The Requiem Red

by Brynn Chapman

  I snatch the paper from the wall and carefully fold it, hiding it in the pocket of my skirts, and whirl just in time to meet Sally’s flushed face.

  My face colors with guilt, and I walk toward her, praying she doesn’t notice.

  She is breathing heavily—as if the old crow has been running. That sight twitches my lips. It’s one that I would love to see. I picture a scrawny, flapping, flightless bird.

  “There has been a mistake. You are needed on Ward Six. Ward Four is, from this day forward, off-limits to you.” Her eyes dart around the room but then seem strangely satisfied.

  “What? Whatever for?”

  Her face colors, as if she has said too much. “I mean, we have enough staffing here. Your services are more needed on other floors.”

  She exhales, as if she has been holding her breath. Her bony finger juts toward the chamber pot. “Finish this one, quick-like, then off with you to six.”

  I curtsy, hurry to collect the pot, and risk one more glance back, trying to commit the drawings to memory.

  Jane

  “Wednesday, thy name be blessed,” I murmur quietly.

  I got word of it whence I sat for lunch. Whilst mired in the usual flingings of foodstuffs—I had, in fact, just ducked a flying treacle tart—a tiny new nurse arrived, bearing the news.

  “You are Twenty-Nine, correct?” the sweet-looking slip of a nurse requests.

  My heartbeat doubles despite her benign appearance. Being singled out is never advisable. Not here.

  I nod, carefully blotting the tiny dab of confection that has landed on my shoulder.

  She clears her throat, and formally squares her shoulders, “Patient Twenty-Nine, you are cordially invited to attend a tour of Ward 1.”

  My eyes widen as she thrusts the much-coveted, legendary silver-sheet into my sweaty palms. It was the formal invitation to Ward 1.

  No one may enter without one, the doctor’s official seal pressed in blood-red wax—like a passport to sanity. Ninety-five percent of patients at Soothing Hills shall never lay fingers to one.

  I stare at it, dumbfounded, afraid it may be a hallucination that will dissipate to mist should I move or breathe.

  “Hide it,” she chastises, hastily closing my shaking fingers around it. “Come down when your lunch is finished.”

  “Today?” I look down at my drab day dress—as grayish-green as the depressing walls that surround me. I have seen the comings and goings of the folk streaming in and out of that ward. Well-heeled ladies and gents—far, far from what is my daily institutional frock.

  “Oh, you needn’t worry. It is just a tour. If the need arises, we will find you appropriate clothing.”

  You mean if I can appear normal. Pass your tests.

  I open my mouth to reply, but already she is hurrying out of the dining amphitheater, her clipboard pressed primly against her chest.

  The lunch hour seems to stretch and elongate, as if the clock’s hands tick through an invisible quicksand as I stare fixedly, waiting. Unable to touch my food for the roiling anxiety in my guts.

  Finally, the hour arrives. I push out of my chair, waiting for one of the monitors to notice. I flick up the silver card to depart the cafeteria, and to my amazement, I am permitted to depart alone. No escort.

  The only other moments I roam free are fraught with peril and risk, in the dead of night as the asylum sleeps. But this embossed silver paper is like my ticket to another reality. One I have only read of … dreamed of.

  I am wholly breathless as I enter the final corridor leading to the elusive Ward One. I finger the magical silver ticket in my pocket, reassuring myself it is tangible, real.

  Most good fortune in my life disappears. Frost always sees to that. I learned early to hide any and all happiness from him, lest he suck it out like some detestable, good-will-swilling mosquito.

  The hallway seems to abnormally elongate as I draw close, and I shake my head, grinding my teeth, determined to appear completely in control. But the trembling rocks my body from crown to toe, and I place my hand on the cold brick walls to steady myself, breathing deeply till the swoon passes. I arrive at the door and hover outside, terrified to enter.

  My eyes flick to the bottom of the document, and I spy the official signatures.

  Grayjoy’s first, and Frost’s below it. Even his penmanship seems begrudging, as if the loops and scrawls scream in silent protest. My heart beats so fast and hard, I suck in more deep, steeling breaths, trying my best to calm it. Dr. Frost, obviously at the urging of Dr. Grayjoy, has granted me the status of entering for a trial—if the arguments over my fate, on which I have eavesdropped, are any indication.

  Suspicion heats my cheeks. He must have an ulterior motive.

  I find I care not. For the first time in my nineteen years, I shall experience something that is not Soothing Hills. To hear people address me by my given name, not my patient number.

  I knock. A hole in the door, fashioned like a small window, opens.

  “Ticket, please?” As if the woman is some surreal train conductor.

  She is older, with graying hair swept up into a fashionable bun.

  The ticket trembles in my hand as I flash it and quickly place it back into the hidden pocket within the folds of my skirt.

  The face disappears through the hole, and I stand, cradling my arms around my waist, trying not to weep.

  The throwing of a multitude of bolts. The door opens.

  My mind explodes with music; cello, violin, and oboe scream a layered march of freedom between my ears, the notes falling in a kaleidoscope of corresponding color across the musical bars. My digits twitch, fingering the invisible frets of the violin.

  “Come with me, dearest.” The same pretty young nurse appears at the door, her perceptive eyes instantly comprehending my anxious expression.

  She takes my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. Her nameplate proclaims her Nurse Ginny.

  My head spins with fear and anticipation as I fully expect to wake at any moment from this too-good-to-be-true late afternoon.

  Ginny shuffles me through the Ward One sitting area—overstuffed rose-colored wingback chairs and a copse of large, green potted ferns are reminiscent of photos of hotel lobbies I have seen in my hidden library’s books. Ornate wood scrollwork climbs up the steps and are adhered to the window frames. The resulting incoming sunlight is cut into geometric forms, cast onto the hardwood floor in beautiful streaks, reminding me of the topiary maze outside. I blink.

  On the other side of the room are plain windows.

  Windows. Real, honest-to-heaven glass, not a security bar in sight, to overlook the late-blooming botanical gardens. Clusters of lavender, which I have picked with my own hands and placed in my room, line the brick walls framing the garden. They stand straight and tall outside, like familiar purple friends awaiting my return. I stand on tiptoe and see stone paths cutting through puffs of maroon, orange, and yellow chrysanthemums.

  I smile, remembering my childish rendering. Chris-ann, the mum.

  “Jane?” Ginny’s voice rises in question at my inappropriate mirth.

  “Nothing. Sorry.”

  My toes squish in carpeting so plush I resist the urge to drop down and purr, to rub against it like a cat.

  Ginny greets all we pass with a nod and a smile, until we mercifully reach a set of stained-glass double doors. My fingers lift of their own accord to trace the patterns of gilded black roses so lovely, my throat constricts at their beauty.

  Another novelty. So many things to see.

  I could stay right here, sketch and stare at the colors for hours. If Ward One holds so many unfamiliar sights, I shudder to imagine the originality of life outside these bleak stone walls.

  We step through, and I am astounded at the instant warmth enveloping this ward; was it really mere hours ago when I shuddered, my teeth chattering violently beneath my multitude of tattered coverlets? It is truly another world.
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br />   “In here, Jane, isn’t it?”

  I swallow, my ears seeming to ring.

  Hearing my own name, for the first time in years, brings wetness to my eyes. I nod.

  I enter a large, sprawling office. Skeletons, human anatomy charts, and beautiful countrysides and landscapes cover the walls. I blink again. There is a tank of fish. I have never, ever laid eyes to such, only read of them. Flashes of silvery maroon and blue dart to and fro, hiding behind waving green plants secured to the bottom.

  “Wait here, he will be in soon.” Ginny gives my shoulder a quick squeeze before departing.

  I nod and grip the arms of the chair till my joints protest, trying to force my focus on the fish, not on the next very, very important few moments of my life.

  The door reopens, and an older, portly man shuffles in. His white lab coat proclaims him a doctor. He moves slowly past my chair as woodsy cologne fills my nostrils. His name badge reads Dr. Gentile.

  He stares at me; bright blue eyes pierce from beneath bushy white eyebrows, white as my hair. His gaze lingers on my hair. “Good afternoon, Jane. How are you?”

  “Fine, sir.”

  “You know why you are here, then?”

  I nod. “I am to have a trial of Ward One.”

  “And what is your definition of Ward One, my dear?”

  “A place where patients are tested to see if they might re-enter society. And if found acceptable, to help them find suitable employment.”

  He smiles. Not like Frost’s smile. It looks genuine, and somehow familiar. Grandfatherly. “And … ”

  “And to determine if they are a danger to themselves or others.”

  His blue eyes narrow behind the half-moon spectacles but remain light. “And are you either of those, Jane?”

  I shake my head. “No, sir.” A sudden, inexplicable rage heats my cheeks, but I keep my voice even. “I have never been such, sir.”

  He nods. “I believe you, Jane. I was present … when first you arrived.”

  My heartbeat stops for a breath, then stutters fast. I have never met anyone who knew anything about my past. Or at least who was willing to admit it.

  A plethora of questions surge through my head, but I press my lips tight. If I allow them out, I may shatter my chances.

  My insides shake, and I fight to steady my hands.

  He shuffles papers on his blotter, signing them with a flourish.

  “Ginny!” His voice is loud and commanding, and too soon Ginny is in the doorway, as if she were eavesdropping.

  “I proclaim Jane to be ready for Ward One visitations. She may play in the orchestra for the public. If all goes well, we will discuss a more permanent transfer.” After a moment, he adds, “Send my report to Grayjoy, won’t you?”

  He tries to conceal it from me with his placid demeanor. But his words all but scream, Not to Frost.

  In moments, I am whisked from the exam room, Ginny chattering away so fast, skipping over so many subjects, I scarcely discern a fraction of what she says. I nod and smile, trying to keep my eyes from darting like the frightened little animal that I am.

  When we re-enter the ward, her steady stream of words dries up, and she directs me wordlessly down a hallway. We arrive at ornate double doors, and she indicates I should enter.

  Heat and scent lambast my skin, and my nostrils flare.

  Large, luxuriant copper bathtubs fill this room. I recognize two other young women from neighboring wards, eyes closed, already submerged, toes poking out from beneath the frothy bubbles concealing their bodies. Inviting spirals of steam corkscrew into the air, and the intoxicating smell of lavender tightens my throat again, bringing renewed tears to my eyes. It is as if my dreams have vacated my mind and been breathed to life.

  A full bath is granted only twice a year.

  I swallow and blink to drive back the tears. They are an indulgence. Here, tears mean weakness, mark you as easy prey to the opportunists ever-ready to pounce.

  My eyes tick across the room to three dresses hanging on an armoire. Evening gowns, the likes of which I have only ever spied on paper, hang waiting.

  I clear my throat. “Is one of those … ”

  “For you?” Ginny’s eyes shine and dance in the candlelight. “Yes. The sapphire blue one. We thought the contrast with your hair would do well. Despite the fact you shall not technically be seen.”

  I cock my head but do not question, afraid to say anything that will pierce this reality’s fragile bubble.

  “Come.”

  I follow Ginny to the tubs, and without a word she assists with my buttons, slipping off my day dress.

  I shyly cover myself—though the other girls’ eyes do not even flutter, let alone open. They are presently entrenched in their own daydreams.

  My toes split the warmth, sinking down into the copper tub, to find purchase. I step in and ease my body down and allow the sensations to swallow me; I pretend for a stolen moment in time I am somewhere else, am someone else.

  The flicker of the candles reflects off the bath’s surface, as if it is somehow infused with sunlight. The warm, oiled water slips up my toes, knees, thighs, and reaches my belly, till I am wholly submerged. The nurse’s warm hands touch my neck, and I flinch, but she merely gathers up my hair as I feel the pleasant tug of a hairbrush combing through the length of my hair, scalp to ends.

  Footsteps behind the door intrude on the daydream, and my mind replays the people we passed on Ward One. A woman with a pinched but hopeful face, most likely a mother of one of the other submerged musicians. Hopeful her poor, wayward daughter will make her way back out from behind these walls.

  And beside her, a man. A man who is interested in me as a person.

  Not in controlling me, not in torturing me. Dr. Grayjoy has always taken a particular interest in me. Indeed, since his arrival four years prior, his belief in me has kept my hysteria at bay.

  I hear Ginny, somewhere in the dark, murmur to another unseen nurse, “She didn’t speak for a full year,” and know she speaks of me.

  I swallow. It is true. I have fought to keep the silence at bay. Mutism.

  It is my nemesis. As is the laudanum. ’Twas Grayjoy who helped me vanquish the laudanum.

  Frost gave me too much, too young. It took years to shake its familiar, mind-numbing draw. I swear he did not wish me to banish my addiction, preferred me riddled with confusion. The slosh of water rouses me and my eyes flick to see one of the other women slip out of the tub and into a plush white robe. “Let’s ready you, deary,” a small nurse murmurs.

  Too soon I am whisked from the warmth of the water.

  The Ward One nurses are not finished.

  I blink again and again in disbelief as my skin is plied and massaged with a creamy lotion; hands begin at my feet and work the entire length of my body, ending at my neck. My fingertips lightly touch my skin, now soft as a child’s.

  Nurse Ginny’s expert hands pile my snowflake-colored hair atop my head. She slides a sapphire comb at the back.

  “There. Perfect. What do you think, Jane?” She swivels me to have a better look.

  I stare at the creature in the mirror, blinking madly, trying not to muss the perfectly applied makeup.

  I … am beautiful. Two words I never thought would inhabit the same sentence when applied to me.

  But I am.

  “I am speechless.”

  The royal blue gown does indeed accentuate my hair and fair skin, and the feline yellow-blue of my eyes.

  She gingerly pats my hand. “It’s time to go, love. Deep breath, now.”

  Nurse Ginny ushers the three of us into the vestibule outside the music room. The three of us follow her like perfectly coiffed ducks in the proverbial row. The other two refuse to meet my eye. One has a tremor in her hands. She self-consciously rubs them together, over and over.

  Ginny turns me to face her, smoothing my hair like a mother. “Oh, darling. You truly are magnificent.”


  Dr. Grayjoy saunters into the room. He tips his hat to me; his eyes flick away and then widen and jerk back.

  “Why, Jane, I confess I truly did not recognize you. Are you ready? Do not be nervous.” He tips his hat to the other girls. “Claire. Susan.”

  I nod, not trusting my voice. I follow him, unspeaking, into the next set of rooms. Here, wallpaper lines the hallways in festive pinks and browns, reminding me of boxes of chocolates on the nurses’ stations. My vision is accustomed to plain, institutional green so that the sight of the busy pattern gives me vertigo.

  I steal a glance in one of the nearby patient rooms and spy large, pink poof chairs and something nearly unheard of at Soothing Hills: carpeting. A long, plush area rug with an oriental design.

  My hands shake, and I press them together, fighting the urge to wipe the sweat on the gown. Panic whispers, This is not for you. You are mad.

  “Right through here. There shall be a screen between you and the audience.” Dr. Grayjoy gestures toward the open door. “All you need worry about is the music. I shall handle the rest. I will stay nearby, behind the screen as well, but out of the way so as not to distract you.”

  I follow my fellow musicians; the chairs and sheet music seem to float past, dreamlike, as I feel Ginny’s directing fingers at my elbow, tugging me to sit.

  Then I spy it, and all else fades except its polished, dark wood surface.

  A violin.

  I have been permitted to play every Wednesday since I was old enough to speak, and as much as I wished in my room.

  Often, a gaggle of employees would gather outside my door, listening. At best, a scolding would result, at worst, a few dockings of pay for their extended loitering. I played as best as I could on the hand-me-down instrument they provided.

  But tonight … there is something familiar about this instrument. As I pull the bow across the strings, the resonance sings—it is of higher quality than my usually provided one. Something in the curves of its dark wooden body ticks my memory, but it is hazy, out of focus, like a poorly constructed dream. I tuck it beneath my chin, and it settles in, seeming to belong there, like some long-lost musical appendage.