What She Left Behind
Page 5
“Don’t be a jerk, Luke,” someone said behind her.
Izzy turned to see who had spoken. It was Raven Boy.
“Let her by,” he said to Luke. Raven Boy’s girlfriend slapped his arm, scowling at him. He ignored her.
Luke let his foot drop and winked at Izzy. “If you need someone to show you around,” he said, smirking, “I’m your man.”
“Thanks,” Izzy said, and went to her desk.
This is starting out well, she thought, sliding into her seat. And I’ve been here, what, five minutes?
During roll call, Izzy learned Raven Boy’s name was Ethan Black, and his girlfriend’s name was Shannon Mackenzie. Izzy surveyed the other kids while Mr. Hudson talked about fund-raisers, prom committees, and class elections. One of the girls sitting next to Shannon—her name was Crystal—glanced back at Izzy, then leaned over and whispered something in Shannon’s ear. They looked over their shoulders and laughed. When another girl—if Izzy remembered correctly, her name was Nicole—looked at Shannon with questioning eyes, Shannon whispered in her ear. The three of them stared back at Izzy, grinning as if sharing a private joke.
Izzy dug her nails into her palms, fighting the urge to flip them off. There was always one group in every school—a clique of mean girls who made the other girls’ lives a living hell. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who the mean girls were in this school. She knew the best thing to do was ignore them, and hope they never found out her mother was doing time in a maximum-security prison for shooting her father. But it wouldn’t be easy in this small class. Just then, a memory came to her: two girls in her last school calling her “psycho” in the hall, asking if she still had her mother’s gun. She could almost taste the coppery blood in her mouth from biting her lip to keep herself from clawing their eyes out.
Now, she tugged on her sleeves, making sure they were pulled all the way down. The scars on her forearms were finally getting lighter, and she’d vowed never to cut herself again, no matter what. A month ago she’d thrown away her razor blades, and she wasn’t going to let these idiotic girls make her go back on the promise she’d made to herself.
The first time she cut herself, the night after her grandmother died, she’d gone into the bathroom of her grandmother’s old farmhouse to get the miniature glass man full of her dead grandfather’s razor blades out of the medicine cabinet. She shook a blade out of the glass man’s head—a barber with black hair and a blue shirt—then sat on the toilet and made a one-inch incision in her forearm. Then she passed out cold. A few minutes later, she woke up on the bathroom floor and clamped a hand over her arm, unable to look at the fresh wound. That was when she realized physical pain made emotional pain disappear for a few minutes, and the sight of her own blood made her faint. Over the next seven years, she cut herself to erase her anger, frustration, and pain, but she did it without looking.
After moving in with Peg and Harry, she began to realize cutting herself was crazy. And if nothing else, she was determined not to be like her mother. Becoming mentally ill was her greatest fear. If she could just control her emotions, more specifically her anger, maybe she wouldn’t snap.
Now, near the front of the classroom, another girl sat at her desk, facing forward, her slick, black hair like a velvet cape down her back. She scribbled in her notebook, oblivious to the chaos around her, except for the occasional quick, cool glance at the other students. Izzy had known girls like her too. She was probably dating a college guy and didn’t have time for her classmates’ shenanigans. Either that, or she was the leader of the mean-girl pack.
Finally, the bell rang and the students clamored out of their desks, heading toward first-period class. No one else had a backpack. Izzy took her time gathering her things, purposely waiting for everyone else to file out of the room first. When she reached the door, Mr. Hudson called out to her. She turned to face him. “Yes, Mr. Hudson?”
“You gave me the wrong form,” he said. “This one is for the nurse.”
“Oh.” Izzy went to his desk and took the paper, then rummaged around in her backpack for the right one. “Sorry about that.”
“Listen,” Mr. Hudson said. “This is a small school and this class has been together since junior high. It’s been a couple years since they’ve had a new classmate.”
Izzy shrugged. “Okay,” she said.
“The best thing to do if anyone tries to egg you on is ignore them.”
Easy for you to say, she thought. “Okay,” she said again. “Thanks.”
After homeroom, the girl with the black hair approached Izzy at her locker.
“Hey,” the girl said. “Welcome to hell.”
“Thanks,” Izzy said, shoving her empty backpack into her locker.
“No one uses a backpack here,” the girl said. “The school is so small everyone goes to their locker between classes.”
“I noticed,” Izzy said. The girl had a slight lisp, but other than that she looked like she could fit right in with the mean girls—perfect figure, perfect makeup, perfect clothes. What was she doing talking to Izzy?
“My name’s Alexandra,” the girl said. “Alex for short.”
Izzy shut her locker and held her math book to her chest. “Izzy, short for Isabelle.”
“I like it,” Alex said, smiling. “It fits you. Listen, Shannon and her friends are trouble. The best thing to do is ignore them and try to stay out of their way.”
“You’re the second person to tell me that.”
“Because it’s true,” Alex said.
Izzy shrugged. “They don’t bother me.”
Alex smiled. “Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. I doubt you’ve dealt with anyone like Shannon before.”
“What could she have against me?” Izzy said. “I just got here.”
Alex frowned. “Her boyfriend stuck up for you, for one thing,” she said. “That’s one strike.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” Izzy said.
“I know,” she said. “But the last girl Shannon saw as a threat to her and Ethan had to transfer to another school.”
“You’re not friends with her?”
Alex looked away for a fraction of a second, and just that small movement, that tiny delay when Alex averted her eyes, made Izzy wonder if she was telling the truth. Maybe Alex was a spy for the mean girls, sent to make friends so she could report back.
“We used to be really close,” Alex said. “But that changed a while ago.”
“What happened?” Izzy knew her question sounded nosy, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t going to let herself fall into a trap.
“Why don’t we get together later?” Alex said. “I can give you a ride home if you want. I’ve got a ’76 Beamer. It’s junk heap, but I bought it myself and it serves the purpose.”
Izzy dug her nails into the cover of her math book, uncertainty fluttering in her stomach. “I’m supposed to take the bus home,” she said. “My foster parents told me not to ride with anyone they don’t know.”
“Well, how about if I stop by later then?” Alex said. “I’ll introduce myself to your foster parents and maybe we can hang out.”
Izzy was just about to agree when Alex glanced down the hall, past Izzy. Alex’s face dropped. Then Shannon and her friends were standing beside them, followed by a strong cloud of hairspray and perfume. Shannon beamed at Alex, her eyes twinkling, barely able to contain her exciting news.
“You’re still coming tonight, right?” she said. “Dave’s parents left for Florida and his fridge is stocked with beer!”
Alex frowned, her forehead knitted. She started to answer, but then Shannon looked at Izzy, as if noticing her for the first time.
“Oh,” Shannon said. She glanced back at the other girls, then smiled at Izzy. “You can come too, if you want. I’ll introduce you to everyone!”
“I . . .” Izzy started.
“Don’t forget,” Shannon said to Alex. “You promised to bring some tequila!”
Before A
lex could react, Shannon hurried down the hall, laughing with the other girls. Izzy looked at Alex, waiting for an explanation.
“She knows I’m telling you I can’t stand her,” Alex said. “She did that to make me look like a liar.”
“If you say so,” Izzy said. “I’ve got to get to class.” She brushed past Alex and started down the hall, thinking it was going to be a long year. “See you around.”
CHAPTER 4
CLARA
The Long Island Home for Nervous Invalids
New Year’s Day, 1930
Two and a half months after the fight with her parents, Clara stood at the narrow, six-paned window of her third-floor room in Norton Cottage, looking out over the main grounds of the Long Island Home for Nervous Invalids. It was early morning on New Year’s Day, gray clouds hanging low and ominous in the winter sky. It had been storming all night, a near blizzard, and everything was cloaked in white. The trees in the cedar grove drooped under the weight of wet snow, and the rushing water in the nearby creek was the color of tombstones. The groundskeeper was shoveling the sidewalks, his back hunched, his red hat bobbing up and down as he heaved the wet snow into higher and higher banks. A low, black truck plowed the wide driveway, its blades raising and lowering like the wings of a giant wasp, the rumble of the engine and the scrape of the plow vibrating through the thin window glass. The wind had finally stopped, but every few minutes the sky opened up again, releasing a slow flurry of thick flakes.
Blinking back tears, Clara wondered where she would be next year on New Year’s Day. She pictured herself living with Bruno, raising their child together, finally out from beneath her parents’ rule. But first, she had to get out of the Long Island Home. She had to convince Dr. Thorn that she was being needlessly confined. So far, nothing had worked. He was taking her father’s word over hers.
If nothing else, she was relieved that the morning walk had been canceled. Not only was she glad that she didn’t have to go out in the snow and cold, but she had spent the morning in the bathroom throwing up, her first bout of morning sickness leaving her weak and shaky. She slid her hand down to her abdomen, already feeling protective of the baby growing inside her. Luckily, no one was able to tell she was pregnant just by looking at her, but she could feel the slight, firm swell below her navel. The baby was a girl, she was certain of it. Every night for over a week, she’d dreamed about a toddler in a pink lace dress, Bruno’s dark curls and chocolate-colored eyes looking up at her. Now, Clara swallowed the growing lump in her throat, surprised by the overwhelming love she already felt for her unborn child.
It made her think of her mother, Ruth. While pregnant with her firstborn, had Ruth put a protective hand over her growing belly, vowing to love and protect her baby for the rest of her life no matter what? Or was her burgeoning girth a burden to her fashion sense? Did she long for the day when she could finally hold her newborn in her arms and kiss his tiny, sweet-smelling forehead, or did she want to get her pregnancy over with so she could hand the baby over to a nanny and get on with her life? Clara had to believe it must have been the latter. Otherwise, how could a loving, nurturing mother turn into a selfish woman who didn’t give a damn about what happened to her children?
Clara pushed the image of her mother from her mind, knowing that trying to figure out the woman who brought her into this world wouldn’t change anything. She turned and sat on the narrow bed, wrapping her sweater around herself, and stared at the unopened letter on her desk. It was from her father, the second she’d received since being admitted to the Long Island Home over two months ago, despite the fact that she’d written every day, begging to be released. The ivory envelope had been sitting there since she’d returned from breakfast an hour ago. She’d picked it up twenty times, thumb poised on the edge of the back flap, then set it back unopened every time.
Henry’s first letter, delivered a week after Clara arrived, said her stay in the Long Island Home was for her own good, that it was just temporary, until the doctors could help her. But as the weeks went by with no more word, Clara started to worry that her father had changed his mind and she was going to stay longer than originally thought. Now, her future could be determined by the words inside her father’s latest letter, and, for as long as possible, she wanted to hold on to the hope that her parents were going to allow her to come home. When James found out she was carrying another man’s baby, the marriage would be called off. Her parents would disown her and kick her out on the street. But anything was better than this. Anything was better than being locked up in a loony bin, even if it was the best money could buy.
The rooms at the Long Island Home were warm and clean, the grounds well maintained. And, for the most part, the staff was pleasant. Patients dined with silver and fancy porcelain, and lounged in parlors on Louis XV sofas. Treatment consisted of rest, relaxation, good food, fresh air, and activities such as bicycling and tennis on the grass. And, of course, therapy sessions. But there was no mistaking that she was being kept against her will. During her first therapy session the day after her arrival, she had asked Dr. Thorn what would happen if she tried to leave.
“Why do you want to leave?” he’d said, looking at her over his round spectacles. He was tall and whippet thin, with an enormous Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down in his leathery throat like a fish in a pelican’s beak.
“Because I don’t need to be here,” Clara said. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“I see,” Dr. Thorn said, scribbling on his pad. “How then, do you think you came to the Long Island Home?”
Clara sat in a wooden chair, her ankles crossed between the seat, her hands folded in her lap. She dug her fingernails into her palm and tried to look calm. “My father isn’t used to me standing up for myself. He thinks women should be seen and not heard. This is his way of silencing me, of trying to prove he can control me. He’s trying to force me to do something I don’t want to do.”
“Isn’t it a father’s job to do what’s best for his children?”
“Yes,” she said. “It is. But he’s not doing what’s best for me! He’s trying to force me to marry a lousy, no-good . . .” She paused, stomach churning, worried she was saying too much. “What did my father tell you about me? Why did he send me here?”
“He said you had some kind of breakdown. He’s worried that you’re not thinking clearly.”
“That’s absurd,” she said. “He just can’t handle the truth.”
“And what is the truth, Clara?”
“The truth is my parents care more about money and power than their children.”
“You seem to have a lot of anger toward them for sending you here.”
Clara sat up straighter. “Of course I’m angry!” she said, raising her voice. “Who wouldn’t be?”
Dr. Thorn nodded and wrote something down in his notebook. He asked the next question without looking up. “Do you believe your father is plotting against you, Clara?”
Clara stiffened. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Plotting is too strong a word. My father thinks sending me here will teach me a lesson. He doesn’t approve of the man I love. He thinks when I go back home I’ll go along with his plans.”
Dr. Thorn set down his pen. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then folded his hands on the desk and gazed at Clara, searching her face. “Sometimes,” he said in a quiet voice, “when we get anxious or upset, we imagine things. Your father says you accused him of killing your brother.”
“That’s not true!” she said. “My brother committed suicide because he thought he had nothing to live for. My father ruined him and my mother let it happen.”
“Do you hold your parents responsible for your brother’s death?”
“They could have handled things differently,” she said. “Instead they went to extremes like they always do. Instead of talking things through like normal parents, they got rid of him!”
“And now you think they’re trying to get rid of you too.”
“Is something wrong?” Dr. Thorn said, lifting his eyebrows.
She shook her head.
“Why don’t you finish what you were saying?” he said.
She looked down at her hands, feeling her eyes flood. “You’re not listening to me,” she said. “You’re only hearing what you want to hear. You’re twisting my words and making it sound like I’m unstable.”
“You seem to be very suspicious of people,” he said. “Your parents, the man they want you to marry. Even me.”
“How would you feel if the tables were turned, Doctor? Wouldn’t you try to explain yourself and ask to be released if you were perfectly sane?”
Dr. Thorn closed his writing pad and put his glasses back on. “The patients here at the Long Island Home are only allowed to leave with a release from me, or at the request of the admitting party, in this case, your father.”
“So what would happen if I just packed up my suitcase and left? What if I just walked down the driveway and out the front gate?”
Dr. Thorn smiled and sniffed, as if suppressing a laugh. “I suppose you could try,” he said. “But the Long Island Home consists of fourteen acres and it’s quite a walk to the front gate. We’d stop you before you got very far. Besides, the gate is locked and I’ve seen the size of the trunk you brought with you. I can’t imagine you’d have a very easy time of carrying it out of your room, much less down the stairs and across the lawns.”
Clara’s face grew warm. She was about to tell him she didn’t give a damn about her steamer trunk. She’d leave without it if she had to. But then she realized he might take her anger as something else, as part of her “condition.”
Her first mistake the day she argued with her father was taking the time to pack a bag. She should have left the study, grabbed her coat, and run out of the house that very instant. She should have fled the minute she heard her father telling the lieutenant to bring a doctor. Instead, she’d hurried to her room and started packing her steamer trunk, forgetting that she’d have to carry the oversized chest down the stairs by herself, that the butler and driver would not be called upon to carry her luggage out to the car. After all, she was running away, not going on another overseas voyage. But she hadn’t been thinking clearly, her panicked mind unable to string two coherent thoughts together. All she knew was that she needed to take as much as possible, because, when she left, the clothes in the trunk and the dress on her back would be all she owned in the world.