A Child Lost

by Michelle Cox

“Of course, I’m not going to a funeral,” Henrietta had responded, but did not offer any other information as she pulled on her black gloves. Briefly, she considered telling Edna the plan but decided against it lest Edna, in a moment of weakness (the chances of which were very high), inform Mrs. Howard, or worse, Clive, of her true whereabouts. No, best to go it alone, she resolved, though Edna had whined about what she should tell Mr. Howard should he ask. Henrietta crisply instructed her to simply tell him the truth, that she didn’t know—and then assured poor Edna that she would more than likely be home before Clive and that no one, therefore, would be the wiser.

  Now, however, as she gingerly stepped out of the car onto Oak Park Avenue, she reconsidered her decision, thinking that having a companion along might not have been such a bad idea. Well, it was too late now, she sighed. She said a quick good-bye to Fritz, telling him she should only be an hour at most, and pulled the veil down over her face. She walked quickly down the street toward the big iron gates but paused just outside, steeling herself and looking uneasily at the guard booth. From this vantage point, she could see that there was a pedestrian gate just to the left of the main gates, which she hadn’t noticed the other day.

  She took several deep breaths and then began her approach, her body involuntarily bending slightly forward out of anxiety as she walked. She quickly realized, however, that this position had the advantage of probably making her look more like an old woman. She endeavored to further adopt this role by concentrating on slowing her pace to match. Again, not much skill seemed required, that or she was brilliant in her performance, as the guard at the gate merely jerked his thumb in the direction of the pedestrian gate without so much as a second glance, the newspaper in front of him claiming the better part of his attention.

  Keeping her head down, Henrietta walked slowly toward it, where she spied another guard whose back was to her. He appeared to be throwing what looked to be breadcrumbs at a squirrel who hovered nearby. At Henrietta’s approach, the squirrel scampered away, and the guard turned back toward the gate, looking rather disappointed.

  “Just visitin’?” he asked, pulling the gate open.

  Henrietta merely nodded and shuffled through, sweat trickling down her back now, and could not help but jump a little when the gate clanged shut behind her.

  The driveway up to the main building was rather long, and she used the time to try to slow her breathing and rapid pulse. She wasn’t sure why she was so nervous. Surely talking to Nurse Collins, despite what she might or might not reveal, wouldn’t be unpleasant in and of itself, she reasoned, remembering how kind she had been previously. And Henrietta was pretty sure that in coming at this hour, she would avoid Nurse Harding, so she shouldn’t be worried about that. Upon closer reflection, she supposed her anxiety must have something to do with her previous temporary incarceration with Elsie and poor Anna. She tried to remind herself that she had not, in fact, been locked in, that she was free to go at any time and that she had chosen to stay on the ward with Anna. When she thought of it this way, she became calm, but it was a fleeting calm, only lasting a few seconds before she was back to taking deep breaths, feeling like she couldn’t get enough air.

  Stop it! she scolded herself, envisioning what Clive would say if he were here. But that was no good, either, as she knew that he would certainly have some choice things to say at this moment, namely that this was unnecessary and foolhardy to boot. Perhaps he was right, she considered, pausing just outside the main doors. Perhaps this really was a bad idea . . . she could still turn back . . .

  No, she resolved. She had come this far. She would quickly talk to Nurse Collins, who would hopefully dispel her doubts, maybe say hello to poor Mrs. Goodman, and then go. Doubtless she would be back home before Clive even arrived, as she had told Edna, at which point she would confess all, she decided. Yes, that’s what she would do, she determined in an attempt to shake her nagging guilt and unease. And so, with this penitential compromise with herself, she entered the asylum.

  The interior was unusually quiet and dim, which unnerved Henrietta more than the chaos had on her previous visits. None of the big wooden double doors that led to the various wards were propped open today, so that no sound—no mutterings or bangs or groans—could be heard from within. The stench was still there, though, as was the thick feeling of despair that seemed to emanate from every surface, even from the dull, peeling walls themselves. It was a sort of sad heaviness that hung over everything and which was nearly impossible to shrug off.

  Henrietta approached the desk, behind which sat an unfamiliar nurse. After the pains she had gone through to disguise herself, Joe, almost disappointingly, was likewise not present. She let out a deep sigh as she looked down at her gown; she had apparently gone through all this effort for nothing!

  In a low voice, she asked to see Mrs. Goodman, on Ward 3C, she believed, and though the nurse raised an eyebrow, probably because no one had ever come asking to see poor Mrs. Goodman, she signaled for the orderly on duty to take her up. “Sign in first, though,” the nurse instructed her. Henrietta didn’t recall having to sign in before. She assumed, though, that some staff were perhaps more lax than others in their enforcement of the protocols, so she did as instructed.

  Henrietta silently followed the orderly up the stairs, keeping her black veil over her face in case she did happen to run into Nurse Harding, and tried to concentrate on what her first action would be. With every step they took, however, she found it increasingly more difficult to think clearly. Indeed, by the time they reached the top and the orderly was bending to unlock the door, she was almost panicking. She grabbed hold of the railing, fearing that she might fall backward, but it was loose and her hand slipped. Instinctively, she grabbed the orderly’s arm instead to keep steady.

  “Hey!” he said, looking at her curiously. “You all right, lady?”

  “Yes, I’m . . . I’m fine. Just a little winded, I suppose,” she said, trying to catch her breath. The door stood open now, but she didn’t move from where she stood, her hand still on the orderly’s arm. “You goin’ in, or not?” he asked impatiently.

  “Yes, of course,” Henrietta said weakly and made her legs move her forward. She stood just inside the door, forcing herself to breathe in through her nose and exhale slowly. She held her hands to stop them from trembling as the orderly closed and locked the door, the key scraping in the lock. “Just calm down,” Henrietta muttered, determined to find Nurse Collins as quickly as possible.

  Oddly, however, there was no nurse present behind the desk. The usual assortment of patients were sitting or mingling in the common area, though Henrietta thought that there seemed fewer of them—or was she just imagining it? Where was everyone? She glanced down one of the hallways and wondered if maybe some of the patients had been removed to their rooms and put to bed for a nap; after all, it was midafternoon and what else did they have to do, poor things? She turned her attention back to the dayroom, assessing the ones left behind, and was unexplainably relieved to see Mrs. Goodman among them. She was seated at the end of the row of chairs against the far wall, and by the way she was leaning dangerously close to her neighbor, she appeared to be sound asleep as well.

  Henrietta fought her desperate desire to simply call out for Nurse Collins. For one thing, she didn’t want to wake the dozing residents, especially Mrs. Goodman, as she didn’t want to stop to listen to her crazy ramblings just at the moment. She would perhaps do that later when she had gotten the information she had come for. Besides that, what if Nurse Harding was still on duty? She didn’t want to risk calling attention to herself just yet. In fact, it occurred to her as she walked softly toward the nurse’s desk, that this might be the perfect chance to have another look around. Maybe even in the stock room? she thought temptingly. Maybe she could find the mysterious brown bottle of cyanide, she hoped, though she admitted this was unlikely given the number of times Ida herself had supposedly searched for it. Still, she thought excitedly, it was worth a look . . .r />
  Hastily, she removed her veil and made her way around the desk, glancing at the open ledger. She considered stopping to take another look through it, but to what end? And besides, she considered, she might never get such a perfect chance to search the stock room. She paused just outside the door, listening, but no sound was heard from within, and no light shone out from underneath. Quietly, she turned the handle and was surprised that it was unlocked. If it indeed held medications, surely it should be locked more than any other door? Perhaps it was kept unlocked because a nurse normally sat at the desk?

  Whatever the case, she gently opened the door. It was dark inside and smelled faintly musty and medicinal. A bit of light shone in from the dayroom, however, enough for her to be able to perceive a single lightbulb hanging in the center of the room from a fraying brown fabric cord. She reached for the thin string hanging alongside it and pulled. The room now lit by the dim glow of the bulb, she quickly closed the door behind her and looked around, trying to decide where to start. She knew she had little time and wished she had a way to keep a lookout. With the door closed, she felt more nervous and jumpy, imagining Nurse Harding flinging it open at any moment and catching her in the act. She considered leaving it open just a crack, but then decided against it, thinking that the light might catch someone’s attention sooner.

  She would just have to act fast. Along one wall ran a counter of sorts, below which were many drawers of all sizes. Above the counter was a sort of hutch with beveled glass doors, which appeared to be the main storage unit for the medications. It held various bottles and jars of liquids or powders and small boxes of different sizes as well. Along the opposite wall ran several wooden shelves that went almost to the ceiling and which appeared to house a whole assortment of items that did not seem arranged in any particular order. Henrietta looked from one wall to the other and sighed. How was she to find a small bottle of cyanide among all of this? If Ida had already searched this room multiple times, what more did she hope to find?

  Still, she decided to give it a try and moved toward the hutch filled with medications, deciding to rule out the obvious place first. The glass doors were equipped with small locks, Henrietta saw, but a small brass key sat at the ready in one of them. Henrietta turned it easily and opened one of the doors. She started at the top and went across, reading each taped-on paper label as best she could: Mercurochrome, Chloroform, Ergoapiol, Nembutal, Laudanum, Salts of Bromine, Castor Oil, Sulfa, Norodin/Methamphetamine . . . nothing. Her heart gave a little leap, though, when her eyes rested on a brown bottle at the back, but she was disappointed when she pulled it down only to see that it had a label: Tincture of Iodine. She was about to put it back when she thought to smell it. Carefully, she unscrewed the cap and gingerly put it up to her nose. Her head jerked back at the familiarly abrasive odor of iodine. She screwed the cap back on and replaced it on the shelf. She opened the other door and after a quick perusal, saw nothing unusual there, either. With a deep breath and a glance at the door, she decided to move on to the drawers.

  She put her hand on the thick brass drawer pull of the top drawer and pulled, but it barely moved, stuck in place in the cabinet. She yanked, then, and it opened, distressingly accompanied by a loud screech as the wood rubbed against wood. Henrietta froze in place, her heart racing as she listened carefully for approaching footsteps, but she heard nothing. Carefully, she pulled it out just a little farther and peered inside at its contents. Why was the lighting in here so bad? Shouldn’t it be brighter for the nurses having to dispense medication? she wondered. Her big hat, she realized, was also contributing to the dimness by blocking out whatever little light there was. Hurriedly, she unpinned the hat and placed it on the counter, glad to be rid of the heavy thing.

  At first glance, the drawer seemed to only be filled with rubber stoppers and corks of various sizes. Henrietta rummaged through them, beads of sweat forming on her neck, but she found nothing. Slowly she opened the drawer beside it, which mercifully did not stick or make a noise, and found rolls of bandages. She pulled it all the way out and searched the back, again finding nothing. She went on this way, as quickly as she could, pulling out all the drawers and rifling through them to no avail. She was surprised, actually, as she went along, to see how random and unorganized they were. Elsie would have a hay day in here, Henrietta mused.

  Determining that there was nothing to be found on the cabinet side of the room, Henrietta turned toward the shelves with a heavy sigh. These would be a much more daunting endeavor, as they reached almost to the ceiling and were packed to overflowing with random items. She stood in the middle of the room, her hands on her hips, staring up. From where she stood, the upper shelves seemed to house what looked like extra bedding. Hiding a bottle of cyanide up there would be perfect, Henrietta guessed, but not exactly practical. Wouldn’t the murderer have chosen a hiding spot with easier access? Still, she should probably have a look, but how did anyone get up there, anyway? she wondered, looking around. She spotted an old step stool in the corner and determined that must be the means, though it didn’t look tall enough for a person to be able to reach the top, even with its help. She didn’t relish dragging it over to the shelves and climbing it, particularly as she was still feeling a bit dizzy, so she decided it would be her last resort and started to search the other shelves first.

  They contained a whole assortment of supplies and implements. Besides the bedding at the top, there were a few blankets at the far end, closest to the wall and stacks of haphazardly folded towels, stuffed hurriedly on the shelves by the look of it, and various pieces of equipment whose purpose Henrietta could only guess at. One large gray box looked particularly ominous with wires and cords coming out of it and a whole array of dials and switches. She shuddered to think what it was used for. She moved past it and rifled through enamel bedpans, basins, rubber tubing, glass trays, suction bulbs, wooden crutches of differing sizes, and other medical oddities; still she found nothing. She moved toward the towels and other linens, then, gingerly sticking her hand behind them and brushing it blindly along the back wall, hoping she wouldn’t discover anything else besides what she was looking for, such as a spider or, worse, a rat.

  Fortunately—or unfortunately—she found nothing and took a step back. There was nothing left to search except the very top shelf and the space beneath the bottom shelf, under which various open, wooden crates had been shoved. Henrietta hated the thought of pulling all of them out and rummaging through them, but it was better than having to climb the stepstool.

  She pulled on the first crate. It was lighter than she had expected, though, and she was thrown off balance and stumbled backwards. She caught herself before she fell, though, righting herself, and then bent over the crate to look closer. It appeared to be full of rumpled clothing. She lifted the top item, which turned out to be a man’s suit coat, dirty. Gingerly, she pulled out the next item, which was a waistcoat, and under that was a crumpled lady’s hat. Setting these items aside, she was able to unearth more, most of which were smaller and therefore had fallen toward the bottom. There was a scuffed pocket watch, a comb, even a small bible. These must be the personal effects of the patients, Henrietta realized, either those of the current patients or the ones who already died. Nurse Collins had said that Liesel had few personal effects, but Henrietta wondered if perhaps they missed something or maybe she lied? But to what end?

  Henrietta began to paw through the items looking for something that might have belonged to Liesel, but what? Besides perhaps something written in German, she would hardly recognize anything of the poor woman’s, she realized, having never known her. She fought the temptation to pick up and carefully examine each item, reminding herself that the minutes were ticking by. She felt sad, as she had when she cleaned out old Helen’s cottage last summer, of the transitory nature of life. How all of one’s treasures simply ended up in a box at the end of the day, considered to be just junk by everyone else who beheld it. Her hands continued to listlessly pick through the
items, nearly forgetting her mission, when they inadvertently came upon a set of teeth, causing her to recoil. What was she doing? she scolded herself. She had to keep moving!

  Quickly she stuffed all of the contents from the first crate back into it, and, kneeling on the floor, pulled out the other crate. This one was heavier, which, in and of itself, suggested that it be discounted as a likely place for the murderer to hide the poison. Too heavy and awkward to pull in and out, but she decided to search it anyway. Like the other crate, this one, too, held various items of clothing and personal effects, which Henrietta pulled out rapidly without perusing them and tossed them on the ground. As she searched through, Henrietta was again surprised, or not surprised, really, that there was not a better system of organization in such a big institution. How could the staff possibly remember which things belonged to whom? But then again, she remembered, that once here, most never left.

  She lifted a large brown handbag and was in the process of setting it to the side when her eyes fell upon the item lying beneath it, which was a book—A Child’s Garden of Verses. Henrietta paused, thinking. Could this be the book Anna claimed to have lost here? Gingerly, Henrietta pulled it out, excited to have potentially found something, even if it was only this. She opened the front cover and read the inscription—in Elsie’s handwriting!

  To Anna ~

  Something for the times when you find

  yourself alone and in want of a friend.

  ~With fondness, Elsie Von Harmon

  Ah-ha! she thought and clasped the book to her chest. Obviously, Nurse Harding had not looked very hard for it the other day, Henrietta thought. Typical. Setting the book on the floor next to her, she was about to stuff everything back in the crate when her eye suddenly fell upon a small brown bottle sitting innocently among the junk of the dead or dispossessed. Henrietta stared at it as if it were the spider or the rat she had minutes before been afraid of finding. Her heart racing, she reached out finally and picked it up carefully, several small items sliding into the hole created by its removal. Holding it away from her at first, as if it were dangerous just by proximity, she examined it. No label, no markings of any kind to describe the liquid she could see inside through the thick brown glass. Slowly, she unscrewed the top and gingerly held her nose over it, her stomach roiling when she caught a whiff of almond.