“I’m looking for my husband, Levi Yardley. I think he may have been a patient here.”
“Please come in.” The young nurse opened the door wider and stepped aside.
“No,” Bertha said, to my utter relief. “No, I’d prefer to stay here if that’s all right.” She pulled out the photograph of her husband. “If you could take a look at this and tell me, I’ll be on my way.”
The nurse frowned. “Very well. If you’ll stay a moment, I will ask Nurse Simmons to assist you.” Bertha nodded.
The man who had waved to us rose from his chair and shuffled toward the open door.
“No, Henry. It’s not time to come in yet. Go back to your chair,” the nurse said. Henry, without uttering a word, turned around, still wiggling his fingers about in front of him, and headed back to his rocker. The woman, satisfied Henry wouldn’t follow, turned and disappeared into the first doorway on the right.
“I hope it’s all right by you, Miss Davish, but if I don’t have to step foot in this place, I’d rather not.”
“It’s more than all right, Bertha. It’s sound judgment. And please call me Hattie.” She nodded, but her smile quickly vanished. “Are you well, Hattie? You look a bit pale.”
“I’m fine.” I smiled, remembering all the times I’d told Walter the very same thing. Of course, he knew better.
“Hello, I’m Nurse Simmons.” This nurse was also in her early twenties, with shiny blond hair, wide-set blue eyes, and teeth too big for her mouth. “The duty nurse said you were inquiring about your husband, Mrs. Yardley?”
“Yes,” Bertha said, showing the nurse the photograph. “Was he a patient here?” The nurse didn’t even give the photograph a glance.
“Yes, Mrs. Yardley, your husband was a patient here.”
“Was?”
“Yes, I’m afraid to say he is no longer with us.”
“No longer with us? Oh my God! Are you saying my husband’s dead?” Bertha cried, squeezing my arm.
“No, no, Bertha, I think she means he escaped,” I said, patting her hand.
“Oh!” Bertha sighed in relief.
The nurse seemed a bit taken aback by my statement. It hadn’t been a question. “Yes, I’m afraid you’re right. And you are?”
“Miss Hattie Davish.”
“Well, Miss Davish and Mrs. Yardley, Mr. Yardley is currently the subject of a citywide search. He escaped a week ago and is considered possibly dangerous. He was admitted for mental excitement in the first place.”
“By whom?” Bertha asked. “He’s been a little anxious lately, yes, but nothing he hasn’t been able to cope with before.”
“Many patients find it hard to reveal the truth, even to their loved ones, but Mr. Yardley had been seeing the doctor for several weeks before he was admitted to the asylum.”
“Who was the doctor?” I asked. “How can you admit someone without gaining permission from the family, let alone notifying them?” This is exactly what had happened to my father. After suffering from illness for months at home, he was finally beginning to recover. And then one day, without my knowledge or permission, Father was admitted to this place. He lasted but a few days in here.
“Mr. Yardley admitted himself, voluntarily,” Nurse Simmons said.
“Then why did he escape?” I asked. The nurse had nothing to say.
The smell of carbolic acid, urine, and the metallic scent of blood accosted me every time I stepped foot in the room. I felt ashamed holding a handkerchief to my nose. I peered over the stooped figure of the doctor to see the lump beneath the sheets in my father’s bed. The doctor raised his arm, holding a shiny steel syringe with a six-inch needle attached. I gasped at the sight. Startled, he dropped the syringe and swiveled around to face me.
“You shouldn’t be here, Miss Davish,” he said. “Your father’s very unwell.”
I glanced at the table beside his bed. The silver tray my mother used to use for special occasions was crowded with a full pitcher of water, a partially filled glass of water, brown glass bottles with cork stoppers and white paper labels glued to the front, and unlabeled glass tubes filled with blue pills. And then I saw what was on the washstand: a metal bowl filled with dark, bloody water and partially submerged steel instruments of what purpose I couldn’t imagine.
“Yes,” I said. “And he seems to be getting worse.”
Several months ago, my father began complaining of headaches. Soon he was waking, shouting in the night, his forehead damp and his body shaking. When I’d ask what was ailing him, he’d say, “I’m fine.” When I asked if he was dreaming of his time in the war, he’d tell me, “Go back to bed, Hattie.” I could only guess what had occurred to trigger some distant memory that haunted him now in his sleep. I was concerned for him but as he rose every morning as if nothing had happened, I went about my daily life as usual. Until one day, after several weeks of nightly terrors, he refused to rise from his bed. Except for the day we buried my mother, it was the only day in my life that he’d not gone to the shop. With the help of the housekeeper, I was able to nurse him while still attending Mrs. Chaplin’s school, until the day I came home to find a doctor examining my father. I never learned how he knew to come by. When I asked, Father turned his head away and the doctor didn’t deem it necessary to explain anything to a seventeen-year-old girl. He came twice a day for three days, each time insisting that my father should “get the help he needed.” My father would thrash in his bed, yelling, “Never, never.” For the first time in my life I was frightened of my father and for my father. When the doctor left, Father would grab my hand, sometimes squeezing it too hard.
“Remember, we’re not quitters, you and me. I’ll get better, but I have to stay out of that wretched place. Promise you won’t let them take me.” I had no idea what place he was talking about. I assumed he meant the hospital.
“I promise.”
When my father continued to refuse to leave his home, the doctor arranged for a special doctor to visit, Dr. Hillman, one who had more experience in “this type of mind disease.” When I’d asked what he meant, he’d merely patted my head, and said, “Poor child.” Dr. Hillman had continued to arrive in place of the first doctor from that day on. I couldn’t see how his experience was helping. As far as I could tell, since in his care, my father’s decline had been rapid and frightening.
A groan came from the bed, and ignoring the demands of the doctor to leave, I made my way to my father’s side and sat on the edge of the bed. Wrapped in the sheets like a mummy, all I could see of him was his head. He was pale, having not stepped outside for weeks, and his hair, not drying properly after the washing I’d attempted the night before, was sticking up at random angles. He needed a shave and a haircut. I brushed the hair away from his eyes.
“Father? It’s Hattie, Father.” His eyes darted around until they came close to looking at me.
“Mary Margaret?”
“No, Father, it’s Hattie, your daughter.”
“Oh, Mary Margaret, forgive me. Forgive me. I can’t find your fiddle.” And with that my father began to sob hysterically. I’d never seen my father cry.
I laid my hand on his shoulder. “Father, it’s all right. Mama’s fiddle is in the closet.”
“Forgive me, but I don’t know what I did with it.”
“It’s right here,” I said. “I’ll show you.” I stood up, intending to retrieve my mother’s violin, when, without warning, his tears turned to shouts and he began thrashing about.
“Get it off! Get it off!” He tried to pull his hand loose from the sheets but couldn’t. Frustrated, he began thrashing about.
“Blazes! I can feel them crawling on me. You there,” he said, scowling at me. “Can’t you see them? Get the damn things away from me!” I started to shake. I didn’t know what upset me more, to hear my father cuss for the first time in my life or the fact that I saw nothing but the white sheets on his bed.
I took a few steps back as the doctor rushed in to administer something to ca
lm my father down. He lifted a part of the sheet, revealing my father’s bare leg.
“Damn you to Hell,” Father screamed as the doctor jabbed the needle deep into the thick thigh muscle. I turned, overwhelmed with nausea, and fell to my knees. As I emptied the contents of my stomach on the floor, I heard my father moan and grow quiet. In my head, he said, “We’re not quitters, you and me.” But my head was spinning so much that I didn’t flinch when I felt a hand on the back of my shoulder. As I struggled to take a deep breath, my ribs feeling crushed against my stays, I shrugged the hand off.
“Now, now, Miss Davish, it’s time we arrange for your father’s admission to the asylum.”
“No.” I wiped my mouth with a handkerchief before facing the doctor. “Father said he doesn’t want to go. Besides, you’ve made him worse with your treatment.”
“I have years of experience working with this disease. Trust me. I’m confident that if I can oversee his treatment day and night, his condition will improve.”
“But he doesn’t even recognize his own daughter.” Suddenly the rage my helpless father had felt filled me. I leaped to my feet. “Out!” I screamed, pointing to the door. “Get out!”
“Now, Miss Davish, be rational.”
“I am. I never want to see your face again.”
“Your father requires arduous medical attention. What will you do, nurse him yourself?”
“He was better off when I did! Now go!” I strode over to the door, yanked it open, and waited. The doctor collected his instruments, slowly cleaning them one by one before returning them to his case. When he finally closed the lid on his bag, he looked up at me as if to say something but instead strode out the door, shaking his head. I slammed the door behind him.
I went over to my father, freed both his arms from the sheet, and wiped the drool dripping down his face. I dabbed his forehead with a cool rag lying in a clean bowl of water beside the bed.
“Hattie?”
“Yes, Father.” I was elated that he knew who I was. But the feeling wouldn’t last.
“Hattie? Where’s my girl, Hattie?”
“She’s right here, Father,” I said. “And she’s not going to let anyone hurt you again.”
“Who was the doctor?” I asked. The nurse still hadn’t given us a name.
“Dr. Hillman. He’s in charge of the nervous patients.”
“Dr. Hillman?” Had I heard her right? The cursed man who had admitted my father and had overseen his treatment all those years ago? I expected to feel the room sway, but instead I felt a wave of anger flow through me and my face flushed.
“Yes, Dr. Cyrus Hillman,” the nurse said.
“If he was Mr. Yardley’s doctor, Bertha,” I said, “your poor husband didn’t have a chance.” And before I knew what I was doing, I pushed past the nurse, strode into the hall, and began looking at the nameplates on the doors. Not seeing what I was looking for, I rushed toward the stairs.
“Hattie?” Bertha called from the doorway as I ascended the stairs. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”
“I’m going to find Dr. Hillman and find out once and for all what happened to my father!” I shouted without looking back.
“Don’t you mean my husband?” she said, as she scuttled through the door to follow me.
Intent on finding his office, I hadn’t realized my mistake. I merely nodded and continued on, but unlike the hallway below, the doors on the second floor were all closed. And then suddenly it was there, the name I was looking for. Without a moment of hesitation, I placed my hand on the doorknob and turned it.
“Hattie, what are you doing?” Bertha called, having reached the top of the stair.
“Follow me, Bertha. Dr. Hillman has some questions to answer.”
“What’s the meaning of this?”
Dr. Cyrus Hillman, sitting behind a small oak desk, looked up from the paper he was reading. Oak bookshelves lined the wall behind him, populated mostly with medical books and rows and rows of medical journals. On the opposite wall were two metal filing cabinets and a wooden hat rack, with a single tan derby hanging from a hook. Several high-backed wooden side chairs were scattered about the room, and a Hermann Herzog landscape painting of a river scene hung on the far wall. With dark circles beneath his eyes and patches of gray in the temples of his dark brown hair and his neatly trimmed beard, the man before me was older and more tired looking than I remembered. Yet, I could never forget the gaze from his deep-set eyes.
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” Nurse Simmons said. “They were asking about Mr. Yardley and then shoved their way by me.”
“This is highly irregular. You’ve interrupted my work. I must insist that you please leave.”
I didn’t move. I couldn’t say a word. My anger, and with it my courage, had abandoned me the moment I heard his voice. Then I stared at the photographs. An entire shelf on the bookcase behind the doctor was dedicated to a row of silver-framed photographs of smiling dark-haired children. How could the man who killed my father be a father? The idea further unsettled me. Luckily Bertha Yardley wasn’t so dumbstruck.
“We’re not leaving until I know what’s become of my husband.” Bertha advanced on him. “Why did you admit him? What was wrong with him? Where’s he now? Did he escape from here? Tell me, Dr. Hillman. I want to see my husband!”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Yardley, but I cannot discuss my patients without a careful review of their files and certainly not under duress. Make an appointment and I will do my best to answer your questions. Nurse Simmons, if you would escort these women back downstairs, I’d be much obliged.” He looked back down at the paper on his desk. I couldn’t stand by in silence any longer. I joined Bertha at the edge of the physician’s desk.
“Do you remember me, Dr. Hillman?” I managed to say.
Without looking at me, he said, “Were you a patient?”
“No, but my father was. George Davish? Do you remember him?”
“Of course. How is your father?”
“Dead, thanks to you.” His head jerked up to glare at me. That got his attention, I thought.
“I’m sorry about your father, but I did everything I could. He was a very sick man.”
“If you remember my father, Doctor, why did you ask how he was?”
“Because all of my patients are very sick men. Now please, as you can see”—he indicated the papers on his desk—“I have work to do.”
“And we have unanswered questions,” Bertha chimed in. “Is it true my husband escaped from your care here?”
“If I answer, will you leave me in peace?” She nodded. I didn’t. Now that I was close enough that I could smell the Macassar oil in his hair, I never intended to leave this man in peace.
“Very well. The truth is, Mrs. Yardley, neither your husband nor anyone else has recently escaped from these walls. It’s been known to happen, yes, but not in a very long time.” The doctor shuffled through the files on his desk before finding the one he wanted. He picked it up and perused the contents. It was labeled, LEVI YARDLEY.
“But, Doctor?” Nurse Simmons said.
“Your husband,” Dr. Hillman continued, ignoring the nurse’s protest, “was suffering from a severe case of business nerves.” He put the file down but didn’t look up. Instead, he shoved the file into a desk drawer. “I admitted him, treated him, and then released him. That’s all. He was here for a few days and then left.”
“But he wasn’t at home when I came back from my sister’s,” Bertha said. Dr. Hillman looked at the distressed woman.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Yardley, but I don’t keep track of my patients after they leave.”
“If no one escaped recently, why were there orderlies in town searching for a missing patient?” I asked. “And why did you say it was Mr. Yardley they were looking for, Nurse Simmons?” Nurse Simmons opened her mouth but said nothing.
“Nurse Simmons must’ve misunderstood. I’ve answered your questions and have nothing more to tell you. Now, if you’d be so ki
nd and let me return to my work.”
Bertha and Nurse Simmons retreated quietly, but I couldn’t let him have the last word. I leaned on the desk, my heart thumping in my chest, and stared at him until he looked up.
“What is it? I’ve told you all I know.”
“Have you? We’ll see about that.” I enjoyed the scowl on the man’s face, before turning my back on him to leave.
CHAPTER 14
“You know what Dr. Hillman told Levi Yardley’s wife?”
Nurse Simmons huddled in a circle of nurses standing outside the nurse’s office as Bertha and I descended the grand staircase. After several of the nurses inquired about what he’d said, Nurse Simmons declared, “That he released the patient, that Levi Yardley never escaped.”
To the protests and astonishment of the nurses, Nurse Simmons nodded. “I know, I know.”
“You don’t believe him?” I asked, approaching the nurses.
“Were you eavesdropping, Miss Davish?” Nurse Simmons said.
“No, I couldn’t help but overhear your entire conversation with the acoustics in this hall.” I pointed up to the tin ceiling tiles.
“You certainly weren’t whispering,” Bertha added. Several nurses nodded. Nurse Simmons shrugged.
“Well, I’d no reason to. It’s ridiculous for Dr. Hillman to claim he discharged your husband, Mrs. Yardley. Why else would the asylum staff be searching for Mr. Yardley all over the city? I don’t know why he’d say such a thing.”
“Don’t you have records of such things?” I asked.
“Of course.” Nurse Simmons gestured for us to follow her. She led us down a flight of back stairs and into a room marked RECORDS above the door. Every wall was lined with tall, black metal cabinets. Each drawer of every cabinet was labeled. Nurse Simmons walked over to a cabinet on the far wall and pulled a drawer out labeled “Y.” She scanned through several files until selecting the one she wanted.
A Deceptive Homecoming Page 9
