Shadows of Ashland

by Austin,Robin

  Martha doesn’t recall ever seeing Roger Cohoon at Ashland and has no knowledge of the other siblings. “Just abandoned there like a dog you’d drop off at the pound.”

  I ask her if she remembers any of the things she and Eunice talked about.

  “I read her scriptures,” she says, citing six or so verses I might try. “Other than that, we didn’t really communicate. Jesus did most of the talking. Eunice couldn’t say more than a few words, probably didn’t understand more than a few either. But she understood God’s word, understood that He loves her, cares for her. That’s all that child wanted or needed from me. To know that the almighty, the creator of heaven and earth loves her unconditionally is all I needed to assure her of, and I did. Of course, Bob was there too but I could tell he made her nervous. Not him so much as just the fact that he was a man.”

  “Why did men make her nervous?” I ask.

  “Oh, my guess would be the father. Her parents just dumped her there. Punishment was harsher back then. You’d probably get thrown in jail today for the things that were done to that poor child.”

  “How about at Ashland. Do you think she was abused there?”

  Martha snickers and shakes her head. “You mean that horrible man, I guess. Some doctor he was. I learned of the things he was up to in that place. No good for nothing jackass. Everyone in town thought so. Such a tragedy. Thankfully, I wasn’t going out to Ashland by then. I’m not sure what I would have done to the man if I had been.

  “A couple of years after he came is when Bob got sick. We had to stop visiting. I thought often about that poor girl and the others too, but my hands were full with my own troubles. You know Eunice didn’t like anyone touching her. I told you that already didn’t I? I’m not sure what she would have done if that awful man touched her. Thrown a fit would be my guess.”

  Martha sighs and slumps in her chair. “Diabetes just wears me ragged these days,” she says.

  “Shirley and Arlene both thought I should talk to you. Would you know why?”

  “No. I don’t have any secrets that I’m keeping from you. Eunice was special. She had a kind soul, a good heart. If not for that family of hers, she could have been so much more, done so much more in life.”

  “If she could have been more like Matilda?”

  “Matilda? I’m sorry, I don’t remember anyone by that name.”

  The nurse returns and asks Martha if she needs to go back to her room and rest. Martha thinks that’s a good idea and apologizes for not having the energy she used to have.

  “Tell Eunice hello for me, will you, Jan?”

  I promise and follow behind to the lobby. As I open the door to leave, I hear Martha calling after me.

  “I remember the woman you asked me about. Matilda?”

  “Yes, what do you remember?”

  “Well now, I remember that she looked just like Eunice. They could have been twins even. I’d say she loved the sweets as much as Eunice. The last I’d seen them, both had packed on the pounds. But other than their looks, they were nothing alike. Matilda was sharp as a tack and a little….” Martha motions for me to come closer so she can whisper. “She was a bit of a snob,” she says, putting her index finger on the tip of her nose and pushing it up before laughing. “Her and I never really got to know each other.”

  “Are you sure the weight gain was due to sweets?”

  “She was just a girl. What else could it have been?”

  “I’m not sure. I agree that Matilda’s quite intelligent. I’m trying to find out more about her education, beyond what little she received at Ashland. Did the church or others in the community provide tutoring?”

  “Oh, I doubt that occurred. The church members were there to teach the Word of God. There was no money to pay for teachers. I doubt most folks had time to volunteer back then, though I never really thought about it. People made do with what they had. I guess Matilda’s family taught her things and sent her to school before she got ill. She told me once that she was from a very wealthy family. Perhaps she had private teachers.

  “Oh, and then there was that nice Dr. Kaufman who spent time with her too. He was a brilliant man with fine manners. I’m sure he taught her some things. Bob and Dr. Kaufman got on so well. There’s an idea. Talk to Bob about Matilda. I’m sure he can shed some light on the subject.”

  The nurse stops our conversation, explaining that Mrs. Blackwell needs to rest. I watch them disappear down the hallway and leave the facility wondering, but more so doubting that sweets had anything to do with Eunice’s packing on the pounds.

  Chapter Fourteen

  §

  I sit in the parking lot for several minutes recording Martha’s words in my notebook. Her aging mind has split Eunice and Matilda into two people, which I have no problem with. I also have no problem with her remembering Kaufman as both a kind and caring doctor and that horrible man. To many, he was both.

  My fears are almost confirmed. Kaufman may have had no interest in Eunice, but it seems possible if not probable that he preyed on Matilda. Like Martha, I’m sure he taught her some things too. Things she didn’t need to know.

  I check my phone and find a message from Palmer and a second one from Rick. Neither call makes me happy. The maternal side of me that was never realized is rearing its ugly head. Even if Palmer is sending me home without writing the article, I’m no longer sure I can avoid revealing its most unsavory parts.

  I leave Rick a message that I’m staying in town until the assignment is finished, at least through the weekend. I tell him I’ll be doing interviews so I won’t have my phone on much. My message is in prickly fragments, and I use my rushed working voice. Impatience masking hostility followed by have a nice week as a token apology with a passive aggressive and weekend added at the end. The effort is exhausting, the fault not entirely his.

  Palmer isn’t available when I call, but her assistant says she’s been authorized to speak on her behalf. She actually uses those words, and I’m instantly sorry for the young woman. I’m told to continue with the article as is, like it’s something from the take-it or leave-it bin at a discount store. The assistant goes on to tell me that my research should be completed by the end of the week despite my having lost nearly two full days.

  I’m scheduled for a Monday morning conference call with Palmer to determine the direction and scope of the article. I should not finalize it without authorization, the assistant warns too sternly. If I do, it will not be expensable; this last word she snaps and my teeth grind.

  I’m asked if I understand and I confirm I do, but I don’t in the least. My gut instinct tells me Palmer smells a juicier story than the one she’d planned. If her intent for the new direction and scope is a torrid exposé about Ashland’s past and poor split in two Eunice as the dancing bear, I’m not shocked. But I should have seen it coming. The quest for social justice often crumbles under the tsunami of sensationalism.

  I need a coin to toss to decide if I should run or stay and fight for justice. Better still, I need my father’s ear and sage advice. I have only the coin as my mother has again made clear that I’m not to tax my father’s strength with my endless problems. I know she loves us both, but my mother’s never really understood how important the news stories we told were, and to me still are.

  It’s not just work, I tried to tell her once. It’s how the work impacts other people and society. She accused me of being melodramatic– a favorite word of hers. Anything she doesn’t want to hear gets labeled melodramatic.

  “You complicate the bejeebers out of everything,” she likes to say. “Life gets too complicated when you think it to death.” A lecture of this type is usually followed by my need to wear darker shades of lipstick and less matronly heels.

  I call Ashland to confirm that Dr. Rodham is at the facility. No matter what Palmer has in mind, I’ve decided for certain that I want those medical records.

  I want to know if a pregnancy test was done the day Eunice was found in the woods. If Matil
da spoke up for Eunice and told the doctors what Kaufman was doing. If anyone cared, even for a short time. The answers are obvious. I just want them to be different so I can feel a little bit better for Eunice.

  I’m told Dr. Rodham is extremely busy with residents since being out of the office. I insist I only need five minutes of his time and disconnect before the nurse can protest. When I arrive at Ashland, I’m immediately told that Eunice isn’t feeling well and can’t be disturbed even though I didn’t ask to see her.

  “Has she been examined by a medical doctor?” I ask.

  I’m assured she doesn’t need one as Dr. Rodham checked on her. Just the sniffles. Probably allergies but she’s resting. “Like I told you already,” the nurse says, “Dr. Rodham is backlogged with residents.”

  “I’ll wait,” I say, and sit in the lobby in a chair across from her.

  I suspect that something happened between Palmer and Rodham that is partially my fault. Perhaps he also senses a change in her motives. Even if he suspects nothing, Palmer’s likely gotten me stonewalled because of her pushy big city attitude that doesn’t mean crap in this little town, and certainly not in the least to someone like Dr. Edward Rodham.

  I’m busy writing when I see Aljala walk in the direction of the rec room. The nurse is occupied with a phone call and I slip away to find him.

  Aljala is eloquently sweeping the room as if giving a performance. Patients turn from the television to watch him, others follow him around the room, trying with comically failed efforts to copy his gestures. When he sees me by the door, he waves as if I’m miles away then crosses the room to greet me.

  “Ms. Jan, are you here to visit with Ms. Eunice?”

  “Actually, I stopped by to talk to Dr. Rodham. I was told Eunice isn’t feeling well.”

  I wait to see if he’ll tell me the truth, whatever it is. He doesn’t, then looks away when two patients get into a scuffle. I watch him soothe them then lead one in the opposite direction before the other bolts from the room screaming. He passes me with a shrug and a sly smile as he goes in pursuit then stops and turns back to me. “Ms. Eunice is fine,” he says, and is gone. But I’m not alone.

  Nurse Fowler is watching me with arms folded across her chest. My guess is that the woman is in her late fifties, but she’s bitter and her crooked stance makes her look older and battle weary. Her tight fitting uniform looks far worse than just uncomfortable. She’s abandoned her gray-threaded bun for a pitch black bob that’s anything but flattering. Something is missing from her ensemble; I decide it’s her swastika.

  “Dr. Rodham will see you now. Please follow me,” she says, and is gone with or without me before I have a chance to respond. I hurry to catch up as she takes the stairs like a mountain goat in a snow storm. At Rodham’s door, she demurely knocks before peeking her head in and whispering. She gives me a stern look, leaves the door ajar, and walks away without a word.

  “Ms. Abbott.”

  “Hello, Dr. Rodham. Thank you for seeing me. I won’t take but a minute of your time. I stopped by to get the signed medical release that we previously discussed.”

  Rodham’s office is too dark. The blinds are closed and the only light is from a small lamp on his desk. The air is stagnate and uncomfortably warm as though the room’s been left closed with a dusty furnace running unchecked.

  He’s standing by his bookcase, half looking in my direction, half turned towards his wall of knowledge. I fear he’s contemplating my homework assignment.

  “Doctor?”

  “Yes, the medical records. What was it you wanted with the records again? I seem to have forgotten our conversation on the matter.”

  “Just investigative journalism. No stones left unturned,” I say.

  “No secrets left undiscovered?”

  “I don’t suspect I’ll find any secrets in Eunice’s medical records. Not any more than you do, Doctor. However, I can’t assume they contain nothing of interest. No more so than you would make assumptions about the patients, the residents, when providing treatment. We both do our jobs best when fully informed.”

  “Touché, Ms. Abbott. Well done. How can I deny your request now?” Rodham laughs and moves to sit at his desk.

  This verbal sparring seems to have relaxed him and I should be happy about that, but I can’t let it go. “Why would you even want to deny access to the records?”

  “Again, my hope remains that you focus on Ashland’s future not its dark past. My purpose in allowing you to be here, in allowing you access to Eunice, is so you can portray Ashland not as a lunatic asylum but as it truly is, an innovation in mental health care. A leader in the industry that will initiate positive changes.”

  Touché, Rodham, I want to say but don’t. His tone is off, his suit too expensive, his sweater vest too smooth. His looks sell the healing package, but all I see is an inflated ego drenched in snake oil.

  “Sounds like words for the opening paragraph of the article, Doctor. I agree with your premise. I’ve certainly found Ashland to be progressive and its staff compassionate. I assure you I want the article to convey no less.

  “I see no reasonable basis for digging up its dark past. But what would be worse, an incomplete, incompetent article that others rush to contort and undermine or one well crafted and formed by facts they can’t dispute?”

  Rodham contemplates my words or sits and stews, my bet is on the latter. Finally, he removes a paper from his desk drawer and signs it. He extends it with a limp arm, bent elbow. I walk to his desk and stand before him, not trusting that he won’t jerk it back like a bratty teenager. The stagnate air is both warmer and heavier, the closed blinds more disturbing.

  I wait for him to hand me the paper as meekly as a student being handed an F-grade paper. There’s less than ten inches between this delayed exchange. He blinks first and I catch the release before it hits the desk.

  “Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate your cooperation. I know you want what’s best for Ashland, and I intend to do everything I can to make this article a success for all concerned.”

  “Please try to do that, Ms. Abbott. Now if you don’t mind, I have a resident waiting. You can leave the door open on your way out.”

  I go down the long green hallway and past the four empty plastic chairs before reaching the stairs. The old black-haired warrior watches me from my first step on the stairs to the lobby to the front door that open swiftly and locks loudly behind me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  §

  After the Salem psychic fair story, I was dubbed the entertainment reporter. It seemed the ultimate insult to my ego. The daughter of a reporter and editor, the UCLA graduate with honors, a promise of big things to come. I should have been crushed but I wasn’t. I was relieved and I hated myself for feeling that way.

  The truth is my co-workers had come up with something to define me, for their sake and mine as well. Two years had passed since the Ashland trial, and I’d been slip-sliding from one minor assignment to the next. Entertainment reporter was actually a step up considering I’d been standing in a deep, nameless hole for so long.

  Dad never said a word. He knew my career wasn’t the problem. He just didn’t know what the problem was. Of course he didn’t mind digging, for awhile anyway. Was I still bothered by the fall down those stairs? Did I have headaches, memory problems, trouble concentrating, anxiety? Did something else happen in Los Angeles? Was it Rick? Did I need to see another doctor?

  I didn’t dare tell him about the shadows, which had diminished but not disappeared after my return from Ashland. I wouldn’t dare tell my skeptical, fact driven father that I saw spooky shadow people. And heaven forbid my mother found out as much.

  My dad said that he’d probably spoiled me from working at those other papers– this with a laugh, a nervous one. He told me I’d find my right niche, or maybe I needed to take some time off. I couldn’t tell him that it was impossible to get away from myself. That was the problem. At Ashland, I’d seen the faces of mental illness,
and I feared one stared back at me in the mirror.

  After leaving Rodham’s office, I head to Ruston Memorial Hospital to drop off the release for Eunice’s medical records. Once they find someone at Ashland to confirm I’m not a cunning robber of records, I pay the fee and agree to pick up the documents on Thursday.

  “Records are over thirty years old,” the clerk says, with a dramatic sigh at the task before her. “Down in the basement,” she adds. I apologize as if that makes a difference.

  The air is damp and sticky. Cottony clouds threaten to keep it that way all evening. I blame the visit to the hospital for my throbbing head. Those contorted flashbacks that are stored deep in my brain, deep enough to trigger pain but not solid memories.

  I have some time to rest before getting ready for the pancake dinner. I’d much rather have a gin and tonic and fried prawns, but I can’t wait to meet Pastor Leroyce Davenport– in both an inquisitive way and a dreaded one.

  The traffic to Houser Street is heavier than expected. I find a parking space in the very back of the church lot. Apparently, pancake dinners are big events in Ruston. Most of the women are wearing summer dresses. The men are dressed casually. Children fidget under watchful eyes. I get the obligatory once over, mostly from the women. Then Shirley grabs me by the arm and begins introductions. The blank stares turn to smiles. My ten dollar donation is buying a lot more than pancakes.

  Pastor Davenport stands at the pulpit and thanks everyone for coming. He leads us in prayer as the smell of maple syrup and bacon waft through the room, mixing with the scented candles, perspiration, and cow manure. After making my way through the group of thirty or so adults and at least half that many children, I introduce myself to Davenport.