Mason clears his throat, one eyebrow cocked at my delay.
“I shall not tell you my name. It will spoil the mystery.”
His smiles, and my breath abandons my chest.
“I assure you, Twenty-Nine, you are naught but mystery.”
When it is clear I am not going to budge, he steps out into the hallway.
My heartbeat quickens. “What are you up to?”
Mason looks up and down the corridor. When he is apparently satisfied no more staff roam the halls, he reaches inside his white coat to produce a bottle.
I shoot to stand, backing away, fear flushing my cheeks. “I shall not drink it. I shall scream.”
I have heard the stories—orderlies drugging patients, having their way with them.
Horror colors his features, his mouth twisting. He casts the bottle to the bed, his hands raised palms up.
“It’s not a tonic. It’s … ” He blushes a violent red from the top of his five o’clock shadow to his hairline. “Your hair. Forgive me, but your hair is beautiful. I have never seen such a shade on so young a woman.”
I self-consciously twist my snowflake-colored locks around my fingers. Stark white.
“And I have seen what passes for soap here. And you were in that wretched, fetid dunk tank for so long. I … fear you will catch ill.”
He is right, of course. The soap is horrid, coarse and lumpy without any scent. I smell the nurses and have often longed to possess what they take so readily for granted.
“It is shampoo. From the town. I … ” He opens his mouth as if to say something else, but shuts it, nodding and giving a little formal bow. “I will take my leave. I do hope you enjoy it.”
And before I might comment, he is gone. For a moment I stand, staring at it, waiting for it to disappear, a mirage on the desert of my threadbare covers, a figment of my longing imagination. But it remains, hard and solid in a crystal-stoppered container, snuggled into my bed sheets. My shaking fingers pluck it from the bed.
Tears bead, and I press it to my chest, carefully removing the stoppered lid.
The smell of summer hits my nostrils—visions of violets in bloom and the one bit of beauty this place affords: Soothing Hill’s full, luxuriant gardens. Used to allay the guilt of well-to-do families as they drop off their problem child, spouse, or lover. Always they say it is temporary. Always it is permanent.
We are the forgotten.
A kindness. I have never known a kindness. My heart soars, but quickly plummets. This is very dear. Thievery is a way of life inside the walls.
I must hide it.
I walk into the hall, to be sure I am not watched, then return to the wall behind my bed.
I found the peculiarity many years prior—when I was a lass of about ten. A large clump of stones, hewn together, readily pops from my wall to reveal a wooden hidey-hole beneath.
It contains my few meager treasures: a china doll from when I was very small; a singular earring dear, eccentric Mrs. Balfe gave me; an expensive pen and parchment—gifted in secret by Dr. Grayjoy, for my compositions. A bundle of rags, for my secret cat’s bed.
I just manage to slide my bed back into place when I hear the footsteps.
I stand, just in time to see Big Hugh—a very gruff, very awful orderly—arrive at my door, and praise Providence said cat is nowhere in sight.
I back against the wall and stand rigid. He eyes me, picking up my tray, and is gone without a word.
But I … I am … happy. The word and feeling are so unfamiliar that I close my eyes and let it wash over me, relishing every skipped beat of my heart. I wish upon all wishes I could bottle this feeling and slip it inside the stoppered treasure behind my wall.
What a tremendous day. I shall play my music and I have had a kindness. And perhaps … this man … Could a man see me for more than just … Twenty-Nine? My hope slams closed. I flinch.
“No. Do not think such. It is not for the likes of you.”
I shall take what the day provides and relish it.
Smoothing my work dress, I stride into the corridor, trying to mask the spring in my step.
Grayjoy
“Gentlemen, this is the future.” Frost stands before the boardroom. Behind him, an illustration of two brains—one canine, one human.
“I fail to see how this shall impact our more intractable patients, Dr. Frost,” dares Dr. Gentile, his white eyebrows disappearing beneath a thick shock of equally frosted hair. He is the only physick, or board member, for that matter, to ever question Frost.
I allow my eyes to rove around the table. Three men, all impeccably dressed, with identical pencil-moustaches, identical cowardices, cower to Frost’s every whim.
The board are philanthropists, with only a passing interest as to whether the asylum survives or perishes. More than one is using it to further his political agenda, showing him to be a “man of the people.” Of late, however, with the most recent disappearance of Lily, they are finally listening to Gentile’s dissenting voice, and my own.
“I am reluctant to begin any new treatments. Lily’s family was not estranged. They were livid that their only child first became catatonic and then disappeared altogether. They have threatened to go to the authorities, to close the asylum,” Gentile says, calmly, as if discussing the weather.
I bristle, staring at Frost. I am younger, smarter, and more restrained. Many balk at my silver-spooned upbringing—hold it against me—but no one understands these patients as I do. Especially not this untethered, whirling dervish—
“The science comes from our German colleague, Friedrich Goltz.” Frost taps the illustration of the canine brain, his long fingers lingering over the pre-frontal cortex. “Once Friedrich performed his ablations on the dogs, they became docile, with no trace of their previous violent tendencies.”
Gentile’s wise, contemplative gaze flicks to me and away. It is but a second, but I grasp its meaning—
Perhaps Frost himself might benefit from ablation.
Last fortnight, we had to forcibly drag him off a young physick for deviating from his treatment plan. I would smile, were the situation none so grave.
Gentile speaks up. “Surely there is risk? Not to discount what Herr Goltz has proposed, but I, for one, would like more evidence. What about your visitation to Dr. Burkhardt in Prefargier?”
I lean forward. Frost had only just returned from a European tour, to study ablations—first in Germany, then to Switzerland, where Dr. Burkhardt has been pioneering the procedure on his own patients.
“As of today, they are all docile. All traces of aggression removed from their persona.”
His eyes gleam with mania. I recognize it, but have no power over the board.
I swallow. “I would like to see the canines, and the results, prior to allowing it to be performed upon my own patients.” On Jane, you mean.
My face heats. I must rid myself of this obsession. She is a patient. It is not possible. Not ever. I imagine the expressions of my highborn family as I proclaim my infatuation and nearly shudder.
Frost’s gaze narrows, and his face flushes. Every man around the large table shifts their attention. Gentile’s lips press together, but we are of one mind when it comes to Frost.
“Fine, Dr. Grayjoy. If all of your years of experience require it, I shall permit you to see them.” His voice drips with sarcasm. Any attempts to question his judgment result in mockery or outright aggression.
“Fine. I shall wait for your word, then.”
Gentile presses his gnarled hands to the table. “Gentlemen, our meeting is adjourned.“
Jane
I nearly glide down the hallway as I return from the recital room. It is the highlight of my week, to play with other musicians. At times, they even bring in professionals from the local orchestra.
“Twenty-Nine. Twenty-Nine. T-t-t-twenty-Nine.” I sidestep the younger woman and press myself against the wall as she moves closer, so
close I smell the cloying stench of her breath on my face.
I gently lay my hands on her shoulders and push her back. “Twenty-One. How are you today?”
I slip past her, not waiting for a response. She is unable to formulate one.
It has been a major breakthrough that after two years she now is able to place numbers with faces.
No sign of Alexander. No sign of Big Hugh. This may turn out to be the best day in a fortnight.
I smile as I push open the door to Twenty’s room and gently close it behind me.
The sunlight streams in through the dirty window to shimmer off the graying strands in her hair. She has been here as long as I. Her wooden wheeled chair has seen better days, but the wear and tear is from use. I often push her outside, through the topiary maze.
She too was abandoned, but by husband, not by parents.
At two score, a mysterious illness left her legs paralytic. Her well-to-do husband, a politician, could not be bothered with such a cumbersome wife.
I was very young but shall never forget her voice as she told me, “Left me for dead, he did. I had no family. I am barren, gave him no children. So he dropped me off and proceeded to wed once again.” She sighed heavily, reaching out to touch my cheek. “I suppose I should be happy he still pays for my room and board. Otherwise, I should be out on the street.”
I step on a loose board and it creaks, and her head snaps up. “Come around to the front, Twenty-Nine. My neck is powerful sore today, so I can’t yank it round to see ya.”
I walk to the window seat and sit, allowing the warm sun to hit my back.
I stretch my arms high, and her eyebrows rise. “You look like the cat who swallowed a nest of canaries. Have you been playing, then?”
She nods to my violin, hanging loosely from my right hand.
“Yes … but something has happened. Something wonderful.”
She laughs, showing yellowed, cracking teeth. “Here? Something wonderful. This I must hear.”
I lean forward and reach inside my pocket. “Close your eyes.”
She rolls her eyes but complies.
I unstopper the crystal bottle and wave it once beneath her crooked nose.
She smiles. “What is that scent? Have you brought me a bouquet of your dried lavender? Funny, I didn’t see it when you came in.”
Her eyes flutter open. Once dark brown, a milky shadow progresses across them, dimming her sight.
I thrust the bottle forward for her to see.
Her white eyebrows pull together. “Where did you get that?”
“A present.”
“A present?” Worry pinches her mouth. “What did you have to do for that present?”
My face instantly heats. “Nothing. It isn’t like that.” Anger flickers. “Why … am I so very horrible that I might never ever know a kindness?”
Her hands shoot out, beckoning me to her. “Do not be ridiculous. But it is Soothing Hills, my love. Everything here comes with a price tag.”
I shake my head. “Not this time.”
Half of her mouth pulls up with skepticism. “I do not suppose you shall tell me who bestowed this treasure upon you?”
I shake my head. “Not a chance.” I suddenly wish I would not have told her and hide it back into the folds of my skirts. “Would you like me to play for you?”
She cocks her head. “That is an obvious attempt at subterfuge, but … of course.”
I feel the bottle, heavy in my skirts. “After … we shall wash your hair.”
Her old face puckers, her bottom lip trembling. “I couldn’t possibly. It is too dear. It is a gift—”
I take her hand in mine. “You shall. I shall keep some for me as well. So first the music, then the hair.”
I begin to play Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart—her favorite piece no less—and for the next half hour, we speak no more of presents and admirers, allowing Herr Mozart’s feelings to speak for us both.
Jules
“You may empty the chamber pots in the morning and feed the patients at lunchtime. If you wish to return to Soothing Hills, you must follow your instructions to the letter. Just because your father is an esteemed physician here does not mean you shall be granted liberties. Understand, Jules?” Nurse Spare’s beady eyes narrow.
“Yes, mum. I understand.”
I stand behind the rolling medicinal cart, drinking in every minute detail that is Ward 4.
All the wards have the same configuration: a large common room at the entrance, with sofas and chairs, where patients may paint, or sketch, or read. And accept their medications, the ones who are of the mind to remember their medicinals. To the others, the forgetfuls, we deliver their reorienting pills and tinctures to them. The hallways have five rooms on either side, with varying levels of restrictions.
For the docile, open doors that swing wide.
For the violent—bars and peepholes.
“Whatever are those? Why are the cots shaped like a rocker on the bottom?”
Nurse Spare’s beady eyes roll. “Apparently you have not been to Wards Five and up.”
My mind retraces my steps, and the rhythmic sound immediately comes to mind. “They rock while lying down, then?”
“Some of them are incapable of being still. So when strapped to the plinth, if they are able to manage the rocking motion, it calms their savage souls.”
I bristle. None here are savages. Unfortunate. Ill, even. But not savages. My face colors with the effort of not telling her so. “Yes, Nurse Sally.”
The nurse’s eyes rove over me, and I self-consciously pat my bun to be assured all is in place. It is, so I shift nervously, wondering why I am the target of her scrutiny.
The older woman’s expression is one of near fear, as if she has seen a long-dead relative or the like. She shakes her head, and her face hardens to its normal faux-iceberg façade.
“I will return in one hour to collect you.”
A scream echoes from a nearby hallway, and gooseflesh blazes a trail beneath my sleeves. Her cold eyes flick toward it and then narrow.
Her lined face puckers. “This place is not a ball, nor a salon, Miss Frost. It can be dangerous.” Her eyes rove to my neck, and her fingers slip beneath a necklace, barely visible beneath my uniform. “You see this?” She gives it a sharp tug, and I feel the burn in a circle about my neck. “Strangulation device. Take it off. Have you given a thought as to why your hair is in a bun? Why everyone’s hair is piled upon their heads?”
I shake my head, a cold chill licking my neck.
“So it cannot be ripped from your skull. Last month, a nurse who was late for her shift arrived with it down about her shoulders. In two minutes, they took hold of her hair and shut it in the door—left her to dangle from her roots, screaming till an orderly interceded. Heed my words, girl.”
And she is gone in a flutter of white. A great, wrinkly, flapping bird of prey.
My eyes trail after her receding form. I pull gaze away and take a deep breath to assess the ward.
I walk forward, the cart rumbling before me, intent on delivering my mind-altering tinctures of bliss. In moments, I have delivered my first medicinal and head back to the hall, walking toward the end. The very last room.
I arrive at the first door, which has a number on it.
The patient’s identification numbers, I have been told. The nurses and physicians refer to the occupants by number rather than name so as to maintain a professional distance.
Except for Ward One. Here, the wealthy or the almost-ready-for-discharge are afforded luxuries unheard of to the others—such as rich meals, preparation classes to re-enter society, and the use of their given names. Nurse Sally says precious few regain their senses to return to society at large.
I catch a whiff of urine from a nearby chamber pot. “They aren’t going to clean themselves,” I murmur.
I walk into room Twenty-Nine, squaring my shoulders. I head toward the chamber p
ot, but I halt in my tracks, my mouth gaping.
Drawings litter one side of this room from ceiling to floor. After a moment’s consideration, I decide they seem to chronicle a life in sketches. They halt directly at the center, as if respecting the other patient’s wall space and taste. The images first are childish, immature, but still inspired. I see the latent talent in the scribbles. Then the images grow greater and greater, assumedly with each passing year, if the tiny signature at the bottom is an indication.
No name. Only a number. 29.
My eyes trail to the ones closest to the door, which are truly magnificent. Watercolors of every season—fall in gold, green, and red; spring in a multitude of wildflowers; summer in a tumult of green, a massive field as a cat stalks through tall grass. And winter. Many, many scenes of winter. They somehow convey sadness and hope and the mind directing every stroke of the brush.
Sunrises, sunsets. Children frolicking with pups.
A gray, striped cat, staring out the window, the shadings so perfect I can almost feel the texture of his fur beneath my hands.
Snow on the spires of the sanatorium, its usually foreboding façade made breathtaking by the black and white contrast, the candlelit windows, and the swirling crystal flakes around the panes.
And …
Gooseflesh rips up my arms. Ravens. Their pointy beaks split wide to allow a cascade of notes fall. As if their birdsong has been replaced with music. I begin to hum the tune, but another picture calls.
My heartbeat goes wild as I rush to stare at a very small picture, partially hidden amongst the collage of immature drawings.
A beautiful woman, with long-flowing hair, her fingers poised on the strings of a cello. Three small girls gather round her—no faces, merely the backs of their heads. Two with dark brown hair, one with a deep, flowing auburn.
I shake my head, feeling the tears bead. A flicker of recognition. “What? It cannot be.”
That is silly. A lonely girl’s longing for friendship.
“Jules! Where are you, girl?” Nurse Sally’s voice echoes down the hall, clanging in time with her approaching boot falls.
The Requiem Red Page 3