The Girls with No Names

by Serena Burdick

  Death crept forward in small, seductive waves, drawing me in and out, pulling me from my body and dropping me back in. I wanted Luella, but there was only the lion in the corner of the room, watching patiently from his numerous eyes with his head in his paws.

  I stopped being afraid of the dark, of the ghosts of my imagination, and became afraid only of the fluid filling my lungs, and the terrifying sensation that I was drowning.

  When the angels of the Lord finally came for me, a soft light appeared and their faint, hushed voices soothed me. There were no dissolving edges, no falling away, just a sting to my arm and a tender sleep arrived as the pressure in my chest finally let go, the relief as sweet as flying.

  * * *

  In the end, Heaven did not greet me when I woke up, or God, unless God was a man with a tight mustache and a pointy chin leaning over me with a stethoscope in his ears.

  “You’re awake.” He smiled, and his lids pulled at the corners of his eyes. “Thought we’d lost you.” The stethoscope dropped to his neck and he straightened his white jacket and jiggled the tube sticking out of my arm. My eyes flew open with the pain as the doctor patted my head and said, “Not to worry.”

  The doctor might as well have been God himself. I’m out, I thought. My fabulous failing heart has landed me in a hospital. I tried to speak, but couldn’t find the use of my tongue. The weight in my chest and the swelling pressure in my legs were gone, and yet I was too weak to open my mouth.

  Just then Sister Mary appeared beside the doctor, her coif fused so tightly to the perimeter of her narrow face it looked like she was shedding a layer of white skin. What was she doing here?

  “Will she be all right?”

  “For the time being. The mercury treatments will keep the swelling down.” The doctor plunged his hands into a basin of water, shook them off and rigorously dried them on a towel.

  “What do you suppose weakened her?” Frail lines creased the corners of Sister Mary’s mouth.

  “Stress to the body, malnutrition. Has she been eating all right?”

  “She has,” she said, her voice a faint peep, like a mouse caught in a trap.

  Liar, I thought, rolling my head to the side, my blurred eyes taking in the room. This was no hospital. The charitable sisters had simply dragged me from the basement to the infirmary. I wanted to scream at the doctor, to plead for help, but I couldn’t lift a finger even to grab on to him. I was barely keeping my lips open.

  “Well,” the doctor said, as he peeled off his white coat and flung it on the back of a chair, “keep her off laundry duty. Let her rest and try to get her weight up.”

  The next time the doctor came, I was strong enough to whisper my name, my real name, but he only shook his head and stabbed a needle into my vein. “Don’t bother confessing anything to me, missy. I hear all sorts of things in here. I learned to turn a blind eye a long time ago. They’ll go easy on you,” he said. “I’ve told them as much.” He jiggled the tube and I winced. “Sorry.” He patted my arm. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  Sleep came and went. I preferred sleep to staring at the ceiling. There was a fuzzy, unstable order to my thoughts. It was an effort to make sense of reality, and I forced myself to keep track of the little things. I was in the infirmary, in the House of Mercy. The bed was soft, the lights harsh, the doctor civil but not kind, the broth flavorless, yet healing. Daily, a needle was jabbed into my arm and I was ordered to swallow a metallic-tasting tablet that made my teeth grind. Through the barred windows, the sky was white and a cover of snow lay over the world. It was winter. Time was passing.

  One day, I propped up on an elbow to keep the water in my glass from dribbling down my chin and found that I was strong enough to sit all the way up. It was then I saw that I wasn’t alone. A girl lay in the bed across from me, her eyes closed. Her head was shaven to a shiny scalp marbled with blue veins. It reminded me of a baby’s head I’d once touched, perfectly smooth and vulnerable. A purple bruise bloomed on the girl’s cheek. One eye was swollen shut and her lips oozed yellow pus.

  It was unmistakably Mable, looking like a beautiful, battered statue beneath her wounds.

  I slid down into my bed, unable to feel sorry for her. She didn’t deserve the bruises, but a wicked part of me was glad she hadn’t escaped.

  When the doctor came the next day, I asked what was wrong with her.

  “Her many sins,” he said placidly, driving the needle into my vein.

  I tried to keep my eyes open, to ask more, but my tongue went slack and the ceiling rippled and blurred and disappeared.

  At some point, an angry voice dragged me from a woozy sleep and I peeled my eyes open. Three men stood around Mable’s bed in neat uniforms with brick hard faces. Mable was sitting up with her head propped against the iron bedrails. A heavyset policeman with a thick Irish accent shook a piece of paper in the air in front of her, looking as if it took all his restraint not to shake her. “This here, is not your name! Mable Winter is a Sunday school teacher at Church of the Most Precious Blood. We gave her parents a right shock telling them she’d leapt from a forty-foot wall!” He dropped his fists to the bed, sweetening his voice to something sarcastic and arrogant. “You be a good lass, now, and tell me your real name, you hear?”

  Mable pressed her lips into a hard line as she stared straight into the policeman’s eyes. This infuriated him—clearly a sore loser—and he backed up, waving the paper and shouting, “I’m not falling for this act. You’re no simp. You’re just another damn floozy. I see it in them keen eyes of yours.” He pressed his face close to hers, rattling a chain that I now saw bound her wrists to the bed. “I demand you tell me your name or you’ll end up in the pokey with girls far worse than the ones in here!”

  The room was silent. One policeman coughed into his sleeve, the other looked at his feet.

  The Irish policeman pulled himself away and spat on the floor. “Suit yourself,” he said, superior and smug, as if he had won after all. “It’s your sentence.” He flicked his hand at the other policemen and the three of them exited the room.

  Mable didn’t move. She looked inwardly consumed, her eyes fixed as stone. Not once did she glance in my direction, and I lowered myself down onto my pillow burning with curiosity about her real name.

  I wasn’t about to forgive her, but I couldn’t help admiring her strength of character. It was distinctly Luella-like. Even with the newfound anger coiled in my gut, I would never have been able to defiantly look that policeman in the eye. And to hold on to a lie even after you were found out took a single-minded tenacity every girl in this place would applaud, no matter how much they hated Mable. Or whatever her name was.

  I thought of the rich baroness who’d gone missing. If she’d left on a boat with a circus man she would have changed her name too. Maybe Mable was a baroness in disguise? Either that or she’d murdered someone. I wouldn’t put either past her.

  I fell asleep working up the determination to confront her, but the next time I woke, Mable was gone. Her bed stripped bare. Only a thin, stained mattress left behind.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Jeanne

  When you become a person you no longer recognize, it is startling to find a piece of yourself intact.

  Two weeks before Christmas, Georges arrived on our doorstep. I didn’t believe it was my brother until he stepped into the parlor and I was met with the same sturdy boy’s face I’d left on the pier, only thinner and stronger, with a few worn creases at the brow. He smiled playfully from the doorway, delighted to see my surprise.

  I gaped, and became strangely self-conscious of my appearance. I no longer bothered with curling irons or face powders, and I was sure I looked hideously old to him. “What are you doing here?”

  “Is that any way to greet your brother?” He came at me, folding me in a startling hug. I hadn’t been touched since Emory had lifted me off the floor we
eks ago, never mind a hearty embrace. My brother smelled strangely familiar, like a spice I’d forgotten about, and I could feel the scratch of his slightly grown out facial hair on my forehead.

  I gently pushed him away, patting the sleeve of his heavy wool topcoat, his generous show of affection overwhelming me. “You’ve grown into a proper looking Frenchman,” I said.

  “That’s a shame. I’ve been trying very hard to become a proper Englishman.”

  “Why on earth would you want to do that?”

  “I’d planned to move to London right before receiving your husband’s letter.”

  “Emory wrote to you?”

  “He did indeed.”

  “What about?”

  “All that’s happened.” Georges took my hands, squeezing them tightly. “I’m so very, very sorry, Jeanne. Why didn’t you write? I would have come sooner.”

  A flurry of emotions rose up, his sudden presence melting a part of me I’d iced over. “I don’t... I...” It amazed me how easily my brother offered his devotion when I had done nothing to deserve it. I’d thought of writing him many times, but could only stare stupidly at blank paper, my pen hovering.

  “It’s all right, Jeanne. There’s no need. I’m sorry to upset you.”

  “No. I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.”

  “Goodness.” Georges put his hands on my cheeks, lifting my face. His eyes were the softest green. “Don’t be silly. It’s understandable that it would be too hard to put it all down in writing.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. I’m sorry about Maman. About leaving you.”

  Georges laughed, and it startled a smile out of me. “You’re sorry about that? You were a grown woman, Jeanne. You were meant to leave. As for Maman, I took my fair share of abuses, but she’s harmless now.” He let go of my cheeks with an impish look that flooded me with memories. “She actually begged me not to move to London, if you can believe it.”

  His comfortable manner, his ease and familiarity, sent a light feeling through my limbs. A sensation dangerously close to happiness. “I do believe it. You’ve been tremendously loyal to her, which is more than I can say for myself. And I’m sorry I didn’t write to you. I wanted to. I tried.”

  “It’s no matter. It was very thoughtful of Emory, considering he’s never written a word to me before. He apologized for that, but said he was at quite a loss and couldn’t think who else to turn to.”

  “He asked you here?”

  “He did.”

  “That’s surprising. My husband is rarely at a loss, and when he is...he turns to his mother.”

  Georges hesitated. “He’s at a loss over you,” he said gently.

  This seemed unlikely. It was an outrageous gesture on Emory’s part to send for my brother, and not at all like him. Whatever he’d told Georges, I was certain it wasn’t out of any kindness for me.

  If Effie’s birth had been a crack, her death was a cleaving. There was nothing left of us. I couldn’t believe he thought bringing my brother into it would do any good at all.

  At that moment Emory entered the parlor, throwing his arm around my brother as if he was his dearest friend in the world. “Georges!” He gave him a hearty slap on the back. “You’ve grown.”

  Georges smiled. “I should hope so. I was eleven when I last saw you.”

  “Then I guess it’s a good thing you’ve grown. I thought you were arriving this morning.”

  “You knew he was coming today?” I said.

  “I arranged for his passage.”

  “Without telling me?”

  “He’s here now, isn’t he? Brandy, my boy?”

  Emory poured two glasses, handed one to Georges. Not only did he fail to offer me one, he didn’t even look at me.

  I suddenly understood why my husband brought Georges here. Emory was not at a loss over his love for me or how to heal our marriage, he was simply at a loss over what to do with me, and he no longer wanted the bother. Best to leave the task of handling my grief to another man, with my brother being the only option.

  The flicker of compassion I’d felt when Georges first told me of Emory’s letter slipped quickly back into bitterness as I listened to them converse about the weather, and how rough the seas were this time of year. Georges said the journey took nine days, and only once did he see the sunshine. I thought about my own passage: Emory and I not yet married, sleeping in separate cabins, tapping the wall between our beds at night. Two taps for good-night, three for I love you. There had been something torturous and thrilling about being so near and not seeing him, about anticipating all that was to come once we married.

  I broke into their conversation. “If you’ll both excuse me. I’ll go tell Velma to set another place for dinner.”

  “Thank you,” said Georges, squeezing my shoulder as I passed.

  Emory said nothing.

  Whatever my husband’s intentions were, I was grateful to have my brother in the house. I began to feel human again. Georges was a quiet man with a softness that made revealing the state of my heart effortless. Even Emory found it impossible not to warm to his selfless, gentle soul. Especially when it came to Luella.

  Emory had refused to see her after I told him about finding her at the gypsy camp. He never asked why I was there, and I never explained. I didn’t dare go back, but a part of me waited every day for Luella to walk through the front door, uncertain whether I’d be furious enough to refuse her entry, or sorry enough to beg her to stay.

  On Christmas Eve, Georges took it upon himself to visit Luella on my behalf, returning hours later declaring that the gypsies were a respectful people, and Luella a kind and thoughtful girl. “She’s just confused with the desires of her heart,” he said. A light snowfall had begun and he stood in the hallway dusting it from his shoulders.

  “Thoughtful is the last word I’d use to describe Luella.” Emory stepped forward, took Georges’s coat and hung it on the rack. “Have the gypsies changed her that much?”

  Georges shrugged. “I couldn’t say, as I didn’t know her before. She had me to tea in a cramped wagon with all the grace of a woman in a great hall. I told her about the imperfections of my own mother and the mysteries of our family. She said little, but listened with quiet interest. It sets the young at ease to know their family history is made up of mistakes. Makes them feel less flawed.”

  “My flaws have not put her at ease,” Emory said. “Quite the opposite.”

  Georges rested a hand on his arm. “Someday, it will be part of her past and she won’t mind so much.” I was grateful for the compassion he showed my husband—a compassion I didn’t feel capable of.

  I considered getting a Christmas tree this year, in honor of Effie who loved decorating it, but I couldn’t bring myself to. Velma, at least, had insisted on making Christmas Eve dinner and we moved into the dining room where she’d laid roast pork, potatoes, carrots and jellied cranberry sauce. I wasn’t hungry. Instead of eating I watched the snow fall past my reflection in the window glass, and thought about leaving my husband.

  Since my brother’s arrival, Emory had become more taxing than ever. I wondered how I’d borne it all these years, his thoughtless self-absorption. I stabbed a potato with my fork. The worst of it was, he was still seeing that woman, after everything that had happened. I knew her by the smell on his coat. A rosewater perfume he didn’t bother to wipe off.

  * * *

  Over the next month, Georges visited Luella weekly, relaying the details to Emory and me afterward. I thought it a good sign she was receiving him. At least a part of her wanted to be near us.

  “She’s quite thin,” Georges said one evening in the parlor, his hands clasped behind his back as he positioned himself between Emory and me. “It takes a resilient spirit to withstand that lifestyle. It’s been a long, cold winter and you can be certain the glamour of gypsy life has wor
n off. Her sister’s disappearance doesn’t help matters. I’m afraid it’s eating away at her. Effie is all she talks about. I don’t think there’s a detail of their childhood I haven’t been privy to.” He tried for a smile and failed. “I’m worried about her. I don’t want to be alarming, but I’m concerned she might not make it until spring. They’ve already had one child die of fever. I’ve tried to convince her to come home, but she refuses. I hope it’s all right, but I took the liberty of presenting her with the idea of going abroad. Before I came here, I’d already secured a house in London. Luella could stay there with me until she gets her bearings, with your permission, of course.” Georges looked at Emory who rested an arm on the mantel in a careful pose.

  I sat silent on the sofa, baffled to think that my daughter, exposed to fever and cold, still refused to travel the half a mile home.

  “England might be a very good change for her,” Georges pressed.

  I could see that it hurt Emory to hear Georges speak of our daughter as if he knew what was best for her, and yet we both knew Luella had taken to Georges because he was unlike her father in every way: direct and honest and humble, without a bit of sheen to his personality.

  “She’s agreed to go?” Emory sounded unconvinced.

  “She has.”

  “Well, then we’re indebted to you. It’s a very generous offer. We’ll send her, of course, if she’s willing.” He left the room without a backward glance, his permission being all that was needed.

  I thought it ridiculous, at this point, to pretend we had any say when it came to Luella, but Emory refused to admit his lack of control in any aspect of our life. He still insisted Effie was alive, posting weekly notices in the paper, calling the police for updates. None of which arrived.