“I don’t know, Thea. The poem is one that Rose reads to her. Effie loves poetry.” Simeon glanced at the cook, who ignored them.
This was probably normal for her, to hear of strangeness and odd behavior.
Simeon continued. “The patients say things sometimes that often mean nothing, just a story in their own minds.”
Thea noticed his shoulder jerk up toward his ear and his cheek twitch. The familiar signal he was not at peace.
“A story of Misty Wayfair?” Misty Wayfair whose spirit wandered the woods, spiteful and wicked.
Only she hadn’t appeared wicked.
Thea recalled the vision of the woman in the street below her room. In the rain and fog, arms outstretched as if reveling in the beauty of the night. If anything, Misty Wayfair had turned from a peaceful dance into a terrified run from something . . .
“Do you believe in spirits?” Thea breathed.
Simeon blinked.
The cook dropped her knife. It clattered to the floor. She mumbled and bent to retrieve it, shooting them a hasty glance. “So sorry,” she muttered.
Simeon gave her a wary look, then offered Thea a slight shake of his head. He pushed his chair back and stood, motioning for Thea to follow. He led her from the kitchen, and she could feel the cook’s eyes burning into her back. They went down the same hallway she’d entered by, passing a nurse with a starched uniform and a rather stern face.
Soon Simeon had led Thea outdoors, where she drew in a deep breath, filling her lungs with air rife with the scent of pine and earth. There was an iron bench in the corner of the yard. Simeon took her to it and motioned for her to sit.
They were silent for a while. He kept his face averted, as he always seemed to, but Thea could still see his features twitch in the familiar tic. More apparent now and indicative of an internal heightened awareness of the situation.
Finally, he spoke. “I believe that people see what they want to see.”
Thea remembered the apparition or the vision or whatever the woman was beneath her window. “But, if a person isn’t looking for . . . if they’re not superstitious and hoping to see something . . .”
Simeon raised his head. Hair fell over his forehead. His eyes were gentle, his mouth quirked at the corner, and his right shoulder rose on its own volition, then settled. He waited, allowing his body to regain control. “Misty Wayfair died in 1851, Thea. She is dead.”
“But—Mary?”
“What about Mary? What has she to do with this?” Simeon stiffened. His features grew stern now.
Thea swallowed. Oh, she’d ventured into a place she had no right to go. “Never mind.” She shook her head, hoping to gracefully back away from her question.
Simeon stared at her. Thea tried not to be distracted by his facial motion, however subtle it was. He wasn’t going to stop leveling her with a look. He was more confident now than ever before. The mention of his dead sister’s name had conjured up defenses in the timid man that Thea had not been prepared for.
“They say that Misty Wayfair . . . she makes appearances. Just before a Coyle passes away.”
Simeon blinked.
Thea shifted on the bench. She twisted her hands around the cloth of her skirt, staring down at the sensible navy cotton. She cleared her throat. “They say she’s wicked and spiteful and anyone—”
“If you prefer not to be near me—near us—you may leave.”
“That isn’t what I meant.” A frantic urgency filled her. She wanted to disassociate herself from those in Pleasant Valley who had branded the Coyles as outcasts. She didn’t want to unintentionally take sides with the origins of the original Kramer Logging baron and his feud with his daughter, Simeon’s grandmother. She certainly didn’t want to somehow tie herself to the likes of Mrs. Brummel or Edward Fortune, who simply carried on a family’s bias into the third generation without good cause. A ridiculous prejudice based on status and perhaps religious affiliation.
But, she also didn’t wish to remind insane patients of Misty Wayfair. To listen to words that practically spoke her nightmares and sometimes wishes aloud. Her mother, dead. Their ability to speak, to find resolution, impossible.
Thea wanted peace. For once, she just wanted to be at peace!
Simeon leaned over, elbows on his knees, staring with an empty expression beyond the garden shed and into the woods. It appeared he had closed her out. Instead, he waited until he had his features under control and could speak without a slur or lisp.
“My great-grandfather built this asylum, they say,” he explained. A robin fluttered from a nearby oak and landed in the lawn in front of them. Thea and Simeon both fixated on it. She waited for him to speak again.
“There was good in him. But I remember my grandmother telling us how disappointed he was when she married my grandfather. Then how equally appalled he was when they discovered my grandfather’s supposed—relations—with Misty Wayfair. My grandmother Mathilda stood by my grandfather Fergus for all those years. But I think, deep down, she also believed it was true.”
The robin hopped closer to them, pecking at the ground, at some mysterious object neither Simeon nor Thea could see.
When Simeon said no more, Thea licked her lips as she gave him a hesitant look. “Did your grandmother ever say why they never resolved the conflicts between her and your great-grandfather? It seems an awful weight to bear and a sad dissolution of family legacy. For all of you.” She didn’t dare mention that it also had stolen their financial legacy—Kramer Logging.
Simeon waited as the robin tugged at a worm, pulling back and forth from the earth. When it succeeded, the bird flapped its wings, escaping their perusal with its dinner hanging from its beak.
“No. My grandmother was never one to explain anything.” Simeon leaned back and smoothed the thighs of his pants with his palms. “Nor was my father.” His voice had grown hard, as if certain unspoken memories lingered just beneath the surface.
Thea’s anxiousness had begun to assuage since leaving the innards of the asylum. Still, Effie’s outburst and the way Rose had rushed her from the room made Thea question, How would an insane woman know anything about Misty Wayfair? Was the story of her murder so infused into every recess of Pleasant Valley, its woods, and the asylum hidden in its depths that it had made its way even into the dark places of a disturbed woman’s mind?
“Do you ever—?” Thea stopped this time. She bit her tongue.
Simeon glanced at her. “Yes?”
Thea shook her head.
Simeon shrugged. “You may ask. I’m sure I’ve been asked worse.”
Thea swallowed, but a tiny smile touched her lips. He had gotten his irritation under careful control, and in some way, while the tic at the edge of his mouth still made his left eye jerk, he didn’t seem as resigned as he had earlier. For a moment, Simeon was just—honest.
“Do you ever wonder how Misty Wayfair actually died? And how she was tied to your family as a lingering haunting?”
Simeon folded his hands and tapped his thumbs together. “She was murdered.”
“Yes, but why?” Thea asked.
Simeon turned then, settling his slate gray eyes on her face, studying her as if assessing whether to say what was on his mind or to remain vague. Finally, he turned back to staring into the distance. He breathed in deep and released the air through a resigned puff from his mouth.
“They say she was strangled and thrown into a well at the edge of Kramer Logging.”
Thea didn’t speak. She couldn’t. She’d already heard that part. It was the details she wanted to know. She wanted to know because, no matter how she tried to excuse it, the fact that she reminded Effie of Misty Wayfair unsettled her. The fact that everything in this place seemed touched by a woman dead for more than fifty years was unnerving. The fact that no one could explain the why behind Misty Wayfair’s death and subsequent “hauntings” was unsatisfactory.
Simeon tipped his head back and looked up as his sister opened the back door of the
asylum, waving them in. He turned to Thea, piercing her with his steady gaze.
“Coyles never ask why. We’re not allowed.”
With that, he stood and walked away, his shoes making soft steps across the lawn. Thea watched him as he approached his sister. Two siblings, so alone, so ostracized, and almost as mysterious as Misty Wayfair herself.
Before they left the asylum, Rose had explained that Dr. Ackerman wished to speak to Thea. Simeon left her with his sister and disappeared to where he seemed most comfortable. Alone and outdoors, tending the grounds, ignoring the photographic potential of at least one more patient’s picture. They’d both lost their interest for the day. Thea had no desire to return to the upper level of the asylum.
Instead, she followed Rose through another hall and to the first door on the left. She waited as Rose knocked, met Rose’s twilight eyes and read the reassurance in them, then entered the office. She started a bit as the door closed behind her, and Rose left her alone.
Dr. Earl Ackerman appeared much the same as he had at Mary’s funeral. His stature was lean and tall. He wore a similar suit, only this time the suit coat hung off a peg on the wall, and in its place he had on a medical frock that hung to his hips and was buttoned at the front. His tie was a deep green. His mustache was tended neatly, and the way he presented himself was enough to make Thea believe he was not only confident in his medical abilities, but also in his appearance.
Perhaps someday his would be the image a future young woman looked back on in a photograph and remarked at how handsome some men were back at the turn of the century. Thea blinked to snap her awareness back to the present and away from the distraction of imagery and imagination. Handsome, yes, but something about him made her uneasy. Perhaps because he assessed her almost as one might expect him to assess a patient’s mental capabilities.
Thea didn’t like to be read like that. She wasn’t a book, nor was she in need of psychological care.
“I want to apologize.” His voice was such a deep baritone that it filled the room. Thea jumped a little, and he waved her politely toward a chair opposite his desk. “Please. Have a seat.”
She did so, but something inside her made her glance out the window. One of the few that didn’t have bars on it. She saw Simeon outside, trimming a bush. Her eyes clung to him, wishing he’d look up and see her. And rescue her? Thea broke from her stare and returned her gaze to Dr. Ackerman. She didn’t need rescuing. She was a guest here, not a new induction.
Dr. Ackerman was speaking. “When I asked Simeon if he would approach Mr. Amos about the possibility of assisting with photographing our residents, I’d no idea that he would seek an alternative in the event of Mr. Amos’s recent troubles. I’d like you to know that in no way should you feel obligated to assist Simeon.”
Thea waited, unsure of what to say. She wasn’t certain if that was a veiled hint to not return or merely providing an escape for Thea to politely decline.
The doctor continued. His eye contact was so direct that Thea looked down at her hands folded in her lap.
“Simeon has worked here, along with Miss Coyle, his sister, for the last three years. I knew of his interest in photography and his mentorship by Mr. Amos. It was merely an opportunity for me to help patient records be more updated by adding a photograph. It certainly isn’t a necessity. Although the patient records, while small, are abysmal.”
Thea lifted her eyes. Images of her mother walking away from her returned with a vengeance. There must have been an unspoken question on her face, for Dr. Ackerman nodded.
“Yes. Valley Heights Asylum was opened by Reginald Kramer almost twenty years ago now, shortly before his death. While the space is limited, you can imagine the comings and goings of patients here. It is a peaceful place, and family who are forced to admit their loved ones need—assistance—will choose a place such as this so they can leave conscience-free.”
Conscience-free. Like her mother had left her at the orphanage?
Thea swallowed. “Do they ever return to take a patient home?”
Dr. Ackerman’s brows rose in surprise. “Take them home? No. No, unfortunately, there is no leaving a place such as this. Only by death, but then a patient may live decades here before that claims them.”
Decades. If so, if her mother had indeed been here, then she’d either died relatively quick after being admitted or . . .
“And your records are not up to date?”
Dr. Ackerman strode to the window and looked out. Now he seemed to watch Simeon, as Thea had, before he turned back to her.
“Simeon and Miss Coyle joined my staff when I first arrived here at the hospital. The previous doctor passed away, and I accepted my station here. When I arrived, I discovered that while the patients did have minimal information recorded and medical logs had been kept, all was in a state of disarray.”
“And so you wish to make that right?”
“Of course. But not at the expense of others. I will be sensitive to your delicacies, Miss Reed. I’ve no desire to subject you unwillingly to the . . . well, outbursts of the patients or other such sights.”
“Do you have need of further record sorting?” Thea’s question came before much thought. If Mr. Amos didn’t recover soon, she felt obligated to keep up his appointments on his behalf. He had, after all, agreed to take her on at her arrival in Pleasant Valley. Yet the idea of having access to the asylum patients’ records, even past records, intrigued her as well as frightened her. It would, perhaps, be an uncomplicated way to answer the question: Where had her mother gone?
Dr. Ackerman walked behind his desk and lowered himself onto his chair. “Are you saying you’re interested in assisting beyond just photography?”
Thea warned herself to think before speaking. She compartmentalized her thoughts this time and proceeded carefully. “Well, I would see to Mr. Amos’s accounts as my first priority. However”—there was no reason not to be completely honest—“I’ve reason to question whether my mother may have been here at Valley Heights at one time.”
“As a nurse?” Dr. Ackerman leaned forward in his chair. “I could quickly find out for you.”
“No.” Thea winced. This was exactly what she was terrified to admit. But then he was a doctor of the mentally ill, after all. Surely there would be no shame in speaking the truth.
“As a patient,” she heard herself say.
“Ahh, I see.” Dr. Ackerman nodded. “We could look at those records we do have organized. What was her name?”
“All I know of her is, P. A. Reed.”
The doctor nodded again. “She may be in our past records. We’ve no patient by that name now, I can assure you.”
“I see.” Thea was both relieved and disappointed at the same time. The image of Effie stood out starkly in her mind. The absent eyes, the awful words filling the room, and then the awareness, the recognition.
Misty Wayfair.
“What do you know of Misty Wayfair?” Thea asked with a compulsion.
“Yes. Effie. Rose told me what she said to you. Again, I apologize. If you are interested in assisting with records, I would engage your help, although I also do not expect you to continue to work with the patients.”
“Why would a patient even know of that story? The story of Misty Wayfair? Surely not all patients here are from town, but rather transplanted from outside. So how would Effie know of her, let alone believe I reminded her of Misty?” The questions came tumbling from Thea. Questions she’d wanted to ask Simeon but was afraid to. Questions she probably had no right to ask of Dr. Ackerman, yet she did.
He reached for a letter opener on his desk and ran the dull blade between his thumb and forefinger. Then he set it down, folded his hands, and met Thea’s questioning look with a direct expression that convinced her he wasn’t being at all deceitful with his answer. Though afterward she wished he had been.
“The patients see all sorts of things, Miss Reed. Hear all sorts of stories from the outside from staffers who come and go. Th
e story goes that Misty Wayfair’s ghost even frequents the halls of this place—looking for someone, they say.” Dr. Ackerman shook his head, and his lips thinned as he paused in thought. “Effie—sees things. Many things. It’s one of her conditions. I’m sure she believes she’s seen the spirit of Misty Wayfair, and for some reason—we’ll never understand, I’m sure—she believes you’re her.”
“But I’m not!” Thea insisted. The idea was appalling. Unnerving.
Dr. Ackerman shrugged. “But to Effie, you are. And to Effie, that is all that matters.”
Chapter 20
Heidi
It was all or nothing now. Heidi had decided to remain, so with that decision she had to regain her reason for being here in the first place. Her equilibrium of sorts. Connie had sent her home with the counsel to rest for a day, then regroup. She was invited back to spend time with Emma. Connie had insinuated she’d like to understand what had brought Heidi to Pleasant Valley. It was really, honestly, perhaps the first time anyone had shown genuine interest in what mattered to Heidi.
She wasn’t quite sure what to do with that.
Heidi slouched on the sofa in the living room, knees pulled up to rest on the cushion, with her mother’s letter open before her, revealing the familiar handwriting in blue ink. She balanced an open can of Dr Pepper on her left knee. To her right lay the old photograph album, along with the unsettling note she’d found under her windshield wiper.
Her eyes skimmed the letter she’d received only two months prior. Two months, and she’d ended up coming at the call of a mother she had to admit she still sought approval from.
Heidi . . .
She noted that there was no introduction of “dear” or “darling,” with the use of her first name or the use of “Honey” or “Sweet pea,” or some other ridiculous childhood nickname. It made the distance she’d known since childhood between mother and daughter all the more palpable and real.
There is much to say, but not in a letter. Since your father passed away, I’ve slowly sensed my own mind failing. I know dementia to be a wicked truth of age and genetics, but I wished it wouldn’t come to this.
The Curse of Misty Wayfair Page 18