Thinking about it now, she berated herself for being so stupid. She knew the police could be at her house within minutes because Ruth had called them numerous times—when she couldn’t find her string of pearls, when the candlesticks from the parlor went missing, when her favorite English tea set had disappeared. Every time, the police arrived and talked calmly to Ruth while she paced and wailed, convinced that the help was stealing. Then, like common criminals, the maids and butlers and limo drivers were lined up and questioned. Eventually, a logical explanation came to light; Ruth’s necklace had slipped behind her dressing table, the candlesticks were in the pantry waiting to be polished, the tea set had been returned to the wrong cupboard. After Ruth realized her precious things were no longer missing, she thanked the police for coming so quickly. Meanwhile, Clara did her best to apologize to the help.
If only Clara had remembered the speed at which the police could arrive, instead of being like Ruth and worrying about her “things,” she might have had the chance to slip away. When her father brought the lieutenant, two policemen, and a doctor up to her room, her steamer trunk was nearly full and the possibility of escape no longer existed. Henry ordered the men to close the trunk and take it away, along with his only daughter. She could still picture her father’s red face and wild eyes, his arms gesturing as if he were ordering a criminal taken out of his house.
“What seems to be the problem?” the lieutenant said.
“She was spouting all kinds of horrible accusations,” Henry said, shaking his head. “I’m afraid she’s imagining things.”
“It’s not true!” Clara said. “I just . . .”
Henry looked at the doctor, his eyes pleading. “Can you help her?”
Clara ran toward the door and a policeman grabbed her wrist. She struggled to break free but it was no use. “Let me go,” she cried. “You can’t do this! I didn’t do anything!”
“Has Clara suffered any emotional trauma recently?” the doctor asked Henry.
“She lost her brother,” Henry said. “And somehow she’s got it in her mind that I . . .” Henry hung his head, his clenched fists to his forehead, as if it was too much to bear.
“That’s not why I . . .” Clara cried. The policeman tightened his grip on her arm. “No, let me go!”
The lieutenant directed his attention to the doctor, letting him make the final call. The doctor nodded. Before Clara could protest further, the policemen grabbed her by the arms and led her out of the bedroom, down the stairs and outside, where she was shoved into the back of the doctor’s black Buick, her jacket and winter boots tossed onto the backseat beside her, her luggage thrown into the trunk. She remembered looking out the car window at the stone entrance of her parents’ house, the familiar granite balustrade and carved fleur-de-lis above the doorway. She wasn’t sure why she looked; maybe a small, hopeful part of her expected her mother to be crying on the steps, upset that her only daughter was being taken away. But the only thing she saw was the hem of her father’s smoking jacket as it disappeared through the entryway, the brass knocker bouncing with the slam of the door.
Now, Clara chewed on the inside of her cheek, trying to think of a way to convince Dr. Thorn to let her go.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “But I’m afraid our time is up.”
“But I . . .” Clara said.
The doctor stood and went around the desk. “We’re finished for today, Clara.”
Clara stood. “That’s it?” she said, throwing up her hands. “You’re going to make decisions based on a twenty-minute conversation?”
“We’ll talk more at your next appointment,” he said, opening the door.
“When?” she said. “Tomorrow?”
Dr. Thorn smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid I have to see some of my other patients tomorrow. We’ll meet again next week.”
Clara’s stomach dropped. Next week? The thought of staying a full week nearly caused her to cry out. Surely her father didn’t mean for her to stay that long.
Out in the hall, a young nurse waited to take Clara back to her room. Clara walked down the hall with her arms crossed over her middle, trying to keep herself from falling apart. It wouldn’t do any good to appear emotionally unstable in front of the nurse, even if the woman had smiled at her when she came out of the office, her soft blue eyes filled with pity.
A block of fear settled in Clara’s stomach and her skin prickled with goose bumps. The corridors seemed to stretch on forever, the red and green carpet and crystal sconces reminding her of being inside the Funhouse on Coney Island, where patrons were harassed by a clown with an electric wand through crooked rooms and dark corridors with tilting floors and moving walls. She’d always hated the Funhouse, remembering her panic when an air jet burst across her ankles. After turning and clawing her way past the other patrons to get back outside, she vowed never to go inside again, no matter how much her friends made fun of her. The Long Island Home was a thousand times worse. Here, there was no way out, no exit, no way back to sunshine and corn dogs and laughing friends.
When Clara reached her room, she stood at the door waiting for the nurse to let her in. She stared at the floor for what felt like a full minute before realizing the nurse had stopped a few steps behind her. The young nurse looked at Clara with a furrowed brow, as if trying to make a decision.
“Have you been out on the grounds yet?” the nurse said.
Clara shook her head. “I just got here.”
“I know when you arrived,” the nurse said. “I was with Nurse McCarn when she led you to your room last night. I helped unpack your things.”
“I’m sorry,” Clara said. “I don’t remember. I . . .”
“It’s all right,” the nurse said, smiling. “Would you like to go outside for a little while? We’ve got a little time before lunch and it might be one of the last warm days before winter comes. The lawns are beautiful.” The nurse looked up and down the hall, as if worried someone might hear.
Clara shook her head. “I just want to be left alone for a little while.”
“Are you sure?” the nurse said. “The sun is shining and it’s so warm you don’t even need a sweater. Tomorrow it’s supposed to start getting cold and . . .”
Clara sighed and let her shoulders drop. If nothing else, maybe she could learn her way around the Long Island Home and find a way out. She nodded and they started back down the hall, then turned to enter a stairwell. The nurse started down first, then stopped on the fourth step. Nurse McCarn was coming up the stairs.
“Oh,” the nurse said to Clara. “Never mind. Maybe some other time.” She turned and hurried back up the steps. Clara followed.
“Nurse Yott!” Nurse McCarn called behind them, her footsteps pounding up the steps. Nurse Yott’s shoulders dropped. She stopped and waited, frowning. Nurse McCarn reached them and put one hand on her hip, her forehead furrowed. “Where were you going? Your instructions were to deliver this patient to her room.”
“I was taking Clara outside,” Nurse Yott said. “To get a little fresh air.”
Nurse McCarn glared at Nurse Yott, her jaw working in and out. “It’s not up to you to make decisions about what’s best for a patient,” she said. “Take her back to her room this very instant.”
Nurse Yott dropped her eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Try to remember you’re not a doctor,” Nurse McCarn said. “You might do well to learn from my example. I’ve been at the Long Island Home for over twenty years and always follow the doctor’s orders to the letter!”
“I’m sorry,” Nurse Yott said, her face turning red.
Nurse McCarn shook her head and clucked her tongue. “This is the second time I’ve had to speak to you about something. You’d better watch your step, Nurse Yott.”
Clara swallowed and stepped forward. “Dr. Thorn instructed her to take me outside,” she said. “I told him I was feeling a little cooped up and he asked if going outside for a few minutes would help.”
N
urse McCarn stared at Clara, her mouth pinched. Clara held her gaze. Finally, Nurse McCarn looked at Nurse Yott. “Is this true?” she said.
Nurse Yott nodded.
Nurse McCarn pressed her lips together, a blue vein popping out on her forehead. She was struggling, trying not to lose her temper. “Carry on,” she said, waving a hand toward the stairwell. “You’ve got ten minutes before lunch. Make sure the patient is in the cafeteria on time. If she’s late, I’ll hold you responsible.” She shook her head in disgust and marched down the hallway.
Nurse Yott smiled at Clara. “Thank you,” she said. “I swear she’s got it out for me.”
That was ten weeks ago. It felt like ten years.
Now, Clara reached out for the letter on her desk. When she first saw it that morning, her heart leapt in her chest, hoping it was from Bruno. At long last, he had answered her daily letters. Then she saw Henry’s formal script on the front of the envelope and fell back on the bed, her hands over her face. She couldn’t imagine why Bruno hadn’t written back. At first, she worried her letters had been intercepted somehow. But that didn’t make sense. She took them down to the front desk and dropped them in the locked mailbox herself. After the first month went by with no word, she started waking up in a cold sweat, panicked that something bad had happened. Her father was a power-hungry tyrant, to be sure. But he wouldn’t go as far as getting rid of Bruno, would he? Briefly, the thought crossed her mind that Bruno forgot about her. Maybe their love affair had meant nothing to him. Maybe she was just one woman in a long line of women. But no. It had been more than that. Much more. She was certain of it. Still, she preferred picturing Bruno with another woman to the image that assaulted her mind every night: Bruno floating beside her brother, William, faceup in the Hudson River.
She took a step back from the desk and put her fingers over her mouth, suddenly sick to her stomach again, even though eating dry toast at breakfast had helped her nausea. Her father wasn’t writing to say hello after nearly three months of silence. Christmas and New Year’s had come and gone and there hadn’t been so much as a card. Was she finally getting out of this place, or was she being forced to stay longer?
She took a deep breath and picked up the letter again, vowing to open it this time. She bit down on her lip and slid her thumbnail beneath the back flap, then tore it open. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the single sheet of her father’s ivory stationery. She let the envelope fall to the floor and held the letter with shaking hands.
Dear Clara,
Your mother and I hope you are well and getting the help you need. It’s unfortunate that your life has taken this turn. Dr. Thorn has reassured me that, sometimes, no matter how hard we try, parents cannot determine the outcome of their children’s upbringing. But that is neither here nor there. What’s done is done. Your mother and I have done our best and that is all we can ask of ourselves. I’m writing to let you know that things have changed since the stock market crash in September. Due to our losses, and in an attempt to keep our home and the lifestyle to which your mother and I are accustomed, I regret to say that I can no longer afford to pay for your care at the Long Island Home. Dr. Thorn and I have talked at length about your condition, and what we both feel should be the necessary next step. Dr. Thorn will explain what we have agreed upon. Try to remember that your mother and I only want what’s best for you.
Warm regards,
Father
Clara stared at the letter, the words blurring on the paper, a hard lump forming in her throat. What did it mean? What was the necessary next step? Was she going to be released? Was she going to be let go, to be on her own? She dropped the letter on the floor and paced the small room, shivering. Her appointment with Dr. Thorn wasn’t until eleven. It was only nine-thirty. She stopped pacing and took several deep breaths, trying to slow her hammering heart. Emotional distress wasn’t good for the baby. She needed to calm down. After a minute, she lay on the bed and closed her eyes, pulling the thin blanket over her trembling shoulders.
Then she sat up with a start, realizing there was something she had to do. She needed to write to Bruno. If things were going to change, if she was being released or sent home, he needed to know. Even though she had no idea if he was getting her letters, she had to try to let him know what was going on. She got up, opened the desk drawer, and yanked out the stationery provided by the Long Island Home. She pulled out the desk chair and sat, pen poised over the paper, then realized she had no idea what to say. How could she tell Bruno what was happening when she didn’t know herself? The letter would have to wait until after her appointment with Dr. Thorn. Maybe Dr. Thorn would see her sooner. Maybe she could ask Nurse McCarn if the schedule could be changed. She got up and went to the door, then heard male voices in the hall.
She hurried back to the desk and shoved the stationery in the drawer, then looked around the room for something to make it look like she was busy. Nurse McCarn said idle hands were the devil’s playground, and if a patient had nothing to do, there were floors to be swept and toilets to be scrubbed. Clara pulled the institution-provided Bible from the shelf above her desk, sat on the bed, and opened the book to a random page. A light-headed, shaky feeling came over her, as if she hadn’t eaten in days.
Just then, there was a soft rap on the door. Dr. Thorn and a man she didn’t recognize entered the small room, Nurse McCarn on their heels. A layer of snow sat on the shoulders of the stranger’s wool coat and filled the cuffs of his trousers, puddles of melting condensation already forming on the floor around his galoshes.
“Good morning, Clara,” Dr. Thorn said. “How are you feeling today?”
She forced herself to smile, closing the Bible on her lap. “I’m fine, thank you. And yourself?”
Dr. Thorn glanced at the other man. “As I told you,” he said. “She’s always pleasant. She shouldn’t give you any trouble.” The man raised a gloved hand to his derby and tipped it in Clara’s direction. She gave him a half nod, her lips twitching as she attempted to smile. Dr. Thorn glanced at the letter on Clara’s desk. “I see you’ve read your father’s letter?”
“Yes,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “He said you would explain what was going on.”
“Well, yes,” Dr. Thorn said. “That’s what I’m here for.” He gestured toward the man in the wool coat. “This is Mr. Glen. He’s from Ovid, a small town next to Seneca Lake.” Nurse McCarn took a step forward to stand beside Dr. Thorn, keeping her arm straight and slightly behind the side seam of her white skirt. Clara caught a glimpse of something long and silver in her hand. It looked like a syringe. Ice filled Clara’s esophagus, making it hard to breathe. She stood. The Bible slid from her lap, slamming on the floor with a loud bang. Then she saw two orderlies and a nurse in a blue cape waiting in the hall.
Dr. Thorn held up a hand, as if to stop Clara from bolting. Nurse McCarn moved closer, her eyes wide and bright, as if on high alert. “Mr. Glen and a nurse are here to take you to Willard.”
“Willard?” Clara managed. She swallowed. Her tongue felt like stone.
“It’s a state-run hospital for the insane,” Dr. Thorn said. “Your father wants to make sure you get the help you need. Unfortunately, he can no longer afford your stay here.”
Clara stepped backward, her hands clutching her sweater. “But I don’t understand,” she said, sweat breaking out on her forehead. “My father said this was just temporary. I don’t need help. I just want to go home!”
Nurse McCarn stepped forward, bringing the syringe out of hiding. Dr. Thorn put up a hand to stop her. “I understand, Clara,” he said. “But you need to get better first. Go ahead and pack up your things. Mr. Glen has the car waiting outside.”
“But the weather,” Clara said, searching for any reason to delay.
“It’s clearing up,” Mr. Glen said. “We’ll be fine as long as we leave in the next few hours. We’ll be back at Willard by nightfall.”
“There’s no reason to be afraid,” Dr. Thorn said.
“You’ll be taken good care of at Willard.”
Clara collapsed on the bed, her legs suddenly weak, her arms useless. It took all her strength not to fall in a heap on the floor. She searched for something to say to make them understand she was perfectly sane, that her only offense was arguing with her parents. She was being punished for standing up for herself, for standing strong for what was right and true. Words escaped her.
“Nurse McCarn,” Dr. Thorn said. “Have one of your nurses come help Clara pack while you show Mr. Glen and his nurse to the cafeteria. I’m sure they could use a hot meal before the long drive back to Willard. And bring Clara some hot tea and something to eat before she goes.”
Nurse McCarn and Mr. Glen left the room while Dr. Thorn remained in the entrance, one hand on the doorknob. “You’ll be all right,” he said to Clara. “You’re an intelligent young woman with a bright future ahead of you. You just need a little help figuring out the right direction for your life. If you cooperate, there should be no reason to fear going to Willard.” Then he closed the door and left, leaving Clara numb and staring at the wooden floor.
In what felt like slow motion, she got up and pulled her journal from beneath her bed. She sat at the desk and opened to her last entry, the words a blur on the page. She’d written in the journal every day since her arrival, but had not mentioned anything about the baby. For some reason, she was afraid she might jinx her pregnancy, or the doctors would find the journal and tell her father. If Henry found out she was going to have Bruno’s baby, there was no telling what he might do. He would probably send her away forever.
What She Left Behind Page 6
