The Purple Nightgown

by A. D. Lawrence

  “She thought it best you see her after her course of treatments.”

  “But that could be months.” And how could he warn her of the young boy’s frightening story?

  Jane nodded, pity in her smile. “Aye. And no doubt you’ll both have moved on by then.”

  But he didn’t want to move on. “I have something to tell her.” The story may be the overworked delusions of childhood, but what if it wasn’t?

  “I’d be happy to pass on your message.”

  As Henry shared Jack’s strange talk of skeletons begging for food, Jane’s brows arched. “Seems like the boy believes a ghost story.” Her voice was light, but the way she wrung her hands said otherwise.

  “I’m sure you’re right.” It really was too wild to believe. He stilled the old woman’s anxious fidgeting. “But tell her to be on her guard. And if she needs to leave, all she has to do is send a wire.”

  “I will.” Jane’s eyes glistened. “I’m sorry things couldn’t be different. You care for her, and sometimes I wonder if that isn’t more important than all the details the wealthy put stock in.”

  Henry studied his shoelaces. “And you think she cares for me?”

  “What good would it do if she did?” Jane lifted a shoulder. “Now, be off with you. Post that letter, and we’ll head home.”

  Henry kicked a pebble across the pavement then strode from the alley to the sidewalk. He could drive, but a walk would clear his head and perhaps dispel the gloom Jack’s fears had invited. He lifted the envelope and scanned the address.

  His post office box in San Francisco. Maybe his inability to tell Stella he’d been writing her for the past five years was a blessing, for it had given him the chance to peer into her heart once more. He settled on a bench outside a barber shop.

  After unfolding the letter, he scanned the text. Some of her usually well-formed letters swayed as if they’d been written while he was driving.

  My dearest friend,

  I mentioned Dr. Linda Hazzard in my last letter, which I doubt you’ve had a chance to receive.

  I shall arrive at her clinic this morning. Though I haven’t received your answer regarding my suggestion, it became apparent to me that in my state of health, I’m of no use to anyone. For years my headaches have crippled me, sending me to bed early and making a normal, fulfilled life something I can only dream about.

  No more.

  With Dr. Hazzard’s help, I shall conquer this. Even if you aren’t amenable to my ideas, my life can’t continue on this path.

  Please, pray for me. That the treatments will be successful and I will return home whole.

  Though I’m many miles from home, I would like to continue our correspondence for the duration of my stay at Wilderness Heights. I hope to hear from you soon. I am enclosing my temporary address.

  Yours ever truly,

  Stella

  Henry fished a scrap of paper bearing an address on Orchard Avenue in Olalla from the envelope. He slid the information into his pocket with a sigh.

  What suggestion had she made? He ran a hand over his face. With any luck, the letter would be in his box when he arrived home, dispelling the mystery. One thing was certain, whatever her idea, he’d be amenable. Other than this confinement in Buzzard’s sanatorium, he’d never begrudge her anything she wished.

  His throat constricted. She wanted nothing more to do with him. Didn’t even want to see him before her admittance to Wilderness Heights. Yet she wanted to converse with a character he had fabricated when she needed a friend of her own social standing. It wasn’t fair to keep it secret any longer. To continue feeding her hopes, knowing the truth would dash them to splinters.

  He sprang off the bench and checked his timepiece. If he ran, he might catch her. The time apart would give her the opportunity to forgive him for leading her on, or at the very least turn her angry boil into a simmer.

  As he ran toward the Northern Bank and Trust, dodging women in wide-brimmed hats and boys on bicycles, he stuffed Stella’s letter into his pocket. His stomach churned, and the sensation had little to do with toxins or poor digestion. He should have told her months ago. Years ago.

  With each letter written in secrecy, he’d driven a larger wedge between them. How could he expect forgiveness?

  As he rounded the bank, his steps slowed. He couldn’t hope she’d forgive him, but she deserved the truth.

  Clouds of exhaust billowed from the tailpipe of Hazzard’s automobile.

  Was he too late?

  “Stella!” He choked the word past the fumes filling his lungs and stopped beside Jane.

  As the car pulled away, Stella turned. Their eyes met, hers filled with a cocktail of hope and sadness. She pressed gloved fingers to her lips and blew him a kiss.

  The man behind the wheel turned the motorcar down the alley and out of sight.

  So many things left unsaid. He’d been a fool to write her in the first place.

  Jane gave his arm a pat. “Next time we see her she’ll be a different person.”

  The sinking sensation in his chest affirmed her words. Stella would be a changed person, and as her letter requested, he would pray for her. For her health. For her safety. But most of all that she would find a way to forgive him.

  Chapter Nine

  As the car dipped into a pothole, Stella braced in her seat. Tears surfaced, but she swallowed hard against them. Jane’s advice to leave without saying goodbye to Henry may have been wise, but she’d wanted to apologize for her harsh words in Dr. Hazzard’s office. When she had seen him dashing toward her in the alley, she’d nearly lost her resolve and begged the driver, Dr. Hazzard’s husband, Sam, to stop the motorcar and give her a moment to clear the cobwebs she’d allowed to form between them.

  Jane’s recounting of a little boy’s story of skeletons walking the Wilderness Heights grounds had wound her nerves into knots. Stella had almost reconsidered her journey onward, but Jane had assured her she’d only relayed the tale to keep a promise to Henry and she saw no need to give credence to such a far-fetched story. Stella had erased the thought, justifying her disregard as a little boy’s propensity to believe unearthly things. But when she’d seen the expression on Henry’s face, something more powerful than fear had expanded within her. How she’d miss him. She choked on a sob. But he might not give her a second thought after her last words to him.

  She cut her gaze to Sam Hazzard. He had a handsome face and his dark hair fell in a wave over his forehead. When the sun peeked from behind a cloud, its rays glinted off his gold wire-framed glasses. “Do you work at Wilderness Heights?” A silly question, but the silence between them had crossed the line from companionable into awkward.

  “I do what Linda asks.” His words were clipped, uninviting. When he shifted, the scent of vanilla wafted through the air.

  Stella leaned back and sighed. This will be a jolly ride. The sarcastic thought made her bite her lip. Her head rested on the seat, and her stomach growled. Was it hunger, or just unnecessary cravings as Dr. Hazzard had said? For the first time since she could recall, she hushed her thoughts to listen to her body. A vast pit yawned in her stomach, begging for food, not caring whether it be filled with strawberry ice cream or plain brown bread. She was hungry.

  But the patient Dr. Hazzard had mentioned, Mrs. Barnett, hadn’t been hungry for a full forty-five days after her fast commenced. Did keeping busy as the doctor purported really silence hunger long enough for the body to heal and allow the toxins to make their escape through the internal baths? The thought of daily enemas sent a cringe coiling down her spine. Since true hunger was already so close, maybe her treatments would be of short duration.

  She pressed a hand against her complaining belly. Hopefully her stay wouldn’t last long, and she’d be well.

  Mist hung in the air as a remnant of the morning rain. Evergreens stood sentinel along the road, and the mountains boasted God’s handiwork. Such a lovely scene. She breathed in the mountain breeze perfumed with pine and salt
from the ocean a mile to the west as it blew through the cab.

  Perfect health. Whenever she doubted, she’d remind herself why she’d come. Replay the details of Mrs. Barnett. And perhaps Dr. Hazzard would tell her the full story of the little boy who lived as a testament to her miraculous treatments.

  The trees on her right parted, revealing a crisp white building. Rather primitive and nothing like the grand picture her mind had painted. But just as she’d come close to chiding Henry for judging Linda Hazzard before they met, she would postpone forming an opinion of Wilderness Heights a while longer.

  Little cabins dotted the hillside behind the main building, each connected to the larger structure by a dirt path like tributaries. Sam stopped on a pebbled drive in front of the main house, and Stella stepped out, surveying the landscape. A cabin door opened, and a woman stepped into the sunshine. As she strolled the lane toward them, her dress, which hung loosely on her gaunt frame, tangled between her legs. She stumbled then fell to her knees.

  Stella glanced at Sam who watched, lifting a small brown bottle labeled “Vanilla Extract” to his lips. Why wasn’t he moving to help her? Couldn’t he see the woman needed assistance?

  With her skirt’s hem gathered in her hand, Stella dashed to the woman who seemed too weak to stand. When she gripped the woman’s arm, the feel of skin stretched over bone made Stella recoil. What had happened to make her so painfully thin?

  Regaining her bearings, Stella steeled her nerves. If she could help, no amount of aversion would stop her. “Are you quite all right?” The answer was plain, but nothing more original came to mind.

  The woman fixed dull gray eyes on Stella.

  Stella’s heart broke at the sight of her face. Sunken cheeks, thin lips that didn’t boast enough flesh to cover her teeth, no spark. Was this one of the skeletons the boy had talked about?

  “What is your name?” The words struggled past the knot in Stella’s throat.

  A macabre smile stretched paper-thin skin. “Dorothea Williamson.” Her voice was as frail as her grip on Stella’s hand. “But you can call me Dora. Everyone does.” The more she spoke, the more pronounced the cadence of her British accent became.

  “How long have you been here?” Stella swallowed once then again, but the lump in her throat grew.

  Dora shook her head, her brown hair limp against her shoulders. “I’ve not finished my treatment yet. But I’m getting better.”

  If this was better, what had been her condition upon arrival?

  Stella guided Dora over the knobby path to the white building.

  “Let me rest here a moment.” Dora pointed a trembling finger toward a chair on the veranda.

  “I can sit with you.” Stella helped her into a seat.

  Sam clomped onto the porch, shoving the vanilla bottle into his jacket pocket. “You’ll come inside, Miss Burke. I’ll show you to your room and get you settled.”

  “But—”

  “Dr. Hazzard’s orders.” He hefted her trunk and pushed through the front door.

  “You’d better go.” Dora offered a faint smile. “Dr. Hazzard knows best.”

  As Stella followed Sam Hazzard into the sanatorium, her knees turned to mush, and the familiar pain behind her eyes took on new life. What had she gotten herself into?

  Stella pulled her purple nightgown from her trunk and laid it in the dresser drawer. Thoughts of Dora’s weakened condition distracted her from the headache that hadn’t completely let her go. What maladies had the woman endured to bring her to this point? If she’d consulted as many physicians as Stella had, Wilderness Heights must have been a last resort. Maybe if Dora had come sooner, she wouldn’t have gotten so very sick. And why was she housed in a cabin instead of the main house? Dr. Hazzard must know Dora was far too weak to trek to the house for her treatments. If there wasn’t enough room in the main house, Dora could take her room, and Stella the cabin.

  A knock at the door halted her unpacking.

  “Come in.” She closed the drawer.

  The door swung open, and Linda Hazzard strode inside, a white robe draped over her shoulder. “Glad to see you’re getting settled.” She planted her hands on her hips. “I’d like to start your treatments right away.”

  Stella eased onto the bed. The metal frame squeaked beneath her weight. “I’d like to discuss two things before we begin.”

  Dr. Hazzard crossed muscular arms and lifted a brow. “Very well.”

  “I met Dora Williamson today, and she was looking very poorly. Is there some—”

  “Sometimes a person must get worse before they can get better. The process of eliminating toxins from the body is strenuous, but I assure you she’s on her way to recovery.” The doctor’s tone carried not the slightest hint of patience. “When she first arrived, she suffered from both physical and mental ailments. Healing takes time. The toxins didn’t develop overnight, and one can’t expect to rid the body in a few days.”

  The words wrestled in Stella’s brain. Dora had seemed perfectly lucid. Dr. Hazzard’s treatments must be healing her mind at least. Her body was sure to follow.

  “And what was your other concern?” The doctor’s jaw muscles jumped.

  “We haven’t had a chance to discuss my ailments, and I’m sure you need to know my medical history before we proceed with the regime.” Stella rested her hand on the cool cast-iron bed head.

  “I need to know nothing of the kind.” Dr. Hazzard took a step closer to the open door. Hushed voices filtered in from the hallway while feet shuffled across the floor. “You may think you know the full extent of your problems, but modern medicine has lied to you. Whatever your symptoms, they are not your true concern. They merely point to the root of the problem. Digestion. You’ve overeaten and indulged, eaten meat, filled your digestive tract with toxins. And those toxins are like poison in your system. What you really suffer from is a slow form of suicide. But when we treat your sickness at its source, the outward manifestations of an unclean digestive system will cease.”

  “So my headaches are just a symptom of the larger problem?” Stella wrapped her arms around her middle. How many doctors had she consulted in her quest for health? But none had ever told her digestion was to blame for her migraines. Perhaps that was the reason none of their methods had worked. They’d never eliminated the root problem.

  A genuine smile softened Dr. Hazzard’s stoic features. “Now you’re catching on, my dear.” She handed Stella the stiff robe. “Strip down and put this on. I’ll be waiting just outside the door. It’s time for your first massage.”

  Stella held the skimpy covering against her chest, cheeks hot. What if Sam was in the corridor? He couldn’t see her in such a state of undress.

  Dr. Hazzard stepped out of the room, securing the door behind her. If the doctor wasn’t concerned about her husband, she must have sent him on an errand.

  Stella removed her clothing, letting it fall in a pile on the plank floor. Though she was capable of caring for herself, homesickness settled near her heart at the absence of the gossip and laughter she shared with dear Jane.

  Robe snug around her shoulders, she stepped into the hall on bare feet. No signs of life in the corridor. Silence thick enough to feel against her skin pervaded the space. What now? Where was Dr. Hazzard? Stella rubbed a chill from her arm. Should she wait here or search for her?

  Dr. Hazzard’s voice echoed from somewhere down the hall, and Stella jumped at the sudden break in quiet. She followed the sounds, though she could not make out the words. She peeked in an open door to her left. Dr. Hazzard stood inside, hands on hips, blocking most of the room from view. A commode stood in one corner and a sink in the other.

  When the doctor stepped to the right, a human form—even frailer than Dora’s—appeared on an ironing board suspended over the bathtub. Blue lips, glassy eyes. Brown hair matted around her head. A nose the same shape as Dora’s. Was the woman dead?

  “No, I don’t need the saw, Sarah. I haven’t a big enough kettle no matte
r how I piece her apart.” Dr. Hazzard lowered her voice. “We’ll call Butterworth’s to take care of her after dinner. It’ll be a burial, not a cremation in this case, since we can’t prepare her for the crematorium. Just be sure to preserve her organs.” The doctor shook her head. “Did you see the condition of her liver? No amount of fasting would have saved her. She was too sick already.”

  The dark-haired woman in the nurse’s uniform nodded and placed a handsaw on the washstand.

  Stella covered a gasp. The woman hovering over the bathtub lay completely exposed. The spaces between her ribs gaped beneath a membrane of blue-veined skin while her shoulder blades protruded. Bruises in various states of healing speckled her arms and legs. Some a sickly yellow-green, others nearly black. And her face—what little Stella could see of it—was nothing more than a skull with pale skin clinging to the hills and valleys like wallpaper gripping water-damaged plaster. Whoever this woman had been, she made poor Dora look like the picture of health.

  Heart thwacking against her ribs, Stella blinked back tears. She’d never seen a dead body in this condition before. Of course, she’d held Father’s hand as he passed, but while sad, the moment was peaceful. This woman had suffered much. Had she been alone when she passed?

  Why would Dr. Hazzard want to saw her to pieces? To prepare her for cremation if that were an option? And why wait until after dinner to call for help? If she was concerned about postponing Stella’s osteopathic massage, Stella would willingly wait to start treatments out of respect for the dead. But should she make her presence known and release the doctor to deal with the tragedy?

  Despite the grisly scene, she couldn’t tear her gaze away. Like an accident she’d seen in the clothing factory when she was a girl. A man had caught his arm in some piece of machinery. The sight of blood and his hand lying dead on the floor, severed from his arm, had sickened her, yet at the same time held her transfixed.

  Wait. Surely her eyes deceived her.

  She squinted. Deep purple bruises on the woman’s neck made Stella’s heart stand still. What if the woman hadn’t died of natural causes? Perhaps something—or someone—had helped her along. Instead of an undertaker, Dr. Hazzard ought to send for the police.