Escape From Purgatory

by Scarlet Darkwood - BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction

  Millie stood there, insistent.

  “I’ll do it later. Go on. I’m talking to someone.” Claire gently pushed Millie away, at which point Ruth came promptly and guided Millie back to the common room.

  “Sorry.” Ruth mouthed the words, flashing her friend an apologetic look.

  Claire turned back to the phone.

  “Claire . . . Claire! Are you there?” Adrian’s voice snapped like a nasty whip, his words stinging with equal intensity.

  “Yes, I’m listening.” The brief disruptions had distracted her, and she quickly rustled her thoughts together.

  “Like I was saying. You’ll be staying right where you are until you’re better. You hear me?”

  “Better? Why did you even put me here in the first place? I don’t have to get better because I was never sick.”

  “Listen to me. You need to be there. That’s why. When I talk with the doctor and he tells me you’re better, then we’ll see about you coming home.”

  She grimaced at his response. Nothing she said computed in his brain. Frustration mounted. “When will you be talking to a doctor, then? It’s been three weeks. You haven’t come. I don’t care what these doctors say. I’ll do much better at home.”

  “They know a lot more than you do, and this is the very thing I got tired of dealing with, you’re sniveling moods, always dwelling on the baby. He’s not coming back, Claire, no matter how hard you pray, no matter how much you visit a grave.” His voice glanced off her ears, delivering a steely blow with every word.

  “Please don’t talk like that, Adrian! We haven’t always been like this. Remember how we used to laugh and talk? We loved each other once. Lately, you’ve been so cold, mean and unfeeling. What’s happened to you? What’s happened to us?” Tears trailed down her cheeks.

  Adrian continued, oblivious to her pleading. “Life’s not fair; things happen. You never seemed to toughen up and deal with it, and I couldn’t do anything with you, either. So now you’re in a place where you’ll learn to deal with it, whether you want to or not.”

  Claire grew numb. His words held a finality that frightened her. She tried to stifle the fear and temper the grips of desperation choking every muscle in her body right now. “Adrian, honey, I’m sorry. If you let me come home, I’ll do much better. I promise. I won’t mention the baby or even think about going to the grave.” She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. What else could she say?

  “And just how do you promise that when you can’t even hold it together during a simple phone call? Just listen to yourself, carrying on like that.”

  Claire cringed. “Don’t you think I deserve an answer to all this?”

  “The answer is you’ll stay a while longer. Then we’ll see when you can come home.”

  She tried one last desperate attempt to win him over, convince him to see the situation her way. “Don’t you love me anymore, Adrian? I love you. I’m your wife. I miss you. Aren’t you even coming for a visit? You’re allowed to. Other people get visits from their family.”

  The other end of the line grew quiet, and Claire thought he’d put the phone in a drawer and went back to his work.

  “I’ll have to see. Can’t guarantee when I’ll can get away. We are busier than we’ve ever been.”

  Claire swore she heard his voice waver. He sounded strained, like having this conversation had truly fatigued him physically.

  “Promise me you’ll drop by. Adrian, this has broken me. I didn’t mean for us to ever be like this. We had some good times together, you and me. Don’t you even remember any of that?” The tears returned in full force, and she wiped her nose with a finger, cleaning it off on her dress.

  His voice softened a little. “Let me see what I can do, Claire. I’ll look at my schedule, I promise.”

  “I love you, Adrian.” Claire choked out the words. Click, and the line went dead. She stood there, stunned.

  “Mrs. Wright, are you finished? You’re time’s almost up.”

  Greta smiled in sympathy.

  “I guess so.” Claire hung her head in disappointment and handed the receiver back to Greta.

  “The conversation with your husband didn’t go as well as you’d hoped?”

  “No. I knew I shouldn’t have made that call. I just knew it. I had a feeling it would go bad.”

  Greta listened, nodding a little. “Maybe your husband just had a bad day. You can try again another time, and maybe things will be better. There’s always hope. Never give up.”

  Claire turned her eyes up at Greta and tried smiling back. “Maybe you’re right, but I’m just not feeling hopeful right now.”

  Greta turned her lips down in a show of sympathy as she placed the receiver back in the cradle. Claire walked to Ruth, who waited in the door of the common room.

  “Sorry about that. I’d hoped your old man would have been in his right senses after not hearing from his wife for a while.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Ruth. Something told me that calling would be a bad idea, and I don’t know why I didn’t listen to myself.” Claire pushed her fingers through some oily stray locks of hair hanging over her eye.

  Ruth found two empty rocking chairs by a corner window, and the ladies sat down. “You can’t keep on beatin’ yourself up like that. Like I said, you need to know where you stand in all this mess he left you in. Did he even hint at coming to see you, even just a little?”

  “I had to beg him to say yes. But I don’t think he will. Didn’t sound all that happy to hear from me. Pretty much blamed me for everything.”

  The older lady beside Claire sat and rocked, shaking her head at times in disbelief. The evening sun pierced the sky, its hot glow shining an ugly light on every truth Claire didn’t want to acknowledge, the truth that Adrian no longer loved her. The truth that she may die here.

  Adrian had sounded like a foreigner, with the uncharacteristic coldness in attitude and speech cutting at her heart. He didn’t sound like the man she’d married years ago, one who’d captured her soul with twinkling eyes and sure words, a torchbearer for undying love and devotion. Now all he left her were broken promises and ill words falling on her like cold spears—and the enemy was Adrian. At this moment, Claire turned her face down and let the tears flow in silence.

  She cried about her current imprisonment, cried for an old life that had truly died an undeserving death, cried for her dead baby boy sleeping forever in Green Oaks Cemetery, not more than a mile from her former home. She cried for all the other women sitting around her, with their broken hearts and dreams. She cried for Millie, at all the injustice inflicted on her through Grace’s daily brutality. Ruth didn’t take her eyes from the window nor did she speak a word. No angel of consolation would come to heal the raw unseen wounds of two helpless women as they sat together, staring out the window at a bleak future. They, along with others, found themselves unlikely companions in a stormy sea of confusion, with little hope of a savior coming to their rescue.

  An attendant cried out the announcement for dinner. Dinner time only ushered in the nighttime, which meant poor sleep on uncomfortable beds and bad dreams. She and Ruth followed the other ladies to the dining room.

  “So, what will you be having tonight, my dear? The Filet Mignon or Duck a l’Orange?” Ruth cocked her head a little and cut an exaggerated grin at Claire, batting her eyelashes for more emphasis.

  Claire couldn’t help but smile. “Perhaps a taste of both. Money’s no object. And I do want the best wine in the house.”

  Both ladies burst out laughing, but toned down the levity as they passed Greta, who nodded politely.

  “I like her,” said Ruth. “She’s the best nurse here. When she’s on duty, I feel a little safer. Can’t say that with the others.”

  “Me too. You can’t beat her and Anne.”

  In the dining hall, Ruth and Claire selected two empty adjacent chairs, and surveyed their trays.

  “Where did you learn some of your fancy words, Ruth?”

  He
r friend spiked a dull slice of roast beef with a tarnished fork and paused it in front of her lips. “Spent several weeks in Cincinnati with an uppity cousin of mine. She always had an eye and taste for the finer things in life. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy all that, too, but at heart, I’m just a simple, country woman. No need for all that complicated nonsense.” She leaned closer to Claire and said softly, “Meanin’ no offense, but something tells me you’re not much different from my cousin Fran, with your old man makin’ hats that lots of people know about. Only people with good money could buy the kinds you sell. You just seem to act more prim and proper than most of us do around here, the way you walk, the way you sit. More just the way you come across, an air about you.”

  “That’s okay. I’m not offended. But you’re mostly right. I was used to getting pretty much what I wanted all my life. And my husband wasn’t always like he sounded today.”

  “They never are. Charm the shoes off a snake, they do. But once they have you, they’re the very devil. You can’t trust ‘em one lick.”

  “I’m beginning to see that.” Claire swallowed a spoonful of tasteless mashed potatoes and looked out over the dining hall, taking in the details of patients, staff, and general surroundings. How easy it seemed to simply get up when staff had their heads turned and slip down the hallway and out the front door, especially if someone had forgotten to lock the door to a stairwell. She could sneak down to the end of the hall and make it out another way.

  She whispered over to Ruth. “Do people ever just leave here, walk out, or run away?”

  Ruth squinted her eyes as she turned the question over in her mind. “Some people have run away.”

  Claire sat up straighter. “Really? How do they get out of here and not get caught? And what happens when they are caught?”

  Ruth put down her fork and gazed intently into Claire’s face. “There’s tunnels under this building that lead to the outside. Several people have sneaked out. I’ve seen a few come back with the police, and others I’ve never seen since.”

  “Where do you think the ones who never come back go?”

  “Don’t know.” The lady shook her head.

  Pressing on, Claire asked, “Why haven’t you tried to leave here, since you seem to know a way out?”

  “I never said I knew an exact way out, but I’ve heard talk here and there.” Ruth slipped a fork of green beans into her mouth and wiped away the dribbles of juice with her hand.

  “If you know people who’ve done it, why haven’t you?”

  Turning her eyes away, Ruth gazed across the room for several seconds before she answered.

  “The thought of going out there in the world and making it on my own, trying to get along with everybody, scares the hell out of me, that’s what.”

  “But why?” Claire stared at her companion. “How can being here be better?”

  The older lady leaned in close. “Let me tell you something. This place is the devil’s hole. I’ll be the first to say it. But mark my words, and many here will agree, there’s a certain security in being here. It sounds strange, but it’s true. Even though it gets rough and the food’ll nearly kill you if the staff don’t do it first, there’s still that sense of knowing what to expect. You know if you don’t do what you’re told, or get too yappy, you could get yelled at or slapped. If you hit a staff member or someone else, it might get you thrown in isolation where you might be left to die and rot, or killed just from being manhandled. Other than that, it’s the same old routine, day in, day out. No surprises, no needing to think on anything.” She paused and sipped some water while Claire stared at her in disbelief.

  “And I’ll tell you something else.” Ruth moved her face so close to Claire’s, their noses nearly touched. “Do you know what those orderlies do with Millie when they take her out?”

  “No, but I’ve often wondered. I see them take her out of the common room sometimes.”

  “They take her to the old shed out back, the one near the field that lines up with our property. It’s quiet out there, and you’ll see that it’s a good enough distance away and just enough out of sight, being hidden by the trees and all. You see, the orderlies, they sneak men out from the men’s side, one by one, sometimes two or three at a time if they want to act like they’re using them for some kind of work. But what they’re really doing is using Millie as a free shot . . . you know . . .” Ruth pursed her lips and darted her eyes upwards and back to Claire.”

  Claire sat back in her chair, stunned beyond belief. “You mean they have . . .?”

  “Those bastards make money off her, getting what they can, or maybe the men have something for trade. Families sometime send money or bring little gifts. I think some of them get a kick out of watching crazies go at it. Don’t think anyone is left totally alone. There’s someone watching somewhere.”

  “Why would anyone want to do something like that with poor old Millie?”

  “Men are cads and horny bastards, like I said before. They don’t care how cracked in the head someone is. If they can blow their wads in a hole, they don’t give one rat’s ass who’s or what it is. And staff usually turn a blind eye, anyway. Nobody reports it or says anything, because if you do, you’ll be the one who ends up in the shed.”

  Thoughts of men invading a poor helpless woman, blowing their foul breath as they put their lips on her, taking advantage and pouring out their nasty filth, filled Claire with a deep disgust and loathing. What would it take before anyone decided to come after Ruth or her? She knew the male orderlies often slipped into certain rooms at night. In the hall, their footsteps echoed as they passed by her door. At times, when she couldn’t sleep, she’d get out of bed and peep out of the room. Many a night she caught a glimpse of them entering a room where she knew a woman of lower mentality slept, all in the name of “checking in on them.” Were they doing obscene things with women such as these, helpless victims with no clear voice to scream, perhaps lacking the clarity to know they were being violated? The men stayed in the rooms far too long for making simple shift rounds.

  Ruth tapped her roommate on the wrist. “Mind what I say. I’ve been here for three years, and I’ve seen a lot. I’ve seen young girls come in here all feisty on their first day, and within weeks beaten down so hard and broken there was nothing left but a walking corpse. And I curse the ones who sent them here, hoping they’ll rot in Hell. Keep quiet, keep out of trouble, try to blend in. Most of all, pray hard. Pray real hard. Even that won’t guarantee you’ll be safe. Things happen in the blink of an eye.”

  Claire nodded and turned back to her food, assimilating everything Ruth had told her. If cries for help fell on deaf ears or guaranteed retaliation, how could save themselves from the jaws of the great monster known as the asylum? One question intrigued her: If she ever reached the outside world; who would help if Adrian wouldn’t?

  When dinner was over, the ladies returned to the common room. Nothing in the physical environment had changed. Millie sat in her usual rocker, holding her doll. The same women paced nervously or sat in corners with their hands over their ears, while others rocked quietly. That evening Claire looked at asylum life and its inmates through different eyes, ones taking in a world where the brutal clarity of it all slammed against her with unforgiving force. She knew each day would confirm what she already knew, and there was nothing she could do but drink from the bitter cup. To do otherwise would be a futile dream.

  Later that night, Claire opened her eyes when the sounds of feet passed by the door. Ruth snored softly, unaware. Claire strained her ears. The trail of footsteps ended up in a room across the hall. A female let out a groan, followed by a few quick sobs. The menacing, low-pitched voice of an orderly sent a chill through Claire’s heart. She pulled the sheet tighter under her chin, closed her eyes, and said a prayer.

  Chapter Four

  Today was Tuesday, the day for “Hydro.” Claire and Ruth had talked about treatment days, and both admitted being undecided on which one they detested most, hy
drotherapy or the electric shock treatments on Mondays and Fridays. Thursday was the other day for hydro, leaving them with Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday to recuperate. According to some, being “electrocuted,” the term used for describing the shock treatments, didn’t fare any better in the popularity department than being forced to endure time in an ice-cold tub.

  Claire thought back to the first day she’d been “electrocuted.” An attendant always gave the announcement with a loud “T-i-i-ime for therapy-y-y! Line up everyone! Let’s go, over here!” And the women ambled over, following the attendant down the hallway to the treatment room. Heaven help those who lagged behind in the common room, because another attendant came around, jerked you out of the chair, and dragged you to the group. Ruth had already explained to Claire what to expect.

  “No use showin’ out. They’ll whip your ass all the way to that shock room, come hell or high water, if you try to stall any. Just go in, do what you’re told, and it’ll be over soon. And don’t mind all the carrying on you’ll hear.”

  “What do they do to you?” Claire asked.

  “They’ll ask you to lie down on a bed. Once they’ve put those pads on either side of your head, you just go blank. It don’t hurt or nothing, but it takes a bit to come to. You know, to clear your head again. But you always do. I don’t like it much, but you can’t fight ’em.”

  And the scene proceeded the way Ruth had described it. The room held an electrical smell, and a mix of other odors not easily identifiable. Women waited until their turn, several crying to get out of the procedure while their cohorts tried to say words of comfort. Claire remembered her body shaking with fear. Of course, Ruth never mentioned anyone actually dying from this. Or had she been too scared to tell Claire if it had happened? She took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on getting through this ordeal. Getting into the bed when it was her turn sent her into another round of shivers, especially when she sensed a cold paste being applied to her temples just before they placed the electrodes on her head. That was the other smell, the one mingling with discharged electricity against unwashed skin. Was that the only protection between her head and a surging electrical blast? That god-awful smelly paste?