“Thank you all for coming,” she said, as if we’d had any choice in the matter. I wondered if she would discuss the superintendent’s departure. The timing was suspect; we’d never been called all together like this before, at least not since I’d come to Goldengrove. But I doubted she intended to share anything about the workings of the asylum with its inmates. No one but me would make the connection between his dismissal and this speech if she left it unmentioned.
Behind the matron loomed Gus. I was nervous to even be in his presence, worried he would make the connection between my two identities if he hadn’t already, but he stared straight ahead with no apparent interest in faces.
The ones of us who could stand quietly did. The good girls of Clio at the center, then us and Thalia, then the shuffling, shivering inmates of Melpomene, then Polyhymnia’s addicts, grumbling but compliant. The louder wards had been kept to the fringes, so even as they twisted and hooted, their screams formed a sort of faint, unpleasant music instead of drowning out all else. From where we stood, we could hear the matron clearly over the crowd.
“Ladies, advances are always being made,” said the matron in a strident, declamatory voice. “Progress goes ever forward. We are on the cutting edge of science here in our treatments, and as new tools and devices become available, we use them. One never knows what will unlock the mysterious minds of our inmates, which treatment could turn out to be a precious and powerful key. We must incorporate new techniques if we are to help as many women as possible.”
I doubted she had helped a single person do a single thing in all her life, except to further her own purposes. I waited, seething.
“Hence, it is my pleasure to share with you the Tranquility Chair,” said the matron, and we watched as she drew the white sheets of the fabric tent aside to unveil a woman sitting in a rough wooden chair, her arms in restraints, with a wooden box obscuring her entire head and face. The effect was horrifying and almost comical, a strange coral creature with a cube for a head sitting atop her perfectly normal shoulders, the wood blank and featureless.
My horror was greater than the others’. I instantly recognized the form of my sister.
“Take a good look,” said the matron. “I want you all to see the future.”
I understood that the matron was sending a message. She had taken custody of Phoebe to punish whoever was trying to disrupt her asylum. She must have known that the superintendent was becoming near useless with drink, and she had decided now was her moment to use that knowledge. Whether Gus had told her about the card game with the imaginary Nurse White, she’d found out that the superintendent was trying to protect Phoebe, and she’d put an end to it. This command performance wasn’t just for the inmates but the nurses, the doctors, the attendants, all of us. She was showing us what she knew, understanding only the implicated would receive the true message. She wanted everyone to know that no patient was beyond her reach, and now, none was.
It was all I could do not to surge forward and throw myself upon the small, awful woman. I had felt twinges and surges of bloodlust since arriving here, of a willingness to do violence I had never suspected slumbering within me. And now I knew that if I had been alone with the matron, I would have happily cannoned my fists into her face until only a bloody pulp remained.
After a long pause for us to observe the chair in all its horror, she addressed the crowd once more. “She is a resident of Euterpe Ward, a woman of violence. But a mere hour in this chair helps calm her violent impulses. Her animal instincts are tamed.”
It was a lie, a dirty lie. Phoebe’d never had a violent impulse in her life. This was theater. I tucked away the nugget the matron’s grandstanding speech had given me: Phoebe had been assigned to Euterpe, and I knew exactly where Euterpe was.
“I want to make it clear to you ladies that the chair is not a punishment,” the matron said, raising a finger for emphasis, her dark eyes sparkling. She looked like she was enjoying herself immensely. “Much like the Utica crib, the Tranquility Chair is intended to save a patient from her own worst impulses, not to punish her for having them. You are imperfect creations, women unable to achieve the female ideal. Our only goal in Goldengrove is to help you heal. To make you whole women again. If God wills it, our methods will cure you. You must have faith. You must cooperate with your healers. If we do this, all will be well. You will be well.”
The good news—a lighthouse on a far-off shore—was that Phoebe was not in distress. Even by her outline, I could tell. I watched her hands carefully, and there was no tension in them. Her shoulders were relaxed, and instead of bracing against the ground with force, her feet merely dangled. From time to time, she crossed her index finger over her middle finger, a habit she’d had forever, a sign she was more bored than fearful. Unbelievably, in the midst of all this, she was calm. Not because of the Tranquility Chair but in spite of it. My heart soared for her, and my desire to take her away from this place surged again.
The situation was not at all what I would wish it, but I was closer to success than I’d been since my arrival. I knew where my sister was, at least for the moment. Gus was releasing her from the chair with deliberate, careful motions as our ward filed past, and as she rose, twisting toward him for support, I caught sight of her newly chalked shoulder. Whatever they thought her name was, she was woman 100. I took the proximity of her number to mine as a much-needed good omen. I feared for her future if the matron decided to enact a harsher punishment, so I would need to act quickly.
There was no way around it. I would have to play the only remaining card in my deck.
It was time to confess.
Chapter Nineteen
I had failed to act while the superintendent was in a position to help us, and opportunity had slipped through my fingers. I was eager not to repeat the mistake. So at the earliest possible moment—after our morning work shift—I made my move. When Nurse Winter came to fetch me from the soapmaking shop, I spoke to her quietly and clearly. “I need to talk to Dr. Concord.”
There was a long moment. I thought it almost inevitable that she would say no, that having the matron in charge precluded it somehow, but at long last, she said, “Well, you’ll have to miss lunch.”
Instantly, I agreed to the deal.
When I entered Dr. Concord’s office, struggling not to rush, I looked him over in detail. The sameness of him was reassuring. He had not aged or changed. Somehow, I expected everything to be different, given the upheaval of the last few days. There was some comfort in knowing it wasn’t.
Without prelude, I said, “How long was I in Darkness?”
“It’s our policy not to say.”
“Policy be damned,” I said with unaccustomed cheek. The idea of getting to say whatever I wanted, finally spilling the truth, was intoxicating.
“Do you mean to be combative, Miss Smith?”
“Is being combative a symptom?”
He sighed. I realized I hadn’t put myself in the best position, but it was too late. I had to forge ahead.
“I have something very important to tell you,” I said.
“Yes. Go ahead.”
“Doctor, I am not insane.”
“Oh?”
There wasn’t even a note of surprise in his voice, and I saw right away he didn’t believe me. I realized he must have heard women make this claim before. Of course, the difference in my case was that I actually wasn’t, but he couldn’t know that. I would have to do better.
“Has Nora already told you about me, then?”
He said, “Mrs. Pixley? Why would she—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do,” I said. “But pretend if you must. I’ve been pretending too.”
“Excuse me?”
“Pretending to be a madwoman. With intent.”
Now I had his attention. His brow creased. Checking his notes, he said, “You. . .leapt into the Bay, and when you were questioned afterward, you were incoherent and hysterical, seemingly mute.”
His air of melancholy had disappeared, for the first time since I’d met him. Any trace of kindness had gone with it. So Nora had not told him, at least not that part of the story.
“Is that not your file? Woman 99?” he challenged me.
I could have sworn I felt the number on my back, freshly chalked that morning, burning through the fabric to my skin. “It is, but. . .as I said, I was pretending.”
“You told me you were distraught. You told me you’d jumped for love. You lied.”
“It was for love,” I said, but it sounded like a meager excuse even to my own ears, barely a squeak of protest. I was not in the right, and I knew it.
“So what do you expect with this great revelation? A free pass to walk out the front door? Is that how you think this works?”
Regret crashed over me like a wave. In my haste not to make the same mistake twice, I had merely made a different one. He had power, yes, but he could use it against me more easily than for me. I was an indigent patient. If he chose to, he could send me to a public asylum. There, they still practiced treatment through permanent disfigurement, all the horror stories I’d heard from chronic inmates: teeth pulled, feminine parts excised, holes bored in skulls to let the demons out. I was desperate to take back what I’d said, although it had been the honest truth. How could it be wrong?
I said, “I’m here for my sister. I should have told you from the beginning. But didn’t you ever have someone you loved so much, you’d do anything for them?”
The anger on his face changed. Now he was angry with me for making him think of his wife. I’d made it personal.
“My sister is the best person I’ve ever met,” I said, desperate to make him understand. “Smart. Genuine. Selfless. And she shouldn’t be here.”
His shoulders relaxed a little, though he kept his arms folded, and his face still registered disapproval.
“Did she come in indigent, like you?”
“No, paid. Our parents sent her here as a punishment for”—here I paused, then forced myself to speak the words aloud—“for something she did for me.”
His eyes softened a little more, but his mouth took on a sarcastic twist. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me that she’s not insane either?”
“She has spells,” I admitted. If I was going to tell the truth, I should tell it all. “But she has lived at home all her life. She could again.”
“Go on with your tale.”
He didn’t interrupt again as I told him the rest, how I’d gotten here, about Matilda’s dress and the wharf and following Miss Nellie Bly. I expected shock and other emotions to register on his face, but nothing did. The only difference I saw was that his eyes appeared clouded, when before they had always seemed clear. But that might just have been a trick of the light.
He was silent until I had finished. When he finally spoke, his words were less than encouraging.
“I’m sorry for you, Miss Smith,” he said, and I believed him. He looked a little ashamed, a little tentative, in a way he hadn’t before. “Truly. Your cause is noble. But I can’t help you to my own detriment. I doubt you’d find anyone who would.”
“I can look,” I said, chin up.
“Please don’t. Honestly, Miss Smith. I’m speaking as a friend now. There are people here with much stronger ties to the Sidwells than I. They might try to stop you. Do you understand what I mean?” He shot me a dark look.
“Yes,” I had to admit.
“I don’t want you in any more danger.”
“But you won’t help me,” I said flatly.
Just as flatly, he said, “No.”
“So what do you think I should do?”
“Make the best of the situation,” he said.
I had a hard time imagining what the best could be if I remained within the walls of Goldengrove, but I also knew our conversation had reached its natural end. He was a man of authority with empathy, and he knew the truth. If he wouldn’t help me, he was right: it was unlikely anyone here would.
I stood to go. “Thank you, Dr. Concord.”
“Good day, Miss Smith. Stay quiet. Watch for opportunities. That’s the best I can hope for you.”
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
I snuck back to the ward just as the other women were returning from the midday meal. My stomach ached, empty. My mind spun in circles. I’d found my sister, and I’d thought that was all it would take, but I’d been wrong. Getting her home seemed like an even more unreachable goal now, if not flat-out impossible. I’d always thought that the most desperate, most final thing I could do was tell the authorities here that I was sane. Now, I had played that card, and my hands were empty.
Concord had both denied and invigorated me. Taken at face value, the conversation could have destroyed me. He was right that I couldn’t trust anyone, not even him, and I should have realized that claiming my own sanity was not sufficient in a place like this.
But Concord had also given me a gift without meaning to. He’d told me to look out for opportunities. And I realized, sometime in the dark, thick cloud of the night, that the opportunity I needed was already lying in wait for me. I only hoped it wasn’t too late to pursue it.
That night, after the thud of the bolt locking us into Terpsichore Ward sounded, I rose and stole silently to Martha’s bed. She opened her eyes and started at my nearness, opening her mouth to speak, but when I lay a finger to my lips, she quieted instantly. Her eyes gleamed in the darkness like a cat’s, watchful, waiting.
I said, “Let’s talk more about your revolution.”
Chapter Twenty
After Martha and I spoke, I lay on my cot with my thoughts sprawling and swirling. I couldn’t depend entirely on revolution getting any results, and I needed to continue to pursue my own path as well. And that meant getting a message out.
But to whom?
I toyed with the idea of getting word to my parents, but I feared they would not rescue me. They had an interest in keeping me here, if it suited their purposes. Having found one daughter expendable, I could not guarantee they wouldn’t come to the same conclusion on the other. It seemed unlikely—having lost so many to chance and tragedy, how could they jettison either of us, given the choice?—but that was what they’d done with Phoebe. They had done the calculus and settled the accounts, and she had too many debits on the wrong side of the ledger. So she was sent here, consigned, exiled.
As for the Sidwells, a message to George would be useless. Even if I’d been present for the quarterly investors’ visit, what would have happened if I’d stepped toward him, a familiar face he’d never, ever expect to see? He probably would have pretended not to know me. I could easily imagine a sneer of distaste on his distinguished face. He had his own interests, his own hide to look out for, and would hardly be considerate of mine. Once I left this place—I could not allow myself to think that I wouldn’t leave this place—would he still want to marry me? I supposed it depended on how much of my sojourn became known. If I snuck back somehow, and my parents never let on that I’d been anywhere but Newport, there’d be no disruption to the plan.
Of course, I wanted the plan disrupted more than anything. Still, all the things that would release me from an obligation to George would ruin any hope for a match with Henry, and when I thought of his callused hands and his soft beard and his warm brown eyes, that hope sprang to life again in my heart.
Henry. Now that I’d let myself consider him, he was the obvious choice. He was the one I needed to reach. He’d had some amount of love for me, I was absolutely sure of it. Whether his love would overcome his duty, I had no idea, but it was my best hope.
I only needed to decide who could carry my message. The problem was that I had no idea at all who it would be. My fatigue finally overcame my anxiety, and I slept a few fitful hours until morning, or at least until we were roused for the hike, which I undertook with dragging, near-useless feet.
When we returned to the ward, we all immediately noticed what w
as different. It took just a heartbeat.
A bottle-green dress lay fanned across Jubilee’s bed, the brightest color I’d seen in what seemed like weeks, along with fine unmentionables, clearly not asylum-issued. We heard her gasp. She rushed forward, throwing off her coral dress almost before she’d stopped running, and pulled on the stays, then the dress over top. Her haste reminded me of a child gobbling a sweet, afraid it might be taken away as suddenly as it appeared. We gathered around to look at her, unsure of whether we should but unable to do anything else.
Immediately, she seemed more alive somehow. It was amazing what difference the dress made. Or was it the dress? Was it something else?
Nettie hunched at Jubilee’s feet and ran her fingers over the hem of the dress, tugging to see if she could make it reach the floor, giggling when she failed, then moving on to the next section of fabric. Jubilee smiled at us over her head, seemingly unbothered.
“You look lovely,” I said, reaching out to stroke the fabric of her sleeve. As I suspected, it was soft under my fingers. It seemed like ages since I’d felt fabric that wasn’t so threadbare and worn that it was in danger of falling apart. She grinned at me like the cat that ate the canary.
“It’s my own dress,” she said, “my very own, which I haven’t seen since the mutton shunters picked me off the wharf and brought me in. And you know what that means?”
“Means I may have to slap you for sass?” volunteered Bess, but we ignored her.
“Well, it isn’t to be known for sure, but it’s one of two things. Either someone’s coming to visit, which would be a blessing, except I haven’t any family, so who would visit, right?”
Hazel elbowed in, eyes wide. “What else would it be?”
“Release,” said Jubilee, her face flooding with joy as she let the word escape her lips.
“Would they? Is it your time, do you know?”
“No one knows their time,” said Jubilee, smoothing her skirt over and over. “But didn’t I tell you? Working girls don’t stay forever.”
Woman 99 Page 21
