What She Left Behind

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  On a gray, rainy day in late March, in the backyard of the kitchen, a chubby, wet rat ran from the top of the compost pile and scurried through a small opening at the bottom of the high wooden fence. Clara went over to the enclosure, set the basket of potato peelings down, and knelt in the mud. The hole was the size of a baseball, the wood around it soggy and jagged. She stood and kicked the planks surrounding the opening, trying to bust the wood, then knelt and broke pieces away with her hands. Splinters gouged her palm but she kept working, breaking away a bowl-sized chunk. She looked through the gap and saw more mud and, several yards away, the stone foundation of another building. She threw the broken wood through the hole, then hid the opening behind a pile of potato and vegetable peelings. The next day, she removed more pieces of the fence. By the end of the week, her palms and fingers were raw, but the opening was nearly big enough to squeeze through.

  The next afternoon, she went out to the compost pile, dumped her peelings, and broke away another chunk of wood. She got down on the soggy ground next to the fence, lay on her back so she wouldn’t hurt the baby, then shimmied backward until her head and shoulders were through the hole. She dug in her heels and tried to push herself through, but her stomach was too big. The baby was in the way. Just as she was about to work her way out and make the opening bigger, someone grabbed her ankles and yanked her out of the hole, dragging her through the mud.

  “You okay?” a man said, panting above her. He wore a plaid wool jacket and filthy overalls, his boots covered with sludge. “You fall?”

  Clara sat up. “I . . .” she said, her heart like a train in her chest.

  “You tryin’ to get out?” He glared at her with one good eye, the other swollen closed.

  Clara shook her head and tried to stand. The man reached down to help her up, gesturing toward the fence with one hand. “Won’t do no good to get through that fence,” he said. “Boiler room is over there. Ain’t no way around it.”

  “How did you get in here?” she said, wiping her hands on her dress. Her hair felt stiff and cold on her neck, the back of her arms and legs wet with mud.

  The man spit in the dirt, a string of saliva running from the corner of his mouth. He pointed at the fence near the back wall of the kitchen. “Door’s right there,” he said. “We got a new passel of hogs. Boss sent me to get some extra scraps. I saw you on the ground and . . .”

  Clara squinted at the wooden fence, trying to see the opening. The only sign of an entrance was a slightly wider space between two planks. It was barely noticeable. A shovel and wheelbarrow sat inside the enclosure, tilting sideways next to the compost pile. She trudged through the mud over to the entrance and pushed her nails into the crack, trying to pry open the door. But the crack was too narrow. Her fingers wouldn’t fit in far enough to get a grip.

  “How do you open it?” she asked the man.

  He plodded toward her and stopped in front of the door. “Boss gave me a key to get in,” he said. “Showed me a trick to get out.” He thumped the end of his fist on the wood and the door popped open. He caught it by the edge and pushed it closed. “See?”

  “Can I try?” she said.

  He shrugged and stood back. Clara thumped her fist on the same spot. The wood vibrated and bounced, but the door didn’t open.

  “I told you it was a trick,” the man said, grinning.

  Clara took a deep breath and hit the wood again, using all her strength. This time, the edge of the door popped away from the fence. She grabbed it and yanked the door open. On the other side, a rutted driveway followed the length of the building, then turned a stone corner and disappeared. Clara bolted out of the enclosure, running as fast as she could, her pulse roaring in her ears. A few yards from the corner, the man grabbed her from behind and lifted her off the ground, his arms clamped around her belly, squeezing so hard she could barely breathe. He carried her back inside the fence, set her down, and slammed the door, panting.

  “You played a trick on me,” he said, his red face contorted. “Boss said not to let anyone use this door. Ever.”

  “I’m sorry,” Clara said, trying to catch her breath. “It’s just that . . . I’m not supposed to be here, you see.”

  “You can’t leave,” the man said, shaking his head. “That’s breaking the rules. You’ll get in a heapload of trouble if you break the rules.”

  “I know,” she said. “It’s just . . .” She hesitated, trying to find the right words. “By the way, what’s your name?”

  “Stanley,” he said. “My father named me Stanford, but my mother called me Stanley.”

  “Are you a patient here, Stanley?” she said, hoping to make him see they were on the same side.

  “Twenty years,” Stanley said, nodding. “Since I was seventeen.”

  Clara’s stomach tightened. “Why were you sent here?”

  “Parents died,” he said. “I was nothin’ but trouble and gettin’ too old for the orphanage.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to get you in any more trouble, Stanley,” she said. She bit down on the edge of her lip, trying to think of another approach. “When I was growing up I used to live on a farm. I love animals. Do you think you could show me the new hogs?”

  “Nope,” he said. “Boss wouldn’t like that. Boss says no one else is allowed in the pig barn.”

  “How about just letting me through that door, then?” she said. “No one has to know.”

  Stanley shook his head, teetering back and forth as if marching in place without taking his toes off the ground. Just then, a growling engine approached from the other side of the fence.

  “I gotta get back to work,” Stanley said, his good eye blinking. “Boss is coming.” He hurried over to the wheelbarrow, pushed it closer to the compost pile, and started filling it with vegetable scraps.

  Clara followed him. “When do you normally pick up the compost?” she said. “What time do you usually come?”

  Stanley shoved his pitchfork into the kitchen scraps and slung a pile of vegetable peelings into the wheelbarrow. “Before the sun is up,” he said, keeping his head down. “When everyone is still sleeping and no one bothers me.”

  A vehicle stopped outside the fence, gears grinding. A heavy door opened and closed, metal slamming against metal. Then the fence door opened and a man in muddy overalls entered.

  “What in blue blazes is taking so long, Stanley?” he said. “You were supposed to meet me out on the road ten minutes ago!”

  Stanley kept working, his shoulders hunched. “Sorry, Boss,” he said. “This lady was stuck in the fence and I had to help her get out.” The man looked at the hole, then considered Clara, his brows knitted.

  “What’s going on here?” he said.

  “Nothing.” Clara picked up her basket and headed toward the kitchen. “We were just talking.”

  The man followed, entering the kitchen behind her. “You let Stanley be,” he said. “You hear me? He’s a good worker and stays out of trouble. You might make note of that.”

  Clara kept walking and Stanley’s boss went in the other direction. She looked over her shoulder and watched him make his way between the dishwashers and prep counters. Then he turned left and disappeared. Clara went back to her station and got to work, swallowing the surge of panic that threatened to shut off her breathing. Surely, Stanley’s boss was going to turn her in. The other women stared at her, no doubt wondering why her arms and legs were covered with drying mud.

  A few minutes later, Stanley’s boss and the pudgy kitchen forewoman approached. The hunched-over forewoman trudged toward Clara, her chin jutting out to one side. She had to be at least sixty, and yet her pale, thick arms were corded with muscle.

  “What’s this I hear about you getting stuck in the fence outside?” she said.

  “I fell in the mud,” Clara said. “My leg went through a hole. It was an accident.”

  The forewoman took her by the arm and dragged her outside. Stanley waited by the fence, his wheelbarrow full. He dropped his
eyes, fidgeting with the edge of his jacket.

  “Did you make that hole?” the forewoman said to Clara.

  “No,” Clara said. “I told you I fell and . . .”

  “Get that boarded up right away,” the forewoman said to Stanley’s boss. Then she dragged Clara back inside, led her out of the kitchen, and took her to Dr. Roach’s office.

  “Where would you have gone if you’d escaped, Clara?” Dr. Roach said. “Willard consists of hundreds of acres, including dense forests. The nearest town is miles away.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, her fists in her lap. “All I know is I need to get out of here!”

  “What if something happened to you? How would I explain that to your father?”

  “I don’t care about my father!” she said. “You can tell him anything you want. You and he both know I don’t belong here.”

  Dr. Roach furrowed his brow, clearly taken aback. “I don’t know any such thing,” he said. “You’re here for a reason, Clara. And I want to help you get well.”

  “Like I told you before,” she said. “I’m here because I had a fight with my father. I don’t need help!”

  “But don’t you see?” Dr. Roach said. “Trying to escape just reinforces my opinion that you’re not thinking clearly. A woman of your status and frail constitution shouldn’t be out hiking alone across the countryside. It’s not safe!”

  “I’m not as helpless as you think.”

  “You know what kind of hospital Willard is, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do,” she said. “It’s an institution for the insane. But I don’t hear voices. I don’t see hallucinations. I know my father told you I’m insane, but he’s lying!”

  “Lying?” Dr. Roach said. He gave her a sad smile. “My dear, Clara. Why would he do that?”

  “To keep me here.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “Yes. I do! At first, I thought he just wanted to teach me a lesson and would eventually let me come home. Now I think he’s just glad to be rid of me.”

  Dr. Roach shook his head, his brow creased. “You’re worrying me, Clara,” he said. “You continue to believe your father is plotting against you, that we’re keeping you here to hurt you somehow.”

  “Please,” she said. “Just let me go. You can tell my father I’m still here. Tell him I’ve gone completely mad and you had to lock me up for the rest of my life. I don’t care. Just release me! He doesn’t have to know!”

  “You’re being irrational, Clara,” he said. “I’m a doctor. I took an oath to help people. That’s all I’m trying to do.”

  “I’ve never been more rational in my life,” Clara said. “I’m being kept in an insane asylum against my will. My mind is all I have left and I assure you it’s perfectly clear! I’m not like the rest of the patients here, blindly believing everything you say, letting you lock them up like animals. That’s not what a doctor is supposed to do. It’s criminal.”

  Dr. Roach frowned, his eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you need a break,” he said. “Maybe some time to think will do you good. Trying to escape is a serious offense that usually warrants harsh treatment. But I’m willing to be lenient because I think you’re smart enough to learn from your mistakes . . .”

  She reached across his desk and grabbed his hands, the dried mud on her elbows smudging the spotless blotter. He recoiled and tried to pull away, a small, startled sound escaping his lips. She tightened her grip.

  “How would you feel if I refused to let go?” she said. “I know you don’t like people touching you. I have no idea why, but it frightens you. And in case you haven’t heard, morally upright men don’t cheat on their wives. Perhaps you’re the one in need of help, Doctor. Perhaps you’re the one who needs to be locked up! How would you like that?”

  He stood and yanked his hands from her grasp, his face red, his nostrils flaring. “I don’t know what games you’re trying to play,” he said. “But I won’t stand for it.” He closed her folder. “We’ll talk again at your next appointment. In the meantime, I’m not the enemy, Clara. Perhaps by your next appointment, you’ll have a change of heart.”

  For the next six days, Clara was locked in a foul-smelling, cement-walled room on the isolation ward, the only furniture a toilet and a metal cot bolted to the floor. Twice a day, a tray with dry bread and a tin of broth was shoved under the riveted door through a hinged slot. The only way to distinguish night from day was by a bare bulb on the ceiling, turning on and off. Clinking chains and slamming metal doors echoed in the hall, punctuated by screams and groans. On the sixth day, Nurse Trench unlocked the door to let Clara out, clucking her tongue with disapproval. Too weak to speak, Clara followed the nurse back to the ward without a word.

  By mid-April, approximately two months before what Clara estimated was her due date, her belly protruded enough to make her dresses skintight. But she had seen similar-looking stomachs on other female patients—maybe they had been obese before being half-starved at Willard, or carried all their weight in their abdomens—so she knew there was nothing remarkable about a woman with a bulging belly. No one paid attention to the fact that Clara’s was getting bigger every day. No one believed or cared that she was indeed going to give birth, and no one had bothered to check to see if she was telling the truth.

  On the last day of May, during her second appointment with Dr. Roach, Clara sat in the chair opposite his desk, the rigid seat pressing hard against her pelvic bones. Her skeleton ached as if she were ninety years old instead of nineteen. She wasn’t sure if her body was stiff because she was pregnant and suffering from the lack of proper nutrition, or if it was from the thin, lumpy mattresses she’d been trying to sleep on for the last five months.

  Every night, her fitful sleep was filled with nightmares about going into labor in the ward, with no one to help her give birth but the other patients. In the dream, she was screaming on the filthy bed, the other women gathered around, rocking back and forth, drooling, wailing. She sat up, clutching the edges of the mattress, and bared down, her face twisting with exertion. The woman with the tattered doll ripped the newborn from between Clara’s legs and ran out of the ward, the bloody umbilical cord trailing behind her.

  Now, as she always did, Clara sat with one hand on her belly, waiting to feel the baby move. Her greatest fear was that the fetus had died and she wouldn’t know until she gave birth. As usual, she felt nothing. The only time she felt movement was at night. Even then, she worried she had imagined it; so slight was the flutter beneath her hand. For the millionth time she thought that either the baby was abnormally tiny, or something was horribly wrong. The idea made her heart constrict.

  From the other side of the desk, Dr. Roach considered her, his pen poised over her chart. She looked at the fancy, carved pen in his hand. How foolish she had been, thinking she would have access to ink and stationery to write letters to Bruno, thinking she would ever get anyone to mail them. No one at Willard cared about why she was there, let alone her previous life. She thought about Nurse Yott. For some reason, the young nurse had been able to tell immediately that Clara was sane. Why was it that no one at Willard could do the same? Clara had to believe that Nurse Yott had either changed her mind about mailing the letter, or had been caught somehow. Otherwise, Bruno would have come to rescue her by now. A dull, empty ache gnawed beneath her ribcage.

  “What were you just thinking, Clara?” Dr. Roach said, his voice deep and relaxed.

  “I was wondering how you expect to help patients if you never see them,” she said.

  His brow furrowed. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean,” he said.

  “I’ve been here five months and this is only my second appointment with you. The only other time I saw you was when I got in trouble.”

  He sat back in his chair, stroking the edges of his neatly trimmed goatee between his thumb and fingers. “We have over three thousand patients here at Willard,” he said. “Male and female. You can’t expect special treatment
now, can you? This isn’t the Long Island Home.”

  “I’m not asking for special treatment,” she said. “But you claim you want to help me. How can you help me if you never see me? I’m beginning to think the only thing Willard is good for is locking people away.”

  “This institution was founded on the belief that madness can be cured by a firm but humane hand, a safe haven from the stresses of life, rest, and regular work. You’re getting all of those things, aren’t you, Clara?”

  Clara shifted in her seat, her back screaming in pain. “First of all, I’m not mad. Second, this is not a safe haven from the stresses of life. I’m being kept here against my will. Is that supposed to make me feel peaceful and carefree?”

  “How can I relieve some of your stress, Clara?”

  “Release me. I’ve been here long enough. I’m sure even my father would agree.”

  Dr. Roach shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re wrong,” he said. “Your father is counting on me to cure you. Unfortunately, you haven’t said anything to show me that you’ve made progress.”

  “What do you want me to say? Tell me, and I’ll say it.”

  “Do you still believe your father sent you here to get rid of you?”

  Her shoulders dropped. “That’s the tenth time you’ve asked me that question.”

  “It’s my job to ask questions.”

  “But you twist my answers around to fit your preconceived notions of who I am. You’re convinced that just because I’m here, something is wrong with me!”

  “Just answer the question, please.”

  She took a deep breath and sighed loudly. “My father sent me here, that’s all I know. If you send me home, I’ll do whatever he wants.”

  “Are you saying you finally understand your father only wants what’s best?”

  She bit down on the inside of her cheek and nodded. Right now she’d agree to anything if it meant she would regain her freedom. Whatever happened when she got home would be better than being locked up. Dr. Roach scribbled on her chart, his forehead wrinkled in concentration. Then he looked up.