The Purple Nightgown

by A. D. Lawrence

  Stella toyed with her coat’s mink collar.

  “Here we are.” Henry turned down a busy street and stopped in front of a three-story masonry building. The snowcapped Olympic Mountains provided a majestic backdrop.

  Stella’s skin prickled and a chill snaked down her spine, but she straightened. Why this uneasy feeling? Dr. Hazzard had helped so many. Surely Stella had mistaken the thrill of anticipation for apprehension.

  Henry pulled open her door, and Stella stepped onto the pavement.

  Jane glanced with furrowed brow at the imposing building. “You never told me Washington was such a dreary place.”

  Stella cut a sidelong glance to Henry, but he appeared occupied with his own assessment. His lowered brows told her he didn’t approve. He turned to Stella, lips pursed. “You sure you want to go through with this? We can still leave.”

  Shoving her concerns aside, Stella clenched her jaw. “I don’t intend to leave.” She lifted her skirt out of a puddle then strode to the front door. Each step compounded the agony behind her eyes.

  Why was he so judgmental? Just as one shouldn’t judge books by their covers, Linda Hazzard’s skill should not be measured by the dripping, foggy Pacific Northwest. She may be a medical miracle worker, but the weather remained far from her control.

  Henry rushed ahead and held the door for Stella and Jane. As Stella passed over the threshold, she shot him a determined glare, but the concern in his eyes strangled her triumph. She let Jane walk before her into the white-paneled foyer. The sharp odor of fresh paint hung like fog in the air. The polished marble floors carried a sheen Stella used as a mirror until the hopeless state of her flyaway hair forced her gaze to her childhood friend.

  “Don’t fret, Henry.” Stella stepped closer for a remnant of privacy. “This is temporary. I’ll follow her instructions as best I can so I can return home all the sooner.”

  “But what if it’s not safe?” The muscles in his jaw bounced.

  She placed a hand on his arm, touched by the worry written on his countenance. Clearly, his care for her went deeper than the salary Uncle Weston paid him, and shame warmed her cheeks for letting notions of his mercenary spirit enter her head. “It must be safe. I’ve read accounts of the patients she’s cured.”

  “I read Fasting for the Cure of Disease, and the premise is bunkum. She believes digestion is the underlying cause of every ailment. But how does digestive distress have any bearing on the pain in your head?”

  A woman carrying a reticule squeezed past them out the door.

  “Why don’t you ask Dr. Hazzard when we meet? I’d hate for you to worry about me while I’m here.” Stella forced a smile. The thought of spending time away from him ripped a hole in her chest. How would she cope without Henry’s support? He knew her better than anyone. She lowered her hand to her side. Perhaps Jane was right. This separation was for the best. For both of them.

  “How do you expect me not to worry?” His hazel eyes grew earnest, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Stella, I have to tell you something.”

  Her gut tightened. Dread and ecstasy surged through her veins while her heart thumped like a Navajo drum. The soft yet fervent passion in his eyes told her that what she both hoped and feared was true. But confessions wouldn’t do either of them service. “Please don’t.” Her gaze darted to Jane, who talked with a man in wire-rimmed spectacles, hopefully making arrangements for a meeting with Dr. Hazzard.

  “But—”

  “You’re my best friend.” Stella’s eyes burned with tears she couldn’t shed. “Let’s not spoil that now.”

  He tightened his jaw, letting out a breath through his nose.

  What could she say to smooth this over? He probably thought she didn’t share his feelings, but a part of her did. A large part. Larger than she could speak aloud. Emotion thickened her throat.

  “Dr. Hazzard will see you now.” The man adjusted the garters on his shirtsleeves and led them up a staircase. At the top, the clap of their shoes against the hallway’s slick tile echoed as if they journeyed through the catacombs. Their guide stopped at a door with a placard bearing the name LINDA BURFIELD HAZZARD.

  Stella stepped closer to Jane near the doorway and linked her arm in the crook of the older woman’s elbow.

  If she didn’t maintain a proper distance from Henry, the thread of unspoken words hanging between them would choke her. How fortunate that Jane had come along. Stella’s feelings would never carry her away as long as her companion’s influence steadied her. As Jane had said, many people were counting on her to make wise decisions. Loving Henry would only let them down.

  “You ready, dearie?” Jane patted Stella’s hand with cold fingers.

  Was she ready? Henry’s worry had dampened her former optimism. With a firm nod, Stella stepped into the office. A woman in an ivory blouse sat behind the desk, her bearing as erect as that of a drill sergeant. She motioned to the two chairs at her desk, and Stella took one while Jane eased into the other, joints snapping. Henry stood behind Stella, the strength of his presence calming her frayed nerves. How could he be equal parts impossible and indispensable?

  “So good to have you here.” The woman glanced up, wearing a smile that seemed rehearsed. Her hair, which had been gathered into a knot at the top of her head, didn’t dare move. “I’m Dr. Linda Hazzard. You’ve come to check into my sanatorium?” She held an ink pen poised over a stack of official-looking papers.

  “No, she hasn’t.” Steel edged Henry’s voice. “We’ve come to learn more about your treatments and see if they’d help Miss Burke.”

  Dr. Hazzard’s eyes narrowed. “Depending on her maladies, my regime could make all the difference. Most of my patients are returned to perfect health before leaving the facility.”

  Perfect health. The weight in Stella’s chest lightened. It sounded far too wonderful to be realistic, but even a slight improvement would change her life. If the man who had written the letters agreed to a partnership, she might have the strength to make a true contribution—something beyond clothes and shoes. “It sounds wonderful.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  The doctor nodded. “Seems your friend has no faith in alternative medicine. Are you a meat eater?” She spat the last two words as if they tasted like castor oil.

  Stella nodded. At Linda Hazzard’s condemning glare, she lowered her gaze to her lap. Never had one look conveyed so much disdain.

  “That must change. Meals at my clinic are strictly vegetarian.” Hazzard sighed through clenched teeth. “Meat eaters are foolish, disgusting, suicidal.”

  “Is that so?” Jane grasped Stella’s hand then gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  “Indeed.” Dr. Hazzard gave a curt nod. “Let me tell you about one of my patients—a former meat eater. Mrs. J. B. Barnett suffered many ailments before we crossed paths. Nausea, vomiting, constipation …”

  Stella cringed. How could Dr. Hazzard speak openly about such personal matters?

  The woman continued. “Along with her physical issues, she experienced bouts of melancholia. She even mentioned thoughts of suicide. For years she burdened her family. Always sick, in need of care. Nothing traditional doctors administered cured her body or her mind.”

  “But then she met you.” False deference dripped from Henry’s voice.

  “And it’s fortunate for her she did.” Dr. Hazzard rested clasped hands on her desk. Her eyes, as dark as tar pits, glinted with her fervor. “I started her on two vegetarian meals per day. After a week, it dropped to one. Daily internal baths produced old fecal matter—”

  “Internal baths?” Stella cocked her head. Wasn’t bathing an external practice?

  Dr. Hazzard offered a tight smile. “Enemas.”

  Stella’s mouth went dry. “Daily?”

  “It sounds much worse than it is.” Though the doctor’s voice still carried an air of disengaged candor, her tone softened a degree. “But it’s a necessary practice. It helps flush the toxins from your digestive tract
and leads to ultimate health.”

  With a heightened consciousness of Henry’s presence behind her, Stella shifted in her chair, deigning to meet his gaze. That he should hear such intimate details of the treatments she would undergo suffused her with crawling heat.

  Jane patted her hand then addressed Henry. “Clayton. Why don’t you go check on the motorcar?” The dear woman always understood.

  “The auto’s fine.” He crossed his arms.

  “Then find something useful to do.” Jane’s brogue thickened with her annoyance.

  He leaned closer to Stella’s ear and whispered, “You promised that if I felt uneasy, you’d come home and forget this foolishness. How can I get an honest assessment if I’m not allowed to listen to the treatment plan?”

  At the determined set of his jaw, Stella met his unyielding gaze. Who did he think he was that he could order her life? As if all decisions surrounding her health rested solely on his shoulders. He wasn’t the one living with pain, so he deserved no say in the matter. “No matter what the treatments entail, I’m staying.”

  He stared at her in disbelief. “But you promised.”

  Her gut twisted, but after the little she’d heard from Dr. Hazzard, she couldn’t be certain if the sensation was guilt or the toxins that had set up housekeeping in her digestive tract. The dull ache behind her eyes grew to a jagged pain. “Clayton, please go. I can’t bear for you to hear all this.” She kneaded her temples with her fingertips. Why must he make this difficult? Though the treatment sounded rigorous and unpleasant, perfect health was the goal.

  Henry stomped toward the door, stopping short of the threshold. He spun and pinned Dr. Hazzard with a hard glare. “Can you end Miss Burke’s headaches? Will all this be worth it?”

  The woman behind the desk rose. Though she didn’t match Henry in height, her frame was large and rather masculine. Muscles rippled in the backs of her hands as she smoothed her skirt. “I can make no promises. But I guarantee that Miss Burke will receive the best of care. I’ll offer her my most beautiful treatment and oversee all her affairs personally. My methods are proven. Consider the place as a spa rather than a clinic, because I provide a spa experience.”

  Hands thrust in his pockets, Henry stepped into the hall.

  Dr. Hazzard resumed her seat. “Where were we?”

  “You were telling us of a Mrs. Barnett,” Jane said, casting Stella a hopeful smile.

  “Ah, yes.” The doctor rested her elbows on the desk. “During the next phase of her fast, she ate a little fruit, then we started the total fast.”

  “How long did it last?” Stella asked. And why the sudden longing for strawberry ice cream?

  “Forty-eight days.” Dr. Hazzard’s flat tone made the outrageous number sound slightly less shocking.

  “But she must have been starving.” Stella rested a hand on her middle.

  Linda Hazzard shook her head. “She kept busy. Gluttony and boredom often hold hands. With her hours occupied by useful tasks, she didn’t even think of food until the forty-fifth day of her fast. At that time, her body had expelled the toxins that were poisoning it and for the first time in years, Mrs. Barnett experienced true hunger. Not the craving most men and women give in to.”

  Stella let the words sink in. She was given to cravings, eating whatever suited her fancy. Strawberry ice cream topped the list, but how many times had she eaten simply because it was dinnertime? More often than she cared to admit. “And what were Mrs. Barnett’s results?”

  “Complete healing.” Dr. Hazzard beamed. “We slowly returned her to solid foods. Her digestive issues as well as her melancholy were things of memory. She returned home with a purpose and a vivacity she’d never known before.”

  “And you think you could do the same for me?” Stella gripped the chair’s wooden arms.

  Dr. Hazzard traced a cursory glance over Stella and gave a brusque nod. “I see no reason you shouldn’t regain your health. You don’t appear too infirm. Why, I rescued a boy in Minnesota from death’s front door. Your case is nowhere near as severe as his.”

  Her assurances fanned the embers of hope in Stella’s chest, igniting them into a flame. Had Dr. Hazzard’s treatment really saved a child from dying? If it was so, no doubt the migraines could be chased away along with the toxic matter keeping health out of reach.

  Jane nodded, approval gleaming in her eyes. “It all sounds so wonderful.” She squeezed Stella’s hands. “Just think, Miss Stella, in a short while you’ll be enjoying life again.”

  Enjoying life.

  Stella’s vision blurred. Perfect health was finally attainable.

  Henry paced the pavement beside the motorcar. Though Stella’s rejection still stung, concern, rather than disappointment, carved a hollow in his gut. “Something’s not right.” He raked splayed fingers through his hair then affixed his eyes on Jane. “Why are we not allowed to see the old Buzzard’s precious clinic?”

  Jane pinned him with an admonishing gaze. “It’s just her way. Her husband will take Miss Stella to Wilderness Heights as soon as we leave.”

  “Wilderness Heights?”

  “That’s what she calls it.” Jane untied the cord securing one of Stella’s bags to the back of the automobile. “And she’s promised to oversee every aspect of Miss Stella’s care. Now are you going to help me or not?” She motioned to a trunk.

  “I don’t want to.” Henry crossed his arms.

  The old woman settled her gnarled hand on his forearm. “You’ve got to let her go. It’s for the best. Surely you must see there’s no future for the two of you.”

  Henry opened his mouth to speak then closed it and cleared his throat. “You misunderstand.”

  “I misunderstand nothing.” She shook her head, eyes soft. “She thinks about you more than she ought to. The separation will help you forget her, and it may remind Stella of her duty to her family and those under her employ. They depend upon her, you know.”

  Did Stella really think of him as Jane said? Henry forced back a smile. He shouldn’t be happy, but a bit of the tightness in his chest eased. As he hefted the trunk and followed Jane to the loading dock behind the building, he rehearsed the fragments of the treatment the Buzzard had prescribed for Stella. He shouldn’t have listened at the door, but if he didn’t have the details, worry for her would chew him into swiss cheese while she was away.

  Fasting.

  Daily internal baths.

  Osteopathic massage.

  Even though none of it struck him as appealing or even sensible given Stella’s current condition, the flicker of promise in her voice compelled him to hope with her. If nothing else, the positivity might take her mind off the headaches, thus reducing their frequency and severity. And after Dr. Buzzard regaled both Jane and Stella with stories of people she’d cured and lives she’d saved, the chances of Stella going home before receiving treatment had died a miserable death.

  Maybe Stella was right. The treatments, while far from the norms of traditional medicine, hadn’t caused harm. If they had, the state of Washington wouldn’t permit Linda Burfield Hazzard to continue practicing.

  “Set the trunk there.” Jane indicated an automobile parked in the alley behind the bank.

  He followed her instruction then returned for another load.

  His biceps complained under the weight of her trunk. These bags must contain everything Stella owned. How long did she plan to stay at Wilderness Heights? A dog yipped from somewhere down the street.

  A little boy in a blue cap barreled into him, followed by a scrawny puppy. Henry gripped the child by his shoulders and crouched to meet his eyes.

  “You all right, little chap?”

  The boy’s breathing was ragged. His gaze darted to the bank then fixed on Henry. He shook his head. “Let me go. I can’t stay here.” He wrenched his arms free.

  Fear lurked behind the innocent blue eyes, inspiring protectiveness in Henry. “Are you in trouble? I can help. What’s your name?” And where were this boy’s
parents?

  Again the child glanced at the bank. “Jack.”

  Henry followed his line of sight to a second-story window. Linda Hazzard’s silhouette swayed behind the glass. A drill sergeant if ever there was one.

  “She might see me and take me to her graveyard.” Jack gulped while the dog licked his hand as if sensing his master’s distress. “That’s what’ll happen if I don’t run straight home.”

  Dread curled in Henry’s stomach. Surely the child’s imagination had gotten the better of him. But most children wanted nothing more than to be heard. “Tell me about this graveyard. Where is it?”

  “Not here.” Jack ran the back of a dirt-smudged hand across his nose. “My aunt owns a bakery close to her graveyard in Olalla.” He pointed to the doctor’s shadow in the window. “Aunt Betsy’s seen the skeletons.” His voice quavered. “They come to her shop begging for bread.”

  The hair on Henry’s neck rose. Skeletons? “Tell me more.”

  Jack shook his head, eyes wide. “If she finds out I didn’t go home, I’ll be next.” He called to his puppy and darted down the sidewalk, the dog at his side.

  The tale was too fantastic to be true. Probably just a local fable used to frighten little boys around a campfire during scout meetings. Or something parents told their children to inspire obedience. But surely someone had seen something out of the ordinary to invent such a story. Skeletons? Just how little did the Old Buzzard feed her patients? Was she starving them until they looked like corpses? But if that was the case, the authorities would step in. Wouldn’t they?

  Henry massaged the back of his neck. He’d warn Stella before she left. Tell her to keep watch for strange happenings, anything that might be out of place or worrisome. If she felt the slightest prick of concern, she could send him a telegram, and he’d drive up straightaway.

  When he’d piled the remainder of Stella’s bags in the alley, Jane handed him an envelope. “Miss Stella asked that I have you post this letter.”

  His mouth dried. “But I want to see her off.”