Escape From Purgatory

by Scarlet Darkwood - BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction

  In an instant, Grace’s face paled, her eyes widening larger than Claire had ever seen.

  “Move now!”

  Those two words came from Greta’s mouth in such a menacing growl, a hoard of goosebumps popped up on top of Claire’s arms. She’d never seen the nurse stand up to a staff member this way.

  Defeated at her own game, Grace whirled around with a huff and stomped over to the cabinet, jerking out several towels from a shelf.

  “Bring me a few wash cloths.”

  Sullen, Grace reached up on another shelf and wrenched out a few cloths, sending several others tumbling to the floor.

  “Wipe her off. All of her. Make sure her bottom is clean and dry.” Greta’s face had softened somewhat, and in her eyes a glimmer of amusement edged out the former angry glow.

  “What if I just wet these and give them to her? She can do it better than I can.”

  The nurse replied with a sly grin, “You’re the one who’s supposed to care for these patients. You’ll do your job, and for once do it right.” Smooth and calm, the words came out in such an eerie tone. Claire shuddered. “And hurry up. She’s freezing cold.”

  Grace grimaced and held a few washcloths under the water.

  “I want them good and warm.”

  The attendant moved stiffly, adjusting one of the taps up a few notches. While the water streamed, the scowl gradually faded. With the most casual demeanor she said, “Why don’t you go on, Greta. I can finish up.”

  Claire gazed in awe and fear at the attendant’s hands, watching each muscle and tendon strain as Grace squeezed out every drop of water.

  Greta crossed her arms. Her eyes lit up, flashing and dancing as she watched the attendant. “I’m staying right here.”

  “You sure?” Grace’s hopeful expression faded.

  “I’m sure.”

  For the next several minutes, under Greta’s instruction, Claire stood while Grace wiped away the filth. In one final blow, the nurse insisted the tub be cleaned and disinfected while she supervised. Claire put on her dress and waited. When Grace finished, Greta escorted Claire back to the common room.

  She should have felt like she’d just won a battle, but somehow Claire knew the war wasn’t over. The pleasure of seeing Grace humiliated by her superior rang hollow. The attendant was surely planning her next revenge. For now, Claire had survived one more day at Hatchie River.

  Chapter Five

  Claire stopped and rested, leaning against her hoe as she stared out in all directions across the field. For the past few hours, the ladies had worked hard, pulling weeds and hoeing. Others gathered up baskets of vegetables and passed them off to staff who made sure everything ended up in the kitchens.

  Today, the air covered everyone and everything in a muggy blanket of humidity so thick one wondered if they couldn’t part it with their hands like Moses had done the Red Sea. Claire wished now she’d taken Ruth’s advice and salvaged some of Anne’s scrap material for making a handy headband.

  She’d already begun a collection of “lady rags,” the common term for monthly sanitary pads. “You won’t get no Kotex here, so you better keep a bag full for when you need ‘em.” Such had been Ruth’s explanation when Claire’s menses had started. Bonnie taught her how to make a belt so the rags stayed in place.

  Claire smiled. She found it interesting how one thought led to another while she toiled for hours. “Free Association.” That’s the term she’d learned from her weekly therapy sessions with Dr. Dandridge. While she didn’t try to make sense of these ramblings outside of sessions, he afforded her no such luxury during times they met.

  Dr. Dandridge had decided on using the “talking cure,” a new popular form of treatment. He and Greta thought this approach would improve Claire’s mood. She went along with it, much preferring to talk about how to get out of a hell hole such as Hatchie River, but doubted Dr. Dandridge considered such a goal appropriate for therapy.

  The positive thing about these sessions was the lack of ice baths and electric shocks. They talked together like two adults. She remembered a recent session. After reclining back on a divan, as was the usual custom, He started off the session by stating, “We’ve spent some time talking about your home life before you came here. Today, I want you to talk more about feelings of abandonment.”

  “My feelings of abandonment?”

  “Yes.” He waited for a moment. “What do you want to say about that subject?”

  Claire turned her eyes from the ceiling and glanced over at him. “I’ll tell you what I want to say. Men have the power to do things to women, and no one ever questions them. We get labeled with words like “insane” or “crazy” so men can justify their reasons for what they do. They think that makes everything okay, but it doesn’t.”

  He watched her, eyes scanning every movement, face void of expression. “Do you think you’re insane?”

  “Of course not. Grieving over my baby’s death insane? That didn’t mean I’d lost my mind. I wanted to go to the grave an awful lot, though. I couldn’t help myself.”

  He cleared his throat and shifted a little in his seat. “And what did you hope to accomplish by visiting the grave as often as you did?”

  Claire fought back the tears. “I’d hoped that God would give me an answer. An answer as to why he’d denied me something so simple as the happiness of having children, of having a family I could care for and love.”

  Nodding, he jotted down something in a notebook. For the first half hour, he spent their session asking her basic questions like these. During the last half hour, he asked her to do something a little different.

  “Mrs. Wright, I want you to think about the word love and tell me what comes to your mind. Don’t analyze what you say. Just talk, and we’ll see what comes out of it before the end of our time.”

  “Talk about my thoughts on love and saying what comes to mind? Is that what you’re asking?”

  “Yes. It sounds like an odd request, but there is a point to it.”

  She’d turned her eyes back to the ceiling, wracking her brain. What did she feel? Did she even feel anything anymore?

  “Mrs. Wright, I can see you’re thinking. I need to you speak those thoughts, not keep them to yourself.”

  His tone hadn’t been unkind, just insistent.

  “Love. That’s a bitter word for me . . .”

  “Go on, please. Just let your mind flow.”

  “Well, I married for love. I married my husband assuming we’d be together until we died. He must have decided he didn’t love me anymore because he brought me here. God doesn’t love me, either, because he made my babies die. I think men and women are equal. We each offer different things in a marriage. That’s what makes it work.” She’d paused and looked at the doctor. “Is that what you want?”

  “Yes, please keep talking. Don’t stop until I tell you to.”

  She’d closed her eyes and continued. “Nobody should have the kind of power men have over women. I think the world’s unfair. I had dreams, now I don’t know what the future holds. I hate it here. I hate the way we’re treated, beaten, starved, treated like animals. I hate the way the men take advantage of helpless women. I hate Grace Neil. She’s the Devil’s spawn. I think the Devil sometimes makes me think bad thoughts. I didn’t used to be so ornery. Adrian said I couldn’t deal with things, that I sniveled all the time. He said being here would cure me. I miss my baby boy. I imagined him as the most perfect creature on earth. I still think about him and what he’d be like if he’d lived. If he had been older, maybe he could have seen to it that Adrian wouldn’t have left me here. He would have protected me, been someone I could have run to.

  “I’m all alone. I’m scared. I usually know what to expect around here, but then again, I don’t. Miss Greta and Miss Anne are the nicest staff members. They listen. They care. There should always be trust in a marriage between two people. Nothing should happen without the other person knowing about it. Differences aren’t solved with indifferenc
e. I don’t know what to do next. I want out of here. I’m not sure what it takes to get out of here. I don’t belong in this place. I had a life, pretty things, friends. I don’t have any family nearby. I’m alone. I saw Grace slap Millie across the face. She shouldn’t have hit that poor woman. Millie can’t help it. They say orderlies make money handing Millie off to the men around here. It’s never quiet. People talk all the time. Bad things happen in patients’ rooms. I hear it. My brain gets in a whirl. I don’t know what day of the week it is. I want to go home.”

  “Time. You can stop now.” Dr. Dandridge had scribbled furiously in his notebook for the next few minutes. Not once did his face show any emotion about the session.

  Claire let out her breath in a loud huff. Maybe this talking cure worked after all. Part of her sensed a bit of relief, like she’d at least lightened the anchor weighing her down into all the muck and dark secrets of the asylum. It had a liberating effect, talking and unleashing her most painful thoughts the way she had just done to Dr. Dandridge. “So, let me ask you, Doctor, do you think I’m insane?”

  He’d smiled an easy smile, the one reminding her of Mitchell. “What I heard was a lot of despair, fear, and disappointment. No, that doesn’t make you insane. But we’ll talk about all this some more the next time we meet. We’re out of time now.” The session ended with Anne coming and escorting her back to the common room.

  Claire jumped at the jolt of pain slicing through her arm.

  “Get moving! We haven’t got all day.”

  An attendant had delivered a sharp slap, scowling back at her as they passed. Claire repositioned her hoe and viewed the remainder of the row. Ruth moved several yards down, attacking the ground with sharp stabs at the weeds. Off in the distance, Claire glimpsed the side of the old shed she’d heard Ruth talk about, the one sheltered by the trees. One of the orderlies led a ragged female behind him. The woman followed with a blind trust, no resistance. It was Millie. Claire screamed in silence for the poor woman and the horrors waiting for her inside. Tearing her vision away from the horrid shed, she stared down at the weeds. Like the weeds, she needed extraction from Hatchie River, uprooted with no chance of ever returning.

  The hoe fell in a new rhythm as she moved on down the row, meeting Ruth in the middle. After the conversation with Adrian, she’d toyed with the idea of contacting her parents for help. How did one call their family and casually mention they’d been admitted to the local asylum, banished from society? Due to the distance between them, they couldn’t travel to Ashe Grove and save her. Getting Adrian’s permission to take her home would be an even bigger battle. She knew they could easily blame her for everything. No, she couldn’t contact them.

  If only she could write Adrian off, dismiss him from her life, but her feelings waxed and waned between love and hate. Someone told her once that love and hate belonged on the same spectrum, just at opposite ends of a feeling. Watching some of her peers break down in front of their families when they came for visits jump-started a deep pride in herself she’d never noticed until now. She’d be damned before stooping so low, groveling, begging her husband to come get her.

  Like her grandmother said one time when philosophizing on the finer points of love, “Why in the world would you ever want a man who didn’t love you?” Adrian had loved her well for many years. Surely one hateful conversation didn’t mean Grandmother’s words applied to her marriage? Like it or not, the awful truth pointed to the fact that a part of her may always love him on some level. But even if she forgave him, she could never return to him. If not him, who could help her? Who would help her? There remained only one hope. Her next plan of action: Talk to Mitchell.

  Three days later, she found herself standing at the nurse’s station, her stomach in knots.

  “Okay, Mrs. Wright, are you ready?” Anne placed the phone on the edge of the counter. “Just remember what Bonnie, Ella, and Ruth suggested to you.”

  With a deep breath of apprehension, Claire picked up the receiver. “I know, I know. Stay calm, be nice, and ask my brother-in-law if he’d be kind enough to help.”

  Anne smiled. “That’s right. Don’t be scared.” The smile of encouragement turned into a scowl.

  Claire faced the person who sidled up next to her.

  “So, you’re up for a second round. Not giving up without a fight. That’s real good.” Grace drummed her fingers on the counter, her eyes narrowed. A mocking grin spread across her lips. “Are you calling your husband again? Got any sweet words or special favors you can offer to change his mind? If I were you, I’d just forget the words and go straight for the favors. That’s all they want. If he’s missing the warmth of a good woman, you might have a shot at getting him back . . . unless he’s found . . . well, you know.”

  Claire stared at her in disbelief.

  “You shut your foul mouth, Grace. It’s no business of yours who she’s calling.” Anne came charging out from behind the counter, teeth clenched, eyes smoldering with irritation. “Get the hell out of here . . . now!”

  Grace stepped back, waving her colleague away. “What are you so worried about? I’m just trying to help. These women need to know how to get their men back. You can’t cry and carry on. They don’t want to hear that. You gotta sweet talk ’em. Tell ’em it’ll be more than worth their while to come take you home.”

  Her patronizing inflections as she spoke reeked with her trademark sarcasm. Visual exchanges between Anne and Claire reflected a restrained urge to trounce Grace, once and for all.

  “Grace, don’t you have some work to do?”

  All three women turned and saw Greta, hands on her hips The grim look on her face showed that she was in no mood for squabbles or trifling conversation.

  “I was just offering her advice. She’s about to make an important phone call and needs to know what to say to the poor soul on the other end who has to listen to her.” Grace rambled in her usual way. “Make it count was what I was telling her.”

  Greta steered Grace away from the counter and pushed her toward the common room. “You couldn’t come up with decent advice if your life depended on it. Get back to those patients.”

  Grace threw back her head and laughed. “You tickle me, Greta. Always playing the savior.” The smile on her face disappeared. She glared hard at the three ladies in front of her. “You can say whatever you want, but nothing will save these women. No matter how much they whine to their families, nobody’s picking them up.” She whirled around and disappeared into the sea of madness in the adjoining room.

  “Never mind her, Mrs. Wright. Are you ready to make this call?” Behind Anne’s eyes, hostility still burned.

  “I think so. Wish me luck.” Claire picked up the receiver and dialed.

  The secretary answered. “Wright Hat Manufacturing. How may I direct this call?”

  “Mitchell Wright, please. This is personal. Please tell him it’s important.”

  There was a brief pause. Claire clenched a fist, in no mood for questions.

  “Is there a name I can give Mr. Wright?”

  Impatient, Claire answered in a curt tone. “No, there isn’t. Please tell him what I suggested before. Thank you.”

  The sound of the call ringing through to Mitchell’s office roused relief and fear. This would be her last chance for help from family.

  “Wright Manufacturing. Mitchell speaking.”

  Smooth came the voice over the line, one sounding so similar to Adrian’s it almost scared her. The hello froze in her throat.

  “Hello? This is Mitchell Wright. Can I help you?”

  Her finger hovered over the tiny white button to end the call. Willing every ounce of resolve, she moved her finger away. “Mitchell? It’s me, Claire.” She forced out the words, praying he’d be receptive.

  “Claire? Oh my gosh! Where are you?” Mitchell’s voice adopted a higher pitch of excitement. “Are you . . . having a good time, relaxing a little?”

  His concern sounded genuine, at least a little. She cl
eared her throat and spoke again. “Not sure what Adrian has told you, but I’m not on vacation.”

  “Where are you, then?”

  “You won’t believe this, but I’m at Hatchie River.”

  Silence.

  “Mitchell? Are you still there? Please don’t hang up on me.” A round of tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them back.

  “Hatchie River? The crazy house? What are you doing there? Hold on, Claire. Let me shut the door.”

  In the background came the pounding of the phone as he placed it on the desk, followed by some shuffling and the sound of a door closing. Her heart beat faster. He didn’t hang up on her. At least he wanted to talk to her in private. This was a good sign. She glanced at Anne, who’d been watching, and nodded. Anne smiled back and whispered in Greta’s ear.

  Mitchell’s voice came over the line. “I’m back. So talk to me. Why in the hell are you calling me from the looney bin? What’s going on between you and Adrian? One day we’re talking. The next day, you’ve disappeared.”

  “Hasn’t he said anything to you about bringing me here? I tried talking to him a few weeks ago, and he just blew me off. I haven’t heard from him or seen him.”

  “Honestly, he’s said very little. When I’ve asked about you, he’s only mumbled something about you going away for a while, needing some rest. Didn’t say much more. I just assumed maybe you’d gone to visit your family.”

  “I can’t believe he wouldn’t have said something to you about this, Mitchell.” She shook her head in disbelief. So Adrian had lied about sending her here. This more than confirmed the strange behavior he’d been displaying lately.

  “He and I aren’t the biggest talkers in the world. When it comes to business, we do okay. But personal matters, it’s a horse of a different color.”