“I’m not having you committed, Alice. It’s a sanatorium, not an asylum. You’re here to rest.”
“My mother agreed to this?”
“Your mum will be just fine.”
Alice balked; her mother didn’t even know this was happening. Bet Dan didn’t either. But the real concern was money. “Who’s paying for this?”
“I am,” Teach said.
Alice could only gawk at her.
“What? You called me for help, didn’t you?”
“For advice.”
Teach raised a brow. “Well, my advice is that you recuperate in a warm, dry climate that’s quiet and where there’s a doctor who can look after you. It’s the best place for you. I’ll write your mum. She’ll understand.”
“But . . .” Alice was nothing more than a pawn being moved around a chessboard. So little of her life felt like it was in her own control. The thing was, in the past, Teach usually did this kind of thing for her own gain. Alice scratched along her brow, confused. “But you’re not my coach anymore.”
Teach snorted. “Who says?”
Alice wanted to scream. Maybe the doctor who said she wasn’t a tennis player anymore? And if she wasn’t a tennis player anymore, there’d be no way for Alice to pay Teach back for this.
She opened her mouth to object when Teach shushed her. “Just get better, okay?”
“How long am I going to be here?”
“Six weeks.”
“And then what?”
Teach parked in front of the grand-looking white building and beeped her horn. “Bollocks if I know.”
Alice’s bottom lip quivered and tears pooled in her eyes as a woman in a white nurse’s uniform appeared from the entrance to the Pottenger Sanatorium.
The Pottenger Sanatorium for Diseases of the Chest Is Here for Your Loved One with a Hygienic, Dietetic, Open-Air Regimen
The Sierra Madre Mountains to the north. Unrestricted views of the San Gabriel Valley to the south. The ocean off in the distance. A natural ravine running through the grounds. Gardens perpetually in bloom. Benches and swings. Sprawling native live oak trees. Winding paths. Private bungalows—with running hot and cold water, lavatories, and three sides of the tiny buildings made up of screens to maximize open air and sunlight.
It was all picturesque, state of the art, and the perfect environment to do nothing but rest.
Alice hated every inch of it.
She didn’t want to be inactive. She wanted sweat in her eyes, muscles aching from three-hour workouts, blisters and sores. She missed the butterflies smacking at her insides before a big match, the roar of the crowd, the burst of life inside her when she served an ace.
In the corner of her bungalow, Alice’s tennis racquet leaned against the wall. From her bed, which she was rarely allowed to leave—she even ate all her meals there—she glared at the racquet like it was mocking her.
“Stop it,” she spat at the inanimate object.
And now she was losing her mind.
It’d only been a week.
She had five more to go.
Teach came daily. Sometimes Teach’s sister, Gwen, came too. A fifty-mile round trip.
“You shouldn’t,” Alice told Teach. She wasn’t only protesting Teach’s visits every twenty-four hours. It was also the fact she knew Teach was giving twice the number of lessons to pay for Alice’s stay there.
“You said that yesterday,” Teach said. “Yet here I am. You might as well save your breath.”
“What else am I supposed to use it for?” Alice said glumly.
“You could sing.”
Alice rolled her eyes, glancing at the radio. Her only companionship was food, copious amounts, it seemed, and the soap operas, mysteries, talk shows, and news that played endlessly throughout the day in her tiny, private, modern, open-air bungalow. Sure, the doctor came twice a day, and the nurse poked her head in on an annoyingly regular basis, but Alice had never felt more alone. She had no desire to sing.
“Brought more letters from your mum,” Teach said. She began digging them out of her bag. “Oh, and something else I think you may appreciate.”
“Yeah?” Alice said, exhaustion in her voice. Never before had she felt so drained.
Teach held out her palm, a small object resting there.
Alice gasped. It was her pin, the one she thought she lost before her ill-fated trip to Europe. “Where did you find it?” Alice took it and rubbed a thumb over the racquet, pearl, diamonds, and rubies.
“It was caught up in the lining of a pocket in one of your tennis shorts. Found it when I was unpacking the clothes you took with you to . . .” She trailed off. They both knew where Alice had been and how she never got to play in the cup after all.
The excitement that initially surged in Alice melted away. The pin was her lucky pin that Teach gave to her when she’d said she was proud of her. Her lucky pin she wore while playing tennis. Something she didn’t do anymore.
She glanced at her racquet in the corner. Then she put the pin aside. She had no need for either of them anymore.
* * *
When Alice was younger, she was what folks called chubby. After taking up tennis, the excess fell away. It was replaced with hard, thick, game-winning muscle.
After only a few weeks in bed, Alice stared down at her slack legs. A tear leaked out. Quite frankly, Alice was shocked her tear ducts had any left. Disheartened, she flicked her thigh. The skin jiggled like gelatin. Bedrest plus emotional eating was not a winning combination. Much of the toning, firmness, and muscle had atrophied from only leaving her bed to use the lavatory. Her arms too. She’d lost the definition there. Her biceps quivered when she lifted anything heavier than a book.
Have mercy, she was tired of books and magazines. For the life of her, she couldn’t retain a lick of what she read. That was saying something for someone with an eidetic memory . . .
She sniffed, disgusted with herself. How had she become this version of herself? Twenty-one years old—because, yes, she’d celebrated her birthday lying down, Dan and Hazel making the long seven-hour bus ride for a rare visit—and she was already feeling completely washed up.
Teach walked in, a pep in her step, and Alice quickly wiped away her tears.
“Week six, baby,” Teach said, her voice as upbeat as her strut. “You ready to fly this chicken coop?”
Despite herself, Alice chuckled at Teach’s enthusiasm. She owed her a lot, more than the cost of Alice being here for six long, excruciating, motionless weeks.
And Alice was ready. She wanted out of this slice of hell she’d been existing in. But if she was being honest with herself, she wasn’t sure if she felt better or not. Only walking to and from the bathroom wasn’t much of a barometer of her body’s recovery. Mentally she was also a bit scared. What was waiting for her after she left?
The question was premature.
The question festered for another six weeks, the doctor insisting Alice extend her treatment.
The question took on a life of its own, burrowing deep in Alice’s darkest thoughts that she’d never get better.
The question became her worst enemy when, again, the doctor tacked on another six weeks to her stay.
The question ate away at her when she spent Christmas Eve in the sanatorium and not with her family, the first time she hadn’t been with them since her father’s death.
The question mocked her when she spent the new year feeling like a prisoner.
She let the letters from her mother pile up on her bedside table. But there was one that Teach kept moving to the top.
“You should read all of them. But this one . . . you should really read that one,” Teach would say, tapping it.
“Go on, read it,” Teach would suggest another day.
“Why’s it matter?” Alice said. “What’s any of it matter? Dan’s doing great on the force. Hazel is thinking about dating again. George is doing just fine. Tim is as persnickety as ever. Nothing ever changes.”
“Just read this one,” Teach said, tossing it onto Alice’s lap. “Do it for me.”
“Fine,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll read it.”