been wearing it for days.
“You’re not a drunk,” he said quietly. A maid came by and poured weak tea for the both of them. “You just need rest.”
“I suppose. I’m certainly getting inundated with restfulness here.” She paused. “I heard my article was published. Did you bring me a copy?”
“Of course not.” James lit a cigarette, and Tillie inclined toward the smoke. He handed it to her and lit another. Smoking was allowed at Keeley’s. She actually loathed the habit, but anything to break up the tedious ennui was worth burning out her insides. “Your mother and grandmother,” James said between puffs, “are understandably furious.”