What She Left Behind

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  Izzy sighed. “Give me a minute,” she said. She closed the curtains, tossed the blanket on the bed, and pulled on a pair of shorts. She started toward the door, then turned and went back into the bathroom to look in the mirror. Her hair was snarled, her mascara smudged. She licked her finger and did her best to remove the leftover makeup, then ran a brush through her hair and pulled it into a high ponytail. She yanked off her T-shirt and hurried to her dresser to find a sweatshirt.

  Down in the kitchen, she grabbed her sandals, then slid through the sliding patio door and tiptoed across the back deck. On the grass, she slipped her sandals on and hurried toward the garage, her shoulders hunched. Thankfully, Peg and Harry’s bedroom was on the other side of the house, so they probably hadn’t heard anything. Ethan was waiting on the other side of the garage, leaning against the cedar shingles and shining the flashlight at a small, open book in his hand. When he saw her, he closed it and straightened.

  “What are you doing here?” she said.

  “Hi to you too,” he said, smiling.

  “What do you want?”

  “How’s your finger?”

  She held out her injured finger, the white gauze glowing like a tiny ghost in the dark. “It’s fine,” she said. She crossed her arms. “Okay. I came down like you wanted. What’s the big surprise?”

  He held up the book, shining the flashlight on its cover. The light reflected off the green, fleur-de-lis-stamped leather, shimmering on the black patent spine. Clara’s journal.

  Izzy tore it from his hands. “What are you doing with this?” she said. “You have no right to it!”

  “Relax,” he said. “I just borrowed it.”

  “It’s none of your business!” she hissed.

  Ethan scowled. “You were reading it. Besides, that crazy woman is long gone . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter! You shouldn’t have taken it.”

  “I saw you looking at it and thought you wanted to read it.”

  “Do you know how much trouble you could get in for having this?” she said, surprised by her anger. “This is state-owned property!”

  “Jesus,” Ethan said, rolling his eyes. “Will you chill out? We can return it when you’re done reading it. Just put it back in the trunk next Saturday when we go to the warehouse. No big deal. No one will even know it was gone.”

  She held out the journal. “You take it back.”

  “Okay,” he said, shrugging. “I’ll take it back. Sorry I bothered you.” He took the journal and started walking away. “See you around.”

  She grit her teeth. He was right. For some reason, she wanted to read Clara’s journal more than anything. But not like this. Not when she had to worry about getting in trouble for having it. But then again, what if she never got another chance?

  “Wait,” she said.

  He came back, smiling. “Change your mind?”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  He leaned against the garage and handed her the journal. “They say it’s haunted, you know,” he said.

  She frowned, confused. “What’s haunted?”

  “Willard Asylum.”

  Izzy looked down at the journal. “Oh,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t notice her cringe.

  “Some of my friends broke in a couple weeks ago and had the shit scared out of them. One of them was scratched on the neck inside the women’s ward and they both heard what sounded like moaning in the hospital.”

  Izzy shivered. “That’s gross,” she said.

  “I think it’s awesome,” Ethan said, laughing.

  “Well, you’re weird.”

  “The journal isn’t the only reason I’m here,” he said, his voice suddenly serious. “I wanted to apologize for helping Shannon put those . . . those things on your locker. You’re right. It was horrible and mean. When you were reading the journal back at the warehouse, I could tell you were crying and . . .”

  Izzy stiffened. “Listen,” she said. “Things are finally going good for me and I’m not going to mess it up. If Peg and Harry find out I have this journal, they’ll probably ask me to leave.”

  “Read it over the weekend and bring it to school on Monday. I’ll take it back. No one will ever know you had it. I promise.”

  Izzy sighed and ran her fingers over the green leather. All these years she’d wanted nothing more than to get inside her mother’s head, to try to figure out what would make a perfectly sane person suddenly lose her mind. She couldn’t ask the doctors. They had declared her mother sane. But Izzy knew better. And right now, right here in her hands, could be the answers she’d been looking for. She was just about to ask Ethan if she should give it to him in homeroom when another thought came to her.

  “What about Shannon?” she said. “I don’t think she’d be very happy to find out you were here.” To her surprise, Ethan went quiet, scratching the back of his neck, his eyes on the ground. Then he looked at Izzy and frowned.

  “She’s not as bad as you think,” he said.

  “Yes, she is,” Izzy said. “First she acted like she wanted to be friends, then she started playing tricks on me. She’s horrible.”

  “It might seem that way when she’s around other people, but when it’s just us . . .”

  “Oh,” Izzy said, crossing her arms. “So you don’t care how she treats everyone else, as long as she’s nice to you.”

  “No,” Ethan said. “That’s not it. We’ve been together since eighth grade and it’s just been the last year or so that she started acting . . . I don’t know . . . different. I just want you to know that she’s been through a lot.”

  Izzy rolled her eyes. “That’s no excuse. She should rise above whatever happened to her, not perpetuate it. I hate it when people blame everyone but themselves for their behavior.”

  “Her father left, and her mother is an alcoholic.”

  “That doesn’t give her a license to be a bitch!” The minute the words were out of Izzy’s mouth, her stomach tightened with regret.

  Ethan sighed and dropped his shoulders. “Her father used to slap her around and beat up her mother. When Shannon was twelve she stepped between them and ended up in the hospital with a concussion and a broken arm. But her mother wouldn’t tell the doctors the truth. She lied and said Shannon jumped off the porch roof because she thought she could fly.”

  Izzy swallowed. She couldn’t imagine a father hurting his child. Or a mother failing to protect her child. Granted, Izzy’s mother had shot her father, but she had gone mad. Izzy wanted to believe her mother hadn’t been thinking about the consequences. Her mother had to be out of her mind not to realize that Izzy would be devastated by the loss of her father, that when the police found out what she’d done, Izzy would lose both parents. Only a mentally ill person wouldn’t think it through. The irony was, before that fateful night, Izzy’s mother was overprotective, not allowing her to walk to second grade with her friends, even though the school was only a block away, making her wear a life jacket at the beach while the other kids were free to splash in the waves and play in the sand, unencumbered by a thick, orange vest. Izzy’s father had doted on her, buying her pretty dresses and taking her to dance lessons, even promising her a pony when she turned ten. Even now, after everything that happened, Izzy couldn’t imagine either of her parents intentionally harming her.

  “After that,” Ethan continued, “Shannon’s father cleaned out their bank account and left them with nothing. They haven’t heard from him since.” Ethan glanced at the ground, then looked up at Izzy with pleading eyes. “Please don’t tell anybody I told you. I’ve said too much already. Everyone already knows about Shannon’s parents, but she’d kill me if she found out I’m the one who told you. I just want you to understand where she’s coming from.”

  Izzy sighed. “Listen,” she said. “I feel bad for her. Really, I do. But honestly? Knowing all that just confuses me even more. I don’t understand why she wants to hurt people when she knows how it feels.”

  “I think she’s so afraid
of being hurt she makes sure no one messes with her. She thinks there’s a grand hierarchy or something and she needs to stay on top to protect herself.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “Yes,” Ethan said. “I’ve been trying to talk to her, trying to make her see that she doesn’t have to be . . .” He looked away, pain flashing over his face. “I feel like I’m all she’s got left right now. I’m the only one who understands why she is the way she is. Her mother doesn’t give a shit and everyone else is just playing along because they’re scared of her.”

  Oh God, Izzy thought. He really loves her. Izzy thought of her father, who had no idea he was marrying a woman who would lose her mind someday. She wanted to tell Ethan to be careful. Instead, she took a deep breath and changed the subject.

  “How am I supposed to give you the journal without Shannon finding out? She seemed pretty upset when you stood up for me the other day.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “She gets really jealous, so we need to be careful.”

  Izzy opened her mouth to say Shannon sounded like a real piece of work but changed her mind.

  “Just leave the journal in your locker,” Ethan said. “I’ll get it between classes.”

  “Okay. My locker number is . . . Oh. Wait,” she said, grinning. “You already know what it is.”

  Ethan held up his hands. “Guilty as charged.”

  CHAPTER 8

  CLARA

  Willard—The Day After Admission

  Dust-filled shafts of sunlight came in through the caged floor-to-ceiling windows, cutting through the dim light in the high-ceilinged room but doing little to ward off the chill. Six claw-foot tubs lined one wall, each with a canvas cover strapped to metal pipes that surrounded the bathtub. Drains lined the floor, black mold darkening the cracked tiles. Nurses barked orders and patients argued and screamed and struggled, trying to resist being put into the tubs of icy water.

  Clara stood naked in front of one of the bathtubs, one arm across her chest, the other attempting to cover her pubic area. The black and white tiled floor felt like ice on her feet. She shivered, watching a nurse fill the water with ice cubes. Nurse Trench and a muscular patient with a droopy eye stood near the faucets, waiting. In the next tub over, a woman’s pale face poked out from a reinforced hole in the canvas, her lips blue. On the other side of the room, two orderlies pulled an unconscious woman from the water and carried her toward an examining table against the far wall.

  “Get in,” Nurse Trench said to Clara.

  “But I . . .” Clara started.

  “Do as you’re told, remember?” Nurse Trench said. “It’s for your own good.”

  “But I . . .” Clara said, her voice weak.

  Nurse Trench moved forward and wrapped her giant mitt around Clara’s arm. “We’re here to help you,” she said, her voice firm. “This will relax you. It will clear your mind.”

  Before Clara knew what was happening, Nurse Trench picked her up and put her in the tub, shoving her beneath the frigid water. A jolt of pain ripped through Clara’s chest as the air was pulled from her lungs. She accidently inhaled, choking on a mouthful of water. She grabbed the edge of the bathtub and pulled herself above the surface, her hands slipping on the wet porcelain. Coughing and trying to breathe, she struggled to stay upright. For a second everything went black and she was certain she was going to pass out. Then the one-eyed patient grabbed her by the shoulder and started scrubbing her face and neck, scraping a rough, discolored cloth over her skin. At last, Clara pulled in lungfuls of air. The patient scrubbed under Clara’s arms and between her legs, yanking her limbs out of the way with more force than necessary.

  The ice water felt like a thousand knives in Clara’s skin. It took everything she had not to push herself up and out of the tub. She let the patient scrub her down, her body shaking violently, hoping the sooner the patient was finished, the sooner she would be let out. Nurse Trench stood watching at the end of the tub, her massive arms crossed over her ample bosom, her crooked red smile contorting the lower half of her bloated face.

  “Please,” Clara said, looking up at her. “I’m . . .”

  “Quiet now,” Nurse Trench said, wagging a thick finger in the air. “That posh life over at the Long Island Home has made you soft, that’s all.”

  Clara squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the patient to finish scouring her hair with lye. When buckets of ice water were poured over her head, she pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs, nearly hyperventilating, shaking so hard her heart felt on the verge of bursting. Finally, the rough washing ended and the one-eyed patient stood back, panting.

  “Step out,” Nurse Trench said.

  Coughing and spitting, Clara scrambled out of the tub. The one-eyed patient gave her a once-over with a coarse towel.

  “Normally, we’d make you stay in there longer,” Nurse Trench said. “But you’ve got your first appointment with Dr. Roach today. Now, do as you’re told and we’ll get along fine.”

  The one-eyed patient handed Clara her yellow housedress and undergarments. Clara’s teeth chattered uncontrollably, her legs so weak she could barely stand. Somehow, she managed to put on her clothes and tie her shoes. Nurse Trench ordered Clara to follow her, then marched toward the door. Clara did as she was told, her hair dripping down her face and the back of her neck. She used her sweater to mop her brow, then fell in behind Nurse Trench. In the hall, she put her hand on her abdomen. Would a tiny, unborn baby be able to survive such treatment? Her eyes filled and her heart slowed, a heavy, black mass weighing it down. If something happened to Bruno’s baby, she wasn’t sure she’d survive.

  Clara followed Nurse Trench across the vast lobby of Chapin Hall, through a double doorway and around a curved hallway to another wing. They passed the telegraph office and the apothecary, then came to a short hallway with a door at the end. Outside Dr. Roach’s office, a pale, petite woman in a red wool coat sat in one of three chairs, her head down, her hands on a leather clutch in her lap. She looked up and smiled.

  “Good morning, Nurse Trench,” the woman said. She looked young, about Clara’s age, with high cheekbones, platinum hair, and porcelain skin. When she smiled, her entire face lit up. But there was a trace of sadness in her eyes. Then Clara noticed the woman’s bulging stomach. She couldn’t imagine what a pregnant girl was doing here, waiting to see Dr. Roach.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Roach,” Nurse Trench said. “How long have you been waiting?” Clara dropped her eyes, trying to hide her shock. Why would a beautiful, young woman be married to a man twenty years her senior, especially a doctor who worked in an insane asylum?

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Mrs. Roach said. “Not too awfully long.”

  “Does he know you’re here?” Nurse Trench said, one oversized hand on the office door.

  Mrs. Roach nodded. “I called before I came, like always,” she said. “He said he’d come out and talk to me when he has time.”

  “You just sit tight,” Nurse Trench said, smiling. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Nurse Trench pushed open the door and led Clara inside. An elaborately carved desk sat in the center of the room, a gold-framed portrait of an elderly, bald man wearing a monocle hanging on the wall behind it. Framed medical degrees and black-and-white photos of men in top hats and women in long, bustled dresses posing in front of Chapin Hall surrounded the portrait. The other walls were lined with pictures of the railway, the factories, the orchards, and the apothecary filled with thousands of glass bottles.

  At the desk, Dr. Roach smiled around his pipe at Nurse May, who sat perched in a small chair, her white-stocking legs crossed, the hem of her skirt hiked up to mid-thigh. She jumped up when the door opened, her cheeks turning red. Dr. Roach looked up, startled. Nurse Trench led Clara toward the desk.

  “How many times have I asked you to knock before entering my office?” Dr. Roach said.

  “My apologies, Doctor,” Nurse Trench said, her eyes burning. “
I guess I’m not used to your new rules yet. Maybe I’d remember if they didn’t change every week.”

  “Just leave the patient,” Dr. Roach said, his voice tight. “You’re dismissed, Nurse Trench. I’ll have Nurse May take her to the cafeteria when we’re finished here.”

  “Your wife is waiting in the hall, Doctor,” Nurse Trench said, glaring at Nurse May. “Shall I have her come in?”

  Dr. Roach stood. “No,” he said. “I’ll go out and talk to her.”

  “Very well,” Nurse Trench said. She sniffed and turned, then marched out of the room and slammed the door. Nurse May looked at Dr. Roach, a nervous smile playing on her lips. Dr. Roach motioned toward a glass door to the right of his desk, his forehead furrowed.

  “Take the patient into the examination room,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”

  Nurse May picked up a chart from the desk and opened the glass door. “This way, Clara,” she said, louder than necessary. Clara followed her into the examination room, trying to stop shivering. A cast-iron radiator hissed and clanked beneath an octagon window, filling the room with a moist, even heat. Clara wanted to kneel on the floor and lean up against it.

  “Get on the scales, Clara,” Nurse May said, still talking loudly, as if Clara were dim-witted, hard of hearing, or unable to understand English.

  Nurse May wrote Clara’s height and weight down on her chart and took her temperature and blood pressure. Finally, Dr. Roach came into the room and closed the door. Nurse May pulled a small step stool up to the examination table.

  “Take off your dress and sit on the table, Clara,” she said.

  “I know you’re talking to me,” Clara said. “I know my name.”

  “Excuse me?” Nurse May said, her penciled eyebrows raised.

  “You don’t need to shout and keep saying my name,” Clara said, unbuttoning her housedress. She took off her sweater and pulled her clothes over her head, draping the garments over her arm. “I speak English and can hear just fine. And I’m not an idiot.” Clara climbed onto the paper-covered examination table and sat down.