What was I looking for? I wondered even as I caught the sight of an open green velvet-lined mahogany box filled with shiny metal instruments: forceps, scissors, tweezers, hooks, knives, saws, drills, and others that I’d never seen before. I slammed the drawer shut as my breath and pulse quickened. Were those the same instruments Dr. Hillman had carried into my father’s house? Had they had a hand in my father’s demise? Ever since I’d seen the steel drill-like instrument Dr. Hillman considered using to cut a hole in my father’s head, I haven’t been able to abide the presence of medical instruments of any kind. Even Walter’s stethoscope caused me to swoon. And here were possibly the very instruments used on my father. The very thought sent the room spinning. I dropped into the doctor’s chair and put my head between my knees.
“Dr. Hillman?” In my position, I was invisible to the person calling at the door. “He’s not here. Let’s check to see if he’s in his treatment room.”
I sighed with relief when I heard the door close and footsteps fade down the hall. I slowly sat up, feeling slightly better in the head but incredibly foolish for my predicament. I didn’t want to imagine what would’ve happened to me if I’d been caught. Using the desk for support, I stood up, testing my balance. When I felt sure I wouldn’t faint, I took a few tentative steps toward the door. The room seemed to shift beneath my feet and I grabbed the nearest surface, a metal cabinet. I read the labels on all four drawers, PATIENTS: HILLMAN. With something to focus on, I gained my balance and tugged open the filing drawer. I thumbed through the files searching for the name Frank Hayward. I didn’t find it. I wasn’t entirely surprised. It had been pure speculation on my part that Mr. Hayward was here. But then I noticed there wasn’t a file for Levi Yardley either. I went back to the desk and searched the files there. No Levi Yardley.
But I’d seen it! I thought. It must be here somewhere.
I purposely walked over and locked the door. It wouldn’t prevent Dr. Hillman from finding me in his office, but it would at least prevent being accidentally discovered by someone else. It was a risk I had to take. I began a systematic search. First I went through all of the cabinet drawers, then all the desk drawers, carefully avoiding the one with the instrument case, and then his bookshelves. I lingered for a moment to study the photographs of the Hillman children: two boys and three girls. I still couldn’t reconcile the fact that the man who killed my father was one himself.
These children still have their father, I thought bitterly before pulling myself away and continuing my search.
Nowhere did I find anything with either Frank Hayward’s or Levi Yardley’s name on it. The last place I looked was a crate shoved far under the doctor’s desk. It contained notebooks and loose papers full of statistics and medical notes. I was about to push it back into place when a notebook with the date 1882 caught my eye. The year my father died. I lifted it out and with trepidation, leafed through it, page by page, using my well-practiced eye, for any mention of George Davish. And then I found it. A hand-scribbled note that read:
Patient suffers from melancholia, irritability, nightmares,
debility and resulting atrophy, neuralgia of the head,
cacospysy and delirium, the latter a possible effect of
prescribed treatment. Diagnosis: Neurasthenia.
Cause: Unknown, though patient was diagnosed
with Soldier’s Heart while serving in Union Army.
Treatment: Given progressive treatment. Patient
exhibited signs of increased irritability, delirium and
acute mania. Restraint was recommended to prevent
patient from hurting himself. Increased dosage to no
effect. Patient suffered from heart failure and died
3:23am, April 3, 1882.
“Feeling better, Father?”
He merely nodded as he sipped his broth. It had been two days since I evicted Dr. Hillman from the house and already Father was improving. Yes, he still seemed melancholy and was very weak after spending weeks in bed, but he no longer shouted, cried, or claimed to see things that weren’t there. And he knew again who I was.
“Thank you, my girl,” he said, setting it aside. He’d eaten little.
“You need to eat, Father. You need to improve your strength.”
“I will, Hattie. I will.” He attempted a smile, but the effort seemed too much.
“I hate to leave you.”
“You must go to school. There’s nothing more important than your education.” I smiled. How many times had I heard him say that?
“I’ll be back by seven.” I kissed the top of his head. He patted my hand before closing his eyes. I could feel a tremor in his touch.
He’s so weak, I thought. “Please eat some more, Father.”
“Go, my girl. I’ll be fine.” It was the last thing I heard my father say. I returned from school to find an empty house. Frantically I ran to the closest neighbors and pounded on their door.
“Hattie, Hattie, what is it?” The upholsterer’s wife fumbled with the latch before opening her door.
“Have you seen my father today? He’s not at home.”
“Oh, dear, I didn’t see him, but I think I know where he is.”
“Where?” She bit her lip as she slowly shook her head.
“Hattie, sweetie, I wasn’t sure it was your father or what I could do if it was.”
“Just tell me where he is,” I pleaded, grabbing one of her hands in both of mine.
“I saw a wagon with two men in blue coats drive away from your house with a man that might’ve been your father in the back about an hour ago. I think they were from the Lunatic Asylum.”
“Oh no.” I could barely breathe. And then I was running. I hailed the first cab I came across and directed them to the asylum. When we arrived, I begged for the driver to wait. I dashed through the front door.
“Hey, where are you going?” a nurse yelled at me as I sprinted down the hall, heading for the staircase.
“Father? Father? Where are you?” The nurse grabbed my arm as I searched for any sign of my father.
“Where is he? What have you done to him?”
“Please come back to the office. I’m sure I can help you, but you have to calm down.” At her threat, I followed her quietly back toward the nurse’s office near the front door. I wouldn’t do my father any good if I was locked up here as well. As I passed back down the hall, I noticed that several patients filled a side room and all were either quietly reading or calmly playing chess, checkers, or cards. One man rocked gently as he hummed “Bonnie Blue Flag” to himself.
This isn’t what I imagined, I thought, relieved to see the contentment on the patients’ faces. But it was so quiet, too quiet. Was it contentment I saw or resignation? Or something quite different altogether?
“Now what can I do for you?” the nurse asked, when we reached the office.
“I’m looking for my father, George Davish. A neighbor said she saw orderlies from here take him away a little over two hours ago.” She glanced at a book on the desk, and then consulted another book held in one of the drawers.
“Yes, Mr. Davish was admitted earlier today.”
“But why?”
“I can’t say. I’m sorry.”
“How can you do that? Admit him without my consent.”
“It says here that your father has been under the care of Dr. Hillman.”
“Yes, until two days ago. But—”
“Dr. Hillman doesn’t need your consent to admit his own patient.”
“But my father doesn’t want to be here. He made me promise not to let Dr. Hillman bring him here.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sure Dr. Hillman has the patient’s best interests in mind.” I couldn’t believe this was happening and I didn’t know what to do. What could I do?
“May I see him now?”
“No, I’m afraid Dr. Hillman has ordered that this patient be confined for a few days. That means no visitors.”
“Why must he be con
fined? What does that mean? What are you doing to him?”
“I can’t say.”
“But he was getting better!”
“Calm down and come back on Friday, Miss Davish. You should be able to see your father then.”
I barely slept or ate for three days, imagining the worst. When I arrived on Friday, my fears had been confirmed. As the nurse led me down a hallway, down a flight of stairs and through a locked door, I could feel nausea rising into my mouth.
“Right in here.” The nurse opened the door to a stark, whitewashed room with no carpet, no curtains, and no adornment except a table covered with a silver tray lined with syringes, needles, forceps, and other steel instruments. I caught a glimpse of my father, constrained with leather straps to a bed. His hair was unwashed, his eyes were bloodshot, and his teeth were clenched. When he saw me, if indeed he could, he screamed. The nurse suddenly stepped in front of me and with outstretched hands, barred my way.
“Father!” I yelled, trying to shove past her. As I did, Dr. Hillman stepped into view, grabbed my arm, and thrust me backward.
“What’s the meaning of this, Nurse?” Dr. Hillman closed the door behind him, and shut out my view of my father. I could still hear his curses and screams.
“I’m sorry, Doctor, but I thought it would be all right for the patient’s daughter to visit now. That’s what the chart said.”
“You obviously made a mistake.”
“What have you done to him?” I demanded. “Let me by. I want to see my father.”
“Now, now, Miss Davish, your father is very ill.” Dr. Hillman held my arm firmly in his grasp, forcing me back the way I’d come.
“What’s wrong with him?” My legs were weak and wobbly, about to give out beneath me. The doctor transferred his hold on me to the nurse, who wrapped her arm around my waist.
“Go home, Miss Davish, and trust me to treat your father,” Dr. Hillman said before turning back toward my father’s room.
“What have you all done to him?” I gasped for breath. “He was getting better.”
“This must be very upsetting for you, but it will all be all right, Miss Davish. Your father is in the best of hands. Dr. Hillman will do everything in his power to help him. Go home and rest. We’ll contact you when you can come and visit again.” She escorted me back to the waiting cab, patted my hand like a child, and reassured me again that everything would be okay. But I knew she was wrong. I’d promised my father not to let them come, not to let them seal him up in this horrible place. I’d failed him. But I’d no idea how wrong she was. I never saw my father again. He was dead within days.
I stared at the doctor’s notes again. Neurasthenia? Soldier’s Heart? I knew my father had fought in the war, but he never spoke of it—ever. I never knew he’d been diagnosed with Soldier’s Heart. So, the war explained his nightmares and rapid heartbeat. I’d never been told of any illnesses he suffered from. Now I finally knew. Could Dr. Hillman have prevented my father from suffering horribly from this disease? I still believed so. The doctor’s treatment even added to Father’s suffering. Dr. Hillman had told me to trust him and still my father died. But did he kill him with his negligence, arrogance, and ignorance? Probably not. Could he have saved him? Probably not. With a weak heart, my father could’ve died anywhere, at any time.
Suddenly I felt light-headed, not in the way that would cause me to faint, but as if a great weight had lifted from my shoulders. I felt calm and relief like I hadn’t known in years. To test my new serenity, I pulled open the desk drawer and stared down at the metal objects that a few moments ago held such power over me. I felt nothing. I leaned over, touched the drill, and felt the coolness of the metal. I almost smiled as I slid the drawer shut again. I didn’t know what it meant that I couldn’t find any record of Frank Hayward or Levi Yardley among Dr. Hillman’s records, but I knew what I had found was more than I’d been looking for. I couldn’t wait to return to my room and write Walter immediately.
CHAPTER 20
But that never happened.
As I was leaving, I spotted Dr. Hillman disappearing through a side door. I thought he was treating his sick child at home? Without thinking, I followed after him. In the halls I could easily trail behind the doctor without his knowledge. It was passing the patients rocking in their chairs that proved more difficult. Several tried in earnest to get my attention, waving their hands, jutting a leg out in front of me, or cursing at me. Once, a man grabbed hold of my wrist, the back of his hand damp and glistening with saliva. Unable to stifle a squeal, I yanked my arm from the patient’s grasp and stepped as far away as I could get, pressing my back against the opposite wall. I glanced down the hall toward Dr. Hillman, expecting to see him turn, alerted to my presence by my cry. To my astonishment, he ignored the cacophony of noise and continued on his way as if no one were about. I swiftly followed the doctor to a stairwell that he promptly began to descend. I waited at the top until he’d disappeared around the corner of the first flight. I used the sound of his footsteps to track his descent. At the bottom of the stairs, Dr. Hillman was nowhere in sight, but then I spied a set of double doors down the hall closing.
Where’s he going? I wondered as I raced to catch the doors before they locked behind him.
Behind the doors was a long, narrow concrete tunnel, lit by evenly spaced bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. My shadow stretched far behind me, but Dr. Hillman was nowhere to be seen. Luckily the sound of his footsteps echoed faintly ahead. I pursued him, around several turns, once catching a glimpse of his shadow, until his footsteps faded away and all I heard was the sound of my own breathing.
I’ll never find him now, I thought, disappointed to have gotten this far without discovering where he was going. But what had I thought he was doing? I’d followed him without thinking. What had I thought to learn? Puzzled by my own behavior, I turned back only to realize that in my hasty pursuit I’d failed to take note of the way back.
And then I heard the wailing.
“Aaaaaaaah, aaaaaaaaah!”
The sound pierced my heart like wind passing through me. Without thinking, I picked up my skirts and ran in the opposite direction. Yet no matter which direction I chose, the howling grew louder. And then someone’s sobbing overlaid the wailing and I could barely think. I covered my ears, but to no avail. I had to get away, distance myself from the pain in those desperate cries echoing in and around my head. Before long, I was lost, finding myself in tunnels narrow enough I could touch the walls with my outstretched hands. I stooped over to avoid brushing my hat against the damp ceiling or knocking into a hot electric bulb. Water puddled on the floor along the walls and the air became increasingly fetid, the odor of unwashed bodies, mold, and traces of chloride mingling together. I put my handkerchief to my nose and continued on. And then all went silent. I stopped and listened. Nothing.
Thank goodness, I thought, letting out pent-up breath. I waited for several moments, listening, waiting for the cries to return, but the silence remained. Emboldened by the quiet, I took a few steps around yet another corner of another tunnel and in the sudden dimness tripped over the wrought-iron leg of a bed. No electric bulbs lit the dark; only a single kerosene lamp flickered halfway down the tunnel.
What’s a bed doing down here? I wondered as I struggled to my feet. I brushed the dirt from my skirt and then readjusted my hat with one hand, mindful to keep my nose covered. I must’ve found an old storage area.
And then the tunnel exploded with the eerie howls of a man in turmoil. I froze, chills shooting up my spine as the outline of a figure writhed in the bed next to me. The sound of chains rattling accompanied the distressed person’s next wail. Like having to see an upturned carriage up close, I stepped forward. Before me was a man, not much older than me, wearing a cotton nightshirt, once white but now so threadbare it was almost transparent. The sleeves hung above his elbows. The outline of a mermaid or a strangely shaped fish tattooed with India ink on his flabby forearm wiggled its tail every time
he moved. His scrawny legs were bare. He had no sheet or coverlet to protect him from the damp. His head had been shaved bald. His eyes bulged out as he stared at me, rattling the chains that secured him to the wall even as he lay prostrate in the bed. His tongue hung loosely from his mouth as he opened it to wail again. I covered my ears again.
The poor, wretched creature was beyond any help I could give him, but seeing him gave me hope. With a patient sleeping here, attending nurses must not be far away. I left his side, hoping to find an exit nearby. As I approached the light, I could see that the wailing man wasn’t alone. The entire tunnel was lined with beds, occupied by other men chained to the wall. One man whimpered and rocked himself side to side while another simply followed me with unblinking eyes as I passed.
What’s wrong with them? I wondered, remembering the list of reasons for admittance I’d seen: political excitement, religious enthusiasm, bad whiskey, or snuff eating? I shuddered to think it could’ve been something as innocuous as any of that.
And then I pictured my father here, chained to the wall, abandoned. Were these patients being treated or punished? Were they here left to die? As I passed yet another bed, a man, rattling his chains as I approached, lunged at me. Despite knowing he couldn’t reach me, I screamed and leaped back as far away from him as I could. I misjudged the width of the tunnel; my back smacked against the hard concrete of the opposite wall, crumpling the brim of my hat and knocking the breath out of me. I slumped over, trying to catch my breath. Suddenly every patient began rattling their chains, yelling or moaning. Even with my hands over my ears, the noise was unbearable.
“Help! Please! Somebody help me!”
My feeble cries simply added to the cacophony of the others. I slid down the wall to the damp floor. I hugged my knees to my chest as I whimpered in fear; I was as trapped as they were. And then a blinding light shined out from an opened door partway down the tunnel. I hadn’t even seen it.
A Deceptive Homecoming Page 15
