Shadows Falling: The Lost #2

by Melyssa Williams

  A glance at my clock told me my dreams have cost me my punctuality, and I race to the hospital, the laces in my boots undone and flying in the breeze that my feet make as I run. By the time I arrive, my lovely hairdo is a wreck; I don’t have to look in a mirror to know it’s frizzy and fuzzy, and one of the ends of the braids is sticking up. I lick my hand hurriedly and smooth it down as best I can and stoop to lace my dirty, black boots. The hospital is eerily quiet, and I see no one at first. I hang my cloak and finish smoothing my hair.

  “Good morning,” says a sharp voice.

  My eyes adjust to the gloom of the room, and I am startled to find Mina’s mother there. I met her once, briefly, and it’s safe to say we didn’t exactly fall in love with one another. She’s a tall woman, imposing, and nothing like her daughter. She’s a bit rude, a bit insensitive, and altogether very rich. Add to that, she doesn’t approve of the time Mina spends here, and yours truly will never measure up.

  “Mrs. Dobson,” I greet her as warmly as possible and extend my hand in my usual fashion. Not surprisingly, she doesn’t even glance at it (I would have fainted), but she does do me the courtesy of cracking a thin smile.

  “Lizzie, is it?” My name feels brittle and distasteful rolling off her sharp tongue.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I feel obligated to drop a curtsy and do so. The woman feels like royalty, I a peasant, or an orphan, a peasant orphan. Why can’t I be a rich orphan? Or a peasant with family? Talk about drawing the short straw in life. Really, I have nothing good going for me at all. It’s depressing.

  “I’m told Mina has invited you into our home.” Mrs. Dobson seems to be choosing her words very carefully; either that, or she is speaking slowly because she feels I am dimwitted. “I do not approve.” She lets those words sink in. “You are not—not someone I feel comfortable with, my dear. No fault of your own, of course. Just as you probably wouldn’t feel comfortable there, yourself, would you?” She leaves no time for reply, and her words sail on, oblivious to me. “I think it is best that you rethink what you are doing and where you would like to be in the future. Everything we do now is a road to our future, isn’t it, Lizzie? A block, a beam, a brick in the road. We must be careful to build the right road, mustn’t we? There are very specific destinations in providence for you, my dear. Very specific, and they lead to specific places. We mustn’t play around with roads that lead to nowhere. Such a waste of time, and time wasting is a sin.”

  I am unclear what my response should be, or indeed if my very presence is even required in this one-sided conversation, so I merely stand still, an orphan with her arms behind her back, hands clasped, seen and not heard, just like I was taught all those years ago. I feel eight years old again. I wouldn’t be surprised if she boxed my ears next, or took away supper.

  “Of course, I’ll speak with the doctors, as well. Perhaps I’m mistaken, but I’m sure I’m not. I doubt they’ll want to let you out of their sight anyway, will they, dear? Such a busy time at the hospital, and so much to do, so many treatments to administer, I suppose.” She exaggerates every syllable as though it will lend sincerity to her words.

  A busy time? I let my eyes wander around to the stillness. If I concentrate, I suppose I can hear Mr. Limpet’s wheelchair creak. Yes, we’re certainly bustling. I don’t know how the doctor could spare me; why, the whole place might fall apart without me here to change linens. Someone’s corners could come untucked, and then where would we all be? Up a creek without a blanket, that’s where.

  “I agree, Mrs. Dobson,” I say, cheerily. “Balls aren’t really my cup of tea, as you well know. I’m much better suited to cleaning out the fireplace, and besides, the mice here are dreadfully difficult to catch. For the coachmen, I mean.”

  She blinks.

  “Anyway, ma’am, I tried telling Mina the same sort of thing, but you know how she gets. She has it in her head that having an orphan around will be good for, I think she said, your social reputation? Some such thing. Evidently, Jane Wilcox took a servant girl under her wing recently and everyone is all agog at such charity. I heard her social status went through the roof. Such silliness! But I quite agree, ma’am, it is entirely unnecessary and inappropriate for me attend your function.”

  Mrs. Dobson looks taken aback for a moment. “Well, I, that is, I didn’t mean to make your decision for you, and naturally if Mina wants you there, I suppose…” She trails off, but her eyes narrow at me as if not sure what to make of me.

  “I assure you, ma’am,” I respond, lightly. “I wasn’t being cheeky. I merely spoke the truth, and if Jane has had three marriage proposals this year, I’m sure it’s a coincidence, not a nod to her benevolent activities. Although, with the size of her, I was surprised it was three… but again, I’m sure it’s a coincidence. Some gentlemen do like quantity over quality, don’t they? But Mina doesn’t need any help in that department, does she? The marriage department, I mean.”

  “Of course not! And I’m not attempting to marry her off.”

  “Of course not!” I echo. I give an exaggerated sigh as if my heavy burdens have lifted. “Well, Mrs. Dobson, I’m certainly glad we had this little talk.”

  “Yes.” She frowns at me. “You have a nice day, Lizzie. And if,” she pauses, and once again her eyes narrow as she peers at me. “If Mina wants you there and if you can find something suitable to wear and promise to be on your best behavior, well, then I will be happy to see you.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. If I finish picking the peas out of the hearth, then I’ll do my best to attend.”

  “You’re a peculiar thing,” Mrs. Dobson sniffs. “I confess, I don’t know what my daughter sees in you. But she’s always been of a softer character than I. She gets it from her father.” She doesn’t seem too pleased with this revelation. I’m not sure who she is insulting now: Mina, Mina’s father, or still me.

  “I’m sure he’s a lovely man. I like him already. Well, I’d best be off to work. It certainly was wonderful seeing you, Mrs. Dobson.”

  She doesn’t grace me with a reply, but sweeps out of the room like a grand duchess.

  I can’t decide now if I want more than ever to go to her blasted ball or if I wouldn’t be caught dead there. In my endeavor to confuse the barmy woman, I’ve confused myself.

  ********************

  The day drags like the proverbial molasses in January. I’m bored out of my mind with nearly nothing to do, and Mr. Connelly is a no-show, blast him. He always seems to pop up when I am thinking of him, but not today, it seems. Miss Helmes has me reading aloud to one of the patients, an elderly woman named Nora. Just Nora apparently; she is a bit of a mystery, and if she knows her own surname, she isn’t telling it. Probably a street woman, I suppose, with a colorful past that has left her a shell of her former glory. Her mind is nearly gone, poor thing.

  I read from Ethan Frome (which is a bit dull and was never my favorite), and she has no reaction to my words.

  “ ‘I don’t see there’s much difference between the Fromes up at the farm and the Fromes down at the graveyard; ‘cept that down there they’re all quiet, and the women have got to hold their tongues.’ “ I drone on. I peek at Nora. Still no reaction. I snap shut the book. “So, the Fromes up at the farm met up with the Fromes down at the graveyard and they all had strawberry cordials and went to the ball. There was scandalous dancing and heavy petting in the corners and no one minded in the least.”

  Nora continues to stare past my shoulder, not meeting my eyes, not really looking at me at all. What has made her this way? Was she like this from the start? No one has ever come to claim her. She was dropped off by someone, a family member, but they never came back. Typical, sadly. Did she have no one who loved her, I wondered? If someone dropped me off, would anyone come looking? I pat her hand then. It’s soft, like crepe paper, and dry. She snatches it from me, but still doesn’t meet my gaze.

  “All right, Nora. I won’t touch you. Do you want more of the story?” I sigh, dreading her answer
though she probably won’t give one. “Book?” I hold it up in front of her face. “More?” I feel silly, like I’m talking to a baby, but in a way, she is one. Most of the patients have to be handled like this, at least the ones that aren’t dangerous.

  “Okay.”

  I’m staggered she has finally spoken to me, and also a little taken aback by the word choice. I remember Rose when the farmer’s son said that to her, and she didn’t know the meaning.

  “Okay,” I repeat, and smile. “But we could switch books if you like. Little Women is much better, I’m just letting you know.”

  “This one is fine.” Now that she strings more words together, I detect an indeterminate accent.

  I sigh again and open Ethan Frome. As I open my mouth to pick up where we left off, Nora speaks again.

  “I don’t care so much about the ending of this one, so it’s best.” French? I think she’s French.

  “Um, all right. I don’t care much either, but why is that best?” I keep my voice soothing, like I’ve been trained to do with our patients.

  “In case I don’t get to hear the ending.”

  “But why wouldn’t you hear the ending, Nora? Are you firing me so soon?” I smile.

  “No, but I won’t be here long.” She looks down at her crepe paper hands and wrings them like a dish towel.

  “Oh, that’s right.” All the patients say this. “Well, in case you stay longer than expected, we’ll just get into the story, all right?”

  “It’s not all right!” She bursts out. She is still wringing her hands, practically wringing the skin right off. No wonder they look like they are made of the frailest tissue. “No one understands! I won’t be here forever, and I don’t know where I’ll go! I don’t know where I’ll go. I don’t know where I’ll go.” Her voice fades away, softly, trailing.

  “You don’t have to go anywhere, Nora,” I say, gently. “You can stay here as long as you like.”

  “I don’t know where I’ll go.”

  “Then stay here.”

  “I don’t know where I’ll go. I don’t know where I’ll go. I don’t know where I’ll go.”

  Her chanting is becoming eerie now. She finally turns her head to look at me, carefully, as if it costs her a great deal to do so.

  “Don’t you find it fearsome?” she says. “To be someplace different? To be so lost?”

  Perhaps it’s the abundance of late night diary readings, but I swear the inflection in her voice sounds as though she had said “to be so Lost.”

  16

  I struggle through more of Ethan Frome, but my mind isn’t in it. I keep eyeing Nora uneasily, but she doesn’t interrupt me, and her chanting has stopped. I’m being perfectly ridiculous even entertaining the thought of the Lost, but now it’s in my head, and I can’t force it out.

  “What did you mean, Nora?” I finally blurt out, right in the middle of a sentence. She reacts to her own name, I can tell. “Why do you think you don’t know where you’re going? Are you afraid to be someplace new? When?”

  “Anytime. Soon. Not soon. You don’t understand.” No, not French… Spanish?

  “I’d like to understand. Will you tell me? I promise...” I falter, just a bit, and even look over my shoulder at the door I’ve left ajar. “I won’t tell anyone if you like. Just between us.”

  She leans forward, like a little girl with a secret, and smiles. “I can’t tell you, silly,” she whispers in my ear. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

  This is a common enough fear at Bedlam, ironically enough. Inwardly I sigh, but outwardly, I just give Nora an encouraging smile. “No, I won’t! You can say anything you like to me.”

  “Can I?” Nora leans back in her chair, fretfully, and tugs her afghan over her knobby knees. “I don’t think so.”

  Rather than beg (which I feel like doing), I pat her knee under the afghan. “Some other time then,” I murmur. “Never mind. Why don’t you take your nap, now? I’ll be back to check on you later.” And if you aren’t here, I’ll know I’m the one who should be committed to this place, I think.

  Nora doesn’t acknowledge me when I leave. She’s switched her emotions off, as effectively as turning a knob or pushing a button. Some people have that ability, and she’s one of them. I, on the other hand, tend to wear my emotions on my sleeve, as they say, and for the rest of the afternoon, I grumble through work. I’m irritated by the lack of Connelly, irritated by myself and my thoughts, irritated with Mack and Mrs. Dobson and Nora. I feel as though I’d like to jump out of my skin. The thought of changing one more bedpan or unpacking one more box nearly has me flying into hysterics.

  I’m saved from embarrassing myself by Mr. Connelly strolling through the doors. Finally! And it’s nearly time for me to be off work altogether. My stomach is growling for its supper, but I wouldn’t miss this time with him for any amount of food. I make short work of polite pleasantries and get straight to the point.

  “Walk with me outside a moment, sir?” I gesture towards the doors he just strolled through.

  Mr. Connelly pauses in his task of removing his coat. He hangs in time for a moment, still, and then makes a great show of putting it back on. He even sighs, which I find a bit overdone and insulting. I snag my shawl and lead the way outside. It’s a rare English evening, still warm, no breeze. I spot his wonderful car parked haphazardly nearby. You can be sure, if ever I were to own such a beautiful thing, I’d learn to park it perfectly. I suppose it’s yet another example of the wealthy taking for granted their riches.

  “Mr. Connelly,” I begin, in what I hope is my most mature and no-nonsense voice. “This business with Rose has me quite consumed, I’m afraid.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” he seems to be smiling, though his cigarette and what would have been a five o’clock shadow a week ago hide it well enough. So does the fact that he is so very tall. Has he always been this tall? “I’m sure she’d be delighted to learn someone has taken such an interest in her. Your hair is very unusual today, by the way, little one.”

  I shove a pin back in and glare at him. I’d forgotten my Swiss maid look. “It was windy this morning, and I was late. Also, a patient hit me with a pillow. As I was saying— Are you laughing at me?”

  “No, no. Not at all. I was thinking of something else. Go on.” He is laughing, sod it!

  I switch tactics and attempt to take him off guard. “What is your name, Mr. Connelly? Your first name, I mean.”

  “Sam. Why? Are we so intimate then?” He helps me with another pin.

  “Don’t tease. Ow! It goes in the hair, not in the scalp. It just struck me this morning that I don’t know very much about you.”

  “True. And you probably shouldn’t be running off in cars with me or taking lonely strolls through the woods with me, either.” He makes a show of looking dangerous and ferocious, but he mostly looks like a diseased bear.

  “Don’t be silly. This isn’t a wood, and I can take care of myself, should you decide to—” I trail off. Decide to, what? Get frisky? Kidnap me? Rearrange my hairdo?

  “Ravish you? Ruin you?” Now there’s no mistaking; he is definitely laughing. “Well, the thought had crossed my mind once or twice, but I promise to behave. Now what else do you want to know in this sudden burst in inquisitiveness?”

  “Stop teasing! And stop doing that thing with your eyes.” I say, crossly.

  “What thing?”

  “That twinkling, sparkling thing. It’s distracting.”

  The diseased bear with impossibly sparkling eyes, snorts. “I apologize for the state of my eyeballs. I’ll try to contain their – um, twinkling.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Maybe I could douse them with ashes or something if they get out of hand. Or throw dust in them. Rub some mud in them.”

  “I’m considering all those at the moment.” I pull my shawl tighter around my shoulders. I think of Nora’s bony knees as I feel my own shoulders through the thin fabric. Had he really been thinking of ravishing me? “You don
’t look like a Sam.”

  “Don’t I? Well, you can call me Samson if you like.”

  “Really? That is unusual.”

  “It’s also not my name, but you can call me it if you like,” he continues, cheerfully.

  “Look, Samuel,” I glare up at him. “You are being awfully immature and full of codswallop. I’m trying to have a grown up conversation and get to the bottom of things and you keep...” I almost say “flirting” but stop myself. That couldn’t be what he is doing, is it? I am unaccustomed to flirting, unless it’s with rowdy teenage boys, whom I mostly ignore. Had he really thought of ruining me? “... keep annoying me and getting me off track. Besides, I don’t have a lot of time to talk; I’m positively starving, and I want to go home and eat.”

  “I have a better idea,” Mr. Connelly—Sam—tosses his cigarette down and grinds it out with the toe of his lovely shoes. “I’ll buy you a nice supper, as an apology for being a rake and for very nearly, almost, practically, considering the mere possibility of ravishing you. You can talk all you like over a nice steak and butter beans.”

  I’d like to feign indifference to the invitation, but my mouth is already watering. I’m afraid to open my lips to speak, for fear of salivating all over those lovely shoes. I manage not to clap my hands in glee like a little girl, but I do smile in what is probably an idiotic manner.

  “That sounds nice enough. Thank you, Sam.”

  “You’re very welcome. Do we need to check with Miss Helmes?”

  “Of course not. I’m off work now. She is only my warden between the hours of eight and six, you know.”