The Back Building

by Julie Dewey

  Propped on its back side and opened before me was a small brown leather suitcase. Inside it were the contents that would presumably belong to a small girl. Neatly folded one on top of the other were nightgowns, underwear, socks, two skirts and their corresponding blouses. Beside them was a bible, a decaying toothbrush, a hairbrush, and faded ribbon. There was a small sewing kit, two small needles and two spools of thread. There were no scissors. A pair of hand-knit indoor slippers sat on top of the clothing and a blanket was on top of the toiletries. Tucked in the side was a set of pretty stationery and a pen.

  The name beside the suitcase read Iona Meuller. We had found my grandmother’s belongings.

  Overcome with emotion, I reached out to touch my grandmother’s personal effects. Craig caught my hand and asked that I only look at the objects. The items weren’t meant to be disturbed and I understood that. He showed me photographs of each item individually and offered to make copies as well.

  “May we have the suitcase, Craig?” I asked boldly.

  “It’s interesting, Shirley, years ago we tried to track down family members of the patients so that the cases could be claimed. However, in most cases no one was interested. Either the patient was such a blight on the family that succeeding generations didn't know of their existence, or family members had died. I will put your request in writing and discuss it with the board. I believe you should have this. However, it is part of a collection now, and an important part of our history.”

  “Yes, but looking at the other suitcases, Iona’s is so simple. She doesn’t have anything really personal inside. It looks like she didn’t pack it herself.” I said.

  “I would concur. It was most likely packed by her mother. If a child of fifteen packed it I would expect to see a different assortment of items, maybe a doll or some trinkets and a diary. Not necessarily sewing needles and thread.”

  “It certainly gives us a lot to think about and discuss. Thank you, Craig, for handling a piece of our family’s history with such dignity.”

  “You are most welcome, ladies. I will let you know what the board decides.”

  Walking away from Iona’s suitcase was cathartic. Her contents did not display the woman we knew she had become. Rather it indicated what her mother wanted her to become. Perhaps the suitcase was better left with the collection, for it didn’t represent Iona as we knew her anyway.

  Cat was another story. Her suitcase was not among the collection and her name was not listed among the patients residing at the asylum. Although Marlin was persistent, the health department was adamant that there was no such person at Willard.

  We presumed from the letters we read that Cat was a nick-name, but were never able to deduce a full name for the woman that would have been my great aunt. Delving into the bundles of correspondence became our priority in the succeeding days.

  It was evident from the letters that Cat only had the education of a primary student. Conversely, Iona and Jennifer were both extremely well read and written. Iona detailed Daniel’s growth and features as best she could to her friend. She detailed his first steps, his first words, and his likes and dislikes. She even included an imprint of his foot that she dipped in dye and stamped directly on the paper. Daniel was not a fussy baby and grew to be a strong, happy boy. His hair was fiery red, like Cat’s, and he had her eyes as well. Iona included pencil drawings of Daniel whenever she sent a letter, and Cat always thanked her for doing so.

  Cat’s letters were short and concise and included drawings of her own that she labeled the back building. She did not live so much as exist in a world of torment. She often talked of her fears and drew pictures depicting them. One such letter had an image of the ghost that she claimed roamed the halls where she resided. Another had a drawing of a four-sided cage with the word ‘bad’ written above it. Another image depicted a person being shackled to their bed, this time she wrote the word ‘Cat’. It was in that particular letter that she also wrote the word ‘die’. It was her wish to be put out of her misery. As time went on her letters were even more pathetic. She described a fear of the back building, where patients were taken in shackles, never to return.

  The final letter in the pile from Cat was a sympathy letter. In it the administrator from the Willard Asylum indicated that Cat had passed away peacefully in her sleep. We highly doubted that but would never know now.

  “Do you suppose she is buried there?” Marlin asked.

  “I bet she is. I have read a great deal about the caretaker there. He was a man named Lawrence Marek. He was both the gravedigger and grounds keeper for over thirty years.”

  “Do you want to take a drive there? It’s only about an hour away.”

  “Yes I would like that very much,” Marlin said.

  “Well then, we’ll leave in the morning. We can grab some flowers on the way and pay our respects,” I suggested.

  ***

  When we arrived at the cemetery we were immediately taken aback. The sign that greeted us indicated that over five thousand, seven hundred and seventy-six souls from Willard were laid to rest here. Patients with no family to claim them were often laid to rest on the grounds, as were patients whose families lacked the funds to transport their bodies home. Additionally, patients whose families were too ashamed to claim them allowed them to be laid to rest where they resided.

  The land was less like a cemetery and more like a large farmer’s field. There were few memorial plaques but we were able to find unmarked graves that lay in the ground and were recognized only from their number.

  “It’s hard to believe we are standing on the ground where over five thousand people lay at rest. This is horrible. We need to do something about this,” Marlin said as tears streamed down her face.

  “How are we supposed to find Cat without a marker of any kind, not even a head-stone?” Camille chimed in.

  “It’s so sad. There is no other word. Regardless of whether or not the people who died here were mentally ill, they deserve proper memorials. The fact that they are disregarded is just wrong on every level,” I said.

  A woman approached us from the far corner of the field. She told us she was a volunteer for the Willard Cemetery Memorial Project, a group with good intentions to clean up the cemetery and restore it, complete with place markers and a listing of patients’ names. She explained the appeals process she was going through with the Mental Health Department so that the deceased patients’ names could be released. She walked us to a large boulder that was placed where Lawrence Merak’s shack use to be. She told us the story of the gravedigger and the lengths they went to petition for a marker for him.

  “Well, I suppose that’s progress then if they allowed you to mark his home with this boulder.”

  “We aren’t legally allowed to put his name on it, and if we do, I can be thrown in jail. So we have still have a long way to go.”

  “Well, we are happy to help,” Marlin said, determined to stay a few weeks longer and help tidy the grounds. She even promised to raise funds for some new trees and pretty bushes.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Jenna

  Jenna went from being a sweet and ordinary little girl who loved to play dress up and dolls, to a tormented child. The ghosts that haunted her, the eyeballs that surrounded her wherever she went and told her what to do ruled her life now. The eyeballs appeared out of nowhere, they were hidden in the walls or the upholstery of the couch she sat on. They stared at her when she lay in bed at night and woke her up first thing in the morning. The voices were everywhere too. The high pitched little girl voice that loved desserts and movies, and the older male voice that scolded her for eating, never left her. She spoke to them too. They had a language that only they understood. She was riddled with anxiety and lived in chronic fear most likely as a result of the apparitions.

  “She will require life-long maintenance in order to symptomatically manage and prevent the psychosis from reoccurring. I do believe the ECT therapy helped her case. Just last month her mood
swings were more frequent and dire. When she became manic she had wild hallucinations that people were trying to poison her and do her harm everywhere she went. That has ceased. She is still fearful and confused at times, but we are still working on her medication. There are other anti-psychotics we can try if we need to. We can couple medications too, try different combinations and find what works for her. It’s not uncommon to transition from one med to the next every few years. Some of the medications can raise blood sugar and pressure levels, so we will watch that too.”

  “Will she ever lead a normal life, Dr. Saul?” Camille asked.

  “I can’t say for certain. On the plus side we have caught and assessed this early. While other pediatric psychologists are reluctant to diagnose bipolar schizophrenia in adolescence because of the stigma, I think it gave us an advantage. We know what we are up against now and how to treat it. If we are vigilant with Jenna’s care and keep her symptoms managed, she may be able to live normally, yes. Of course we have to remain alert at all times.”

  “What about her education? Do they have schools for children like Jenna?”

  “Part of Jenna’s residential treatment program will include schooling. She will be bussed, with an aide, to a therapeutic day school. The staff is equipped to deal with mental illness of all kinds. You don’t know how lucky you are, having a school and residential facility so close is rare.”

  “I wouldn’t say we were lucky, but I know what you mean.”

  “She’s not alone. Ten percent of the teens in the United States are dealing with some form of mental illness right now. If we can work to reduce the stigma that hovers above the term, we can save our children.”

  “Are they ready for her?” I asked, knowing Jenna would be getting antsy about starting her new journey.

  “Yes they are. They have a bed ready and waiting, and a place set for her at the dinner table. You are welcome to stay for the meal and I encourage you to do so.”

  Jenna said goodbye to her favorite nurses aide and came towards my daughter and me. She held Camille’s hand, a good sign, and we got in the car together. My granddaughter was afraid of her own shadow now. She was a mere fraction of her former self. She was afraid to eat and battled her demons most often at mealtime. However, when we arrived at the facility we were greeted with warmth and my mind was set at ease. The aide that came to meet us was gentle and kind. She connected with Jenna right away and helped her get situated in her room. She toured her around the home and asked her if there were any particular books she wished to read. They made weekly trips to the library and could get them next time for her.

  When the dinner bell rang, several other children, ranging in age from eleven to sixteen, approached the dining room. Jenna was placed next to a boy with long shaggy hair and a lip ring. He was the oldest child in the home, but introduced himself to Jenna right away to make her feel welcome. It wasn’t my business what his disorder was but I knew that among the kids residing here, there was sure to be those with severe anxiety, depression, bipolar, ADHD, PTSD, multiple personality disorder and schizophrenia. There would be those that wished to harm themselves or Jenna. Placing trust in such a situation took every ounce of strength I had.

  Jenna was instructed along with the other kids to clasp her hands in the prayer position before the meal. Together the kids recited grace and anyone with difficulty calming down was instructed to close their eyes and take deep breaths while counting to one hundred.

  Jenna was served a simple meal of chicken and biscuits, with vegetables on the side. She nibbled at the chicken, but dipped her biscuit into the gravy and ate more than half of it. She glanced around the table to assess the situation. I noticed that she kept swatting at her knee, the eyeballs were surely appearing in her skin telling her what to do. But she was controlling them, she was taking charge and holding her own.

  Leaving Jenna was more challenging for my daughter and me, than it was for her. She did hug us goodbye and then a peculiar thing happened, she smiled. It was fleeting but it was there and my daughter and I both felt it. Her aide approached her and together they chose a TV show to watch before bedtime. The facility followed a strict schedule and believed routine was the key to the children’s success.

  “She’s safe,” I said when my daughter and I piled into the car.

  Instead of going home, we went to a bar. I knocked back a shot of cherry flavored vodka and Camille had a rum and coke.

  To say relief washed over me and that my breath found a rhythm again when Jenna smiled would be like saying the sky was blue. I didn’t realize how much I was holding in. I didn’t recognize the constriction in my chest until it was gone and I could fill my lungs once again. The vodka stung my throat and warmed my chest. I ordered another.

  We didn’t ask for this life. But we are becoming versed in how to cope with what we have been given. Through the trials and tribulations we have learned to embrace the joyous moments when they present themselves. We appreciate the smallest gestures, the kindness of strangers, the expertise of professionals, and the support of loved ones.

  I used to say flippant things all the time like, “that’s insane”, “you’re crazy”, or don’t be a “psychopath”. However, now I choose my words more carefully so that I don’t undermine the disease of mental illness that crippled my grandmother and now my granddaughter. If we can replace the stigmas with compassion, patience, and general kindness then maybe afflicted individuals like Jenna and Noah, Iona and Cat, may feel more safe and at ease in the world.

  If you like this book and would like to join my mailing list for new releases please visit my website www.juliedewey.com

  Julie Dewey is a novelist residing in Central New York with her family. Julie selects book topics that are little known nuggets of U.S. history and sheds light on them so that the reader not only gets an intriguing storyline but learns a little something too.

  In addition to reading, researching, and writing, Julie has many hobbies that include jewelry design, decorating, walking her favorite four legged friends, Wells and Hershey, and spending time with her triplet nephews.

  Her works include Forgetting Tabitha: the Story of an Orphan Train Rider, The Back Building, One Thousand Porches, The Other Side of the Fence, and Cat (the Livin' Large Series). To follow Julie visit www.juliedewey.com and sign up to get regular updates and reading guides.