“Hello,” I said.
Damaris gave me a shy smile. In the near dark, I could see a shading on her neck that looked like some kind of birthmark but couldn’t make out its exact shape. While Damaris looked friendly, Mouse, a small girl of a decidedly gray-brown color that matched her name, just stared.
“What’re you in for?” asked Nora.
I hesitated long enough for Damaris to step in and say, “You know, you don’t have to say if you don’t want to. Nora likes to ask questions.”
Nora replied, “You know a better way to find things out?”
Damaris shrugged. “She just might not be comfortable is all.”
I said, “It’s a hard place to be comfortable in.”
“You didn’t come straight in, though,” said Nora. “Where’d they put you first?”
“Thalia.”
“But you talk,” Damaris said.
“I didn’t when I came.”
“And you didn’t drink the night medicine?”
“You know about that?”
“Everyone does,” said Nora. “I mean, most everyone. They don’t bother giving it on this ward anymore since we all stopped drinking it. When was that, Mouse?”
“Six months maybe,” said the girl in a whisper.
I said, “If everyone knows what it is, why do they still take it?”
Grimly, Nora said, “Some of them would rather be in a stupor. And some don’t know the difference. This place is full of crazy women, you know.”
“But not you all,” I said.
“Oh, I am. I have a demon,” Damaris said in a surprisingly cheerful voice.
I was about to ask her to explain when we were interrupted.
“Shut up, all you lot,” growled a voice from my right. “Trying to sleep here.”
Sharply but without raising her voice, Nora said, “Ah, Bess, you wet blanket. We’ll pipe down when we’re good and ready.”
Bess replied, “If’n you don’t want me to call Salt in here, you’re ready now.”
Nora smiled in the half dark. “And so we are. G’night. . .what did you say your name was?”
“Charlotte.”
“G’night, Charlotte. See you in the morning. Early, early in the morning.”
“How early?”
“You’ll see.” And each woman stole away on light feet, so quietly, I couldn’t hear them over the breathing around us, and in less than a minute, everybody in the room lay in a long dashed parallel line, all under our sheets, like the obedient inmates that we might or might not be.
* * *
Morning did come far earlier than I expected. So early, in fact, it wasn’t morning. We were roused from our beds in full darkness, staying in the ward only long enough to dress and have our numbers chalked on. When we headed outside, the stars and moon were still high above us, with no sign of the sun.
Our nurses each swung a lamp, as did Salt, and we were joined by a second male attendant. I was happy to see it was neither Gus, the fearsome giant who did the matron’s bidding, nor Alfie, the growling, scarred man who had guarded the door of Thalia Ward. Instead, it was a slender man with wire-rimmed glasses, who looked more like a scholar than a guard. Still, I wasn’t tempted to cross him. Mouse whispered to me that his name was Perry, which seemed as good as any.
A small part of me rejoiced that we were leaving the confines of our ward. I already knew Phoebe was not assigned to Terpsichore, so if I were to find her, every new inch of the grounds I could see would benefit me. I resolved to learn all I could by observing. The only way out was through.
As we stepped onto the wide front lawn, the nurses stretched out a long rope. The two dozen women of my ward put their hands on it automatically, quickly. I found out why in just a moment. Whether because I was new or because I’d failed to move quickly enough, the smaller nurse stepped in and looped scratchy twine around my wrist, tying me to the rope. The fact that I didn’t fight it, that my eyes went back immediately to my surroundings without outrage, worried me. Perhaps the place had already defeated me. But I shook my head to clear it and told myself I couldn’t afford to fight every little thing. I needed to keep every arrow in my quiver for what mattered most.
We were led up to the six-foot fence that bordered the grounds. Winter produced an enormous iron key, as long and wide as a finger, like something from a medieval keep. She inserted it into a post that looked like any other, and with a creak, a three-foot hidden gate swung open. We filed through, then paused while she locked it again behind us. Clearly, this was what every woman on the rope was used to; they moved as one, paused as one, moved as one again.
Though the September air was thin and cool, I gulped it in gladly. It was the first time I had been outside since entering Goldengrove. Though it had only been a few days—four, I thought, maybe five? Or only three?—I felt like I hadn’t seen the sky in weeks.
When we followed the rope toward a rocky, steep path and began to hike directly up it, I forgot the temperature quickly enough. The other women seemed accustomed to the brisk pace. I stumbled and panted, trying to catch my breath. I feared that if I fell, the rest of the ward would keep right on going, dragging me over rocks and roots. So I forced myself forward through the darkness. I was so intent on setting my feet one in front of the other on the steep, narrow path, I didn’t realize we’d reached the hilltop until we were on it. The vista spread out below us took what was left of my breath away.
The sunrise was the most beautiful I’d ever seen, a perfect panorama of rose and gold spreading across the wide horizon. Phoebe would have wept for joy at the pure spectacle of the colors on display. I imagined her sitting there on a stool, perching lightly like the birds she so admired, ready to flit away for any reason or none. I saw her with an easel before her, reaching out her paintbrush to lay the first confident stroke against the white of the canvas. But I could only see the shape of her shoulders and the back of her head. I didn’t see her face.
As the sun climbed, its rays touched each woman among us with a gentle golden glow. Even Nurses Piper and Winter looked at peace, their arms at their sides, if only for a moment. I gradually regained my air, and my heartbeat slowed to a less fretful pace. My throat burned, but there was something to relish in the burn, a feeling of having earned my rest. Unsure how long the rest would be, I resolved to savor it.
Silently, we all stood and watched the sunlight spread until the tint of orange was gone and the sun no longer touched the horizon, shining proudly against the pale-blue sky. I could see rolling hills spread out all around us for miles, some made orderly with vineyards and orchards, others untouched, dotted with natural scrub. The only buildings were sheds and barns at the edges of farmland: no houses, no cities. I thought of the Bay and missed the salt-scrubbed breeze. On any hill this high in San Francisco, I would have seen water. Here, there was only land as far as the eye could see, all green and brown. Lovely enough, but in no way home.
“All right then,” shouted the larger nurse, Winter. “Back to it.”
Everyone on the rope turned in place and set her other hand to grip the rope, reversing the order in which they walked. Every woman now followed the neighbor she had led on the way up. I had a tougher time of it, being tied on. But before I could object, we were in motion again, so I twisted my wrist within the twine until I was at least facing in the right direction, then ducked under the rope to come up on the other side.
Once there, I found that the woman walking in front of me was Nora. Although she was taller than I, the hill was steep enough that I could see the crown of her head and the white line of her scalp where she parted her dark hair before tying it back. The number on her back was 10.
I spoke quietly. “Are we allowed to talk?”
She let a few steps pass before she spoke, then said, “They’ll usually let us, if we’re quiet enough. Most choose not to. Save our air. You never hiked much before?”
“No,” I admitted.
“You’ll get used to it.”
I wondered what or who had sent Nora to the madhouse. Our hushed conversation in the ward hadn’t progressed that far. She didn’t seem in the least mad. She seemed like any well-mannered woman I might meet back home, perhaps in Fellowship Hall after church or at a reception for alumnae of Miss Buckingham’s. I hated to comment on another woman’s appearance—Mother had taught me it was impolite—but she was not terribly attractive, compared to women I knew. She certainly wasn’t as pretty as Phoebe. She had a pert little nose, perfectly in fashion, but her eyes were almost too large, her lips vulgar, and I could see her ears sticking out where her hair didn’t cover them completely.
What she had was a spark, an energy, that set her apart. It was a relief to see that someone could maintain such a spirit within these walls. It rekindled a small hope within me: that when I found Phoebe, I might find her well.
As we walked, I tried another question. “How long, for you?”
“Coming up on a year.”
I had seen no calendars, no clocks, within the asylum’s walls. “How do you know?”
“Every sunrise, I mark it.”
“Where?”
With the free hand not on the rope, without looking back at me, she lifted up her skirt. Unfortunately, I had already seen many women here do the same, without ceremony, another reminder that what was downright appalling in San Francisco society did not even raise an eyebrow at Goldengrove.
Nora was relatively modest, holding aside the fabric of her skirt just up to the knee. On the exposed limb, I could see the marks, running from her ankle up over her calf and beyond. Each was just a short, straight scratch. Some were angry, red, and recent; others faded into mere ghosts of scratches. Obviously deliberate. It was energizing and horrifying. She must have realized it, because she dropped the fabric in her hand, and the cuts were covered again.
“If you need something easier,” she said, “watch the grape vines. Watch them go from bare to budding to fruiting past harvest and death, then start over again. That’s how some of the women keep track.”
Not much less horrified by that option, I said, “I won’t be here that long.”
“Race you for the door. I’ll be out any day now.”
I was beyond curious. “When?”
She shrugged. “Soon. I don’t know what day it’s coming, so I don’t spend any time thinking about it.”
“If that were true,” I said, “you wouldn’t have those marks on your limbs, would you?”
She tossed her head, but I could see I’d hit home.
We remained silent the rest of the walk. The 10 on Nora’s back bobbed in front of me all the way down. Despite my aching legs and lungs, I tried to savor the feeling of being outside, of the warm, shining sun, of knowing at least I wasn’t stuck on a bench alone with my thoughts for hours on end. The sheen of perspiration on my skin felt earned and honest. Of all the treatments at Goldengrove I’d experienced, this morning hike was the first I felt might actually help cure women in pain. Perhaps there was something to it.
And as we neared Goldengrove, I had more reason to be glad. As we descended toward our temporary home in full day, I could now see the entirety of the building and the country around it. I could learn how it was situated. From this angle, we could see for what felt like miles in every direction. I did my best to map the territory in my head, marking the position of the sun so I knew east from west and north from south, to fix myself as a dot on the map, still if I was still, moving when I moved.
I had seen the vistas around Goldengrove in small wedges and slices, rendered in watercolors on one page or another of the Sidwells’ brochures. Now, I saw how they all fit together. We were descending the hillside to the north of Goldengrove, and the uneven slope around us was covered with green and brown scrub. I noticed instantly that our coral dresses stood out like glowing beacons against the drab background. That could hardly be an accident.
Similarly, off to the west and south, it was as if the land conspired to keep us. There were broad stripes of green both inside and outside the fence, including a modest, orderly vegetable garden within the fenced-in boundary. In the southern distance lay a vineyard, its grapes crawling up high trellises in endless, identical rows. These would offer no protection until an inmate had already run the gauntlet of the harsher light. Toward the west was a low, wide lavender field. When the wind shifted, I smelled the powerful scent of it, coming over us like a wave.
In the east, I saw orchards of olive trees and apricots, for which Goldengrove was named. Their trunks were twisted and gnarled, their leafy branches reaching for the sky. Like the grapevines, these might be enough to screen a person from view temporarily, but they were far off. Beyond the fence, the asylum was ringed by seductive emptiness. If you could scale the fence—not an easy task—you could run. I imagined some girls had. But how far could you get before someone larger and faster ran after you?
We paused again so Winter could open the gate for us to pass. As we stepped through the open gate onto the edge of the broad, flat lawn, my eye was caught by movement. The lawn itself was green and long, quite wide, like a field. And it was dotted with coral dresses, a series of lines just like ours multiplying against the green—dozens of other women, from other wards, coming from the direction of Goldengrove for what looked like morning exercise. Their backs, like ours, were marked with large white chalk numbers, but there seemed to be no pattern to the numbers, no design.
I strained at the rope, pulling forward, eager to get a better look. Of the nine wards, I only knew the inhabitants of two, which left seven more to search. Were they all here in front of me? There were so many faces, and I didn’t know how long I’d have. Here were at least one hundred other women, divided into groups around the same size as ours. But how many groups? The constant motion in every direction made it all but impossible to count. I swept each group with my eyes quickly, hunting for Phoebe’s familiar form, but I didn’t see her. I started again, west to east, more deliberately, searching out and trying to linger on every individual face.
It was hard to say which was worse: the shouting women or the silent ones.
The shouting women were all tied together with a long chain. Only a few seemed to be shouting at each other. Some were simply screaming, endless shrieks of seemingly unstoppable emotion. One bellowed “Police!” in a panicked, trembling voice, and then again half a minute later, “Police!” They writhed and wrenched like a single giant creature, its arms and legs heaving and flopping without intent.
The silent ones were just as alarming in their own way. They too were tied, but there the similarity ended. They shuffled, heads down, almost as if they were a single mind operating in two dozen bodies. Shuffle forward with the right foot, shuffle forward with the left foot, over and over. Even their dresses began to look like the fur or feathers of a strange creature, minor variations of plumage, their hair like a pattern of calico spots. I was even more alarmed when I recognized the short-cut blond hair of the doll-faced woman and then the burned woman, Celia, next to her, and I realized it was my former wardmates of Thalia who shuffled. With only a slight change, I might still have been among them. I would have to think of a way to help Celia, though I couldn’t imagine how I would do so.
As we crossed the lawn, we drew closer to a third rope, which was most like ours, neither silent nor screaming. I hoped against hope to see Phoebe there, but my wish was not granted.
I began to worry what would happen if I never found her. I had told myself the story of this search in half a dozen ways since breaking free from Thalia, and all of them had ended in some form of success. In some, I found her right away, and we marched out the front door of Goldengrove hand in hand, her voice whispering, Thank you, sister, and mine replying, I owed you this much. In other versions, I ran through a warren of rooms, opening door after door while pursued by a shadow, until finally I flung open a door with her behind it, and she threw herself into my arms with a merry shout. I found her sitting among the inmates o
n the benches, standing atop the hill at the end of a hike, tucked away in a basement room, squinting into the light as I discovered her in a darkened ward, glassy-eyed but weakly smiling at the sight of me. But in none of my fantasies had I been unable to find Phoebe at all. For now, I refused to let my imagination wander down that path.
My situation was far from ideal, but unlike Phoebe, I was not here by law. If I spoke up, if I confessed the whole truth, I’d be sent back to my parents quick as a wink. But once I did so, I could never come back. I had my own reasons for not wanting to return home—the looming day scheduled for my wedding first among them, a day I couldn’t help but dread—and I still believed the only way I could help my sister was from inside these walls. I couldn’t abandon her.
With no warning, the rope yanked me forward, nearly off my feet, and the women around me stumbled as well. I heard Nora mutter an oath under her breath. The pressure did not let up; our nurses and attendants were pulling us sideways. I saw the reason in a moment. The nearest gang to us was headed in our direction, pulled by a howling inmate, and we would collide if nothing were done.
The woman disrupting the approaching gang had a broad, flat face, with a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. She reminded me of one of my father’s employees, a man who’d gotten in so many fights, he’d taken his fists professional. Even this woman’s hair looked angry. It was a fiery red, in messy corkscrews, giving her the air of a modern Medusa.
The redhead heaved her body to the right again, bringing down the women ahead of and behind her. She shouted, “You have no right!” and the sounds spiraled and echoed around us as some of the other women picked up, “No right, no right,” while others yelled for her to get back in line. Their shouts went unheeded.
The big redhead was working to free herself from the rope, while the woman nearest her fluttered her hands madly, trying to get away but tied too close. The smaller woman shrieked, and the big woman slapped her, just once, with a resounding crack we heard even over the rest of the rope gang’s din.
Woman 99 Page 6
