Izzy tried to smile and the nurse finally left. Trying to figure out where to begin, Izzy held the bed railing to keep from falling over. Bolted to the bed’s metal footboard, a heavy chain traveled beneath the blanket near her mother’s feet. The absurdity of chaining a comatose patient to a bed briefly crossed Izzy’s mind. Barring a miracle, her mother wasn’t going anywhere. She lay still as a stone, her pale arms at her sides, her palms down, her long, slender fingers like ivory against the blue blanket. Piano-playing hands, Izzy’s grandmother used to call them. Izzy thought about reaching down to hold her mother’s hand, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Besides the fact that she didn’t know if touching an inmate was allowed, she was afraid to touch her mother’s skin. She hated herself for feeling that way, but it was true. Just like touching the contents of the Willard suitcases made her legs feel rubbery, so did the thought of touching someone in a coma. Even her own mother.
She wiped her cheeks and took a deep breath.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I made a mistake. I didn’t read your letters until it was too late.” She swallowed her sobs, struggling to speak. One second she felt like crying hysterically, the next she wanted to punch something, angry that life had turned out this way. For a split second, she wondered if the other inmates could hear her. Then she decided she didn’t care. “Please forgive me for not coming to see you, Mommy. I was stupid and stubborn and scared. I thought there was something wrong with you. I forgot what Daddy did. Now I know the truth. I know you sacrificed your life for mine.” She hung her head, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “I just want you to know I never stopped loving you.”
It was too much. She fell into the chair, shoulders convulsing. If only she’d read her mother’s letters sooner. If only she’d visited, she might have realized her mother wasn’t crazy. All these years, she would have had someone to talk to, someone who loved her, even if that someone was behind bars. The one time Izzy tried asking her grandmother what happened, her grandmother started crying. And seven-year-old Izzy, not wanting to upset the only person she had left, never brought it up again. Three short years later, her grandmother was gone.
Then Izzy remembered Clara’s daughter. If she survived, she’d probably gone through life thinking the same thing—her mother was locked away because she was crazy. Izzy stood. If Clara’s daughter was alive, she deserved to know the truth; she had to read Clara’s journal. Now, more than ever, Izzy was determined to find out what happened to her, and if possible, let her know her mother wasn’t crazy.
Now all Izzy had to do was say good-bye to her own mother. More than anything, she wanted to feel her mother’s arms around her, hugging her tight, letting her know she was loved no matter what. But that wasn’t going to happen. Izzy glanced at the guard to see if she was watching. The guard was leaning back in her chair, reading a magazine. Izzy took a deep breath, kissed her fingers, then gently pressed them to her mother’s cheek.
“I want you to know that I’m going to be okay,” she said. “I’m strong and I have people who care about me. I love you, Mommy. I always did and always will. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” She tried to think of something else to say, but her organs felt like they were swelling, looking for an escape, like an overheated boiler ready to burst. Just then, the nurse entered the room, wiggling her finger to let Izzy know her time was up. There was only one other thing to say. “Good-bye, Mommy.”
CHAPTER 20
CLARA
Willard
Valentine’s Day, 1932
Spiraling white streamers and red paper hearts hung from the ceiling in Hadley Hall, stirring slightly as patients shuffled and swayed beneath them. The final, scratchy melodies of “All Alone” filled the air while Nurse May stood next to the phonograph, rocking and singing to herself, keeping a watchful eye on the dancing couples. Several dozen patients watched from the sidelines, strapped to wooden chairs with attached tables, slumped in wheelchairs, leaning on crutches and canes. Nurse Trench threaded her way through the patients on the dance floor, making sure they stayed the required distance apart. Orderlies sat around the perimeter of the room in folding chairs, near the windows and doors, ready to step in if anyone got out of line. The patients, orderlies, and nurses wore red tissue paper boutonnières and corsages, made by the patients during arts and crafts.
Clara sat on a bench at the foot of the stage, glancing at the main entrance again and again, hoping and praying more male patients would show up and Bruno would be among them. It had only been a month since she’d earned extra privileges—now she could participate in arts and crafts, and attend concerts and movies in Hadley Hall—but this was the first time she’d been to an event for both male and female patients. Now, she dared hope against hope that she would see Bruno again. She had to believe he had done his best to cooperate, to earn and maintain what little freedom Willard patients were allowed. If not, the chances of them finding each other and escaping were slim to none.
The only thing that kept her going during the last ten months, the only thought that kept her from becoming truly insane, was remembering that Bruno was somewhere at Willard. It seemed reasonable to believe that, by now, he had been put to work in the rail yard or blacksmith’s shop, in the orchards or the hayfields, the stables or dairy, or one of the shops that manufactured shoes, brooms, or soap. Hopefully, his job involved working outside. If she could return to her job in the kitchen, they could meet at the compost pile. He could open the gate and they could run into the woods.
During every walk, on every trip to the bathroom, the cafeteria, the sewing room, at every chance to look out a window, she searched for him. When she saw a group of male patients walking along the lakeshore, working by the dock, or hauling supplies from the trains, she scanned every figure, hoping she would recognize the way one of them walked, or a familiar head of dark hair. So far, she hadn’t seen him, but she had to believe the day would come. Otherwise, what was the point?
She had given up hope a long time ago that her father would release her. Seven months earlier, Dr. Roach had indicated he and Henry were in agreement; she might never be ready to return to society. After that, her sessions with Dr. Roach stopped completely. Nevertheless, she refused to believe she’d spend the rest of her life locked up inside Willard, day after day spent among the insane, nothing more than a number among the throngs of thrown-away wives, mothers, sisters, and daughters. Bruno had promised they would find a way out and she had to believe it. She had to. There was no alternative. And yet, there were times when she wanted to give up and give in. She wanted to stop thinking rationally, to let herself fall into a deep pit of despair so she wouldn’t have to feel anymore. But she couldn’t do that. She owed it to Beatrice and Bruno to keep her wits about her.
She shuddered to think what might have happened if Bruno hadn’t gotten her letter, if he hadn’t tried to rescue her. Surely, she would have lost her mind by now. On one hand, she was beyond grateful. On the other, the guilt that he was locked up in an institution because of her was almost too much to bear. Every time the thought crossed her mind that something horrible might have happened to him—maybe he had died from tuberculosis or been chained to a bed inside the Rookie Pest House—her chest felt hollow and cold, as if her lungs and heart were gone and she would drop dead at any second.
She had no idea what happened to him after that horrible day in Dr. Roach’s office, but she prayed it was no worse than what had happened to her. She had been taken to a special ward, where, every day for two months, she was given repeated insulin injections until she fell into a coma. She remembered sweating profusely, twitching and moaning, drooling until she lost consciousness. Eventually, the nurses brought her out of the coma with intravenous glucose, then occupied her with board games and map reading in an attempt to prevent hypoglycemic shock. At the end of two months, she was sent to the infirmary to recover.
Three weeks later, she returned to her job in the sewing room. At times, her vision was still
fuzzy, her thoughts confused. She had trouble concentrating. Taking the nurse’s advice to get rid of the aftereffects of insulin by using her brain as much as possible, she sang childhood songs in her head until her mind cleared.
Now, she watched Esther waltzing with a heavyset man wearing high pants and suspenders, both of them looking down at their feet. Esther was wearing her flowered housedress, and it looked like she was leading. Eight months earlier, Dr. Roach had determined Esther was free of her tendency toward “hostility” and had given her extra privileges. Because Esther had told Clara the men were always seated on opposite sides of Hadley Hall during concerts and movies, Clara was shocked when she realized males and females were allowed to dance together on special occasions.
On the other side of the room, Madeline stood near the refreshment table, putting her hands in the punch bowl. A nurse slapped Madeline’s wrist, telling her to stop. According to Esther, Madeline’s great uncle had offered to take Madeline in, and she had been released from Willard while Clara was receiving insulin treatment. A few weeks later, Madeline was back at Willard, unable to remember her name or where she was from. She had stopped talking, apart from crying for her lost babies. As Clara watched, a limping male patient pulled Madeline onto the dance floor. Madeline wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him close, burying her face in his neck. Nurse Trench hurried over to separate them.
Clara gripped the edge of the bench, digging her nails into the wood while Gene Austin sang “My Blue Heaven.” This isn’t heaven, Clara thought. This is hell. Granted, after being locked in a ward she was relieved to have privileges. But this was the first holiday party she had attended, and it was almost more than she could bear. Seeing the patients of Willard dancing and celebrating as if they were living normal lives, as if they had a real chance at finding true love or happiness, made her want to run out the door screaming.
For every smiling patient on the dance floor, two more looked on with blank faces. Some hobbled and jerked, unable to sway in time to the music. The number of patients in wheelchairs outnumbered those on their feet by three to one. Most gazed around the room with open, drooling mouths, their wrists bent toward their chests, their hands hanging limp and useless. Somehow, this was what their lives had become. What her life had become. It was enough to drive her mad.
She was just about to get up and go over to the refreshment table when someone tapped her on the shoulder. She stiffened. It would be the third request to dance, two by the same man. She smiled and turned, steeling herself to say no again. But then, her breath caught in her chest.
The man had a thick mustache and dark beard, a few gray strands lining the hair above his ears. His nose was slightly crooked, as if it had been broken several times. He looked like a mountain man, wild and disheveled. Clara’s heart fluttered in fear. He reached out to take her hand, and she stood and started walking away. Then he spoke.
“Hello, Bella Clara,” he said, his accented voice deep.
She spun around, biting her lip to stifle a cry, then rushed toward Bruno, hands outstretched.
“Don’t,” he said. “They’ll wonder what’s going on and come over.”
She dropped her arms and tried to breathe normally, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed. Nurse Trench was separating two women trying to dance together, her red face contorted. Nurse May was looking through the gramophone records, trying to decide what to play next. She slid a black disc from its paper casing, placed it on the phonograph, and set the needle on the edge. Ethel Waters’s voice filled the room, singing “Am I Blue?” Clara’s heart beat so fast she could barely speak. “What if they recognize you?” she managed.
“They won’t,” he said. “I’ve been sitting across the room the entire time.”
“Are you sure?” she said.
“Yes,” he said, taking her hand. “I waited awhile to approach you so they wouldn’t get suspicious. Like all patients, I’m invisible unless I start trouble.”
He led her out to the dance floor and, keeping the required distance between them, put a hand on the side of her waist, his palm like a hot iron pressing through her cotton dress. Just being near him she felt herself growing warm, after months of feeling so cold and alone her skeleton felt shriveled. She lifted her eyes to his, forcing her quivering lips into a smile.
“I’ve been looking for you,” she said, blinking back tears. “Every day.” She searched his face, drinking in his familiar chestnut eyes, his long, dark lashes. He gazed over her shoulder, watching the nurses and orderlies.
“Don’t look at me,” he said in a quiet voice. “You don’t know me, remember?”
She pulled her eyes from his and looked at the walls, the other patients, the orderlies. Everything was out of focus. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just . . .”
“I know.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m happy to see you too.”
“What happened to you?” she said. “You know, after they took you out of Dr. Roach’s office?”
“I was in isolation for three months,” he said.
“Oh my God,” she said. She pressed her lips together and hung her head. “I’m so sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “What matters is here and now. You and me. And what we’re going to do to get out of here.”
“When?” she said, lifting her eyes to his. She couldn’t help it. She had to look at him. All of a sudden, she felt light-headed.
“Soon,” he said. He gave her side a quick squeeze, as if he could feel her tensing. “Relax and listen to me. I’m working with the gravedigger, building coffins and forging grave markers. We’ve got access to the tunnels beneath Chapin Hall. That’s where they keep the coffins, in a storage area next to the morgue. Once we decide when we’re going to do this, you need to find a way to get down to those tunnels. There’s a sign—”
“How am I supposed to do that?” she said, panic tightening her throat.
“I don’t know,” he said. “For now, just listen. Let me tell you everything first. Then we’ll figure out your side of the plan. Once you’re in the tunnels, follow the signs to the morgue. The storage room is across the hall. Hide inside one of the coffins. Lawrence and I will carry you out.”
“The gravedigger?”
“Yes.”
They moved around the dance floor, turning in slow circles, the blur of faces behind Bruno’s head making her dizzy.
“He won’t tell on us?” she said, gripping his shoulder tighter.
“No,” he said. Just then, Nurse Trench strolled past, her red lips in a determined line. Clara dropped her chin, certain Nurse Trench would read the truth in her eyes. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead and her knees started jerking up and down. Nurse Trench checked the space between them, put a plank-thick hand on their shoulders, and pushed them farther apart.
“Too close,” she said.
When Nurse Trench turned to move on to the next couple, Clara thought she might not fall into a heap on the floor after all. Then Nurse Trench stopped and stood in one spot for what seemed like eternity, narrowed eyes darting back and forth between their faces. Clara felt her bowels turn to water. Nurse Trench had recognized Bruno. For a split second, everything went black. Then Clara swallowed, forcing herself to look at Nurse Trench.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she said, her lips twitching as she tried to smile. “Thank you for throwing this lovely party.”
Frowning, Nurse Trench stared at Bruno, studying his face. Bruno took on the expression of someone in a trance, swaying and staring at a paper heart above Clara’s head.
“Humph,” Nurse Trench said, pursing her red lips. Then she gave Clara a stern look, nodded once, and moved on. “Just watch yourselves,” she said as she left.
Clara let out a trembling sigh, her legs nearly buckling beneath her.
“Are you all right?” Bruno said.
Clara tried to find her voice. “She recognized you!” she whispered.
Bruno shook his head. �
��She would have called the orderlies over.”
Clara tried to breathe normally, watching Nurse Trench stop beside the next couple. “I don’t know,” she said. “It seemed like . . . like she was warning us to be careful or something.”
“She was warning us to stay apart while we danced,” Bruno said. “That’s all. Now listen to me. I need to finish telling you the plan.”
Clara took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Maybe Bruno was right. Nurse Trench would have called the orderlies or taken her and Bruno to Dr. Roach. Instead, she continued checking the dancing couples, acting as if nothing was wrong. “Okay,” Clara said, trying to stop shaking. “I’m listening.”
“Lawrence lives in an old shack on the other side of the cedar grove.”
She nodded. “I’ve seen it,” she said.
“We’ll hide there until nightfall, then sneak down to the lake, where a boat will be waiting.”
“A boat?”
“Yes. A few years ago, Lawrence found an old rowboat in the cedar grove. It was half rotten and covered with a layer of pine needles and leaves. But I’ve patched up the hull and fashioned some oars out of the wood we use to make coffins.”
“Is it safe?”
“We’ll find out, won’t we?”
Clara nodded. Then she remembered it was February and her stomach dropped. The lake was frozen. They’d have to wait until spring. But now that the chance to escape had been planted in her mind, she didn’t think she could wait that long. She couldn’t stand another day of being locked up inside Willard, let alone two more months. Given the chance, she’d try to escape this very minute. If she and Bruno had to wait until spring, if they had to hold out until the lake thawed, she might go crazy with apprehension. And besides, what if something happened between now and then? What if one of them got sick, or thrown into isolation? What then?
“When?” she said, holding her breath.
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