What is it? I should be happy.
“Father and I have finally come to an agreement on my suitor. I will soon be free of this house. Of his rule over me. But … I am anxious. As if I am leaving something behind, but I have forgotten what it is.”
I stare at Maeve’s pretty face; wrinkles are just beginning to show in the corners of her bright gray eyes.
I’ve had the best tutors and governesses, finest clothes and meals. But no friends. Only Maeve.
Since my mother’s passing, the woman has been my rock, my voice of reason, my … protector. Thank Providence she shall accompany me when I leave the estate. She is the only friend I have ever known.
Father finally presented me to society this year, after nineteen years of keeping me neatly tucked away from the world. My only contact with those outside of this household was when I accompanied Father to faculty functions or the rare social outing to play my music—for him to gloat over my talents.
I see my childhood self, playing hide-and-seek with the wind in the corn. Though I was specifically forbidden to do so.
My heart swells with pain and gratitude for Maeve.
Maeve now clears her throat. She has asked me a question. She repeats it. “What are you forgetting?”
“I am not sure. I have dreamt of leaving all my life.” I cross to the window to stare out at the corn. “It’s a shadow, lurking just outside my memory.”
Her eyes pinch. “Perhaps it is your mother, ma colombe?”
A pang stabs my heart, but is an old pain; once excruciatingly sharp, it has dulled to a low, persistent throb.
My only memories of my mother are here in this very room. I was so very small. What I do remember are arguments, between her and my father. And Maeve’s cool hands pressed to my ears, shuttling me out of earshot.
I also remember strange bits and pieces of my mother, like the feel of her hands, soft as petals against my nape as she arranged my hair atop my head. The tilt of her head as she played the violin. Bits of memory that are so hazy, I am now unclear whether they were fantasy or reality.
I remember another little girl. With dark hair. But how can that be? I am an only child.
I cock my head. This is not the first time I have posed this question. “You are certain there were no other children in the nursery besides myself?”
Maeve’s eyes cloud. Or it could be my “extravagant imagination”—my father’s favorite designation for my mental flights of fancy.
“No. Not unless it vas perhaps servants’ children, visiting your classroom.” Maeve’s French accent intensifies once again.
I sigh. My mind hums a symphony.
And her music. Always mother’s music. It was she who gave me my gift, but she did not live long enough to see it realized.
I turn away from the window and shrug. “I do not know. This is, no doubt, where she is most real to me.”
Maeve squeezes my hand. “You best go down to dine. Himself will not hold his temper much longer.” Her face flushes as she turns to gather my remaining bed coverings that Abilene forgot in her huff.
“Yes. I will see you later.”
I walk into the hallway, squaring my shoulders. Father is a tempest—a man capable of showering me with love and gifts, and other times … it is as if I do not know him.
He becomes cold and distant, angry and volatile. The change comes unbidden, like stone-gray clouds marring the bluest of skies.
The signs are always the same: He ceases to look me in the eye, the light in his eyes dimming as he slips further away. Becomes so single-minded, I, and all others, cease to exist. Only responds to every other sentence. Becomes more and more engrossed in his work as I slowly disappear from his consciousness. Even the tone and timbre of his voice changes. He disappears into his laboratory for days, sometimes weeks, at a time.
Now, I know the signs—know how to spot the change. But as a child …
Gooseflesh tears up my spine. Me, crying, begging for him. He … screaming. Refusing to see me. It is then that I hide in my room, grateful for the estate’s many wings as we begin the familiar game of hide-and-seek.
I never know with whom or what I shall dine each eve—and it is only he and I and the servants. Not a soul to diffuse the tension. Maeve hovers in a world by herself—not high enough to dine with us, not low enough to dine with below stairs staff.
I smile as I think of her. She is my talisman against the darkness of the estate. She is a very handsome woman. And clever. Tall and willowy. She reminds me of the tree outside my window: beautiful, dark, and strong. So very strong.
She says she doesn’t mind, but sometimes I see it in her face—what she has given up to remain here with me. Her own home, her own husband and children. Her French homeland. All she has abandoned, given up for me. She was my mother’s very best friend. And is now mine.
My boots echo on the hallway’s polished wood floors as I approach the massive double doors that lead to the dining room. I peek through the window in the door.
The dining room’s deep jades and scarlets feel claustrophobic and dark … too dark. I long for openness and light. When I have my say, I shall have all walls painted white—in celebration of my freedom from this stifling, opulent place.
I think of the abnormality that is my life. That I should dread such a normal occurrence as one’s dinner. That I dread residing in his company for a mere hour.
The realizations about my father’s personality are new—only conceived upon my entering society. As I watched, listening to others, I saw no signs of Father’s volatility in any others I met, which only made me feel more isolated.
I peek again, mastering my breathing as I stare at the flickering candelabra through the tiny, beveled glass window. I inhale a final, cleansing breath, and push the swinging doors wide.
“My goodness, my dear. You are breathtaking tonight. Willis truly is a lucky young man.”
I stare down at the dress, the royal blue with white lace. It is Father’s favorite.
“The color, with your dark hair. Striking. Magnificent.”
My breath exhales in relief. It is jovial Father, even good Papa, tonight.
I feel the hot sting of tears and quickly blink them away. Because deep down, I do believe he is good, and I wish everyday could be the same, so that I might return his love daily. And not hate him other nights.
“I think everyone loved your arrangement, my dear. It was lovely. Are you ready for your impending nuptials? There are still many matters to be discussed.” He gestures for me to sit.
The next quarter hour is filled with talk of flowers and chapels and dresses and dates. When he finally stops to take a bite of his tart, for we are now on dessert, I seize the opportunity of his good mood and blurt: “Have you decided on a day I might accompany you to the sanatorium?”
His features instantly blacken, and I recoil, my hands instantly sweating.
His voice restrains the rage, but its tone lurks, rumbling like thunderclouds beneath his words. “You have not yet given up that notion? Jules, you know of my misgivings. It is not proper for a woman of your station to—”
Do not cower. I bend to his every whim, like a sapling in a hurricane.
I clear my throat. “That is untrue. I have been reading. Many women, even royals, have ministered to the poor, sick, and needy. I can show you the references.”
His teeth grind together, and I am certain he is wondering where I found such information. Maeve, of course, is the answer. She smuggles many “unapproved” works into the house—newspapers, references, and world-be-cursed novels.
I make my eyes wide, my only feminine wile that seems to pierce his hard bubble. “Please, Papa. You act as if I wish to join the circus. It shall make me feel useful. Besides, Willis has already given his permission that I shall be allowed once we are wed. Better to begin now, under your expert tutelage.”
Father’s face flushes dark red. The idea of another controlling
my life is often a sore spot. I know it will be the hardest thing he has ever endured to let me go. To pass my reins to another.
“I see.”
I hastily add, “And Dr. Grayjoy says I am welcome at any time. I spoke with him at the recital.”
It is a dirty blow to mention the younger doctor—a man with whom he perpetually seems to be locking horns. Since his appointment, it appears Father’s hold on the sanatorium’s board has lessened.
Staff and residents have embraced Grayjoy—he and his more humane treatment methods, on which Father casts a disparaging eye. Truth be told, I only saw the man from afar. Indeed, his looks are impossible to disregard. I was far too shy to introduce myself—but Father need not know that.
Father’s eyes flick to stare at a portrait—two turtledoves holding pieces of ribbon, which intertwine about a red cardinal, above them the phrase, Youthful gift from God.
Father’s gaze ticks back to me, and he folds his hands, pressing them to his lips. I know I have won. Were he not in his present state, I would not have dared broach the subject.
The servants bustle in to clear the plates, and he bridles his tongue, the sound of his deep breathing filling the room. When they exit, his dark eyes stare intently at mine. I am told I have my mother’s eyes—blue with a yellowish-hazel center, near feline.
“Fine. You may attend one day per week. You must follow the directions of the nursing staff precisely. I want you with Nurse Sally, and Sally alone. There … have been problems of late. Excessively so, and I will not have you exposed to possible danger. Am I making myself clear?”
I nod, tethering my excitement, forcing my lips not to smile. “I shall be the model of good behavior.” As I always am. I detest myself for it at times.
“Might I go tomorrow?” I prompt.
He stands, smoothing his waistcoat, conceding defeat. “If you must.”
The sanatorium bell rings, calling me out of my dreams—where bluebirds and ravens fly in undulating, endless black and blue waves over the corn.
It is a familiar dream, coming most every night since I turned nineteen.
I roll to my side, clutching my middle, trying to relish the last moments of relative warmth beneath my coverlets. I exhale, and my breath rises like the steam from a dragon.
I stare around my room.
Lightning flashes in my mind, a specter of the previous night. Frost’s face … the vertigo of the revolutions twirling vomit up my throat.
I blink repeatedly and banish the images, breathing deeply as Grayjoy has instructed me. Letting the smell of the lavender calm my beating heart.
“Control your thoughts, Twenty-Nine. Do not let them control you,” his voice commands in my head. I know he fears I shall return to the laudanum.
I breathe slowly, eyes ticking about the room.
I have done all in my power to make it my home. And it is luxurious when I compare it to most patients’. But most patients have lived outside of these drab gray walls, at least for a time. A rocking chair, with a forlorn rag doll. A threadbare rug over freezing stone floors. Curtains I have sewn myself, of eyelet lace, framing my barred windows. And my sketches and music, plastered over my side of the room, so that barely any paint shows through. I live in the world of my head, through the stories I tell myself and the music that is a constant inhabitant of my every thought.
But this room … has secrets.
For one, my window opens—not so very far, but far enough. Also, the walls hold secrets.
I swallow, not even wanting to imagine the voices.
I hear voices sometimes. Only in this room. My name, whispered over and over.
Chills erupt at the thought.
For years I struggled—was it in my head, was I truly as mad as they say? But as I think of others here—others who clearly know not where they are, who they are … many incapable of speech or reason … that is not me.
When I plug my ears, which I do each and every time my name is whispered, the voices recede.
So they cannot be inside my head, can they?
The block walls and thin bed coverings make for a very long, exceedingly cold winter. My body shivers as if in agreement with the notion.
I force my eyes to stare at the wall above Lily’s bed, painted the ever-festive institutional green. The staff scrubbed the words clean, but the ghost of them remains, vaguely visible if I squint.
Help me. I know not what I do.
My eyes dart about the room. The very same words have been scrawled on my wall three times. Three times my roommates have either disappeared or ended up … Is Lily dead? Or perhaps now one of the shuffling dead of Ward Thirteen? Not one of the staff will confide her fate to me.
The madman, nay, the murderer, seems drawn to this room. Why else would so many have disappeared from between these walls?
How have I escaped the murderer? It seems I am the cat with nine lives.
I breathe deeply, and it shudders out. “My time will come. I am certain of it.”
I suddenly realize the day, Wednesday, and my mood soars.
Wednesdays, I no longer feel like me.
Me, the patient.
Me, the pathetic.
Me, the future-less.
It is the one and only day I allow myself to consider a life outside of these walls. As if feeling my countenance shift, sunlight streams in through the hallway through the only window in the common area—its glass as thick as bricks.
I finger my smile, this foreign stranger on my lips.
Rap-rap-rap.
A knock at my door makes me jerk, and I scurry backward, arms splayed out in defense.
A bronzed head pokes round the door. My breath intakes, my mind seeming to stutter at his presence.
Mason’s blue-green eyes widen as he takes in my posture.
His warm voice is melodic. “Easy, Twenty-Nine. It’s only breakfast.”
I nod, letting my arms drop to my sides.
My chest is still heaving as I ease myself back onto my bed, clutching my sheet beneath my chin to stare over it.
I have seen precious few beautiful men in my nineteen years, and I find to be in the presence of one makes me nervous. Most orderlies at Soothing Hills are old enough to be my father, and the younger ones are outcasts like myself, unremarkable. But him …
A tousle of dark-copper hair above matching thick eyebrows, poised over eyes the color of the sky at sunrise. Deep, thoughtful eyes. Intelligent eyes.
And, he does not behave as the other orderlies.
Their typical personalities being two: the cruel—the type that thrill in exacting punishments—or the bored but harmless—constantly checking the time, eyes pleading for their shift to end, to off them to the local pub.
He is neither.
Mason has a questioning gaze, with a blazing spark of intelligence, more the countenance I have come to associate with a doctor than an orderly.
He licks his full lips, gingerly placing the tray on my cot, eyeing me like I am a jungle cat. “You really must eat somethin’.” Those perceptive eyes rove over me, and I feel exposed and naked. “You are little more than skin over bone.”
I sit, slide the tray onto my lap, and stab the eggs, carefully placing some into my mouth.
He should not linger. It is forbidden. However, my door is ajar, giving him leave to depart quickly at a moment’s notice.
He stands, leaning awkwardly against the doorjamb. He chews the side of his cuticle. “Might … Might I ask you something?”
I dab my mouth with a napkin, then rest it ladylike in my lap. “Of course.”
“Have you always been here? Pray, excuse my forwardness … but your manners, your demeanor … your use of words. They indicate someone high-born. And I cannot help but wonder—”
“How I came to be Patient Twenty-Nine?” I laugh harshly but resume stabbing the runny eggs. There will be no food till midday, and I have learned never to skip a meal.
>
I speak around the food, twiddling my fork in the process.
“I have always been Twenty-Nine. I have no memory of anything other than Soothing Hills Sanatorium. I am told there … is nothing else. Nothing before here.” I shrug. “Perhaps I was born here, to another patient.”
“Perhaps you suffered an accident? Have merely forgotten anything else, forgotten your past?” His eyebrows are raised.
His voice is near musical. His anything sounds like anytin to my Continent-ears. He is decidedly Scottish; I no longer have any doubt. He seems to be able to mask it, but the colorful accent shines through.
I cock my head at this notion. “Not that I am aware of. But if I had hit my head, I would not be aware, would I?” I laugh quietly.
His eyebrows pull together. “No family? Your manners—”
“Strangely, the physicians insisted I have tutors. Tremendous tutors. I know of places I’ve never seen and people I shall never see.” I tap my temple. “I am a fountain of useless knowledge. That shall gurgle and flow through these dreary halls till I dry up and die. Right here.” I pat the cot.
I am being morbid, and I care not.
His face is all revulsion. It is quickly replaced by anger. My stomach tightens. I do not understand his reaction.
“What is your name, Twenty-Nine?”
He pulls on the wooden post on the end of my bed, the top of which comes off in his hands. He stares at it, looking alarmed, so I say, “No need to worry. That happens all the time.”
I get to my knees and take it from him, placing it back onto the bed frame.
I smile, coquettishly. Or at least what I imagine to be so. I have only seen nurses flirt with doctors. And I have read of this societal dance in novels. In the bowels of this wretched place, in the deserted catacombs beneath the sanatorium, I discovered a library, fallen into disrepair and forgotten.
There I have read of love. Of Austen and Bronte. Of feelings and people and situations I cannot fathom and, truth be told, do not think on often, for I cannot bear the pain.
Cannot bear the possibility of these things I will never have.
The Requiem Red Page 2
