The Winter Garden

by Kara Jorgensen

  “If you are able, I would like you to write your name for me.”

  His hands quavered as he scrawled Immanuel Winter for the first time in months before handing the paper back to the doctor. Dr. Hawthorne studied it before writing several lines in his ledger. His eyes darted from Immanuel to the book as he rapidly inventoried the injuries that were visible and needed to be treated. As the doctor drew near, Immanuel shrunk back but stopped when he realized he was staring at his jaw. James’s fingers probed the hinges and edges of his mandible, feeling for any cracks or loose bones.

  “Immanuel, there is good news and bad news. The good news is your jaw is only dislocated. The bad news is I need to put it back in place, which may not be very comfortable for you. Try and hold your head still.”

  He watched as Dr. Hawthorne wrapped his thumbs in gauze before inserting them between Immanuel’s slack lips. His hands clamped onto the younger man’s jaw and pulled down hard until he felt the condyle pop out of place. Pain radiated through his swollen features and made his eyes water, but the pressure from the pulling was not nearly as bad as he anticipated. Taking a deep breath, Immanuel clenched his eyes shut as James pushed his jaw back and up until it fit snuggly back in place and the pressure dissipated. The doctor gently felt the side of his face to ensure everything was properly aligned before manually opening and closing his mouth and examining his teeth.

  “That should fix it.” He grinned as he examined his patient’s mouth, which no longer drooped or hung cockeyed but only gaped slightly from the muscles being stretched for so long. “For a few weeks, you should not open your mouth too wide because it will be susceptible to dislocation until the muscles return to their proper shape. As you are probably aware, your nose is also broken, so I am going to clean your face and then realign the cartilage.”

  “Thank you,” Immanuel whispered, hearing his own voice, his real voice, for the first time in weeks.

  James soaked a cloth in the sink and stripped away the months of caked on dirt and blood that had run and dried before being coated over again like paint. The doctor was careful not to linger on the inflamed laceration or swollen cheek, but soon it was clear that the other cuts on his face were superficial and would heal in their own in time. The skin from his hairline down to his collarbone finally returned to its natural pallor, but his cheeks were flushed with the unmistakable heat of fever.

  As Immanuel’s eyes traveled over the instruments, machines, and shelves of chemicals, Dr. Hawthorne wrenched his nose to the left. He whimpered and jerked his head away with tears in his eyes, but when he brought his hand to his nose, he realized it was nearly straight again.

  “Sorry, but it always hurts less when you do not know it is coming.” James sighed. “I cannot treat your wounds with you in this state, or they will all be infected if they are not already. Are you strong enough to walk on your own?”

  Immanuel grabbed the back of the chair, and after a moment’s hesitation, hoisted himself to his feet. At the top of the first set of stairs, his lungs tightened, and by the time he climbed the steps that led to the next floor, his head was swimming. The damask wallpaper swirled around him. With each step, he moved further off kilter until finally he stumbled over his own feet. His heart sputtered as he hung precariously near the top of the stairs, but the doctor’s arms caught him and pulled him away from the edge. James placed his fingers over Immanuel’s carotid artery and counted the beats as they weakly pumped past.

  “Are you all right? Do you want me to get you a chair?”

  He drew in several deep breaths and shook his head as the doctor kept his arm around Immanuel’s back to keep him standing. The bathroom was only a few feet away, and once the hall stopped spinning, he began to shuffle toward the open door. James Hawthorne smiled when he spotted the pile of towels, clothing, and soap along with his Gladstone bag. After ten years of marriage, Eliza always knew exactly what he would need before he ever asked and had it ready for him. It was the role she had assumed after realizing she would never be allowed to use the medical license she earned alongside him. As he released the young man and turned on the tap, his eyes ran across the bathroom walls. Something was missing. The mirror over the sink was gone, but when he looked at the stranger’s face, he realized why his wife had taken it down. In his fragile state, even seeing his distorted reflection could send his body into shock.

  Immanuel stared at the water as it ran from the spigot, wondering how much it would burn. He couldn’t fathom that it wasn’t scalding hot, that the doctor wasn’t tricking him and only pretending to help him. When he finally worked up the nerve to stick his hand under it, he felt only balmy water washing away the residue of the catacomb from his hand.

  “If it is warm enough, you can get in,” Hawthorne stated as he closed the door.

  Immanuel stood rooted beside the tub and stared at him with one wide eye.

  “I won’t look, but you must understand that I cannot leave you in here alone after you nearly fell down the stairs. If you should fall again, you may not be able to call for help.”

  James kept his eyes locked on the back of the door until he heard three faint splashes. As the man in the tub scrubbed at his arms and chest, the doctor silently gathered his ruined clothing into the rubbish bin. He tried to busy himself with his medical bag, but from the corner of his eye, he watched Immanuel’s movements slow as he attempted to wash and lather his hair. When he finally released a stifled groan, Hawthorne cautiously drew closer. The poor man panted with his head resting on the edge of the tub and hugged his ribs beneath the murky water.

  “If you were kicked, your ribs may be broken. I would rather you let me wash your hair than have you hurt yourself trying to be independent too soon.”

  Dr. Hawthorne had expected a fight or at least a disgusted glare, but instead, the young man stared up at him with tears in his eyes and nodded. He quickly let out the dirty water and refilled the tub before turning to inspect his patient’s body for the first time. The nails of fingers and toes were splintered and torn. His breast, torso, and legs were littered with bruises in varying stages of healing overlaid by an inflamed rash caused by the offal he had lived in for so long corroding his flesh. Among the purple and green blotches were several nasty cuts that would require stitches, but it wasn’t until he sat behind him to work on his hair that he felt the bile rise in his throat. A dozen small, perfectly circular burns were seared into his back and side, but what disturbed him most were the man’s meatless bones, which jutted under his sallow skin and threatened to tear through at the slightest movement. Dr. Hawthorne choked down his outrage and pushed away the plaintive thoughts. He couldn’t think that way. Immanuel Winter deserved the chance to live.

  Chapter Nine:

  Saviors

  As they worked their way to the foyer one hesitant step at a time, James Hawthorne kept his arm tightly wrapped around the small of Immanuel’s back to keep him standing. With a fresh set of clothing and a bath, he appeared nearly normal, but they merely hid the source of his infirmity and the torture he endured. Since he arrived, he had braved the sting of antiseptic and the pull of the doctor’s needle and thread without ether or chloroform to dull the pain, but with each wound that was stitched closed, his breaths came more rapidly and a little more color drained from his cheeks. When they reached the bottom, James lowered him onto the steps to catch his breath before they joined the others. Immanuel hung his head as his lungs fought to expand against the pressure of his cracked ribs. The slightly salty yet comforting scent of chicken broth and carrots wafted from the dining room along with the soft chatter of his wife and niece.

  The doctor knelt in front of him to meet his gaze. “If you are not up to it, I can bring your food here. You do not need to go to the dining room to eat.”

  He shook his head of loose golden curls and covered his mouth as he began to cough again. James knew the steam from the bath would only clear his lungs for so long, but he had hoped it would have lasted through dinner. When
he was finished, he drew in one more tremulous breath before climbing to his feet with the support of the newel post. Immanuel made his way into the dining room with the doctor trailing a step behind him. The table was set for two, but by the time he arrived, Emmeline was already halfway through her plate of cold chicken and bread.

  As she looked up from her plate, her already large eyes widened and the chicken tumbled off her fork. Emmeline stared at the man’s swollen face in disgust, unsure of why she had to be subjected to his bloated features while she ate. His skin was unnaturally purple and distorted to the point that she wished they had left the blindfold on. His cries echoed through her mind. Couldn’t they have kept him upstairs and away from her now that she had fulfilled her promise to her mother? They were both safe now, and she wanted no part of that horrible place, including him. Feeling eyes upon her, she glanced to the side and found her aunt glaring at her. Eliza Hawthorne smiled kindly at the young man on the other side of the table as she doled out a portion of chicken broth with vegetables she had mashed up for him.

  “How are you feeling?” Eliza asked as she placed the bowl in front of him along with a cup of lukewarm tea.

  “Tired.”

  She stood at the sideboard and watched him slowly bring spoonfuls of broth to his mouth as her husband busied himself beside her. “Well, you look much better even if you do not feel better yet.”

  James leaned closer and whispered into her ear, “His name is Immanuel Winter. He is highly malnourished, has a broken nose and cheekbone, and a fever probably due to more than an infection.”

  “What are you not telling me?” she replied, keeping her voice low enough that the man and Emmeline could not hear.

  The doctor swallowed hard. “I do not know if he will survive the night.”

  Eliza sighed and stirred the pot of soup. “I told Emmeline about Madeline.”

  “And?”

  “She already knew.”

  Emmeline crinkled her nose as the taste and smell of her dinner was invaded by the astringent tang of alcohol and iodine from the man sitting across from her. His hand trembled as he repeatedly dipped into the bowl, causing the spoon to dance and clank against the side of the china with each mouthful. Her lip curled at the sight of him slurping and struggling to keep the liquid in his mouth between noisy spoonfuls.

  When Immanuel finally looked up at the girl sitting opposite him, the breath hitched in his throat. He recognized her. She was the girl from the river, the girl with the owl eyes and the sprig of forget-me-nots in her hair. Emmeline raised an eyebrow at his unnerving stare and glared back at him. Immanuel drew in a deep breath and choked down the thickness in his throat.

  “You saved me?” he asked, his voice clearly audible for once.

  She looked around to see who the creature was speaking to but realized it was her. “I guess.”

  He swallowed hard again. “Thank you, miss.” Why did she not recognize him? It couldn’t have been that long ago that she stared up at him and spit a mouthful of muddy Thames water into his lap. “Did… did they hurt you?”

  “No,” Emmeline responded curtly as she fought the urge to leave the table since she no longer had an appetite, “now, if you will excuse me I—”

  A thin hand clamped down on her shoulder and held her in her seat. “Emmeline,” her aunt reprimanded with a smile, “you have not finished your dinner yet, and it would be rude to leave before our guest is finished.”

  Somewhere within the darkened rooms of the house, two clocks chimed together as they struck two, but the Hawthornes were more awake than they had been all day. Eliza watched the young man sedately sipping his tea with quavering hands and wondered how thin he must be for her husband’s shirt collar to hang from his neck and the sleeves to rumple with uninhabited fabric.

  Immanuel held the cup to his lips, but each time he put it down, it grew heavier as if it was being refilled with lead. When he peered into the teacup, he realized it was empty. His hand trembled as a chill passed through him, sending the ceramic cup to the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered weakly as he looked up at Eliza and James.

  She quickly bustled over to the other side of the table and plucked the unblemished cup from the rug. “No harm done, Immanuel.”

  As she stood at his side to see if he needed anything else, he picked up his spoon and dropped it back into the bowl. His ribs rose and fell rapidly as his eye drooped shut against his will. No matter how hard he tried to keep his eyes open and his head up, he couldn’t fight the fatigue. Eliza pressed her hand to his forehead and felt the excessive heat radiating from his flushed skin. She patted his shoulder and called his name, but he only mumbled under his breath with his eyes shut as his head lolled back.

  “James, he is losing consciousness,” Mrs. Hawthorne cried as she supported his slumping form. “His fever is spiking.”

  The doctor ran to the other side of the table and checked his patient’s eye and pulse. “He wasn’t this hot before. Eliza, open his bedroom door for me and grab my bag from the bathroom.”

  Emmeline watched as her uncle slipped his arms under the young man’s legs and shoulders before hoisting him up to carry him up the stairs. His long, thin limbs dangled lifeless from the doctor’s arms, and from behind, it was as if he was not a person but the pale form of a statue or doll. She listened for a moment as their steps faded away on the third floor and sighed as she looked around the empty room and her empty plate. Leaving her dishes on the table, she ventured into the kitchen, hoping to find a tin of biscuits or at least something interesting enough to pass the time until she could leave. She refused to go upstairs to her bedroom for fear of being asked to help them. Becoming a nursemaid was the last thing she wanted to do.

  ***

  Dr. Hawthorne laid Immanuel across the bed as Eliza rushed in behind him with his Gladstone bag. She piled up the pillows to raise his head and shoulders high enough to ease his labored breathing. His rapid hyperventilating rattled his emaciated body and whistled through his throat with each exhalation. As James ripped open the man’s shirt with buttons flying and listened to his pounding heart with his stethoscope, his wife disappeared into the small bathroom down the hall. The water sloshed out of the basin as Eliza ran back in and slipped the shirt off Immanuel’s back and arms. She dipped towel after towel into the water before laying them all over his body, especially his feet and forehead. To bring his temperature down even further, she threw open the window to let the cool night air naturally sweep away his fever. After half an hour in the cold, his eye opened no more than a crack and roamed over his room and the concerned faces peering down at him. James listened to his heartbeat again, counting them as they rushed past in a frantic tattoo.

  “He is still tachycardic.”

  Eliza pinched the flesh on the back of Immanuel’s hand and watched as it slowly sunk back into place. “It may be from dehydration. If the blood is thicker, it is harder to pump.”

  Dr. Hawthorne nodded as he lifted Immanuel higher onto the pillows until he was sitting upright with the back of his head leaning against the headboard. Using the leftover water, Eliza filled the glass from his bedside table and put it to his lips. Between weak, puffing coughs, he swallowed sips of water. The thoughts that came so easily during dinner seemed to have slipped from the thread and dispersed before he could catch them. Immanuel weakly swatted the cup away as his heart skipped and drummed faster than he ever thought possible. It writhed and squeezed ineffectively until finally it collapsed into convulsions. Dr. Hawthorne watched with wide eyes as the young man clawed at his chest and drew in a constrained breath before falling limply against the pillows. The flame had blown out.

  “Immanuel!” he called as he rubbed the bones of his chest over his heart to wake him but received no response. James placed his ear over his breast and heard only the faint sigh of air escaping his lungs. “Immanuel, please wake up.”

  ***

  Emmeline paused with her arm elbow deep in a tin of stale,
chalky biscuits and listened to the distant cry of her uncle’s voice. Through two floors of wood and plaster, she could barely hear the chaos going on only two doors from her bedroom. Venturing through the parlor and study, the seventeen year old hadn’t found a single novel or magazine amid the shelves of medical texts and encyclopedias. Her mother had led her to her uncle’s house, but why? Couldn’t she have showed her the way to the London Spiritualist Society instead? Someone, anyone, there could have given her a better place to stay than in the house of two doctors and collectors of macabre preserved specimens. The bloated and malformed organs had nearly caused her to lose her dinner.

  Sticking one more crumbly biscuit between her lips, she stowed the tin in the back of the cupboard and carefully climbed down the creaking stool. When her feet reached the floor, she took a bite, wiping her hands on the pigeon grey fabric of Eliza’s dress, which had been pinned at the hem to keep her from stepping on it. Through her crunching, James’s voice rang out indecipherably again. Her lungs seized, but as she fought to cough and spit out the remnants of cracker, only a feeble puff of flour dust escaped. Emmeline was poised to move, yet her hands and legs refused to budge. A bubble formed in her chest, squeezing her heart until her vision became fuzzy and her body sagged under its weight. With each lost breath and beat, the kitchen grew darker. At the edge of her vision, a swath of purple satin swept by, nearly touching her. Her skin tingled as if a draft had penetrated her hair and her dress, and as the wind whipped away, her lungs expanded and her body pitched forward as she caught the teetering stool. All that remained of the baffling sensation was the barely discernable scent of honey and vanilla.

  ***

  The color rapidly seeped from Immanuel’s body as the doctor dug through his bag, searching for the tiny vial that might help to revive him. He sucked the solution of caffeine into a syringe and injected it into the boy’s arm. It might bring his pressure up. It may bring him back. James and Eliza stared down in hopes he would stir, but he remained as still and battered as before. His ashen skin clung to the bones of his face and neck, revealing the armature of his body except where some villain had broken his features and bloated them beyond recognition. His pain was finally gone, but the remnants of brutality were forever etched into his features, never to be healed. Tears crept into James’s eyes against his will. He had failed Immanuel Winter; he had failed the first living patient who truly needed him. As he reached to close the blue eye that peeked out into nothingness, it snapped open, and a loud gasp broke from his lips. The color slowly flowed back into Immanuel’s lips and cheeks with each breath and beat that came at a steady cadence.