by Diane Noble
“When did it begin?”
I thought back to the day I married Zeb. “It’s been so long I really can’t remember.” My cheeks warmed at the lie, and I bit my bottom lip and let my gaze drift to the bar of light streaming through the window, the particles of dust that floated in it.
“Women often complain of such a malady,” he said. “Often it begins in midlife. You’re how old … ?”
“Thirty.”
“A bit young,” he said thoughtfully. “But you’re barren, is that right?”
“My husband told you?”
He nodded. “Does that upset you?”
I frowned. “Zeb sometimes tells others about our personal lives. It’s only later I find out about his … betrayals.” I swallowed hard to keep my slow anger in check. “I’m certain he gave you my physical and emotional history. All for my own good, of course.”
“Of course. The man of the house often takes charge without consulting his wife.” Dr. Crawford smiled as if I were a child who’d pleased him with my answer. I thought he might pat me on the head. “Women struggle with symptoms such as you describe. Others may come on as well. The darkness, or depression, as it’s sometimes called, is directly related to your reproductive organs. From the times of ancient Greece, they’ve been known to be the seat of a woman’s emotions. Hysterics, the condition is often called. Madness can occur in extreme cases. You need to be aware, be watchful, for any deterioration of emotion.”
My eyes dampened with fear. I licked my dry lips and nodded.
He frowned and leaned slightly toward me. “There are treatments. We’ve come a long way since the ancient Greeks.” His smile was gentle.
“What … what kind of treatments?”
“I would prefer to discuss them with your husband present,” he said. “It will be his decision to make, of course.”
I frowned. I have no say in this? I wanted to spout, but I held my tongue.
As if reading my mind, he said, “As I’m sure you understand, it will be up to Mr. Deforest to take care of any, ah, arrangements.”
“Arrangements?” I leaned forward, my heart pounding. “So you think I should be admitted?”
He raised a hand. “Please, dear woman, remain calm. It isn’t my intention to upset you. Let me bring in your husband, and we’ll discuss our options together.”
Apprehension swept through me, but I said what was expected of me. “Yes, of course. That would be best.”
He stood and headed for the door. Zeb was obviously waiting nearby, for he strode through the doorway only moments later. He didn’t meet my eyes but settled into a chair next to me, his gaze fixed on Dr. Crawford’s. He looked worried. “What do you think, August?”
I glanced up in surprise. There was understanding, even sympathy in Dr. Crawford’s expression as he nodded slowly toward my husband and took a seat opposite us both. The look—the use of the familiar form of address—said they were equals discussing a patient they were both concerned about. I felt betrayed. Strangely, betrayed by them both.
August Crawford stroked his beard in thought. “As I mentioned before, this is a relatively common malady among women of a, well, certain age. Especially barren women.”
“Hysterics,” Zeb said.
Dr. Crawford leaned back in his chair, gazing thoughtfully from Zeb to me and back to my husband. “I see three options here. One would be for Mrs. Deforest to become pregnant. That would alleviate much of the darkness within her emotions.” He smiled brightly in my direction. “And we all know the joy and delight that children bring to a woman. They can also do much to close the distance that can develop between husband and wife during times of these sorts of female troubles.”
Zeb glanced at me, his expression both hopeful and kind. For a moment neither of us spoke. Then he turned again to Dr. Crawford. “And the other two choices?”
“There is a new procedure, still experimental at this point, involving surgery.”
I gasped and reached for Zeb’s hand. He folded his fingers tight about mine.
“This would be to surgically remove Mrs. Deforest’s uterus through hysterectomizing. Because it is innovative and not widely practiced, I would recommend it only as a last resort.”
“We will not consider such an operation at all,” Zeb said, his lips in a thin line. “I absolutely forbid even discussion of it.” He squeezed my fingers, and the warmth of his hand helped me take a breath at last.
“I agree,” I said, my voice trembling. “It’s unthinkable.”
“That leaves the last alternative,” Dr. Crawford said. He stood and went to his desk where he fished around for his pipe and tobacco. After he’d filled and tamped the bowl, he lit the cherry-scented leaves and drew in a deep breath. Smoke circled his head, and I resisted the urge to cough. Watching him made me miss Poppy and Selah and their clay pipes and pungent smelling smoke.
“The alternative is one I’m sure you’ve guessed—and the most likely given the circumstances.” He settled again into his chair across from us. “That is for Mrs. Deforest to be allowed time to rest here in the hospital. Regain her emotional strength.”
“Tell us more,” Zeb said.
“Our methods are those perfected by Dr. Kirkbride, superintendent of Pennsylvania Hospital, one of the finest mental institutions in the country.” He drew on the pipe, and the smoke circled slowly toward the ceiling. “Dr. Kirkbride advocates the creation of a humane and compassionate environment for patients, a beautiful setting”—he waved his pipe—“such as we have here.”
Dr. Crawford set his gaze on me. “You will find, dear, that such a setting will help restore you to a more natural balance of the senses.”
He stood and walked to the center curtained window, pulling back one-half of the heavy drape. Sunlight flooded the room, and I winced in pain at the sudden brightness.
“Dr. Kirkbride,” he continued, “planned his building in a linear mode, buildings arranged en échelons. We have matched his style—from the domed center building you first entered, to the patient wings on each side.” He turned to me. “Come, dear. Come here and look.”
I stood and moved on leaden legs across the carpet toward the window.
“There. You see? Each ward is enough out of line with the others to afford plenty of fresh air from all sides.” To judge from his proud tone, he might have designed the building himself. He pointed toward the ward opposite us. It rose dark and forbidding against the cloudless sky. “Yet each ward cannot be observed from the other wards.”
“Why is that?” I ventured.
He raised a brow and considered me for a moment without answering. “Some of our patients are, well, unable to contain their, ah, voices. Actions. Some cannot sleep. They act out their disturbances, their inner turmoil, in ways that can bother others. It’s distressing enough to hear them, but to see them as well …”
I waited for him to go on, but he said no more. It didn’t matter. I’d read enough about asylums to let my imagination run wild.
Zeb had joined us now and stood slightly behind me, close enough for me to feel the warmth of his arm near mine. I longed for him to put his arm around me or to simply touch my hand, to let me know that he understood my fears, that he was with me in this. I was so cold inside that I had begun to tremble again.
Looking thoughtful, Zeb moved back to the chair and sat down. “How long do you think it might take for my wife to recover from her, ah, nervous breakdown?”
I waited for the doctor to correct Zeb’s terminology. I thought I had a common case of female hysterics. But Dr. Crawford said nothing. Instead, he turned and walked from the window, and left me standing alone to study the bleak scene outside. He sighed deeply as he sat across from my husband. The cushions in the plush upholstered chair squeaked softly as he settled back. “That depends on Mrs. Deforest herself,” he said.
I turned to face them both, leaning against the windowsill. I folded my hands together to keep my moist cold fingers from shaking.
&nb
sp; “If she entrusts herself to our care with the sole purpose of recovering her health, she will improve accordingly. If she is institutionalized against her wishes, we will have her feelings of anger and betrayal to deal with as well. Obviously, these emotions will only compound her recovery.”
Institutionalized against my will? My breath caught as I waited for Zeb to answer. His gaze met mine. I was surprised at his cool, calm expression. It was as if he were dealing with an ordinary decision. Not one that could shake my soul to its foundations.
“Tell me,” I said, forcing calm into my voice, “tell me, Dr. Crawford. If I were to agree to a ‘visit’ here at your facility, how long do you think it might take until you released me?” I shuddered, thinking of the brick wards, the cries at night.
He smiled, turning to me again at last. “Ah, my dear. That would be entirely up to your cooperation, your willingness to work with us to lessen your pain, to dispel your dark spirit.”
“How long?” I pressed.
He was still smiling benignly. “Truly, I cannot say.”
“It would not be up to me to decide when I could go home?”
He glanced at Zeb, then back to me. “No, dear woman. It will be up to the experts to decide about your well-being. You might think you’re recovered, when indeed you are not. Truly, it is a matter for the doctors—and we have the best—to determine your treatment and your stability.”
“I could be here for years.”
He nodded solemnly. “Yes.”
“Unable to leave.”
“Yes.”
My gaze flew frantically to meet Zeb’s. “You wouldn’t,” I began, then my voice faltered. “Please, tell me you will not leave me here against my will.” Hot tears filled my eyes, and I swiped at them with the back of one fist. “Tell me you won’t.”
I saw my life in this brick-walled institution. I saw myself standing at a locked window, looking out at the seasons in the barren fenced yard, unable to gaze upon my beloved hill country, unable to gather bluets or make a daisy crown or touch Selah’s parchment hand. I would reach out to touch only the windowpane in my ward.
I held my hands to my ears to stop the dulcimer music that played forlornly in my head. As if a haunt, it played alone without my foot tapping, without my strumming fingers. It played through the seasons that passed without me being a part of them. I saw them all, the seasons, the years, pass by without me. And I was filled with more sorrow than I had ever known.
“I want to go home,” I said to Zeb.
He stood, crossed the few steps between us, and took both my hands to help me from my chair. Circling his arm around my waist, he moved me to the window again. I leaned against his shoulder, staring at the brick wing where I might be housed.
“Dearest Fairwyn,” he murmured, holding me close, “I just want you to get well.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his vest pocket and wiped my tears.
Thirteen
Once we had settled into the carriage, Zeb held me all the way to the train station. Unable to stop my trembling, I rested my head against his chest, grateful for each moment that passed, for each mile that stretched between the hospital and me.
“Thank you,” I whispered against the rough tweed of his jacket.
He rested his cheek atop my head and didn’t answer.
“I would have died if you’d left me there.”
Still he said nothing.
“Of a barren spirit, of the silence in my heart.”
He pulled back slightly, and I looked up at him. The carriage swayed as it rolled over a bump. I grasped the upholstered bench seat and held on tight, my gaze on Zeb. His face wasn’t as kind as I expected. Instead, he seemed perplexed as he studied me. “What do you suggest might be the answer?”
“You mean as a cure for my … illness?”
He raised a brow and let his gaze drift over my shoulder to the passing landscape. “Yes.”
I studied my hands, surprised that I was now clenching them in my lap. “Dr. Crawford suggested pregnancy.” I blushed at the word. “He said children …”
Zeb turned his gaze again to me. “You can’t take care of yourself. How can you take care of infants? Little children?” His brow furrowed, and for a moment I thought I saw the glitter of tears.
“I know how you’ve wanted them—”
He held up one hand, palm out, to stop me. I moved away from him to the opposite corner of the carriage. “But what do you want, Fairwyn?” Before I could answer, he went on. “I’ve given you everything. I built you a lovely home. I have seen that you receive an education to rival that of many women in our day. I have given you access to my library. I have seen to it that you’re invited out socially, but you constantly decline those same invitations.
“Your only friend is Jeannie, and she’s …”
At the mention of her name, I tilted my head to meet his eyes. “She’s what?”
“Nothing.” His voice was soft. “Nothing at all.”
I leaned forward. “You were going to say that she’s my friend because of her loyalty to you?” My voice dropped. “Because she’s in love with you.”
He laughed, but the sound carried no merriment. “She’s my friend. My dearest friend. Has been since childhood.”
I loved Jeannie like a sister, and my heart caught even as I spoke. “She’s in love with you.”
His smile faded. “That’s your imagination.”
“I’ve seen it from the beginning.”
“She knows I’m in love with my wife.”
We rode in silence as the carriage rattled and rocked.
“Are you?” I finally said.
He narrowed his eyes, and his words were measured when he spoke. “There you go again, Fairwyn. You can’t accept the gifts I’ve given you. Not even my love.”
“Poppy once told me that you wanted to marry me so you could change me. That you saw me just as he saw a block of sassafras, waiting to be fashioned into a dulcimer.”
He made another mirthless sound. “Is that what you’ve thought all this time?”
“You have, you know, wanted to change me. Subtly at times. Other times more blatantly. I wasn’t acceptable in your life, in Oak Hill, the way I was when we met. You told your mother I would grow and change to fit in.”
“And you have. You’ve learned your lessons well.”
“Perhaps that’s what’s caused my darkness. Those lessons. Trying to fit in.” I let my gaze drift away again. “Maybe my spirit is exhausted from trying too hard and not succeeding. No matter my education, no matter your gifts … none of it makes up for feeling a misfit.” I sighed. “I’m just not suited to be your wife.”
“Self-pity is unbecoming.” He studied my face as my cheeks turned red, then continued. “You’re saying that if you went back to your mountain ways you’d be happy again?”
His tone seemed devoid of emotion, as if his spirit was weary. I was afraid to look at his face when I answered. “Perhaps.”
Zeb reached across the distance between us and grasped my forearm, forcing me to turn to him. “Perhaps?” he echoed. “You would leave me?” He shook his head. “You can’t. I’ll not allow it.”
I stared hard at him. “Ask yourself why, Zeb.”
“What do you mean?”
“Is it because you would miss me, or is it because it would embarrass you before your colleagues?” He didn’t answer, and I went on, plunging the knife deeper into his heart. “And you kept me from being admitted to the hospital for the same reason.” I laughed. “I’m realizing just now that it was not for my sake. It was because of the extreme embarrassment it would bring you.”
“Why do you think I brought you here, if not to explore all medical therapies? Your argument makes no sense.”
I raised a brow as a new idea occurred to me. “Perhaps you wanted to frighten me into acceptable behavior.”
His face flushed, and I wondered if I’d dug into a place in his heart he didn’t want me to see. I didn’t car
e if I’d falsely accused him.
“It’s all about appearances, isn’t it, Zeb?” My voice was soft. “And that’s why my spirit is starving. I’m tired of pretending everything is as it should be on the outside, when every day I die a little more on the inside.”
The driver turned onto Alexander Street, and the train station came into view a half-mile away. Minutes later, as the vehicle drew to a stop, Zeb turned to me.
“What about you, Fairwyn?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Where is your love for me?” His voice was low with sorrow. “Have you ever loved me … or has it always been those things I could offer you that you loved?” He held my gaze, his eyes damp. “Or was I a convenient escape from your spinsterhood?” Before I could answer, he opened the door and stepped down, then reached to take my hand and help me to the ground.
We spoke no more about such things during our journey back to Oak Hill. Nor in the weeks and months to come.
May 8, 1887
My dearest Welsie True,
You asked me how it is with Zeb and me, saying you read between the lines in my last letter that all is not well. We will soon have been married four years. I haven’t wanted to burden you with my problems, for I am better off than many women. I have never known a day of hunger; I have never gone without life’s necessities. I have a library full of books, and I often walk in the woods and sing. I never did repair my shattered dulcimer; somehow its heart was broken that day in the woods as surely as mine has been since.
I can’t tell you that my life is not pleasant. Nor can I tell you that it is full. I have kept my dark fears at bay. My heart sometimes longs to soar—just as it did in the old days. But it can’t as long as I am so shut inside myself. I do not know what happened to that spunky young woman who came to Oak Hill so full of life and dreams.
It still seems that Zeb and I cannot truly find love in each other. For months now he has been lost in his own world; sometimes I think he forgets he has a wife. Maybe he wants to forget.
Since the day he took me to the hospital we have been more distant than ever. Those words we spoke in the carriage, those honest and hurtful words, cannot be taken back. I suspect he grieves as much as I do.
