The Lost Girl of Astor Street

by Stephanie Morrill

  The fear that had squeezed my heart eases. “She’s coming out of it.” I lean close to her face. Her eyes are no longer rolled. Now they’re milky, unseeing slits. “Lydia? Can you hear me?” The corner of her mouth twitches up, but it seems involuntary.

  I stand and brush crumbs of concrete from my hands. “It’ll be a while before she’s really aware. If it’s like last time.”

  “Should I pick her up?”

  “Yes.”

  Walter presses his flat cap firmer onto his head and crouches beside Lydia. A shudder runs through him, and then he lifts her up into his arms.

  I nod to the narrow gap between the houses. “Can you squeeze through there?”

  “Just run, Piper. I’ll get her there.”

  “Try not to be seen,” I call as I hike my skirts up over my knees and take off. The gap between the houses is so narrow that I can hardly run without one of my elbows brushing against the brick siding. I burst into the alley, look both ways, and run south to the LeVines’ home.

  Their back door is locked. I pound on the door while keeping my gaze up the alley, waiting for Walter to come through with Lydia.

  Tabitha opens the door, a broom in one hand and a scowl on her weathered, brown face. “Miz Sail, what on earth are you—”

  “Lydia,” I pant out. “Call Dr. LeVine.”

  The broom clatters to the floor as Tabitha rushes for the telephone.

  Footsteps echo in the alley. Walter runs with Lydia clutched to him. The Chicago wind whips her red curls, and also Walter’s hat from his head. But he pays no mind, just runs with her, and my heart seems to explode with appreciation for him.

  “Missus!” Tabitha calls from deeper in the house. “It’s Miz Sail. Somethin’s wrong with Miz Lydia!”

  I scrape dishes and food to the far end of the kitchen counter, grab a handful of towels to cushion Lydia’s head, and then I rush to hold open the door for Walter.

  As he eases Lydia through the doorway, Mrs. LeVine storms into the kitchen. “Where was she? What happened?”

  “We found her on the sidewalk near the Barrows’. It looks like she was walking home when the seizure hit. She was still seizing when we found her. We saw maybe a minute of it.”

  Walter settles Lydia onto the counter and backs away as Mrs. LeVine leans over her daughter’s motionless body. She presses two fingers to Lydia’s wrist, and with her other hand smooths down her skirt. She gasps at the blood-soaked strands of hair.

  I can’t make my voice go above a whisper. “I think that’s where she hit the sidewalk.”

  Walter clears his throat. “It doesn’t look very deep, ma’am. Head wounds just bleed a lot.”

  He glances at me, and his mouth flickers with a reassuring smile. Walter’s shirt is wet with something. Urine, I think. Heat rushes to my cheeks on behalf of my ladylike friend.

  Mrs. LeVine keeps her gaze on Lydia’s hauntingly still face. “Thank you for carrying her home, Walter.” And then, almost to herself, “Why would she have been walking? Where was Matthew?”

  “I don’t know.” Taking a full breath seems impossible. “I know he was taking her to watch Cole, but that’s all.”

  Lydia shifts on the counter, groans. But then becomes still again.

  Tabitha bustles into the room. “Dr. LeVine is on his way, Missus.” Her gaze falls on Lydia, and her shoulders slump. “Oh, Miz Lydia . . .”

  “Tabitha, fetch me a wet rag.” The shock seems to have worn off Mrs. LeVine. “And keep the girls out of the kitchen. I don’t want them seeing their sister like this.”

  “Yes, Missus.” Tabitha hands her the rag and scurries away to find Hannah and Sarah.

  Mrs. LeVine presses the rag to the head wound and turns a severe gaze toward us. “Thank you for delivering her, but I’ll ask that you please allow us to handle this matter as a family now.”

  “Yes, of course.” I trail my hand along Lydia’s arm. Her normally fair skin is chalk white, but there’s comfort in the warmth of it. In the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest.

  “Piper, I trust that you will continue to be discreet in the matter of Lydia’s health.”

  “Of course.”

  Her gaze flicks to Walter and then back at me. “And that you will impart the importance of discretion to Walter as well.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Neither of us will breathe a word. Might I—” I hesitate a second. “Might I ring later to check on her?”

  Mrs. LeVine’s mouth purses. “Will that not raise too much attention in your house?”

  “No, not at all. I know how to be covert when I use the telephone.”

  “Yes, of course.” Mrs. LeVine’s gaze, so like Lydia’s and yet so different, flicks up and down me. “I daresay you do.”

  I flush and take a step backward. “We’ll leave you to care for Lydia now.”

  “Remember, Piper,” Mrs. LeVine calls as Walter holds open the back door for me. “Not a word. Not even to Lydia.”

  “Not a word,” I vow.

  With a farewell nod of his head, Walter closes the door behind us.

  The chill of the wind, which had been an ignorable nuisance before, whips down the alley. My right ankle is sore, and it’s no wonder, running at such a pace.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in all my life,” Walter confesses.

  My knees tremble, and I lean against him as we walk along the grit of the alley. “I’m so thankful you were with me. I couldn’t have carried her.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “I learned of it only a month ago. I was at the LeVines’. Lydia and I were making fudge, and we sat a spell to rest while it cooled. And . . .” I swallow as emotion rises high in my throat. “We had been sitting there in the living room, just chatting, when Sarah came twirling through the room. And when I looked back to Lydia, she was . . .”

  Her head had been angled back, as though she were trying to see the bit of ceiling just behind her view. Her hands, which had been in her lap, were now pulled against her collarbone, the wrists bent in.

  “Lydia?” I had dropped my glass of iced tea, though I wouldn’t realize it until later. “Lydia?”

  I must have been louder than I thought, because Mrs. LeVine had rushed into the room, Hannah and Sarah close behind her. “Get her on her side!” she ordered, even as she eased Lydia out of the chair and onto the ground. “Girls—leave the room at once.”

  A scream stuck in my throat at the sight of prim and frilly Lydia biting her tongue as though it was a bit of chewing gum. Her unblinking, rolled eyes seemed inhuman.

  Mrs. LeVine had glanced at her wristwatch. “Piper, get the girls out of here, and call Dr. LeVine.” But I had been frozen there. She turned, and looked up at me with a glare even more severe than Ms. Underhill’s. “Go, Piper. Piper!”

  Walter’s voice blends with the memory of Mrs. LeVine’s. “Piper?”

  I shake myself from the LeVines’ living room and back into the present. “That seizure lasted eight minutes, I was told. It felt like forever. When her father finally got there, Mrs. LeVine took me aside and made it clear I was to tell absolutely no one about what I had seen. Not my father, not friends at school. She asked that I not even mention it to Lydia.”

  Walter’s forehead scrunches as he frowns at me.

  I pitch my voice low. “They’re worried about Dr. LeVine’s practice. About what would happen if word got out that his daughter has been having unexplained seizures for several months now.”

  His face doesn’t lose the serious countenance. “Can it be cured?”

  “Dr. LeVine says it can. That it’s a matter of finding the right combination of medicines.” I take a deep breath. “He says the seizures don’t hurt her. That she’s sore afterward and often comes to with a headache, but doesn’t remember a thing. So I guess even if she does have pain, she doesn’t remember feeling it.”

  “Well. That’s a small comfort, I suppose.”

  I picture Lydia as her beautiful self. Caref
ully curled red hair, skin aglow, and blue eyes lively. That is Lydia. I hold the image in my mind as the Other Lydia—her arms tucked awkwardly and her eyes rolled up—tries to crowd her out.

  “This is 1924, for heaven’s sake.” I infuse my voice with false bravado. “We can make automobiles, telephones, and electricity. So surely this can be solved as well.”

  Walter smiles down at me. “Yes, you’re right. And Dr. LeVine is one of the best in the city. Lydia couldn’t be in better hands.”

  “Right.”

  We slow to a stop at the back door of our home. He glances down at his shirt, soiled with Lydia’s blood and urine.

  “You can’t put that in the wash, or Joyce will ask about it. I’ll have to replace it for you. Your hat too. What are your measurements?”

  “Piper, one less shirt is no problem.” He threads the buttons of his suit coat through their holes. “I’m going to get cleaned up, and then I’ll be back down.”

  He disappears into the house, and I sink onto the bare wood steps. My ankle feels as though it might be swelling, and my legs quiver beneath my school skirt. I stare at the back of the brick house behind ours as my head swirls to all sorts of dangerous places.

  Can I trust Dr. LeVine when he says this is curable? Or is it like when Mother came down with influenza in the summer of ’19? When they told me she would be fine. And then she was not.

  Lydia held my hand all through Mother’s funeral. Didn’t offer trite words of comfort, just pressed her palm against mine and stood there with me. How could I survive losing someone else I love? Especially without Lydia to see me through?

  I take an angry swipe at the tears that fall. Lydia’s not dying. Dr. LeVine told me so, and I will choose to trust him.

  Only I can’t block out the memory of my mother’s parting words to me. Of the way she beckoned me close and spoke with labored breaths. “You’re a smart girl, Piper. Trust yourself.” The last cohesive sentences she chose before slipping into an unsettled sleep from which she never awoke.

  The words shiver through me with every breath I take—trust yourself. I find I can’t ignore that the seizures are happening with more frequency. Nor can I talk myself out of the fear that Dr. LeVine prioritizes secrecy more than Lydia’s healing.

  “I beg you to reconsider this.” Lydia’s words are spoken through pinched lips. Her gaze trails after the Hart, Schaffner & Marx employee as he ducks into the back room. “Really, Piper. Buying a shirt for a man is far too bold a gesture. How could Walter not read into such a gift?”

  “It’s my fault his shirt was ruined. I’m trying to be fair, not flirtatious.”

  Lydia yawns. “And why would you have thrown a mud ball at him in the first place? You’re not a child anymore, Piper.”

  I shrug and feign interest in the display of neckties, running the cool silk between my fingers. The store smells of cedar and mint and is oppressively quiet, like a library. The only other patron at the men’s clothing store is also a woman. Her back is to us as she surveys men’s suits, but even from here I can tell she’s nearly as tall as my brothers and old enough to be in here for a respectable reason—a suit for her husband, most likely. She keeps glancing at us. Probably curious about why two adolescent girls are in a men’s clothing store.

  I resolve to ignore her silent questions. “Besides, Walter is seeing someone in California. He told me so yesterday. He’s quite smitten.”

  “And how did you feel when he told you that?”

  I shrug again. “It’s strange to think of him married. He wouldn’t come home as much. That makes me sad. But of course, I suppose I’ll be moving out before too long.”

  “But you weren’t jealous?”

  “No. Same as I wouldn’t be if I learned Nick were marrying. I’ve told you—Walter’s like my brother.” I smile as she attempts to cover up another yawn. “Am I boring you?”

  Her smile has a sleepy tinge to it and her eyelids are heavy. “Not at all. I’m just so tired for some reason today.”

  Lydia scratches the back of her neck as she stares at a display of cuff links. She looks so healthy, so utterly normal, it’s impossible to believe the state I found her in yesterday afternoon. Her mouth turns up in a smile, and her cheeks grow pinker with every passing second.

  “Are those cufflinks amusing you, Lydia LeVine?”

  Lydia startles and then gives a wistful sigh. “Oh, Piper. How can I lecture you about giving Walter a present when I’m standing here dreaming about giving a gift of my own?”

  “What possible purpose does Matthew have for gold cufflinks?”

  “Would you keep your voice down?” Lydia glances over her shoulder at the other woman, who looks away. I cannot imagine why we’re of such interest to her. “I wish you didn’t disapprove so strongly of me and Matthew. It gives me very little hope of Mother and Father giving us their blessing.”

  I take in my beautiful friend. “You could have anyone, Lydia. Heaven knows you already have beaux lining up—”

  Lydia arches doubtful eyebrows. “I don’t see Jeremiah Crane hanging around school to talk to me.”

  “He’s not there to talk to me either. He’s there to pick up Emma.”

  Lydia shakes her head. “You’re normally so intuitive, Piper.”

  “Just please don’t rush this thing with Matthew, okay?”

  Lydia’s jaw tightens. Even if the sales clerk hadn’t picked that moment to return, I don’t think she would have given the promise I sought.

  The clerk looks down his long nose at us. “Shall I wrap this and the hat in the same box, Miss?”

  “Please.”

  Lydia is quiet while we wait, and I occupy myself with wrapping the tie of my uniform around my finger and then unwrapping it. On the drive here from school, I had used a considerable amount of energy restraining myself from yelling at Matthew for not being with Lydia when she had her seizure.

  When I had called the LeVine residence last night, Tabitha had—in words so hushed I could barely hear them—told me that Matthew had gone to the market to pick up the grocery order, having expected Lydia to remain at the Barrows’ residence for at least an hour. Tabitha, perhaps sensing my ire, assured me that he’d been distraught to learn Lydia had not only walked home but had one of her spells and been hurt.

  One of her “spells.” Ha.

  “Is something unsatisfactory, Miss Sail?”

  I blink and realize that I just snorted at the package the clerk offered me. “No, nothing at all. Thank you for your assistance.”

  “Thank you for your business.”

  As we exit the clothing store, Matthew smiles and sweeps open the back door of the Duesenberg for us. He touches the brim of his flat cap as I pass by him. “It looks as though the stop was a success.”

  “It was. Thank you.” The brusqueness in my voice seems to go unnoticed by him.

  It’s unfair to be so angry with Matthew when he was only trying to be efficient with his work time, but I can’t seem to silence the accusations in my head. That if Matthew had been there, if Lydia hadn’t been left alone yesterday afternoon, somehow the seizure never would have happened.

  I look back to the door, where Lydia stands beaming up at Matthew. She speaks in too private a voice for me to overhear, but whatever it is, Matthew smiles too. With a pang, I think of Lydia’s blush as she gazed at the cufflinks inside the store. Where is my sensible and proper friend?

  I dread the moment I become sweet on someone. It seems to turn your brain to mush.

  “Oh, Matthew.” Lydia’s voice is breathy with laughter as she ducks inside the car.

  The door closes behind her, and I tuck my parcel between us. Lydia arranges her red curls over her shoulder as she watches Matthew slide around the front of the car. Under the wide brim of her hat, and with the way she styled her hair today, I can’t even see the scrape from yesterday. But something—frustration? Exhaustion? Stupidity?—makes me ask anyway.

  “How did you hurt yourself, Lydia?”
<
br />   Her chuckle holds embarrassment as her fingertips graze her temple. “Oh dear, can you see it? It looks worse than it is, I assure you.” She presses her fingers to her mouth to cover a yawn. “Just one of my fainting spells. You’re the first to ask about it today. I thought I had concealed it nicely.”

  I keep my gaze on the straps of my black shoes. They turn to blurs.

  Matthew climbs in the car, and Lydia leans forward. “My, that wind today!”

  As he pulls out into traffic, she continues to chat with him in the animated, artful way we’ve learned in etiquette classes.

  Watching her flirt somehow makes the truth feel like a smack in the face—Lydia has no idea about the seizures. And neither does Matthew, it seems. If Dr. and Mrs. LeVine can be trusted, it’s only me, Walter, and Tabitha who know details. Being the only one in the car who’s aware that Lydia could transform at any second, could become that girl I saw on the sidewalk yesterday, leaves me incapable of capturing a full breath. As if the truth is like a hand clasped over my mouth.

  Lydia should know. Matthew, who drives Lydia and her sisters so often, should know.

  But I made my promise to Mrs. LeVine. While I have no scruples about borrowing Ms. Underhill’s cardigan to snatch a pastry, or sliding down the school banister in my swimming costume, breaking a promise is a line I won’t cross. What does a girl have, really, if her word cannot be trusted?

  As Matthew steers us toward the Astor Street district, and as Lydia persists in drawing conversation out of him, my gaze stays on the choppy gray waters of Lake Michigan. The ache in my knuckles is dull despite the lashes Ms. Underhill inflicted today when my mouth got the best of me.

  “What kind of lazy work is this, Miss Sail?” She had held up the mess of green fabric for the class to see. “Is this the bodice of a dress or a bird’s nest?”

  Only dimwitted Mae Husboldt was rude enough to play along and laugh.

  I took a measured breath, determined to behave in a way that would make Joyce proud. That wouldn’t make Lydia scold me afterward. “Yes, I believe I’ve made a mistake or two in my stitches.”

  “A mistake or two? More like ten.” She had allowed a beat of silence in her abuse, as if anticipating Mae’s giggles. “Here you’ve sewn the right side together with the wrong side. You’ll have to take it all apart. Start over. There won’t be time for you to finish it for the fashion show, I’m afraid.”