Secrets of the Asylum

by Linda Hughes

  After a run down the hall to the water closet, Elizabeth came back to her room and opened the wardrobe. What should she wear to meet the girl? Shoving aside the skirts and blouses she thought of as her “asylum rags,” she culled through her designer clothes. Mostly lounging robes she enjoyed wearing while she painted and morning dresses for Herbert’s visits, she went through the robes first. A colorful, gaily patterned, silk duster by a designer named Beer spoke to her. She pulled it out and held it in front of her, turning to the full-length mirror.

  “Yes. This is it.”

  Throwing the gown down on the bed, she looked back into the mirror, turning her head from side to side, trying to decide what to do with her hair for this occasion. Usually loose or in a rushed topknot, tonight would have to be something fancy.

  “Up,” she decided. “I must put it up, like that movie star I saw in Photoplay Magazine.” Sometimes she confiscated the magazines Dr. Charles Whitmore bought for her to read in his office and snuck them home with her. Unfortunately, she’d used up all the ones she’d had to use as blotting pads for her paint brushes, so she didn’t have any left. She wished she’d kept some. But she felt certain she her artist’s memory had imprinted the photograph of the actress into her mind well enough that she could replicate the hairdo herself.

  Working on it for twenty minutes, she finally got her wayward black locks pulled back into a silver hair clasp at the back of her head, with wisps of curls left loose to frame her face.

  Tackling her face next, she pulled her makeup box out of the drawer in her nightstand and laid it on the table. She never wore makeup during a routine day. She didn’t think she needed it. But she liked to use it to heighten her tease of Herbert when he came, and now for this. Carefully she powdered her face with the new pink powder puff Hannah had brought during her last visit, and then she lined her eyes with black kohl. Rummaging through a dozen tubes of lipstick, she came upon the brightest red she owned and lavished it on. Smacking her lips together, she stood back from the mirror and evaluated the look.

  “Perfect!”

  Slinking out of her asylum rags, she slithered into the duster, gathering it at her feet, stepping into it, and pulling it up so it wouldn’t muss her hair. With the duster being floor-length, she didn’t need stockings so she would forego those and went straight to her red heels.

  Topping it all off with her diamond and pearl jewelry, she looked in the mirror one more time.

  “I do believe that at a speakeasy they would say I’m the cat’s meow or the cat’s pajamas. Prettier than the Queen of Sheba. Only this isn’t as risqué as those costumes worn by Betty Blythe in the movie. At least, Photoplay Magazine said they were indecently risqué. That Betty must be quite the dame!”

  After packing up her makeup box and stowing it away, she picked up the No. 5 Chanel bottle from her nightstand and spritzed twice, once on each side of her neck. The new perfume with its fresh hints of jasmine, rose, sandalwood, and vanilla sent her reeling. The scent’s creator, Coco Chanel, had created a masterpiece, as far as she was concerned.

  “Well, that’s it,” she said with one last glance in the mirror. “I hope that girl appreciates my efforts.”

  23

  Meg could hardly breathe she was so filled with anticipation. The other night with Jed she’d forgotten all about this but now, without the distraction of the smell and feel of him beside her, this became all consuming.

  She’d once again told her father she’d be out for the evening, this time meeting an old friend at the Dreamland movie theatre in town to see a nine o’clock showing of The Kid with Charlie Chaplin. How she hated lying to her father, but she couldn’t imagine what he’d do if he discovered the truth.

  Peggy had helped her hatch a plan to get out of the house: Sam would drop her off at the theatre on Front Street and she’d tell him to pick her back up at eleven-thirty. She’d buy a ticket at the booth out front where Sam could see her go into the theatre. She would wait ten minutes, by which time Sam would most likely be on his way to Sleder’s tavern. Then she would leave the theatre to meet Peggy’s “eejit” brother Patrick on the corner for a ride in their family’s horse and buggy. He’d give her a ride to the corner of Elmwood and Green Drive in front of the asylum, where Petunia the nurse would be waiting to take her to see her mother.

  The night in the women’s room at Sleder’s when Petunia had approached her, they’d made plans for the clandestine rendezvous but she hadn’t considered how difficult it would be to figure out how to get from her house to that corner. Peggy’s devious little mind had no problem with that conundrum.

  Between the nurse and eejit brother, Meg was shelling out twenty dollars, a lot of moola to be sure, but worth it as far as she was concerned. She was finally going to get to see her mother after fifteen years.

  The plan came off without a hitch. Her father had a business dinner that evening so wouldn’t be home anyway. That morning when she’d told him she’d be going to a movie he’d barely commented, buried as he was in the newspaper. Sam fell for it hook, line, and sinker, dropping her off and driving away toward the tavern. Peggy’s brother Patrick showed up right on cue, stone sober, ruggedly handsome, and spectacularly charming.

  “And ya must be the Miss Meg me sister talks about nonstop without taking a breath, like a seanchi. That’s an Irish orator who never runs out of stories. Ya have quite an admirer there and I must say I can see why!” He offered her a hand to help her into the carriage.

  “Thank you. And you are, no doubt, her brother Patrick.” She settled into the small, open, two-seater beside him.

  Patrick McVeigh clicked his old dray to a start, headed through the residential area between downtown Traverse City and the asylum. The way was dully lit by gas lamps on the streets. Gas, oil, and candlelight flickered in the windows of the well-kept Victorian houses in pretty neighborhoods, homes that had stood since the boom of the lumber era that first hit this area more than fifty years earlier.

  “Miss Meg, I must say ya look fetchin’ this evenin’. To be sure it’ll be a nice visit with yer ma and she’ll be pleased with the beauty of her daughter.” Meg could see that this eejit Irishman wasted no time turning to lady-killer yammer.

  “Thank you,” she said, hating to admit to herself she’d needed the compliment as she’d spent an insecure hour trying to decide what to wear to see her mother. She and Peggy had finally picked a rather simple black dress accessorized with no more than her pearls. She left her diamond and pearl earrings, and any other jewelry, off and left her hair in its natural state of curls. She’d started with a bit of kohl around her eyes and a touch of pink lipstick, but wiped them off. After trying on and casting aside half a dozen dresses, their thinking had finally reached the conclusion that women in the asylum must not have much to wear or any makeup whatsoever and Meg didn’t want to get so dressed up as to make her mother uncomfortable in her own undoubtedly drab attire. Peggy had pulled out a nice gray cashmere shawl to keep out the evening chill, one that could be left with her mother if the woman needed it. All-in-all, it was a plain outfit and anything other than what Meg would consider to be “fetching,” but just right for this arcane occasion.

  After a few blocks of listening to Patrick’s chatter about how much he loved working the docks, Meg said, “Patrick, we don’t have much time. I don’t want to insult you but I have to ask you something. Do I have your promise you’ll be back here in exactly an hour and a half to pick me up? You won’t forget, or anything, will you?”

  “Ah, to be sure, Miss Meg. I’ll be right here. You’ve been listenin’ to me sister Peggy, eh? That one’s a talker, no?”

  That’s the pot calling the kettle black, Meg thought.

  He continued, “You’re afraid I’ll get muddled and forget ya. Don’t ya worry yer pretty little head about that. Our ma has kept me sober fer two months now and me brannigan, drinkin’, days are over. That I swear. Don’t ya know, yer da has even given me a good job on the docks with me da, so
now why would I want to go ruin the best chance I’ve ever been given? You can count on me. To keep me mouth shut, too.” He pressed his lips together in exaggeration.

  Meg said, “Okay. I’m just so nervous, I had to ask.”

  “That I understand. Don’t ya fret. It’ll be grand, I’m sure.”

  They made it to the designated corner right on time. Petunia, dressed in her stark white nursing uniform and stand-up cap, with a blue wool cape draped over her shoulders, stepped out from the shadows when the buggy stopped. Patrick again offered a hand and Meg got down.

  “Petunia,” Patrick said. “I dinna know it was you we were meetin’. My, ya look stunnin’ in yer uniform.” He grinned down at the nurse.

  “Hello, Patrick. I haven’t seen you in a while. Where’ve you been keeping yourself?” Petunia batted her eyelashes.

  “Here and there. Maybe we could get together for afternoon tea one day soon?”

  “I’d like that. Come on, Miss Sullivan, we need to get going so I can be on the floor at the start of my shift. ‘Bye, Patrick. Stop by my house. You know where I live.”

  Great, I’m paying people to flirt with each other, Meg thought. She felt pretty certain, however, that this Irishman flirted with every living being on the planet that wasn’t male.

  “Come on, Miss Sullivan, we’ll walk around the back of the buildings here where it’s dark and nobody will see us coming.” Petunia explained that they’d be entering the nurse’s backdoor of Cottage 21, as that was where she worked. Then, however, they’d take a tunnel to Cottage 23, where Meg’s mother lived.

  “You did tell her I’m coming,” Meg inquired.

  “Oh, yes, Miss Sullivan. She thought it over for a minute and said okay.”

  “Do you know my mother well?”

  “Oh, no. I work in the cottage next door. But from what I hear she has two rooms, one for living and one for painting. That’s very rare around here. In fact, she’s the only one and most people don’t even know about the arrangement. I don’t know how it happened other than your father has donated large sums of money to the hospital. Everybody knows he’s a generous benefactor.”

  “I see. So, my mother still paints?”

  “My goodness, yes. Beautiful paintings. There are patients — Dr. Munson wants us to call them “residents” — who have one of her paintings in their rooms and I know a number of nurses in her cottage have some, too. She’d very generous with her work.”

  They’d walked down a service road and reached what must be Cottage 21, as they entered a backdoor into a hallway with electrical lights illuminating the place with lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling every ten feet. Meg’s body felt energized; stepping into the building made it feel real. She was actually within walking distance of her mother!

  “You have electricity here,” Meg commented. “I haven’t seen any in town yet.”

  “Yes, we’re ahead of the rest of the town. Dr. Munson made sure the hospital had its own power plant, built right into the original plans thirty-five years ago when the place first opened. He’s always been ahead of his time. He also had the railroad bring tracks up to the plant so that coal and other supplies can be brought right to us. Sometimes the coal piles are three stories high, we use so much! Tons a day in the winter for steam heat. All the rooms have radiators in the walls. Our residents aren’t denied common creature comforts. And we have hot and cold running water, piped right to the kitchens in each building, and water closets on each floor.”

  They’d reached the end of the hallway that seemed to be a work area and Petunia put her finger to her lips to signal silence. She opened a heavy door and peered around the other side.

  “Okay,” she said. “Nobody here. I didn’t think so but we had to be sure. Come on.” She waved Meg through the door into a small space that led to the top of a dark brick staircase. Opening a box on the wall, she pulled out a flashlight and turned it on.

  “I don’t see many of those, either,” Meg commented.

  “We need them to walk these tunnels. No electricity down here.

  “This, by the way,” she noted, pointing at a contraption on the wall with keyholes in it, “is the key switch to turn on the electricity. The building supervisor has the key and turns it on and off as needed. There’s only electricity in the nurse’s work areas, kitchens, and dining halls, but not the resident rooms. They still have oil lamps and candles in these cottages, but many residents in the main building can’t be trusted to be around matches, so they don’t have any light once it gets dark. They just have to go to bed.”

  They’d reached the bottom of the narrow stairs and now Meg felt completely spooked. This was one scary place, with two brick tunnels with rounded ceilings. They veered off in different directions and met where they were standing. Petunia flashed light into one, revealing stealthy pipes and wires.

  “This one is mechanical. Only maintenance men are allowed in there. It brings the steam and water and electricity to these buildings. We go this way.” She turned the light into the other tunnel and took off.

  Petunia hoofed along with no trouble, the stubby beam of her flashlight bouncing off the brick walls ahead of her. For her own safety, Meg had to scramble to stay close behind. If any place on earth was haunted by vengeful ghosts, surely it would be a brick tunnel under an asylum in the dark of night.

  “You’re quiet back there. You all right?” Petunia asked without breaking her stride.

  “Yes,” Meg said weakly. “I’m fine.”

  Suddenly Petunia ducked. “Watch out for the cobweb!” she warned, too late.

  Assaulted by a tangle of spider silk, Meg screamed and waved her arms wildly to get it off her.

  Petunia turned around and laughed. “Oh my, aren’t you a mess. Here, let’s get this little fellow off you.” She pointed the light at Meg’s arm and calmly removed a white spider and gently placed it on the wall, where it jauntily walked away.

  “It’s white!” Meg exclaimed, swiping the last remnants of spider web off her.

  “Yes,” Petunia said, turning to keep going, “they’re born down here and never see the light of day, so they’re albino spiders.

  “Here we are now.” Another narrow staircase took them up to a door that opened into a hallway much like the one they’d first entered in the other building, again with electrical lights hanging from the ceiling. Petunia turned off her flashlight. “This is Cottage 23. Come, I’ll take you to your mother’s room.”

  In silence now they went through another door and entered a nice main entrance area with a checkered tile floor, a Persian carpet, and an ornate wood staircase. They went up to the second floor and after walking down a long, wide hallway decorated much like a parlor, they came to a door.

  “This is it,” Petunia said. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  With that she disappeared back down the hall.

  Meg stared at the door. Reaching out to knock, she withdrew her hand and put it on her chest to quell her racing heartbeat.

  To her surprise, the door opened, as if she’d knocked after all. There, silhouetted in the light of a gilded glass oil lamp and candles, stood Elizabeth Sullivan, her mother, dressed in a glorious duster robe of patterned silk, her luxurious black hair piled behind her head, kohl highlighting her vibrant eyes, bright red lipstick enhancing her full lips, and with dangly diamond and pearl earrings glinting in her dainty ears.

  Meg stepped inside and her mother closed the door.

  24

  Suddenly the spirit guides wouldn’t shut up.

  “Really? Now?” Abby asked, hauling herself out of bed. It was late, after nine o’clock, and she’d been having a pleasant dream of riding in the Sullivan limousine.

  Even though the day had cleared to be warm and sunny, and she could see stars through the window over her kitchen sink, telling her the sky had stayed cloud free, the chill in the air caused her to pull on her shawl and go over to stoke what was left of the day’s fire. Taking two thin logs out of the wood box, s
he crisscrossed them on top of the ambers and sat in her rocker, watching the dry maple take the flame. The heat it put off felt good.

  She settled back into her chair, folded her hands on her belly, and said, “Okay. What is it?”

  The message that came through at first surprised her but she quickly realized it made perfect sense. Of course, Herbert Sullivan wouldn’t want his daughter to see her mother, and of course Meg would then plot a way to see her.

  Tonight, they were saying. Meg would see her mother tonight.

  “What am I supposed to do with this information? Why tell me?” They never talked to her about Elizabeth Sullivan, her Lizzie. Was this message about Meg?

  She concentrated, listening for revelations.

  Yes, it was about Meg Sullivan.

  “Will she be hurt by Lizzie? Or disappointed? Or will their meeting go well?” Abby knew that last option was hope beyond hope because Lizzie didn’t exactly have maternal instincts. But she could always wish.

  “What?” She listened some more. “You’re saying it doesn’t matter how the meeting goes, good or bad, Meg will need a friend?”

  Abby cocked her head in concentration, waiting for more. Nothing more came.

  “That’s it? You got me out of bed for that? Of course, I’ll be her friend! For three reasons that you know good and well. Her mother is my best friend. The Sullivans have done so much for me, I’d do anything to repay them. And Meg is such a delightful woman, I like her anyway.

  “Is that it? May I go back to bed now?”

  Then the words came into her head, clear as day. “Meg needs a real mother.”

  “Ah, I see. Hannah? Of course. I’ll do whatever I can to help that along. I’ll encourage Hannah to give up the pretense and let herself love the girl.”

  The spirits became silent, satisfied they’d been heard and with what they heard in return.

  Abby didn’t actually see her spirit guides; rather, their voices came into her head. Three of them from the distant past of her heritage made themselves available to her. More than that, since the age of four she’d known they were there to protect and guide her. Not every moment of every day but when she was in need and when she called upon them to help others. Out of the thousands of ancestors she must have, these three were the ones who wanted to give useful information to the living.