The Spirit Room

by Paul, Marschel

  She picked up the papers. “Thank you for guiding me again, Anna. You are a dear friend.”

  “I love seeing what comes of these communications.”

  “They aren’t enough, though. They aren’t helping me find my sisters. Do you think Mrs. Fielding will ever let me back into her spirit circles?” Izzie asked.

  Anna winced. “Not anytime soon, I’m afraid.”

  They walked together into the social parlor. Anna was right. Izzie had been a fool to embarrass her mentor that way. The morning after the Grand Circle, when Mrs. Fielding had calmed down, she told Izzie she was still fond of her, that Izzie was welcome in her home and could continue to look for her sisters, but she was absolutely not welcome in her spirit circles.

  At least she wouldn’t be thrown out onto the street, which she probably deserved. If Izzie stayed, Mrs. Fielding said she would expect Izzie to assist her in setting up furniture, starting the fire, keeping their supplies in order, and writing correspondence. But finally, she’d said, “My reputation is severely compromised and I cannot be publicly associated with you in the Spiritualist community. I will not waver on this.”

  Anna was chattering on about Izzie’s description of the gray cat in her trance letter and how often animals appeared in communications while she led Izzie out to the front foyer. Anna began looking through the morning mail.

  There was a knock at the front door and Izzie strode over to answer it. It was an errand boy, short and tired looking with circles under his eyes. He held out a large, flat package addressed to Mrs. Isabelle MacAdams. Izzie took it from him, brought it to the table where Anna stood, and set it down.

  “What is it?” Anna grinned.

  Izzie untied the brown string and unfolded the wrapping. It was the charcoal drawing of the ship in the storm done by the painting medium at the Grand Circle. Her heart pinched a little remembering that awful day—that day she had lost so much hope.

  She read the note. “I thought you would like to have this. Yours truly, Mrs. Kendall, Boston, Massachusetts.” Izzie immediately folded the paper back over the drawing and tied the string.

  “There’s a letter from Mac here.” Anna waved an envelope at Izzie.

  Mac. Her first letter since he’d gone away angry. She couldn’t face reading it just then. She took it from Anna and slid it into her dress pocket.

  “I’ll read it later. I am going out now. I’m going searching at a few assignation houses today. Tell Mrs. Fielding I’ll be back to set up for the circle tonight, would you?”

  Izzie had several addresses that were all the way down near City Hall Park. By the time she got down there, her legs felt heavy and she decided to sit on a bench in the park for a while before visiting the houses.

  She found a spot in the sun and settled down. In the flowerbeds, yellow and white narcissus were in bloom. She thought about Mrs. Purcell and her gardens and wondered who was tending them this spring. Three girls tossed peanuts at a cluster of pigeons nearby. The sun was sweet and warm on her face. Tilting her head back and closing her eyes a moment, she soaked it in.

  The three little girls screeched in unison, causing the pigeons to gurgle and flutter up and away. Suddenly she remembered Mac’s letter and pulled it from her pocket.

  My Dearest Izzie,

  Good news! You received a letter from your brother Billy and I took the liberty of reading it. He has found employment on a merchant ship, a clipper, and has sailed for China to bring back tea and silk and Chinese laborers. The letter was sent from San Francisco. He asked after Clara and Euphora. It seems he believes they are still in Geneva. His letter reveals no knowledge of anything that occurred since he ran away, so we can presume there has been no correspondence with either sister.

  The Upper Falls Water-Cure is attracting more customers and patients every day. Last week the Rochester Advertiser and Union carried a story about me and the new establishment. People have begun to come by in their carriages to visit. I give them tours of the building and the treatment rooms, but am only able to ask them to imagine what the gardens and walkways will be like when they are planted later. The first few patients have been quite satisfied and promise to return. As I write this, a few are down the hall with two aides getting pummeled by the douche bath.

  I am proud, of course, but I miss you terribly. I had hoped we would share this moment, that it would be our moment, not just mine.

  More importantly, I wish to tell you that I have taken it upon myself to understand what I can of Spiritualism so that I might understand your predicament better, my dear. I have called upon a number of well-regarded citizens in the community, Isaac and Mary Post, Mr. G.B. Stebbins, and a Mrs. Edgeworth, among others. They all believe that the voices that disturbed so many of your nights were spirits and that you must be a very powerful medium because the spirits were calling you as opposed to your calling them. Mr. Stebbins told me that the voices were a natural demonstration of your gift and that every medium must learn to exploit her or his gift in their own unique way.

  In truthfulness, I cannot say I believe all this as irrefutable fact. I do, however, believe these are fine people and they have given me much to consider late at night when I have longed for you.

  I want you to come home to me. I want you to be my wife again. If you wish to practice Spiritualism, I will accept it. If you wish to have children, I will welcome them into my heart. Anything you want to do will be acceptable to me just as long as you are my wife here by my side. And should your sisters or brother appear here on our doorstep, they are welcome too. I have had many long, lonely hours to think all this through. I would give you anything in the world if you will only come home.

  I await your answer to my plea.

  Your devoted husband,

  Mac

  Yes. Yes was the answer that she heard inside herself. She ran her fingers over his handwriting on the letter. She imagined him sitting at his big oak desk in his office writing to her. She saw him pacing the halls of the Upper Falls Water-Cure, training the aides in the water techniques, meeting the inquisitive visitors and giving them tours. She saw him alone at night in their quarters on the third floor. She held the letter to her nose and remembered his lemon smell, his thick wavy hair, the rough feel of his long bushy sideburns on her face. She thought of the way he touched his scar when he was nervous, the way his dense eyebrows rose when he delighted in something new, and the time he sat with his back to her in front of the fire when she was afraid to tell him about the voices. And what a relief to know of Billy. China. Lawks. Such an adventure for a young man.

  Two of the little squealing girls chased the third past Izzie. Izzie rose and gazed after them tearing through the park. She felt it strongly in that moment. She wanted to go home to Mac. She wanted to be with him. She strode toward the park entrance. It was time to go home. It was past time. It was spring. She could plant flowers as well as the vegetable gardens for the kitchen. It wasn’t too late. And she could wait for Clara and Euphora there, with him. She would wait with him, work with him, and love him.

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  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Anna and the Fieldings escorted Izzie to the Hudson River Railroad depot on Thirty-first Street and Eleventh. Several train engines, ready for departure spewed and hissed, sending steam into the air.

  “You’ll find your sisters one day. I am sure of it.” Roland kissed Izzie’s hand.

  Mrs. Fielding looked Izzie in the eye and clasped her shoulders. “I still believe you will be a great medium, Isabelle. When you learn to be disciplined, your greatness will shine forth. The spirits are your champions.” She kissed Izzie on the forehead.

  Then Anna held Izzie close for a long moment and whispered in her ear, “I will miss you more than you know. We will be friends forever.”

  “I’ll write you … but not trance letters,” Izzie laughed.

  She felt Anna’s body jiggle in laughter. With carpetbag in one hand and her rolled up ship drawing in the other, Izzie boarded the train. When she too
k a seat, she watched her three friends wave farewell to her as the train pulled away, their eyes full of sadness. Her heart was heavy as well. She was leaving her first true friends and deserting her sisters all at once.

  As the train forged along the rails through towns, past green farms and spring forests budding with young pale green leaves, her grief would sometimes let go of her a little as she started to look ahead to her new life with Mac, a second beginning with him. During the day-long journey, she lurched back and forth between feeling miserable about giving up on finding her sisters and leaving Anna and the Fieldings and then feeling excited about returning to Mac. By the time she arrived at the New York Central Station at Mill Street in Rochester, she was tired out. She hired a hack and told the driver to take her to the new Upper Falls Water-Cure on North St. Paul Street.

  As the cab jostled onto North St. Paul in the dark, she breathed in the smell of the Genesee River and wondered if Mac had received the wire telling him she was on the way home. Roland had promised to send it right after her train departed New York City.

  When she was standing at the front door with her carpetbag, she considered ringing the bell, but then decided if this was to be her home, she shouldn’t ring to enter. She pushed one of the double doors open and stepped inside.

  A young man in transit, dressed in a short black jacket and gray trousers, stopped upon seeing her and smiled. “Good evening, ma’am. Are we expecting you? Do you have a reservation?”

  “I’m Mrs. MacAdams. Is my husband here?”

  “Oh, Mrs. MacAdams. I apologize. Yes. Yes. Please come in.” He took her bag and the drawing from her hands. “He’s dining with Governor Morgan. Follow me.” He set off down the hall.

  The neat man quickly clipped away from her carrying her things. The governor? Mac was dining with the Governor of New York?

  The young man, sensing that Izzie wasn’t following, skidded and came back toward her. “Please. This way.” He gestured with his free hand. The sound of forks clinking against dishware and the smell of bread and cooked tomatoes sent rumbles through her empty stomach. The Governor. Would Mac want to see her now?

  “I can wait in his office.” Izzie turned around and headed for Mac’s office in the opposite direction.

  The young man’s footsteps scuffled behind her. When he had followed her into the office, he set down the carpetbag and drawing. “I’ll tell him you are here.”

  “I can wait until he is finished with the Governor, if he likes. I’ll be content here by the fire or I can go up to our quarters.”

  After he left, Izzie glanced around at Mac’s world, his desk full of papers, correspondence, and journals. He had a bookcase with glass doors full of his medical and other books, and several framed pictures she had never seen before. There was a print of a horse perched on the fireplace mantel. Alongside it was a drawing of the Upper Falls Water-Cure building rendered with additions and gardens that didn’t exist yet, and hanging on the southerly wall was a sketch depicting a couple looking over Rochester’s thundering, swirling Lower Falls. She walked over to the desk and touched the back of his chair. She imagined Mac sitting there every day, swiveling to greet patients and aides, reading, writing, ruminating as he stared at his fire. She stroked the smooth wood on the chair arm, then sat.

  “Izzie!” Mac rushed through the door and across the room to her.

  “Mac!” She jumped up from the desk and fell into his embrace.

  He felt solid and warm.

  “I got the telegram an hour ago. Thank goodness you are here.” He was grinning ear to ear.

  “What about the Governor? Must you go back to him now?”

  He untied her bonnet, removed it, and dropped it on the desk, then ran his hand gently over her hair. “I’ll see him in the morning. He’s here for several days. It’s you I want to see now.” He took her shoulders in his hands and kissed her on the mouth.

  Bursting inside, she clasped her hands around the back of his neck and pushed herself against him. His lips were dry and sweet. His mustache tickled the edges of her mouth.

  In a moment, she tore herself away. She wanted to see him, his long narrow face, the dear scar on his chin, his brown eyes smiling at her.

  “Will you show me our new home upstairs?”

  “There’s something else I want to show you first.” He offered her his hand and led her out into the hallway.

  Even the hallway was lovely with its dark wood and pretty brown and navy blue rugs leading down the center of the building. It was comfortable, like a large home. He probably wanted to show her the dining room with guests enjoying their meal, or the treatment rooms or the gymnasium, which had not been completed when she left.

  She stopped at the tall double doors of the small parlor across the hall from his office and peered in. Two women dressed in American Costumes were sitting on a red sofa with cups and saucers in their laps.

  She whispered, “Are those the American Costumes I made?”

  Mac nodded. “This way.” He tugged at her hand and drew her along.

  “What are you going to show me? The treatment rooms?”

  “No. I have a surprise for you.” He stopped at a closed door just across from the staircase. “Here.” He pointed to gold lettering on the wood.

  She read the words. “Mrs. Isabelle MacAdams, Spiritualist.”

  “Mac, I’m still not sure I want to practice Spiritualism.”

  “It’s your room to do with as you please.” He turned the knob and shoved the door open. “You can have spirit circles in here or read literature, anything you want.”

  She stepped onto a crimson-and-black carpet. A gas chandelier lit the room and a fire crackled in a small fireplace. There was her rocking chair from the Corn Hill house and her marble-top side table and the lamp she had read and sewed by day and night. At the other end of the room, a small round table covered with a white cloth and surrounded by six ladder-back chairs stood in front of three wood bookcases with glass doors like the ones in Mac’s office. She walked over to the one that had books in it. They were her books.

  “I know you’ll fill at least three bookcases eventually, so I had them built for you.”

  She opened the glass cabinet door and reached in. She took out Leaves of Grass, Mac’s wedding present to her, and held it to her chest. She ran her fingertips over the other spines—red, green, brown, Flaubert, Fern, Melville, Stowe, Graham.

  “They’re here, all here.”

  “I want you to be happy here, to lead whatever life you want to lead.”

  “You’d allow me to practice Spiritualism in your Water-Cure Institute if I chose to?”

  He nodded. “I’ve learned a great deal while you’ve been away. I knew if you were ever to return to me and stay with me, I had to change my mind about many things.”

  She looked around the room. It felt familiar, as though it had always been her room, as though she had arranged every item in it for herself years before.

  Arms crossed over his chest, Mac stood grinning in the middle of the room. “The windows face east. You’ll have sun in the mornings.”

  “I have a drawing of a ship. I’ll have it framed and put it over the mantel.”

  “Perfect. Now, let me show you our home upstairs. I left Billy’s letter in our sitting room there for you.”

  Forty-Six

  AS THE COURTESAN HEROINE, blinded and scarred by the vitriol her madam had thrown at her face, was about to die lonely and broken, gloom settled into Clara’s heart. She read aloud slower and slower, trying to stop the inevitable conclusion of George Thompson’s book, The Gay Girls of New York. Her back ached against the metal rails of the bed’s headboard. Hannah and Abbie, in their chemises, sat with their backs against the wall and their legs underneath hers.

  Ever since Abbie had learned that Clara could read, she had brought her one novel after another filled with courtesans and madams and treachery. The books—written mostly by Ned Buntline, George Thompson, and George Foster—were tatt
ered, read over and over again by the girls at the parlor house. Even though Clara was getting tired of the stories, she loved the long, lovely afternoons lying about with her friends.

  A summer thunderstorm had been rumbling off and on all morning. Raindrops spattered and pinged against Clara’s windows. She didn’t want the heroine, Hannah Sherwood, with the same first name as her dearest friend, to die. Hell-fire, there were too many prostitutes dying in this story altogether.

  “I’m not going to read anymore.” She snapped the book shut with a thwack.

  “What do you mean? We’re almost at the end.” Abbie’s sweet eyes were moist, about to fill with full-fledged tears in honor of what would certainly be a tragic ending.

  Clara slapped the novel’s yellow cover. “She’s going to die. She’s going to die. Do you want her to die?”