“So Susan thought her mother was dead,” Izzy said, her voice flat. “And crazy.”
Miss Trench shrugged. “I guess so,” she said.
“Don’t you think she had a right to know that her mother didn’t need to be locked up?” Izzy said, unable to hide her anger.
Miss Trench shook her head. She pulled a wrinkled tissue out of her sleeve, her thin fingers shaking. “I told you, I only saw Susan that one time. I kept tabs on her, but I didn’t think it was my place to get involved.”
“Do you know what her last name is now?” Izzy said. “Did she ever marry?”
“I don’t know,” Miss Trench said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Do you know her middle name?” Izzy said.
Miss Trench nodded. “It’s Clara,” she said. “Dr. Roach’s wife insisted she have something from her mother.”
“So what happened after Bruno and Clara found each other on Valentine’s Day?” Izzy said. “Did they spend the rest of their lives at Willard? Did they find ways to be together, like you said?”
Miss Trench wiped her nose with the tissue. “Well,” she said. “It might be best if you ask Clara about that. Her death certificate is missing from her file because she’s still alive.”
CHAPTER 24
IZZY
A week after meeting Miss Trench, Izzy sat opposite Peg in the fluorescent-flooded Ithaca Diner, jiggling her knee beneath the booth’s Formica table. It was noon and the eatery was crowded with college students, elderly couples, and families with young children. Waitresses called out orders, hurrying back and forth with trays full of patty melts, apple pie, root beer floats, and coffee. The bell over the entrance chimed and, for the hundredth time, Izzy craned her neck to look over the customers in the next booth, trying to see who was coming in the door. It was a short, old man wearing a blue veteran’s cap, and a woman in a yellow coat waddling into the diner like an overweight duck. Izzy sighed and picked up the saltshaker, turning it around and around in her fingers.
“Have you ever heard the expression ‘a watched pot never boils’?” Peg said. She sat forward and grinned.
“Maybe she changed her mind,” Izzy said.
“I doubt it,” Peg said. She looked at her watch. “I told her between noon and twelve-thirty. It’s only twelve ten.”
Just then, the waitress appeared, flushed and out of breath. She was young, maybe a couple years older than Izzy, her blond hair pulled into a ponytail. She pushed a stray bang behind her ear, took her pad out of her apron and smiled.
“What can I get ’cha?” she said.
“We’re waiting for someone,” Peg said. “We’ll just order our drinks for now, if that’s okay.”
The waitress glanced over her shoulder. “Okay, but is your friend going to be here soon? My boss doesn’t like it when people tie up the tables too long.”
Peg smiled. “She should be here any minute,” she said. “But I tell you what, the next time you come around, even if she’s not here yet, we’ll order.”
“Okay,” the waitress said. “What can I get ’cha to drink?”
Peg and Izzy ordered coffee and a Coke, waiting silently while the waitress wrote the simple order down. Finally, the waitress left, her ponytail bouncing. Izzy opened her mouth to say she thought it was rude of the owner to expect customers to hurry, when an elderly woman appeared at their table. She was tall and slender, with ebony eyes and a stylish bob of silver hair. Her long black coat and leather boots gave her an air of sophistication, and the lavender scarf around her neck matched the hint of eye shadow on her upper lids. Izzy’s breath caught in her chest. The woman was the split image of Clara, but with dark eyes and light caramel skin.
“Peg?” the woman said, her perfectly shaped brows arched.
Peg slid out of the booth and shook the woman’s hand. “Yes,” she said, smiling. “And you must be Susan. Thank you for coming.” She gestured toward the empty seat. “Please, sit down. I’ll sit over here with Izzy.”
Susan slid into the booth and loosened her scarf. “So you’re Isabelle?” she said, smiling.
Izzy nodded and shook Susan’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said, a nervous quiver in her voice. She touched her purse sitting on the cushion beside her, picturing Clara’s journal safely tucked inside. Her heartbeat picked up speed.
“So what’s this all about, Isabelle?” Susan said. “Your mother said you have something you want to show me. Something that has to do with where my father worked, Willard State?”
Izzy swallowed and sat up. “Yes, I . . .”
Just then, the bouncy waitress reappeared with Izzy’s and Peg’s drinks. She placed the drinks on the table and looked at Susan. “Can I get you something to drink while you look over the menu?” she said.
“Sure,” Susan said. “I’ll have a cup of hot tea, please. With lemon?”
“Comin’ right up,” the waitress said and left.
“Is it okay if I say a few things before we get started?” Peg asked Susan. “Maybe ask a couple questions. Just so there’s no misunderstanding?”
Susan smiled. “Certainly,” she said.
Peg cleared her throat. “I’m Isabelle’s foster mother,” she said. “Did I mention that?”
Susan’s brow furrowed and she looked confused. But then her face cleared and she said, “Yes, you told me that on the phone.”
“Unfortunately, Izzy recently lost her real mother.”
“Oh no,” Susan said, frowning. “I’m so sorry.” She considered Izzy, as if to reassure her. “I lost my mother too, right after I was born.”
“I know,” Izzy said. “And then you were adopted.” Peg cringed and gave Izzy a wide-eyed look. It was too soon. But Izzy couldn’t help it. The need to tell Susan the truth about Clara and Bruno made her feel like she was holding her finger in a light socket. She wiped her palms on her lap and sat on her hands.
“How could you know that?” Susan said. She gazed at Peg, her mouth in a thin line. “What’s going on here?”
“I’m sorry,” Peg said. “Izzy is a little anxious. But as I’d hoped, by telling you about Izzy’s mother, you confirmed the loss of your own.”
“Why didn’t you just ask?” Susan said. “I thought you wanted to know more about Willard and my father, Dr. Roach.”
“We’ll explain everything,” Peg said. “I promise. I just need to know a few things first.”
Susan sighed. “All right,” she said. “What do you want to know?”
“How much do you know about your biological mother?”
“Just what my adopted mother told me, that she was a patient at Willard.”
“That’s it?” Peg said.
“My father refused to let us talk about it,” Susan said. “My biological mother was one of his patients and she died giving birth to me, that’s all I know. About fifteen years ago, after my adoptive mother died, I tried to find my real mother’s records, even though I don’t know her full name. But I was denied access even though I’m a descendant of a former patient.” Susan shook her head, her forehead creased. “It just doesn’t make any sense to me. They won’t even tell me which grave my mother is in, so I can visit her.”
Izzy sat forward, her stomach fluttering. “Did you get along with your adoptive father?” she said.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Susan said, cocking her head.
Peg patted the table in front of Izzy, as if to tell her to hold on. “I think I know what Izzy’s getting at,” she said. “But let’s back up a bit.” She shot Izzy another be patient! glance, then continued on. “So you’ve always wanted to know more about your real mother?”
Susan shrugged. “Of course,” she said. “Doesn’t everyone want to know where they came from?” She clasped her manicured hands together on the edge of the table and sighed. “I’ll admit that when I was younger, I didn’t want to know anything about my real mother. The thought of her being mentally ill scared the heck out of me. As I got older, I realized how mu
ch that fear influenced my life decisions. My adoptive mother never understood why I didn’t want to get married and have children. But I didn’t know how to explain to her that it was because I was worried . . .”
“You’d pass along your mother’s genes,” Izzy said.
“That’s exactly right,” Susan said, her voice incredulous. “I have no idea what kind of DNA is in my bloodline. And I was afraid to ask my father. For the most part, he was very caring, but he had a short fuse sometimes. When I was old enough to ask questions, he flew into a rage, warning me not to ask about my real mother again. And I couldn’t ask my adoptive mother because she always obeyed him. Besides, I didn’t want to upset her, or hurt her feelings. She was always very fragile, physically and emotionally.”
“Do you still want to know about your real mother?” Peg said. “Even if it doesn’t exactly match what your father told you?”
Susan’s face went pale, her eyes locked on Peg’s. Just then, the waitress appeared with Susan’s tea, setting a white mug, a miniature silver teapot, and a dish full of lemon slices on the table, then digging around inside her apron for her pad and pen. Izzy groaned inside.
“Can we get just a few more minutes, please?” Peg said.
The waitress rolled her eyes and walked away.
“I don’t understand,” Susan said. “How could you know anything about my mother?”
Peg went on to explain her position at the museum, describing the Willard project and Izzy’s job cataloging the contents of the suitcases and steamer trunks. When Peg said they were given access to the patients’ records, Susan’s eyes went wide. She sat forward, hanging on to every word.
“Izzy knows a lot about your mother,” Peg said. “Even more than I do. She felt compelled to meet with you, to tell you the truth about what happened to your parents.”
Susan’s face dropped and she leaned back. “My parents?” she said, frowning. “My father didn’t know who my biological father was.”
Izzy took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But that’s not true. Dr. Roach knew everything.”
“What do you mean, everything?” Susan said. “Please, just tell me what you know.”
“First,” Peg said. “I want you to know that I don’t think your adoptive father intended to cause you or your biological mother any harm. Treatment of the insane was different back then, along with the definition of what it meant to be mentally ill. He was just doing what was expected of him at the time. As far as his reasons for admitting your real father to the asylum, we can’t be sure.”
“Are you telling me my real father was in Willard too?” Susan said, her chin quivering. She pressed her lips together, blinking back tears. “Thank God I listened to my instincts and never had children!”
“No,” Izzy said, shaking her head. “It’s not like that.” She reached across the table and laid her hand over Susan’s, surprised by the need to comfort someone she barely knew. With her other hand, she pulled a photo from her purse. “Let me show you something.” She slid the black-and-white snapshot across the table. “This is Clara Elizabeth Cartwright and Bruno Moretti,” she said, her voice catching. “Your parents. And trust me, they were not in sane.”
Susan leaned forward and picked up the photo with shaking fingers. “They’re beautiful,” she said, her voice filled with awe. She put a trembling hand to her lips.
“You look just like them,” Peg said.
“Bruno tried to get Clara out of Willard,” Izzy said. “That’s when they locked him up.”
“Why would they do that?” Susan said.
Peg glanced at Izzy. They had decided to hold off telling Susan their theory, that Dr. Roach admitted Bruno to prevent him from finding out he had taken Susan. It was too much, too soon. Besides, it was just a theory. “We’re not sure,” Peg said.
“Was he ever released?”
“We’re not sure what happened because we didn’t realize he was a patient,” Izzy said. “Otherwise, when we had access to the records, we would have looked for his too.”
“We might be allowed more time with the files,” Peg said. “But I highly doubt it.”
“Cartwright,” Susan said, tapping her chin. “I remember hearing that name. Henry Cartwright and his wife were killed in the Holland Tunnel fire. I was twenty at the time, but it was all over the news because he was a famous banker.”
“They were your grandparents,” Izzy said.
Susan’s brows shot up. “How could you know that?” she said.
Izzy took a deep breath, pulled the journal from her purse, and slid it across the table. “Because it’s all in here,” she said. “This is your mother’s diary.”
Susan gasped and touched the green leather with gentle fingers. She opened the journal to the first page, scanning the opening lines.
“We’d like you to have it,” Peg said.
After a long moment, Susan picked up the journal and held it to her chest. “Thank you so much,” she said, smiling through her tears. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.” She picked up the picture again, her lips trembling.
Izzy cleared her throat. “There’s one more thing,” she said, her heart ready to burst. “Your mother didn’t die giving birth to you. When Willard closed last year, she was transferred to a nursing home, right here in Ithaca.”
Susan dropped the picture and clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes like saucers.
“And after you read her journal,” Izzy said, “we were wondering if you’d like to go see her.”
CHAPTER 25
IZZY AND CLARA
Orange turkeys and black-hatted pilgrims decorated the windows and walls of the Ithaca nursing home, even though Thanksgiving was over three weeks away. Izzy followed Peg and Susan through the oven-warm halls, parading behind a young nurse in pink scrubs. Beads of sweat broke out on Izzy’s forehead. She took off her coat and threw it over one arm, wishing she’d worn a thinner shirt. The air was thick with the stale aroma of chicken soup, boiled potatoes, disinfectant, and urine. An old man shuffled toward them, his gnarled hands gripping two four-legged canes, his age-spotted head shaking above his thin-skinned neck. Izzy kept her eyes straight ahead, trying to ignore the hospital beds and metal walkers inside the rooms, the white-haired women sitting in wheelchairs, their eyes locked on blaring TVs.
She cursed under her breath, frustrated that the nursing home reminded her of her mother lying in the prison hospital. She licked her lips, discovering they were salty from perspiration. The world was full of broken people, and all the hospitals and institutions and jails could never mend their fractured hearts, wounded minds, and trampled spirits. Izzy took a deep breath and pushed the thought from her head, deciding instead to concentrate on Clara and Susan. At the very least, she could be happy and proud of herself for trying to right this wrong, for trying to heal one broken heart.
If the woman they were about to see was really Clara Elizabeth Cartwright.
Until earlier, in the nursing home parking lot, when Susan confided she wasn’t entirely convinced the woman was her mother, Izzy had been certain Miss Trench knew what she was talking about. Now, she was starting to have doubts. Like Susan said, over the years, mistakes could have been made. Like other large institutions, Willard’s files could have gotten mixed up, names could have been misspelled. Just because a former nurse said this woman was Clara Elizabeth Cartwright didn’t make it true. Thousands of women had passed through Willard during the last sixty years, and there was always the chance that one of them had the same last name. There were too many possibilities of mistaken identity to just assume they’d found Susan’s mother. Susan said she was struggling, trying not to get her hopes up. And she wanted to be sure before they told anyone, even the nursing home staff.
Finally, the young nurse stopped outside a doorway and turned to face them, her pink scrubs like neon beneath the fluorescent lights. Pulling at the collar of her shirt, Izzy felt on the verge of suffocation.
“Clara is
a sweet soul,” the nurse said. “And I’m sure she’ll be happy and surprised to have company. But I have to warn you. Sometimes her memory goes in and out and she can get moody when she gets confused. The doctors believe she’s in the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s. I know you’re here to ask her about her time at Willard, but if it gets to be too much for her, I’ll ask you to leave. If she tells you she has a daughter, just agree with her. She gets pretty upset if anyone tries to tell her any different.”
Susan gasped softly, her hand flying to her chest. The young nurse smiled and led them through the open door.
Inside the small, airless room, two hospital beds sat opposite wall-mounted televisions. The televisions were off, their screens black. An old woman slept in the first bed, her mouth open, strands of stringy, gray hair lying across her weathered face. The nurse walked past the first bed and stopped at the foot of the second, directing their attention toward a shriveled woman in a chair, facing the window.
The woman’s pink-lidded eyes were closed, her head back, her fine hair like mist in the shaft of sunlight coming in through the glass. Her crooked fingers curled around the ends of the armrests, the fan of thin bones in her age-spotted hands sticking out like ribs. A red blanket covered her legs, despite the room being thick with heat.
“Is she asleep?” Peg whispered.
The nurse shook her head. “No,” she said. “She’s just a little hard of hearing.” She raised her voice. “Clara, look! You have visitors!”
Clara blinked and opened her eyes. She leaned forward and turned to look, holding the arm of the chair with both hands to stay steady. Her lips disappeared into her mouth, her pale skin wizened by decades of pain and heartache. She considered their faces one by one, her petite head wavering ever so slightly.
The nurse hurried toward her. “Let’s turn your chair around so you can talk with these nice ladies,” she said in a loud voice. She picked up a set of false teeth and handed them to Clara, who pushed them into her mouth, making her lips reappear. “They want to ask you about Willard. Isn’t that nice? You remember Willard, don’t you?”
What She Left Behind Page 33
