by Joanna Shupe
Oliver winced as he exhaled, his eyes focused on the dingy white ceiling. Every breath was excruciating. He had no memory of how he’d come to be injured or arriving at the medical ward, but something terrible had clearly happened. Now strapped to a bed, he was held down with leather restraints, his left eye nearly swollen shut. Both sets of ribs were on fire and his head throbbed like a drummer had taken up residence in there.
He had not felt this miserable in a long time, not since the bout of scarlet fever that stole his hearing.
The last thing he recalled was walking back from dinner last night. He had been alone, his head down, anxious to reach the sanctuary of his room. At night, once it grew dark, he needed to be in a familiar space with his back against the wall. A place where no one could sneak up on him. For some reason, the guards were enjoying scaring Oliver whenever possible. It had become a cruel game to catch the deaf man unawares and watch him jump.
Needless to say, Oliver had not been amused.
Had they tried to scare him last night? He searched the muddled reaches of his sore mind. Damn it. Too much fog surrounded the memory. Obviously, someone had beaten him, and the other patients were unlikely suspects. Hardly any of the men confined here were violent; most were confused and gentle. Oliver could not see any of them pummeling him to this degree.
Had to have been the guards. But why? He had given them no cause.
Despair ballooned to replace the hope he had carried. Would he ever be released? If not, how would he possibly survive this place?
He must have dozed because a hand on his shoulder jarred him awake. Frank’s pale face appeared above him. “My God, what have they done to you?” the lawyer said.
“I think I lost.” Oliver attempted a smile but it hurt too much.
“Are you all right?” Frank’s gaze swept down the length of Oliver’s bed. “Have they strapped you down?” He lifted the blankets and saw Oliver’s bound hands. Then he started shouting at the hospital staff. Oliver could not see what Frank was saying, but the attorney’s face turned an alarming shade of purple, his shoulders heaving with effort.
A nurse rushed over. Frank gestured to Oliver and then pointed directly at the nurse. She attempted to calm Frank down by putting her palms up, but he kept going. Oliver closed his eyes and let himself drift. He was tired. The asylum had a way of stripping one’s ability to cope. If it were possible, he would sleep all day and night instead of breaking rocks and trying to stay safe.
Jostling near his hands startled him back to consciousness. His lids flew open. Frank’s face hovered above him. “They are removing the straps.”
Relief flooded Oliver. He hated being tied down. After a few minutes his hands were freed. He moved them tentatively, testing how badly his arms and shoulders hurt. Oh, yes. They fucking hurt.
Turning his head, he found Frank. “Thank you. Whatever you said must have scared them.”
“I threatened to have a host of newspaper reporters here within the hour if you were not released.”
“Was that an idle threat?”
“Hell no. I had drinks with Pulitzer last night. He owes me seeing as how I got him out of a jam recently.”
Oliver did not dare ask what that jam entailed. First, he was too tired. Second, knowing Frank, it could have been a whole host of things, not all of them legal.
“So who did this to you?” Frank asked. “If it is the guards I need to know.”
“Why?”
“Because I shall take everyone in this damn place to court if they are attacking prisoners without just cause.”
Gritting his teeth, Oliver rode out the wave of pain that rolled through him. When he could speak, he asked, “How do you know I did not give them cause?”
“I know you. There is no chance you provoked the guards.”
Oliver tried once more to recall what happened. Unfortunately the events had not yet crystallized in his mind. “I cannot remember.”
“Truly?”
“Yes. It is a blur.”
Frank’s mouth pulled into a frown. “If the memory returns let me know. We have no reason to believe this treatment will cease unless we go after those responsible.”
Could Oliver survive another attack like this? Christ, he already felt so . . . dehumanized. Unimportant. After only a few days it was clear he did not matter to the staff. They thought him crazy, another lunatic undeserving of mercy or kindness. The patients were treated little better than animals. It embarrassed him to grasp for food or huddle with the other patients to stay warm, but he had no choice. Survival had become paramount. “How is the rehearing coming?”
“Slowly. However, this incident means you are in danger, so it is imperative the rehearing take place immediately. I plan to leave here and go straight to the judge.”
“Will that work?”
“It must. We need to get you out of here, Oliver.”
He wanted that . . . God, how he wanted that. He longed to ask about Christina and how she was faring, but everything hurt. And he was so tired.
Increasingly, he felt like a failure. He had allowed Milton to maneuver him into this horrible fate, hadn’t even protested when they carted him away. And once here, he had not struggled or staged a coup. Instead, he had turned meek and cowardly, a person he hardly recognized.
This was all his fault. He had not fought for anything, not since he lost his hearing. He walked away from society because they had treated him like an eccentric pet, and the few friends from school had drifted away as he grew increasingly reclusive. He’d hardly noticed, in fact. It was easier to be alone. He was convinced he did not need anyone else, that he was better off on his own.
And now he truly was on his own, locked away in a madhouse. If only he had tried harder, forced society to accept him—even stayed in touch with one or two of his classmates—he would not be in this mess. Someone would have risen to his defense.
No one would have believed him insane.
If Frank did manage to gain his release, Oliver would appreciate every moment of freedom from now on. He would not let anything stop him from taking Christina where she wanted to go. Shopping, theater, teaching her to ride . . . whatever his wife desired. No longer would he close himself off from the rest of the world.
However, if Frank’s efforts at a rehearing failed . . . He closed his eyes. Being locked away, knowing all he was missing, would drive him truly mad. Christina would live in that giant house, alone, known by all as the woman who’d married the lunatic. A fresh wave of pain went through him, centered in his chest. How could he ruin her life like that?
She was young. There was so much left of her life, now free from her parents and wealthy beyond her imagination. Why should she remain shackled to him, forced to hear of his slow descent into true madness during his incarceration? Better to allow her to move on with her future, alone.
Yes, that was the right thing to do.
He opened his eyes and stared up at Frank. “Draw up divorce papers.”
Frank’s jaw dropped. “Divorce papers? Have you lost your—?” He bit off what he was going to say, obviously realizing where they were.
“If the rehearing fails, I want her free to live her life. To move wherever she desires. She may have all the money she needs. Better her than Milton.”
“Just give her a ridiculous amount of money and set her free. Is that your plan?”
“Yes.”
Frank slapped his palm against his thigh in frustration. “That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard. It is clear the two of you are crazy—I mean wild about each other.”
“I will not saddle her with a husband locked away in an asylum. Draw up the damn papers, Frank.” He paused, struggling to breathe through the pain in his sides. “Present them to her . . . when the rehearing fails.”
“You mean if the rehearing fails. Have a little faith in me, Oliver.”
“I am trying.”
Regret and unhappiness lined Frank’s face. “Do not upset yourself. I w
ill draft the papers and have them ready. I doubt she will sign, however.”
“When I am locked away in here for good she will change her mind.”
Chapter Twenty
Frank Tripp arrived as Christina was breakfasting. His grim expression caused her to instantly push away her eggs and toast.
“Please, sit down,” she said. “Have some coffee before you deliver your bad news.”
Frank selected a chair, placed his satchel on the floor, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He dragged a hand through his neatly combed hair. “Thank you. I have had quite a morning.”
“You saw Oliver?”
“Briefly, yes.” Frank took a sip of his coffee then shook his head. “He asked me not to tell you, but I think you should hear it. There was an altercation last night.”
Christina’s spine went straight as a pin, her heart lodged in her throat. “An altercation?”
“I could not receive a straight answer on what happened. The administration claims Oliver argued with another patient and fisticuffs broke out.”
“However . . . ?”
Frank rubbed his forehead as if trying to carefully select his words, and she knew then that Oliver’s condition was bad. “He is in the medical ward. His face . . . Well, it does not look to be the work of one patient. He cannot recall what happened but I think he was beaten by the guards.”
“Oh, my goodness.” All the breath left her chest in a rush and she sagged in her chair like a rag doll. Poor Oliver. How dare they hit him? Her eyes stung, tears gathering like a storm. “Is he all right?”
“He will be fine. Some cuts and bruising, sore ribs, and he is concussed.” She gasped and Frank reached to grab her hand. “I raised hell, Christina. Threatened them with every law I know as well as the newspapers. After leaving Wards I went to see the judge who is reviewing Oliver’s case and pressed for an answer. I have a resolution, though it might not exactly be what we were hoping for.”
“They are . . . Please tell me they are not leaving him in that place.” Her insides froze at the possibility. Concussed? Cuts and bruising? God above, they must release him now.
“The judge has agreed to a rehearing. He plans to call in some experts, however, to view these experiments Oliver’s been working on. Oliver will also be evaluated by two doctors and I insisted they possess experience with deaf patients.”
“Thank heavens.” She could sense from his expression there was more. “What are you not telling me?”
He sighed heavily. “The judge refuses to allow Oliver to demonstrate the invention. In fact, Oliver won’t be permitted to leave Wards at all. His evaluation will take place in another part of the asylum.”
“Then how will we know the examination is fair?”
“I have insisted on being present. That is not much comfort, I realize, but it is the best we can do at the moment.”
“May I come?”
“Yes. In fact, you shall demonstrate the invention on his behalf.”
“Me? Demonstrate Oliver’s invention?” The idea filled her with dread, her stomach churning at the idea of speaking in front of a room full of people, especially with Oliver’s life hanging in the balance. If she failed, he could be locked away forever.
No, she could absolutely not do it.
“I am the least qualified person to demonstrate the device—”
“That is not what Oliver tells me,” Frank said. “Have you watched him operate it?”
“Yes, but no doubt others have as well. Besides, I am a woman.”
Frank shrugged by way of answer, so she closed her eyes and struggled to remain calm as the walls began to close in on her. She could not take this on. How could she possibly stand in front of a room of experts and speak on Oliver’s behalf? Her lungs pressed in on themselves, the air turning thick as molasses.
“Breathe, Christina,” Frank said. “You shall be fine. We will work on what to say together. Then you’ll go into the demonstration feeling confident. I do it all the time before a trial.”
She started shaking her head before he stopped speaking. “I cannot. You must find someone else. Gill, perhaps. Or I could show you—”
“I am there as his lawyer. You must be there as well, speaking on his behalf. It cannot just be me coming to his defense. The more people who can stand up against Milton the better. I need you, Christina. Oliver needs you.”
She dug her nails into her palms. They needed her—Oliver needed her. Hadn’t she hated feeling helpless over his plight? Hadn’t she been anxious to do something else to free him? Her meeting with the mayor had failed. Well, this is your second opportunity. Do not waste it.
Yes, but why must she be called on for this particular service?
She was entirely ill-suited to give a presentation. She disliked standing in a room full of strangers, let alone having to speak in front of them . . . And with her husband’s fate resting on her performance? It was too much. She put a hand to her stomach and tried to draw in air.
“I will help you prepare,” Frank said again, his voice gentle. “You are able to do this. I believe in you.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, the fear and frustration bubbling over until she could not contain it. “Do I have a choice? Is there anyone else? Gill? Or Dr. Jacobs, perhaps?”
“I am confident in your ability, not to mention that the presence of his wife will allay many of the rumors and fears over your marriage. We refute another of Milton’s claims with you being there, speaking on Oliver’s behalf.”
She let out a shaky breath. How could she refuse? Oliver was stuck in the asylum, suffering from a concussion and God knew what else. He must get released soon, before he endured any more violence. There was no time for her silly fears; she had to be strong for Oliver. He needed her.
There was no other choice. She would have to give the best dashed demonstration those men had ever seen . . . and then Oliver would come home.
“As terrifying as I find the idea, I cannot refuse.”
“Excellent. We shall start preparing after breakfast. However, there is one more unpleasant item of business I need to discuss with you.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly then folded his hands on the table. “Oliver has asked me to draw up divorce papers.”
She inhaled sharply, her body growing cold. “Divorce? He wishes to divorce me?”
“I told him not to do it. He is . . . There is no good way to say this. He is losing hope, Christina. If the rehearing fails, he believes you are better off on your own.”
She stared at the table as the linen tablecloth swam before her eyes. Divorce. Hadn’t he said he wanted a real marriage? That she was stuck with him forever? God above, she had actually believed him.
What a fool she was. Oliver wanted to divorce her, to get rid of her. Mercy, this hurt. It felt as if a band was pulling tight around her chest, squeezing the life out of her.
“This has nothing to do with you or how he feels about you, Christina. He loves you. This is about the rehearing and his attempt to protect you. He believes you will be happier if you are free of this union, should he not gain release from Wards.”
That sounded like something Oliver would believe. Her husband had a big heart but he was not always right. “That is ridiculous.”
“Yes, it is. I tried to reason with him but he was adamant. Be strong, Christina,” Frank said. “Oliver might believe he knows what is best for you, but we will prove him wrong. We mustn’t let him give up just yet.”
She blew out a long breath and tried to sift through the thoughts swirling through her brain. What did she want? She wanted to stay married to Oliver. She loved him and, asylum or not, she would stick by his side. He did not get to decide for both of them.
Besides, he would soon be released from Wards. She would not rest, would never give up, until he came home. “Tell him I refuse to sign anything until he comes home and asks me for a divorce himself.”
The asylum’s theater held far more people than Christina had imagined. As the crowd found
their seats, her hands would not cease trembling.
She stood off to the side of the large space with Frank, watching as the legal experts and onlookers settled in chairs. Why were there so many people here? Three long rows of chairs were full of attendees, with even more men standing in the back. She had never addressed such a large crowd, let alone one so intimidating. All those intelligent eyes staring at her . . . The urge to run and hide lodged in her throat and dried out her mouth.
What if she failed?
The judge waited in the middle of the room as the crowd assembled. Christina had met him briefly and he had been kind. She sensed he sympathized with their case but was determined to fairly evaluate the facts of the case. While she understood that, Oliver was quite clearly sane and did not deserve the horrors happening somewhere inside these walls. It was torture to wait on the slow wheels of justice.
Eight days since Oliver had been taken. One hundred and ninety-two hours inside this hellish place. Today must go well. She let out a shaky breath.
“I will be in the front row,” Frank said quietly. “Keep your eyes on me, if it helps, and just pretend you and I are the only two people in the room.”
“All right,” she forced out, her voice husky and rough.
“You will be fine. We have practiced this.”
“Why are there so many men here? I expected only the judge and two or three experts.”
“Word went around, apparently. It is not every day that a deaf recluse’s electric hearing device is demonstrated in public. In fact, I recognize some of the men in the second row as from Edison’s laboratory.”
The butterflies in her stomach jumped, threatening to burst free. These men were not all onlookers; some were scientists.
“Ignore them. They do not matter,” Frank said. “The only people in the room right now are the three men in the front row. Those are the ones deciding Oliver’s fate.”
Deciding Oliver’s fate. Oh, heavens. She pressed a hand to her abdomen and fought the nausea in her belly.
Before she could again plead with Frank to take her place, the judge stepped forward. “Good afternoon. Thank you for coming. As you are aware, we are attempting today to fulfill an order by my court, which is to determine a man’s mental faculties. To that end we are now to witness a demonstration of what the accuser has referred to as a ‘dangerous and nonsensical’ experiment. It is our responsibility to determine whether that claim holds merit. Mrs. Oliver Hawkes shall lead this demonstration.” The judge turned to face her, sweeping his arm toward the cloth-covered box in the center of the room. “Mrs. Hawkes, if you please.”
