Sparks of Light

by Janet B. Taylor

  Come on. Come on.

  Flash. Crack.

  There it was again. It hadn’t been my imagination, or even wishful thinking. It was real. He was real.

  A slim, solitary figure stood just outside the black spikes of the clinic’s treacherous fence. His hands gripped the bars as if he wanted to tear them down with his bare hands. Head tilted up, he stared toward the upper floors.

  With lamplight behind me, I knew that anyone watching from the outside could see me. Raising my hand high above my head, I laid my palm against the cold glass. The storm was passing. The intensity of the lightning dimmed, but I still saw it when the figure outside raised his own hand toward mine.

  I’d know that shape anywhere. And even as the storm acceded the night back to darkness, I never took my eyes off the spot where I knew Bran Cameron waited for me.

  There was no mirror to expand the tiny, tiled bathroom. As I pulled the chain on the overhead tank and washed my hands and face with frigid water and silky, lavender-scented soap, the walls began to close in on me. The large clock on the sitting room mantel bonged nine times. I added up the hours. Fifty-nine. Only fifty-nine hours left before the Dim returned to take us home.

  Nope. I commanded my rapidly escalating pulse to slow. No. No, you are not going to freak out right now. You just need a plan. Think, Walton. How would Bran get himself out of this?

  His name passed through my thoughts like a soothing balm. My heartbeat calmed. I could breathe again.

  “Bran’s here,” I whispered. My hands relaxed their grip on the pillar sink. And by now, he’s contacted the others.

  Bran and Collum may not like each other much, but they’d work together to get us out. And I knew my best friend. Phoebe and Mac would tear down heaven itself to save Doug and me.

  I was still smiling when I plopped down in one of the wing chairs near the fireplace. When I looked up, the others were all watching me. I tried to hold on to the comfort I’d wrapped around myself, but like a sunbeam on a cold and cloudy day, it was fleeting. The warmth dissipated. I felt my chin start to wobble as the faces around me blurred to pale ovals. I nipped hard on a snag of cuticle and stared down at the jumping flames.

  I will not cry. I won’t. I won’t—​

  Annabelle Allen rose from her spot on the floor. Smiling, she laid the sleeping kitten in my lap. “Here,” she said. “Bootsie will make it all better. Feel how soft she is?” She picked up my limp hand and laid it on the warm, purring body.

  An image flashed. Hecty the menace, strands of doll hair snagged in her whiskers. The scene of home made me think of Moira and Lucinda. Of Mom.

  The tears fell.

  “Thank you,” I choked out. “Thank you, Annabelle.”

  I must’ve dozed off. When the hallway door suddenly opened, I jerked forward, wrenching my neck. Everyone went stiff and silent as Dr. Carson strolled in. Nurse Hannah and the matron were on his heels, both toting silver trays covered with white cloths.

  “Evening medication, ladies.” Dr. Carson smiled, nodding at each person in turn. His gaze held on me. “I thought I would drop by personally. See how our new patient is settling in.”

  When no one responded, his affected grin began to wilt. “I see,” he sniffed. “Well? What are you waiting for?” Snapping his fingers twice at the nurses, he said, “Get on with it.”

  “Yes, Dr. Carson.” Nurse Hannah quickly began handing out pills, drafts in glass tubes, and small tin cups of water.

  Mrs. Forbes, who had been noticeably silent since dinner, stared down at the pills in her hand. “Where is Louisa Caldecott?” The older woman jutted a chin at Hannah. “I asked that one earlier, but she wouldn’t say a word.”

  “As is correct, Mrs. Forbes,” the doctor replied. “You know we do not discuss—”

  “Will she return to us a drooling, cat-petting ninny like Miss Allen over there?” The volume of the older woman’s voice rose as she stood.

  “I do not believe I care for your tone, Mrs. Forbes,” Dr. Carson said. “Sit down.”

  All the other patients began to study the cups in their hands. To my surprise, however, Lila Jamesson stood and moved to take Mrs. Forbes’s elbow. “Don’t mind her, Dr. Carson. Dorothy is tired, that’s all. It has been an exhausting day, what with Louisa and the new girl.”

  “I do not appreciate having my methods questioned, Mrs. Forbes.” The doctor’s nostrils flared as he studied the older woman. “Perhaps it is time for another ice bath to cool your humors?”

  Mrs. Forbes’s eyes went wide. “N-no,” she stuttered. “No. I—​I apologize, Doctor. I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes, yes.” Ignoring the woman’s protests, Dr. Carson gestured to the matron, who set down her tray and went to the door. “I believe cold hydrotherapy is just the thing to put you in order.”

  Two attendants I’d never seen before entered the room. Mrs. Forbes’s haughty manner had disappeared completely as she begged and pleaded. It did no good. The burly attendants shoved the now-pale Lila Jamesson aside. Each gripping Mrs. Forbes by an arm, they began to drag her from the room.

  I jumped to my feet. “What are you doing?” I demanded. “Let her go! She’s an old woman, for God’s sake.”

  Before I could say another word, Carson’s thugs had the sobbing Mrs. Forbes out in the hall. The matron followed and slammed the door shut behind her.

  Carson’s steely eyes locked on mine. And though every impulse told me to shut the hell up, I didn’t shrink. “Where are you taking her?”

  “Mrs. Forbes will be taken to the hydrotherapy chamber and given twenty minutes in an ice bath, followed by ten more with the cold hose. I’ve found a generous cold water treatment wonderful at cooling the temper.” Apparently done with our little exchange, Carson then rounded on Lila. “Mrs. Jamesson, you have become very forward again. Perhaps it is time to schedule a few more rounds of manipulation?”

  Lila paled and took a step back. “No. Not that, please.”

  Seeing fear, horror, and disgust mingle on Lila’s lovely face, my skin crawled.

  It can’t be what I think. I’m wrong. God, please let me be wrong.

  Because I had a terrible suspicion I knew what Carson meant by “manipulation.” I’d read about it only recently, and it had made me want to throw up. A Victorian method, administered by male doctors to cure “hysteria” in women. It was intimate, intensely personal, and amounted to nothing more than sexual abuse. For a woman like Lila Jamesson . . .

  “Then,” Carson was saying, “I suggest you keep your thoughts to yourself.”

  Lila nodded. A tear dropped to the carpet at her feet.

  Upon the doctor’s barked order, each patient obediently swallowed down pills or liquid or both as Hannah checked them off on her list.

  The nurse came to me last, holding out a palm-size tray with two ivory pills and a glass vial filled with a dark, oily substance.

  I picked up the tablets, palming them as I pretended to pop them in my mouth. The bitter liquid I held under my tongue as I fake-swallowed and gave the nurse a closed-mouth smile.

  Carson snorted and exchanged a knowing look with Nurse Hannah. “That’s very nice, Miss Randolph,” he said. “But I believe we’ll need for you to open your mouth, please.”

  I tried to do it. To open my mouth without dribbling the noxious fluid. But the acrid taste had flooded my mouth with so much saliva I knew I’d be outed if I cracked the seal even a little.

  Dr. Carson sighed. Before I could blink he was on me, smashing my head against the sofa’s firm back. One hand came down hard over my mouth while the other pinched my nostrils closed. I flailed, fighting for breath. My ragged nails raked down his wrists. He hissed, cursing under his breath.

  I had no choice. I swallowed in reflex. Satisfied, the doctor abruptly released me. When I fell to my knees, coughing and gagging, the pills rolled out of my hand.

  Watching the entire exchange closely, Lila Jamesson’s sharp eyes tracked the pills’ progress across the floral car
pet. With a subtle twitch of her skirts, she concealed the wayward meds beneath the folds of amber silk.

  Eyes still watering, I looked up at her. She gave an infinitesimal shake of her head, then glanced pointedly away.

  “And now, ladies,” Carson said, straightening his lapels, “I believe it is time for you to retire. Nurse Hannah, if you will kindly show the ladies to their quarters.”

  “Yes, Alexander.” The nurse’s eyes went wide as Carson wheeled on her, his irritation plain. “I—” Her cheeks blazed with color as she babbled. “That is to say—​of course, Doctor. Right away, sir.”

  The nurse scurried off like a scalded cat. Like a clutch of automatons, the patients stood and began to follow her from the room in an orderly line. Lila’s needlepoint dropped from her hand. Carson glanced her way but said nothing as she bent down to scoop it up. When she passed I glanced down at the carpet. The pills were gone. Rising, I made to follow, but Carson held out an arm, blocking my path.

  “Sit, Miss Randolph.”

  When I refused to comply, he only shrugged and straightened his lapels again. “Do not think I enjoy manhandling my patients. I’m a doctor, not a monster. Everything I do is in the name of scientific advancement. But I expect full cooperation from those in my charge. Do you understand?”

  When I wouldn’t even look at him, he sighed and ran his gaze over the raised welts my nails had left behind. “Please do not force me to modify my initial treatment plan for you,” he said. “Which I can assure you is quite mild.”

  The doctor took two steps until his face was inches from mine. Jaw tight, I refused to flinch as he leaned in to whisper, “Of course, I’d prefer to treat most of my patients with a daily regime of Prozac and Zoloft, with a side of Xanax or Haldol. But when in Rome, eh?”

  When he stepped back, a smarmy smile tugging at his lips, I couldn’t help it. I gaped at him, stunned to my core.

  It can’t be. That’s . . . that’s impossible. He winked as if we shared some delicious secret.

  The floor beneath my feet went spongy. Dots appeared at the corners of my sight.

  Alexander, Hannah had called him. Until then, I hadn’t known his first name. Dr. Alexander Carson. A fairly common name. But he . . . he wasn’t common, was he?

  For years, my mom had begged me to go with her on her world lecture tours. A renowned history professor, author, and speaker, my mom was in high demand. Every year, she begged, promising to show me the world. I—​coward that I was—​always refused, breaking her heart time and again.

  At fourteen, I became obsessed with finding a way to manage the anxiety disorders and phobias that ruled my life. Our small town’s library was minuscule, but I scrounged the Internet for anything I could find about or relating to the study of psychiatry.

  As I stared at Dr. Alexander Carson now, a single article, short and green-tinged, appeared before my eyes, half obscuring his face.

  Bellevue Psychiatrist, Facing Indictment for Unethical Practices, Disappears

  By TERENCE JONES

  NY Times, May 13, 1983—​Dr. Alexander Carson, 43, of Manhattan, scheduled to appear in court last Monday to face indictment on 23 counts of unethical practice, has apparently disappeared from his Eighth Avenue home. When police arrived at Carson’s apartment yesterday to take him into custody, he was not in residence. After a thorough investigation, police report no signs of forced entry or foul play. Also, the presence of Carson’s passport and belongings make the possibility that he fled the country less likely. Anyone known to harbor or assist Carson can and will be charged as an accessory.

  This morning, NYPD Detective Antony Donato issued the following statement: “We are investigating every avenue of Dr. Carson’s disappearance. An APB has been issued and I have no doubt he will be found and justice served for the heinous acts committed against the patients whose trust Dr. Carson has betrayed.”

  There had been no picture, and I remember being only slightly intrigued, wondering what types of “heinous acts” the doctor had committed. The hospital had apparently closed ranks when a 1985 class-action lawsuit had been filed against it, citing inability to pursue further action against the absent Dr. Carson, himself.

  Absent didn’t begin to describe it. The missing psychiatrist from 1983 was standing before me now, in the year 1895.

  The drug must have begun to take effect about then, because my sight went bleary. My lips felt numb, and my knees wobbled, forcing me to sit. Or fall.

  “I see you understand. That’s good,” Carson said. “As long as you cause no trouble here, I believe we will get along just fine.”

  Chapter 29

  I BARELY REMEMBER UNDRESSING AND CLIMBING BETWEEN crisp sheets. At breakfast the next morning, the drug’s aftereffects left me shaken and queasy. I couldn’t even look at the silver tureens of scrambled eggs and piping hot sausages laid out buffet-style on a sideboard in the dining room.

  At least I was back in my own gown, brushed clean and pressed by the maid. Barely picking at the triangle of toast the server had placed on my plate, I forced myself to down a glass of apple juice and two steaming cups of creamed coffee.

  I was standing by the only window in the sitting room, staring out at the deserted lawn, when I saw them. I noticed Collum first, in his workman’s clothes, sandy hair covered by the flat cap. Then Phoebe appeared in my field of view, followed by Mac and another man, tall and dressed in black. His face was shaded by a bowler hat, and I couldn’t make out his features. My three friends turned, hands raised to shield their eyes from the slant of morning sun as they scanned the windows.

  My heart slammed into my throat as I waved frantically. Here! I’m here!

  When they didn’t respond, I pounded on the thick panes. Phoebe turned to Mac. As her mouth moved, Mac shook his head. Collum’s fist banged down into his palm, obviously furious.

  “What are you doing?” Lila hissed as she jerked at my arm, trying to tug me away from the glass. “Are you insane in earnest? You’ll bring every attendant in the place down upon us.”

  “Those are my friends down there,” I said, yanking away from her grip. “I have to let them know where I am.”

  I heaved at the sash, but it was either nailed or painted shut. The group on the lawn turned and began to march away toward the cast-iron gate.

  “No!” Desperately I scanned the room, plans firing off in my head. I raced over to the piano, snatched up the small bench that sat before it, and ran with it back to the window.

  “Miss Randolph, no!” Lila shouted. But it was too late.

  With a grunt, I swung the bench as hard as I could into the window. The shattering sound was as loud as a car crash. Splintered wood and shards of glass rained down on the lawn. I dropped the shattered remains of the bench on the carpet and leaned out the ruined window. Mac, Collum, and Phoebe stopped in their tracks and whipped back around as I screamed, “I’m here! Collum! Phoebe! I’m here!”

  Phoebe saw me first. Snatching up her long skirts, she raced across the lawn until she was standing just below. “Hope! Oh, Jesus! We tried to get in to see you, but they turned us away! Have you seen Doug? Are you both okay?”

  “I haven’t seen him since they took us—”

  Strong arms wrapped around my waist and lifted me off my feet, hauling me backwards. Kicking, I fought against my captor. “No! Let me go!” I cried. “Phoebe! Collum! Help!”

  “Be quiet, miss,” a low voice growled in my ear as a beefy hand clapped over my mouth. “It’s Sergeant Peters. I want to help you, girl. But if you don’t keep quiet, you’ll bring down every guard in the place. Or Carson himself will come, and trust me, that’s the last thing you want.”

  From the window I could hear shouts. Phoebe screeched my name, then Collum bellowed as other voices joined theirs. Men shouted, ordering them to leave the premises at once.

  “If I let you go, do you promise to be quiet?” Tears of frustration burned my eyes as I nodded.

  Peters’s hand left my mouth. He set
me down gently, took my elbow, and tugged me to the far side of the room next to the now-benchless piano. His coarse face serious, he began speaking, low and urgently. “Listen to me. I want to help you get out of here, Miss Walton.”

  My eyes went wide at that. Peters only nodded solemnly as he went on. “I been working here goin’ on four years now, and I seen things that . . . well . . . that no true Christian should see.” Peters drew out a handkerchief and swiped at his forehead. “I always try to do right and protect the poor patients best I can. But I can only do so much. It wears on a man, witnessing that kind of evil day after day, do you take my meaning, miss?”

  I nodded. “Yes!”

  “Last night, after they brung you in, I was making my rounds at the fence. Your people stopped me and offered more coin than I could make in ten years’ time if I got you out.” Sergeant Peters flushed to the roots of his iron-gray hair as he mumbled. “I’d a done it for free. Carson, he does the devil’s work and that’s the truth of it.” Bleary brown eyes rose to meet mine. “Only . . . it ain’t easy for a man of my years to get a job these days. The landlord just went and upped the rent. And I’m still payin’ on my Selma’s burial and . . .”

  Peters went on but I barely heard. A feeling like helium mixed with sunshine had begun to fill me. I gripped the side of the piano to keep from flying up to bump the ceiling.

  “Please, Sergeant Peters,” I told him. “You don’t have to explain. Take the money. Trust me, they have plenty. But what about my friend Douglas? We have to get him out, too.”

  “Yes. The both of you. The lad’s in Ward D on the men’s side. He’s the only occupant as that’s new construction. It must be soon ’cause Doc Carson, he—” Peters shifted and cast an uneasy look at the door, then at the cluster of women who watched from across the room. They stared back. Only Annabelle seemed oblivious that something unusual was happening.