by Ilana Waters
Rose sucked in her breath. “Solitary. That’s bad.”
“How bad?” I asked.
“Really bad,” Laura said. “Have you seen the Hold? That’s where they put you for solitary confinement. I’ve never been there myself, but I heard about it from other girls. It’s a tiny, windowless room with padded walls. No light at all. They chain you up and leave you there, and come in only once a day to feed you. If they remember to feed you.”
“What if you have to use the toilet? Or bathe?” I asked.
“Then you’re on your own,” Rose answered.
I felt bile rise in my throat. “That’s revolting! It’s a miracle girls don’t die of infections.”
“Some do,” Rose said quietly.
I was stunned, though perhaps I shouldn’t have been. I knew the first thing despots often did to break a person’s mind was to isolate them. I just didn’t know how often it ended in the victim’s death. But the conversation in the hallway wasn’t over.
“Perhaps she’s a good candidate for a more rigorous treatment, Doctor.” For the first time, I recognized one of the voices.
“Quite right, Nurse Cutter, quite right. We’ll have to look into that if the present treatment is ineffective. And it would certainly help us find out if she was . . . the one.”
“The one,” Cutter repeated. “The girl you’re lookin’ for.”
“Precisely. I don’t think she is.” Dr. Catron sniffed, and the girl gave a little sob. “Though one never knows. Not until one performs the ultimate treatment, that is. But for now, just put her in the Hold. I think a month should do it.”
“No, please!” the girl begged. “Not for a whole month. Please!”
“Do you really think that’s wise, Doctor?” Cutter asked. “After all,” she lowered her voice, “ain’t that when the Event is supposed to ’appen?”
“Not so loud, Cutter!” Catron snapped. “There’s no need to discuss asylum business in public. I’m sure there’s plenty of time before the Event to find who we’re looking for.”
“What’s the Event?” I asked the girls. Laura shrugged and shook her head, but Rose knew something.
“I overheard Nurse Cutter talking to an orderly the other day,” she whispered. “Even though he’s supposed to be an educated man, Dr. Catron is very superstitious. He regularly employs a fortune-teller, who lately predicted that an inauspicious event will happen at the asylum in about a month. He says it is ‘written in the stars.’ ”
“What does ‘inauspicious’ mean?” Laura asked fearfully.
“Ah, it means bad, I’m afraid,” I replied. “Really bad.”
“Don’t fret about it, Laury-kins.” Rose put her arm around her roommate’s shoulder. “You can never trust what fortune-tellers say, anyway.”
“Who’s this person they’re looking for, then?” I asked. But neither Rose nor Laura knew anything about it.
“I only hope it isn’t me,” was all Laura would say.
We listened at the door for a few more minutes, but all we heard was the girl sobbing, and Catron and Cutter talking about ordering supplies. Eventually, their voices faded away, and we went back to sitting on the beds. We were silent for a while until Laura finally said:
“I don’t think I want to tell ghost stories anymore.”
#
I hadn’t lied when I told Rose and Laura about arriving late at Silver Hill the previous night. Everyone but Nurse Cutter and I had been asleep, so there’d been no time to introduce me to the other staff. Which was why, shortly after my attempt at a “ghost story,” I was brought to meet the head physician at the asylum. The only physician at the asylum, as a matter of fact: Dr. Catron DeKay. Following a lunch that bore a remarkable resemblance to the intolerable breakfast, Cutter escorted me to Dr. DeKay’s office.
“Sit,” she instructed, pointing to a hard oak bench.
Sit? Just like that? What am I, a dog? I sat.
“Doctor’ll be with you shortly,” she sniffed. “’E’s in with someone else at the moment. Behave, now.” And she walked away without another word.
Behave. As if I were going to run amuck in the hallway for no reason. I folded my hands in my lap and examined the dark, wooden wainscoting on the opposite wall. At the time, I wondered why no one stayed with this “lunatic” if they felt she was at such risk for misbehaving. I would later learn that Silver Hill was notoriously understaffed. But the door to the office was open a crack, and it gave me an opportunity to listen to the conversation taking place inside.
“It’s like I was telling you, Dr. DeKay,” said a man. He sounded very aggravated, though his tone with the doctor was respectful. “Geraldine here has become completely unmanageable.” There were some crying and sniffling sounds from a girl who couldn’t have been more than twelve.
“Please, Mr. Wexler, call me Dr. Catron. Everyone does.”
“Thank you, Dr. Catron. As I was saying, Geraldine is unmanageable. She cries and mopes all the time if she doesn’t get what she wants.”
“That’s not true!” Geraldine protested through wet sobs. “All I want is to be an artist. And I only cried when you threw out all my brushes and paints and tore up the canvases I’d finished.”
“You see?” Mr. Wexler said. “This is the kind of behavior my whole family has to put up with. She makes life miserable for the rest of us who are content to lead normal lives.”
“You mean boring lives,” Geraldine said. I’d never met this girl, but I liked her already. There was a determination, a fierceness in her voice despite her obvious distress. “I don’t want to be like you and Ma. You can both draw and paint, but you scrape by, painting other people’s houses. You never try to paint anything of your own. And I know you hate your jobs, because you come home unhappy every night.”
“That’s quite enough out of you, young lady!” Mr. Wexler raised his voice. From the sound of chair springs, it seemed he had stood up as well. “Painting for fun was all well and good when I was a kid, but I grew up. This is real life, not a fairy tale. You need to be able to make your way in this world. Soon, you’ll be old enough to graduate, and you’ll have to get a job. What are you going to do then? Live on air? Give a painting to your landlord in exchange for a month’s rent? Surely you must see how insane all that sounds. I don’t know; what do you think, Dr. Catron? Is there any hope for her?”
“Oh dear, dear, dear.” Catron spoke slowly, his voice low. “I can see we have a very difficult case on our hands. Chronic depression bordering on psychosis. No doubt brought on by an inflammation of the female brain. It tends to aggravate the more emotional, irrational faculties. But don’t worry, Mr. Wexler. We specialize in treating the most willful, disobedient, and unmanageable girls in the entire kingdom.”
Emotional is irrational? Catron spoke as if emotions did not have logic behind them. As if sympathy, compassion, and love were not designed to bind the species together and help it survive. Were they really going to lock up Geraldine because she wanted to use her gifts instead of deny them? Because she wanted to try? Being forced to live a tedious, unsatisfying life would make anyone depressed. Her reaction seemed perfectly rational to me.
“Well, Hartlandia certainly owes you a great debt of gratitude, Dr. Catron. Heaven only knows what life would be like if every daughter acted like Geraldine.” Mr. Wexler snorted and Geraldine hiccuped, her bitter tears returning.
“It’s no trouble at all, sir,” Catron replied smoothly. “The disturbances of the female psyche have always been a specialty of mine.”
“Well, as we agreed, I’ll leave her in your care, and you can bill me at home.” Geraldine’s father sounded very relieved. “I do appreciate all you’re doing. The country needs more good doctors like you.”
“Indeed, Mr. Wexler. Indeed,” said Catron. “I assure you, we’ll do our very best to take care of your problem. I’m confident we can work with your daughter until she takes a more practical view of life. Believe me, when
you see Geraldine again, you won’t even recognize her.”
“That’s all I ask. Good day to you, Dr. Catron.” Then Mr. Wexler’s voice darkened. “Geraldine.”
“Good day as well, Mr. Wexler.” Catron’s voice was pleasant and cheerful.
A stout, tired-looking man walked out of the office, putting on his hat as he left. I peeked around the corner and saw a girl on a chair in front of Catron’s mahogany desk. I’d guessed correctly; she looked only about twelve, and terrified. But she sat rigidly, staring straight ahead. Doubtless it was an attempt to be brave. I saw the man who must have been Catron lean over his desk towards a collection of speakers and wires. He pressed a button and began giving directions into one of the speakers.
“Nurse Cutter? Would you mind sending an orderly up here for our new patient, Ms. Wexler? I believe we’ll start with the standard treatment. Be sure to have the syringes ready.” I heard Geraldine give a little squeal.
Standard treatment? I swallowed hard. Is that what they’ll start me on as well?
I didn’t have time to wonder long, because an orderly appeared almost immediately with a wheelchair—leather straps on the armrests—to take Geraldine. I quickly turned away from the door and folded my hands in my lap. It wouldn’t do to have them catch me spying.
“Now, Geraldine,” Catron said as I heard the orderly bind her to the chair, “everything will be just fine. A key part of treatment is to submit to the will of the physician. To surrender all your thoughts and feelings to my control. But I need you to trust me. Do you think you can do that?” Geraldine made no reply, but did give a little grunt as the orderly tightened the straps. Probably too tightly.
“You don’t have to answer right now,” Catron continued. “But it’s something to think about as we begin the first phase.” His next words were to the orderly. “Take her to Cutter. She’ll know what to do.”
I didn’t dare look at Geraldine as she was wheeled out of the office. Although in retrospect, perhaps I should have. Even a momentary glance into her eyes might have given her strength, let her know she wasn’t alone.
“Seluna, isn’t it?” My heart gave a jump as Dr. Catron called my name, and his head appeared from around the door frame. “Won’t you come inside?”
I stood up, brushed off my skirts, and vowed not to let my apprehension show as I walked into the office. I wasn’t sure if handshaking was acceptable for women at Silver Hill. Still, I didn’t want to risk giving offense, so I stuck out my palm. “Dr.—”
“Catron. Please.” Ignoring my hand, he indicated I should take the seat opposite the desk where I was guessing Geraldine had been.
“Dr. Catron, then.” I sat down. He did the same, leaning back in his chair, never taking his eyes off me. I kept to the edge of the seat, my back ramrod straight.
He was a slim man in his mid-fifties, with silver hair not unlike the color of my eyes. It was kept carefully in place with pomade, which only increased the shine. Everything about him spoke of elegant refinement. The cut of his suit, his manicured nails, the crisp lab coat . . . right down to the flawless silk handkerchief in his pocket. His voice was soft, his movements graceful.
With a quick glance around the office, I saw a cozy fire burning in the grate. It seemed this was the only room in the asylum where one wasn’t allowed to freeze to death. There was a chaise lounge covered in red velvet, as well as a comfortable armchair where Catron sat. Across from his desk were two other chairs, including the one I was in. These were decidedly less comfortable.
The walls were lined with bookshelves holding medical texts. Framed certificates showed Catron’s degrees from all over Hartlandia. The University of Dryden in the Northernlands, Windley medical school in the Easternlands . . . there was even a certificate for first place in a rifle competition at Dartport.
Certainly gets around, doesn’t he? I thought to myself.
“Satisfied with my credentials?” There was a hint of amusement in Catron’s voice.
“Sorry? Oh, yes.” I worked to keep my own voice steady. “It’s just that . . .” I tried to think of another reason a person might glance around an office. “I noticed there aren’t any windows in here.”
“Right you are.” Catron smiled. “Can’t have patients looking out the windows too much. They might see something that upsets them, or makes them overexcited.”
What would that be? I wondered. The sky? Air? We sat in silence for a few moments. I couldn’t help but think Catron was expecting me to do something.
“Not overly chatty, are we?”
Talk? He expects me to talk? He didn’t expect that from Geraldine. Maybe because her father was with her.
“I was taught only to speak if I felt the need,” I said hesitantly. “And only things worth saying, naturally.” To those worth saying them to, I felt like adding.
“Naturally.” Catron leaned forward and looked at a pile of papers in a folder on his desk. He said my name again. “Se-lu-na.” But this time, it was as he’d known me for years. As if I were returning to him from some long journey.
“Quite an interesting case, aren’t you?” He flipped through the papers, which I assumed were my records. “Seems there’s a history of, shall we say, odd behavior in your family?”
“You might say that.”
“Now, Seluna, I know this can’t be easy for you, but do try to cooperate.” I blinked a few times. Cooperate? I haven’t done anything uncooperative yet.
“Sorry?”
“It’s a pity your family couldn’t be here to see you admitted personally, so I know you must be disappointed. I understand you were dropped off at the train station, and then accompanied on the rail by Nurse Cutter.”
“That’s right.” I’m not disappointed. And it’s not a pity they couldn’t be here to admit me. It’s a travesty they had me admitted at all! A travesty . . . and a mystery.
I had considered running away after my family brought me to the station and put me in the care of Nurse Cutter. But one look at Cutter, and I knew she was the kind of person who’d hunt me to the ends of the earth. Also, at that point, I was more bewildered than anything else. As I sat on the train, I couldn’t fathom why my parents felt the need to send me to Silver Hill. Of course, I had no idea what this hospital was really like. If I had, maybe I would’ve taken my chances and tried to lose Cutter at the station. But if I didn’t know about conditions at the asylum, maybe there was a chance my family hadn’t, either.
“I’m only sorry you arrived so late that I could not see you.” Catron closed the folder and looked at me again. “You must have been very tired.”
“Ah, yes. Yes, I was.” I didn’t want to tell him how much more alive I became at night. It was as if I could feel myself getting stronger, my senses sharper, after the sun set. Even my vision was better, and I could get through the day with less sleep than others. But when the sun was up, as it was now, I felt drowsy. Almost like I was walking around in a fog compared to my nighttime awareness.
“Well, I’m glad you’ve had a chance to rest since then. It will make it much easier to begin our program.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Program?”
Catron leaned over the intercom again and pressed a button.
“Nurse Cutter? I think we’re ready to start with that other new admission.” He looked at me and smiled.
“The standard treatment.”
Chapter 3
I awoke from the dream of my first day at Silver Hill to a loud banging on my door.
“Rise and shine!” shouted Nurse Cutter. “Breakfast in ten minutes.”
I groaned and sat up. Breakfast in ten minutes, stomachache in thirty. Damn the ungodly food here.
But the cuisine wasn’t the worst thing about Silver Hill. I remembered all too well waking up from my first “treatment” with Dr. Catron.
It took a while for my vision to clear, and for the grogginess to dissipate so I could understand where I was. I lay in a bed o
n wheels at the recovery station—a high-ceilinged room with windows (barred, of course) reaching to the top. My mouth was so dry, it felt like it was full of cotton. I had a pounding headache accompanied by waves of nausea, and my forearm was sore and bruised where they’d inserted a needle. It bled slightly, but no one bothered to bandage it. I was still strapped down.
I didn’t remember if I’d fought, or if they’d injected me before I even realized what was happening. All I knew was that like every other girl here, I’d been drugged—poisoned—in the name of medicine.
I lifted my head and saw long rows of beds on either side and across from me. Girls my age and younger lay in them, not too doing well by the looks of it. Some were crying, others were asking panicked questions. Nurses and orderlies milled about, checking patients, making notes on clipboards. None of them seemed to be doing anything to relieve their charges’ discomfort, confusion, or fear.
I ran my tongue along the inside of my mouth to combat the dryness, and heard other girls whimper, their beds squeaking as they tried to move. There were a few brusque words: “Stop that!” and “Hush, now.” Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Geraldine being wheeled out, moaning. Then I heard heavy, determined footsteps walk up to the left side of my bed. I quickly put my head back down and shut my eyes.
“It didn’t go as well as I’d hoped with this one.” It was Dr. Catron. I made my chest rise and fall more slowly with each breath to maintain the illusion of sleep.
“Her answers were too vague,” he continued. “They could mean anything. We may have to accelerate treatment if we’re going to get to the bottom of this.”
Bottom of what? Accelerate treatment? My head still felt like someone was hitting the side of it with a mallet. I didn’t know how much more of this I could take. Then I began remembering other details of the past few hours.
They’d given me sodium pentothal, or what was more commonly known as “truth serum.” They’d asked all kinds of questions. My full name, where I was from, what year I was born. But there had been other inquiries as well. Stranger ones. What did I like to do at night? Did I look up at the sky a lot? Did I ever get the feeling I was different than other people?
