A Deceptive Homecoming (16 page)

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?

 

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.

B
ut 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.

“Hey! You on the floor. What are you doing down here?” a woman said. All I could see was her outline against the light. “You need to get back to your own ward.”

Without a moment of hesitation, I clambered to my feet and dashed by the nurse in the doorway. Carrying a metal tray covered with glass tubes filled with blue tablets, a tin cup, and a pitcher of water, she could do nothing to stop me but yell. I climbed the steps before me in twos and sprinted down a familiar hallway, skidding to a halt on the highly polished floor, just as another patient covered with a white sheet was carried by me on a stretcher. This time I dropped my eyes and focused on anything: the dark smudge that marred the tip of my shoe, the rent in the trim of my skirt, my racing heartbeat, anything but the passing body.

Once the orderlies and the body were gone, I picked up my skirts and ran. I ran, as fast as I never had, past patients lounging in doorways or playing checkers in an alcove, past startled nurses who shouted words of disapproval at my back, past one matronly lady in a wide-brimmed hat waiting patiently in a high-backed chair in the lobby. I ignored all of their scowls and stares, stopping to catch my breath only after I'd shoved open the front doors and could fill my lungs with fresh air. As I stood on the path panting, looking back at the building that had for a short time entombed me, I thought of what had brought me here in the first place.

Dr. Hillman and his secrets be damned!
I thought, vowing never to step foot in that wicked place again.

 

I was still shaking when I stepped into the hushed peace of the Cathedral of St. Joseph. Needing a place of sanctuary, I'd thought of returning to Mount Mora, but that sacred place had been tainted by the specter of the man in Frank Hayward's coffin. Kneeling at my father's grave, I wouldn't be able to set aside all the questions that still remained about Frank Hayward and Levi Yardley. Nor would I be able to forget the terrors I'd just witnessed and my fear that Father once suffered a similar fate. Thus I went back to the cathedral, despite being slightly disheveled and dirty, hoping to find the peace and tranquility I craved. And I found it. I stared up at the ceiling, painted blue with gold stars, and breathed in the incense, still burning in a side chapel. I closed my eyes as rays of sun streamed through the ten-foot-tall glass windows and warmed my face. I cleared my mind of everything—Ginny's rebuke, the troubles at Mrs. Chaplin's, Frank Hayward's mysterious whereabouts, Dr. Hillman's lies, and Levi Yardley's fate. I knelt and prayed, feeling the panic, the fear and loathing that I felt lost in the tunnels under the asylum slip away.

I slipped back into the pew when a fellow parishioner sat down a few rows in front of me. I glanced at the marble statue of St. Joseph with the infant Jesus in his arms, and stared at the flickering candles at its base. It reminded me of the shadows in the asylum tunnels.

I didn't get dizzy or nauseous,
I suddenly realized. During the terrifying encounter with the chained patients, I'd felt panic, fear, and loathing. I'd imagined never finding my way out and facing a fate similar to that of the poor, pathetic human beings who had been reduced to little more than rabid animals. But I hadn't once felt the floor tilt or the room spin. I hadn't once needed to prop myself up against the wall or hold on to the rail of a bed.

Could learning about my father's true fate have affected me so deeply, so quickly? I'd been able to face the instrument case in Dr. Hillman's drawer. What else would I be able to face? As I pondered this new idea, I looked about me at the others in the church. Two elderly gray-haired women occupied the second pew as they prayed on their knees, shoulders touching. Another old woman, dressed all in black, knelt in front of the statue of Mary, clutching her rosary. A young man, with a thick mustache and a scowl on his face, sat with his arms wrapped around him, in a pew across the aisle and toward the back. With his hat in his lap, he simply glared at the altar. And then I saw Malinda Gilbert. She was coming out of the confessional, biting her nails. I immediately dropped my eyes and stared at my hands. When I looked up again, she was gone.

Had she seen me? I wondered. I hoped not. If she had, I wanted in no way for her to guess what my first thought was when I saw her. To my shame, I wondered what she had to confess.

Think of your own sins, Hattie,
I heard my mother's voice say. As a child I had often voiced my curiosity after seeing someone I knew exit the confessional box. She properly scolded me for my ill-placed inquisitiveness. I'd apologize, hoping it would save me from the consequences, fifteen “Ave Maria” prayers, but it never did. Now, as then, I walked over and opened the confessional door.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a month since my last confession.”