by J. L. Jarvis
She lay despairing, not feeling time pass. She would always know anguish. The key turned, and the latch gave way. As the door opened, Emma made herself appear docile. In walked a new nurse. The restraints were unfastened. Emma rubbed her wrists as she was taken into a large room with a bathtub. The room was cold and the tub water was gray, with a thin film of soap and sloughed skin on the top. Winter wind sang a shrill song as it found its way in at the window. It brushed against glass, sneaking in through the cracks around the edges. She was stripped of her clothing and told to get into the tub.
Emma shook from the cold as they scrubbed her and scooped the cold water and poured it over her head. It splashed onto her shoulders, a shock to her senses. She shook. Her teeth rattled. More water was poured. Emma made a small noise as she breathed in. It was not even a gasp, but the nurse barked for silence. Emma reminded herself not to let her weakness slip like that again. In air colder than the water, she folded her arms over her breasts while she waited and shivered until her head hurt. But she did not complain. She was given a plain dress that hung loosely. How little it warmed her, but she welcomed the chance to be covered and dry.
A hand tightened about Emma’s arm, squeezing tightly until she wanted to cry, and then pulled her toward the door.
Emma tried to turn her arm to free it, but the fingers clamped tighter. Emma winced. A sound came from her throat, which she stifled too late.
The nurse said, “Give us trouble and I’ll make you regret it.”
Emma believed her completely, and tried to make her face blank.
“I think she’s a slow learner, Miss Rees.”
Emma looked at Miss Rees, who uneasily looked away.
Barely nodding, Miss Rees said, “She’ll be fine. I can take her to her room.”
As they walked away, the other nurse called after them, “You got to show them who’s boss, or they’ll run right over you.”
“Yes, Miss Bladen.”
Miss Rees took Emma’s arm. Emma looked pleadingly at her, but Miss Rees cast her eyes back toward Miss Bladen, who impatiently tugged the next patient into the cold, dirty bath water. Miss Rees’s expression left no doubt that Emma had to be silent.
The bedroom door closed and Emma sat down on the bed, feeling grateful for not being put in restraints. Sometime later, some oatmeal, molasses and tea were brought in. Cold tea. Cold oatmeal. Emma took them and ate, feeling she should, yet not knowing why. She had no appetite, but she was learning to obey without question.
Night brought despair. Emma sat on the bed with her knees to her chest, and she thought about Benjamin and how she had loved him. What had happened was lost in a dream that she could not remember. How could she have harmed him? He was gone, and her life with him was over. More than one life had ended that day.
In the morning, eyes peered through the door’s narrow opening. They watched her without letting her see who or why. So this was madness. Was it possible to be mad and not know it? Do mad people feel this normal?
When numbness would come, she tenaciously grasped it, for it would not stay long. With no warning, grief would seize her. There were always more tears.
A while later, the door opened, and Nurse Rees took her down the hall. “We’re going to the doctor. You’re lucky. You’ve got Dr. Whitfield. He’s very nice.”
Emma waited outside his office for a few minutes. A patient came out and was met by a nurse.
“Miss Stone?” He regarded her with kind eyes. “I’m Dr. Whitfield.” He pulled his chair around from behind his desk, and sat facing her. “Emma. May I call you that?”
Her eyes brightened with curiosity. “Why did you call me that?”
He glanced at her file on his desk. “I’m sorry. I see that it’s Emily. Emily Stone.”
“No, it’s Emma. That’s what everyone calls me—or used to.” Her bright expression faded, but she did not let it sadden.
“You’re here for a rest cure?”
Emma looked into his eyes. They were gentle green flecked with gold. He was handsome, but more than that, he was the first person she’d met here who regarded her as though she might be normal. She felt as though she could be honest with him. “Dr. Whitfield, no one rests here.”
Something crossed over his face, not quite sympathy, but he turned and concealed it from her. She could not understand how he fit here in this place.
“I’m going to order a room change.” He paused from his writing to glance up at her. “Ordinarily, in cases like yours, we begin with complete bed rest for at least four weeks. Let’s start with one week and see how you feel then. There will be no family contact, no letters or visits.” He gave Emma a questioning look. Satisfied that she had understood, he added, gently, “Try to find peace here. The time will pass more quickly.”
What an odd thing to say, Emma thought. “Doctor, how can I find peace when I’ve killed someone?”
He seemed nearly to jolt from the words. He peered at her in disbelief, and leaned closer.
“Miss Stone, what makes you think you have killed someone?”
Emma wondered. Had he not read her file? No, and he’d thought she was far more normal. Now he would look at her like all the others did.
He leaned forward and touched his fingertips to her hands only briefly, but enough to make her feel warmth. When he looked in her eyes, Emma wanted to cry. His dark blond brow softened the strong planes of his face. Combined with his soft eyes, the effect was comforting. She was soothed by his presence, and encouraged by the respect that he showed her. However, her talk of murder had clearly disturbed him. He shook his head slowly. “Emma, you mustn’t think that. It can’t be true.”
“The people who brought me here told me.”
“Which people?”
“My stepmother, Gwendolyn Farlowe. And Fletcher Van Elden was there, too. He saw Benjamin’s body. We all did. He died at the doctor’s office.”
Doctor Whitfield shook his head. “Emma.” He stood and walked to the window and stared for a long while before speaking. “Do not distress yourself over this. I will look into it.”
“Doctor, how can I not be distressed? I killed my groom on the morning we were to be married!” The tears came. Emma turned to hide her face.
“Emma, your file says nothing about this. You’re here for a rest cure. Do not lose heart. We will find out the truth.”
Emma’s brow wrinkled as she fought her conflicting emotions. “So you think I imagined it.”
He was reluctant to answer. “Perhaps.” He looked away, with a distant expression.
If it meant that Benjamin was alive, she was glad, but that meant that she’d imagined his murder, which made her truly mad.
A nurse softly knocked on the door and stepped in to tell him that his next patient was waiting. He looked at his watch and nodded. The nurse was gone, and the door closed behind her.
Dr. Whitfield walked Emma to the door, and said, “Emma, look at me.” He gazed into her eyes as though she could matter to him. “Do not lose heart. We will get through this. I will help you.”
After that, the nurse came in each evening with medicine for Emma. She was locked in her room like the other patients, but no longer with restraints. The medicine took away grief, so Emma swallowed it without protest.
In the days after that, Emma grew used to the routine of her life here. She went through each day numbly. Nurses left her alone as long as she remained docile. Shadows deepened under her eyes, but she seldom saw mirrors, and so was spared the shock of her altered appearance.
She saw Dr. Whitfield again one week later.
“How are you, Emma?”
She looked at him and her mouth twitched as though she might smile, but did not. “I’m well, thank you.”
“Are you sleeping at night?”
“Yes.” She leaned toward him suddenly. “Doctor, tell me about Benjamin. What do you know?”
His reaction was strong, but his words were evasive. “I’m looking into it. Please, Emma. Be patie
nt.”
Emma did not bother to answer. She was sure he knew more, and began to mistrust him.
Weeks passed. Dr. Whitfield sought Emma out. He would come to the ward and stand as though watching all of the patients, but his eye gravitated to Emma. He never stayed long. Many eyes watched him, as he had to have known. He was the sort of man women could not help but notice, and yet his behavior was above reproach at all times. And yet, although he was proper and courteous with all of the patients, Emma sensed he was different with her.
On a morning in April, sun washed the grounds and shone through drops of dew on the blades of grass in brilliant flecks. Stepping outside, Emma shielded her eyes, which were far too accustomed to her poorly lit room. The sky was a brilliant blue and more crisp than it looked through her barred windowpane. Emma breathed in the air. It was spring, every breath, taste and smell of it. There was a time when such a day would have filled her with vigor. She no longer knew vigor, but was pleased to merely endure. Even so, such a day awakened her memory of pleasant emotions, if only as memories.
The nurse was a plain woman with hair that was starting to match her clear gray eyes, but her face carried remnants of strain in the form of small creases across her high forehead. Emma liked her. Her name was Miss Rees. She did not talk too much, nor did she condescend. She treated not only Emma, but the others as well, with a gentle respect. It made her feel like herself.
She stopped there. Thoughts of outside always led her to Benjamin. She could not visit those thoughts around others, lest she reveal the true state of her mind. She had learned to put forth a submissive façade. It made her life easier here. Her studied demeanor had gotten her moved pavilion by pavilion toward the center, where the good patients stayed. She could go outside now, and they treated her better. She was not going to risk her new status. Life was almost sufferable now.
The nurse walked Emma outside, where they came upon a woman who was laying some mulch in one of the gardens. Nurse Rees’s aspect brightened. After a brief introduction, they spoke as though Emma were not there. Emma thought about how she had once been “Miss Stone.” She was now simply Emily, except to Dr. Whitfield, who called her Emma.
Emma felt a bit awkward, almost like an eavesdropper. With nothing to do but to stand by them and wait, she observed. The nurse kept the conversation afloat, but Mrs. Hall listened with interest. She clearly enjoyed the nurse’s company as well, but maintained a shy distance. She was just not the sort to let many people get close, Emma decided. She could understand that. She herself had always been reluctant to reach out to new people. She had learned to converse at society functions, but she seldom sought closer friendships than that. Although, when she did, they were genuine friendships and deeply felt.
Emma strayed down the sidewalk, but the nurse called out to her, drawing her back.
“Would it be all right if I walked to that elm tree?”
The nurse looked apprehensive. “All right, but no farther.”
As she walked, Emma sighed and, hearing herself, felt a familiar flow of emotion rise up to the surface. Thoughts of Benjamin were never far away.
Emma walked slowly and tried to remember the sense of him walking beside her. She craved such moments, during which she could be alone with her thoughts. The day’s beauty made her want to feel close to him. Even now, after weeks, she could still feel his smile settle upon her. And his gaze. As long as she could remember being loved, he could not be gone from her, not yet.
But there were the other times, when she felt his stare penetrate, questioning, “Why did you do it? I loved you. Why, Emma?” She welcomed his accusations as long as they made her feel closer to him. Being haunted by him would be a relief if it weren’t for the unanswered questions. Why? And what had he seen on that night? Had he seen her coming wildly at him, poised to strike? Was his last glimpse of her one of madness?
Miss Rees’s distant laugh brought her back from her thoughts. Emma looked all about at the trees and the buildings, which for weeks had encased her. Vast grounds with plant beds and vegetable gardens stretched out, abandoned for the winter. They would soon come to life again. For the first time since her arrival, she found herself looking forward to something, even if it was only a change of season.
She turned back toward the mammoth stone building. Work had begun on it nearly thirty years earlier. It was almost as though the architect Henry H. Richardson knew it would take massive stone walls to contain the sheer weight of the troubles inside. The great heart of the New York State Asylum for the Insane was red sandstone, dark and dense, with two towers that stabbed at the heavens. Two imposing brick wings spread out to each side as though ready for flight. How had Richardson imagined this place would look to the patients from inside the impenetrable fortress? Emma took in its terrible beauty and convinced herself that, for now, it was not so very bad. She was in her own room, and some of the nurses were nice. The others left her alone as long as she did not cause trouble. The most she could hope for was peace. Hadn’t that been what Dr. Whitfield had told her to find in here? Peace?
Some patients approached, all men, walking one behind the other in a row. Emma walked quickly back to the nurse, who observed her with some apprehension. Gently, she took Emma’s wrist and led her to the side of the walkway while the other patients passed. She caught looks from a few before she looked away.
“Best to steer clear of them,” Mrs. Hall said.
Emma looked at her with some surprise, since she had said nothing since their introduction.
“They’re not such a bad bunch, but they’re not used to women. Some of them don’t know what to do when they see one.”
Emma looked at her, unsure of how to react.
Mrs. Hall gave her a smile that reassured, and then turned to the nurse. “This has been a welcome distraction, but I must finish my work.” She smiled once more, and went back to her task.
“Come, Emma. We still have some walking to do to bring color back into your cheeks.”
They walked on down the sidewalk and saw tiny buds on the limbs of bare trees. The ordinary things of the world had not changed. There was life all around her. To see evidence of it was comforting. Like the twigs on the trees, her spirit was now bare and brittle, but perhaps in the spring she might think upon Benjamin Stark once more without feeling her heart break all over again.
“Are you cold, Emma?”
Emma shook her head absently.
The nurse studied her patient’s faraway look, and smiled kindly.
“You’ve done well for your first day.”
She put her arm around Emma’s shoulder and led her inside.
Chapter 13
Emma now was permitted to leave her room during daylight each day. The doctor told her she would have to sleep on her own from now on. She was glad not to have to take medicine, but at night, the sound of key in the lock was a more desolate sound, and it rang in her ears until morning.
A day came when Emma was deemed fit for work. She requested typewriting work. After all, she was used to it now. She was sure that she must be as fast and as accurate as anyone there, but Dr. Whitfield said no. It was too much like what she had done before. He did not tell her so, but Emma suspected that he did not want her constantly reminded of Benjamin, which typing would inevitably do.
Emma found herself increasingly confused and intrigued by her Dr. Whitfield. He looked after her. More than once, she had seen him pull aside and reprimand nurses who’d treated Emma harshly. He was often about, ever observing, and yet ever careful to keep distance between them. His dark blond hair barely touched the brow that shaded soft, wistful eyes. She came to view him as a strange sort of angel who hovered and protected without ever putting himself in her life.
Emma’s work began in the hall outside her room. On her hands and knees, she scrubbed mosaic tile floors up and down the long hall in her ward. Now and then, she paused long enough to brush away wisps of hair as they stuck to her sweat-beaded forehead. Moisture soaked thro
ugh the waist of her corset and trickled down between her breasts. Sore knees worsened as she ground them into the hard tile, scrubbing and creeping and scrubbing some more, while the ache in her shoulders outweighed any self-conscious concern for the ripening odor beneath them.
“I’m Nettie Hinckle,” said a wiry woman who knelt down beside Emma and scrubbed alongside her.
Emma nodded, offered her name in return, and got back to her scrubbing.
“Why are you here?” Nettie asked her.
“The same reason as everyone else, I suppose.” Emma scrubbed rhythmically on.
Nettie Hinckle’s eyes narrowed. “I mean, why in particular?”
Emma paused long enough to look at her plainly. “I’m a lunatic,” she said, and looked down at her work.
Nettie Hinckle studied her, not quite sure how to react. “Not much of a talker, are you?”
“I’ve got work to do.” Emma glanced at her, smiled, and went on with her scrubbing.
“Don’t we all?” Nettie Hinckle scrubbed for a bit, until something caught her attention. She looked over at Emma and her own scrubbing slowed. Before long, she stopped and watched Emma.
“Look, honey, you’re not brushing teeth. It’s a floor.” With that, she let out a laugh the likes of which could grind coffee. “Put some elbow grease into it. Watch me, here. See?”
Emma watched, then leaned harder and pressed with more force. Nettie Hinckle lifted an unimpressed brow as she looked down at Emma’s progress, but offered no further comment. They scrubbed on in silence long enough for Emma to be jarred from her thoughts by Nettie’s next question.
“So, what was it?”
“What was what?” It took her a moment to follow the thought she had left behind several moments ago. Nettie Hinckle wanted to know what had brought Emma to the asylum.
She scrutinized Emma, then, with a nod, pronounced her conclusion. “A man.”