Thursday, September 29 1887
It seemed that despite my notoriety I'd proved myself untroublesome, for I was moved to a room with six beds. I'd hoped to be placed with Tillie and Anne, and I received half my wish. Anne's bed was just across from mine. Afraid to talk, we smiled at each other throughout that third night. An enormous comfort.
The next morning, the world outside was gray and foggy, and the chill reached right into the tiled floor. I heard the nurses discussing a sick girl, and at once I feared for Tillie, but a quick search of the benches at the wrenching coiffurie revealed my friend shivering beside one of the steam radiators.
The missing girl was the German girl Louise, who had been assaulted by Dr. Field back at Bellevue. She hadn't eaten in all the time I'd been there, but allowed Crazy Maggie to filch all her food. Eavesdropping on the nurses, I learned that Louise was in bed with a high fever. Miss Grady told Miss McCarten, “Go check her temperature, Alicia. See if she's faking.”
Miss McCarten returned several minutes later. “She's not faking. Her temperature is one hundred fifty degrees.”
Hearing that absurd number, I snorted with amusement. Miss Grupe whirled on me. “How high has your temperature ever gotten?”
“Not that high,” I offered.
Suspicious, she glared at me. Was I simple, or was I mocking them?
Miss Grady stood. “I'll go try.” When she returned, she declared that Louise had a fever of ninety-nine degrees. That, at least, seemed possible. And in this place, a fever was nothing to laugh about.
“Well,” said Miss Grady, “starve a cold, feed a fever. She has to be made to eat.” They ordered Josephine to take more rancid food up to the sick girl. “And tell her if she doesn't eat, I'll force it down her throat.”
After three days on the island, I had the routine of the place down pat: morning combing, breakfast, cleaning, a walk, sitting, lunch, sitting, supper, sitting, bed. My own routine also solidified. Each morning I would ask the nurses for more clothes for all the women, a request that was always denied. I would talk to every doctor I saw and say simply, “Am I sane or am I not?” I would care for Tillie as best I could, and work with Anne to keep her spirits up. I would play upon the piano for half an hour. And I would move among the women to learn their stories.
The more I heard, the more important this story became. For example, during Thursday morning's walk across the eerily foggy grounds, Mrs. Cotter spoke of her own horrible treatment with a resignation that made her all the more tragic:
“One day I thought I saw my husband coming up the walk over there. A trick of the light. It wasn't him, just a doctor. But because I broke the line, I was sent to the Retreat. The nurses there beat me with a broom handle.” She winced, touching her side. “I think they did something to my ribs. It's still hard to breathe. Then they bound me hand and foot, twisted a sheet about my throat, and threw me into a bathtub of ice water. They held me under until I thought I was going to die. When I awoke, they started cursing me for frightening them. `Not like the other girl!' they said, and beat my head against the wall and floor. They tore out my hair by the roots. See? I fear it will never grow back.”
I was speechless. Even seeing the clumps of missing hair, I wondered if she could have imagined these events, if only because I needed to believe such things didn't happen. “Other girl?”
Shooting a frightened look at the nurses, Mrs. Cotter pressed her lips together. “Talk to Bridget.”
Bridget McGuiness was a medium-sized woman of perhaps thirty, though already her red hair had tendrils of silver woven through it. I had not yet tried to talk to her, for she seemed preternaturally quiet. According to Mrs. Cotter, there was a reason. Though I was uncertain how much more horror my heart could hold, I knew that every reporter accepts a good tip.
I had no chance to talk to Bridget that afternoon outside the nurses' hearing, so I took the trouble to chat her up about subjects that would be of no interest to Miss Grupe or Miss Grady: the weather, her favorite flowers, music. Music seemed to be the key to conversation. I had not realized how much the inmates of that place appreciated my brief stints on the piano each day.
That afternoon when Dr. Dent came through for his inspection, Mrs. Turney unexpectedly rose from her bench to approach him. Showing him her burned wrist, she said boldly, “Miss Grupe did this to me.”
All of us were transfixed. The middle-aged woman herself was shaking with fear as Dr. Dent called Miss Grupe over. “Well? What about this?”
Miss Grupe employed her softest tone. “She's absolutely right, poor thing. It's my fault. I asked her to help me make the tea for supper last night. She was burned by the pot. I should never have demanded so much of her.”
The doctor nodded sympathetically. “I'm sure it's no one's fault. Did you soak it in cold water?”
“No, doctor,” said Miss Grupe, looking at Mrs. Turney. “But I certainly shall.”
Dr. Dent patted Mrs. Turney on the shoulder. “You'll be better soon.”
Mrs. Turney cowered away. She had dared. She had failed. She would be punished.
“I did that too,” said Bridget softly.
Lowering my gaze to my knitting, I said, “What's that?”
“Complained. I argued all the time when I first got here. Told them I was perfectly sane, demanded release. After a week they decided I was `troublesome.' Sent me to Retreat Four.”
“You were on the rope gang?”
Bridget nodded, her mouth barely moving as she spoke. “The beatings there were something dreadful. I've been beaten before, but never so viciously. Pulled by the hair, held underwater, choked, kicked.”
“No one saw?”
“Nurses always keep a quiet patient near the window to warn if any doctors approach.”
“And the doctors don't care?”
“They don't believe it's happening. Say we're imagining it.”
“How can a woman imagine a bruise?”
“You saw Mrs. Turney. We must be hurting ourselves. If we try to tell the doctors, the nurses hurt us worse. She's in for it,” she added, looking at Mrs. Turney.
“Did you tell?”
“No. I was held underwater until I promised I wouldn't. When that's happening to you, you'll promise anything.”
“So you never fought back?”
Bridget raised her eyes to mine. “Once. Once, I did. I picked up a chair and swung it at the nurses. Broke a window, threatened to use the glass to cut them if they didn't leave me be.”
Her daring had me breathless. “What happened?”
“I was transferred to the Lodge.”
It was such a dire pronouncement, so full of meaning and so final, that we sat in silence for a long time. “I've seen the Lodge. It looks fearful.”
“Worst place on the Island. Dirty. Stench is awful. Flies swarm over everything. Food is even worse than here, and we eat off of tin plates. Bars are on the inside, not the outside. That makes a difference.”
“Is everyone there violent?”
Bridget snorted. “There are women who've been there for years. Not violent at all. Perfectly quiet and docile.”
“Then why—?”
“To do the work. Who else would do it, the nurses? They're too busy beating the patients to clean and wash.”
“Is that how they are made docile? Beatings?”
Glancing across the room, Bridget considered. “Starvation works more than the drugs. The drugs make you crazy. Morphine calms you for a day, then you hunger for it. And chloral makes you wicked thirsty. I've seen women wild for water from it, and the nurses refuse to give them a drop. I remember crying for water until my mouth was so parched I couldn't speak. But I guess I made enough noise, because I earned another beating. Broke two of my ribs that time, jumping on me.”
“Oh, dear Lord,” I gasped. “Did the doctors do nothing?”
“Like I told you, the doctors know nothing about it. And if we talk, we're beaten worse than ever before. They use a broom handle, and hurt us, you know. Inside.”
Disgusted, I sat for a while in silence. I could tell that Bridget was done, but I was not. Weighing how long we'd already been talking, I ventured one more leading remark. “Mrs. Cotter mentioned a girl…”
Bridget's head came up with slow suspicion. “Who are you?”
“Me? I'm just… I'm Nellie Brown. I'm new here.”
“Why are you asking all these questions?”
“I just want to know more about this place.”
Bridget glared at me. “I don't know what she's talking about.” And that was all she would say to me.
I felt my heart racing in my chest. If I hadn't already had enough horrific reporting to do, I now had a mystery girl whose fate I had to discover.
♦ ◊ ♦
That afternoon there was another new arrival, which had me wondering if Hall Six was some kind of holding area for new patients until they could be sorted more permanently. It made sense, being located so near that twisting entrance. I wondered what happened to the women when they were moved out of this hall.
This new patient was named Urena Little-Page, and to Miss Grady's delight, she was easily provoked. Still in her street clothes, Miss Grupe took her to see Dr. Kinier, just as had been done to me. When they returned, the nurse wore a sinister smile upon her face.
“Now Urena, I have one more question for you. How old did you say you are?”
“I'm eighteen,” said Urena.
Now, I had lied about my age many times in my life. It is a woman's prerogative. But if she was eighteen, then I was no more than six. It was an absurd assertion, one that much amused the other nurses.
Catching on, Miss Grady lifted a document. “The doctors say you are thirty-three.”
“I'm eighteen,” insisted Miss Little-Page as tears formed in her eyes.
“Truly?” Miss Grady's toad-like face glistened with contentment. “Were you born in a leap year? Or do you only count every other birthday?”
“I'm eighteen years old!” cried Miss Little-Page, ripping the document out of Miss Grady's hand. Then she balled it up and hurled it at the head nurse. “I'm eighteen! I'm only eighteen! You can't treat me this way!”
Miss Grady only laughed, continuing to taunt her. “Let me think! If you are thirty-three, you were born in '54, were you not? If you lived through the war, you must recall it.”
Miss Grupe and Miss McCarten joined in, demanding she reveal her birth date. The pitiful woman could not, simply insisting over and over that she was eighteen. She began to plead, “I want to go home! Let me go home!”
Their amusement fading, they told her to shut up and sit with the other women. But they had riled her too far, and when she wouldn't obey, they slapped her face to stop her crying.
They misjudged, however, for it only made her cry all the more. With the speed of a serpent, Miss Grupe grasped the weeping woman by the throat. “Be quiet, or I'll make you quiet!” Choking and gasping, Miss Little-Page flailed her arms. The other nurses restrained her.
“Take her to the closet!” snapped Miss Grady. Together, they dragged the deluded creature out into the hall.
They were gone for several minutes, and returned straightening their uniforms and scowling. The rest of us hunkered our shoulders as if bracing for a storm. I started to whisper to Mrs. Cotter, but she gave an emphatic little shake of her head.
The only patient in Hall Six now making any noise was Mrs. O'Keefe, pursuing her constant low chatter with nobody. Miss Grady's desire to punish had been awakened, and she stormed over to the old, slate-haired woman and hauled her out of her seat. “I've told you to stop with your babble!”
Mrs. O'Keefe was not so far gone that she didn't recognize her danger. She appealed to all of us, crying, “For God's sake, ladies, don't let her beat me!”
“Shut up, you hussy!” Taking hold of the old woman's hair, the head nurse hauled her out of the room and down the hall. I could hear her cries growing fainter and fainter. Finally, they ceased altogether.
A minute later, Miss Grady returned and nodded to Miss Grupe. “That settled the old fool for a while.”
I found myself unable to knit, my hands were shaking so. But not in fear. In rage. I have to get out of here and tell this story. The only thing keeping me calm was the thought of how famous these terrible women were about to be.
No, not famous. Infamous.
♦ ◊ ♦
At our urging, and knowing she had to keep up her strength, Tillie tried to eat that night. But after one bite she was overcome with nausea. Leaping up, she fled from the dining room, and we heard her vomiting in the toilets.
Already in a foul temper, Miss Grady said, “Wonderful. All it takes is one whiff of sick to make them all start churning their guts. Alicia, go and tell her she better steel her stomach or she'll be sorry.”
Obeying, Miss McCarten left the dining room. Miss Grady was near the door, leaving only Miss Grupe to walk among us.
There was a sudden rush and clatter behind me, and I turned in time to see Mrs. Turney hurl the steaming contents of her soup bowl at Miss Grupe's face.
There was a frozen moment as Miss Grupe stood mouth open, eyes wide, arms akimbo. Then with a breath like a volcano erupting she shrieked, “You little hussy!”
Miss Grady took charge. “Annie, go clean yourself up. You are relieved for the evening. And you!” She grabbed Mrs. Turney by the back of her neck, braid and all. “I hope you enjoyed your last meal in Hall Six. Tomorrow you're going to the Lodge.”
There were gasps all around me. Mrs. Turney protested vehemently as she was dragged from the dining room, and just like that we inmates were left alone. At once we all started talking, asking questions, retelling Mrs. Turney's act of bravery with the tea.
Returning, Miss McCarten shouted, “Shut up, all of you! Unless you care to join her. Be quiet and eat!”
I started to stand. Miss McCarten turned her glacial stare on me, and I sank back down again, ducking my head.
“That's right,” she said in triumph. “You sit there and be quiet, Nellie Brown.”
Bent over my food, I did not eat. I did not even realize when dinner was over until we were chivied back to the sitting room.
I don't know how it began. All I knew was that tears were flowing down my face. Try as I might, I could not control them. At last, I broke into huge, ugly sobs, my nose dripping and my mouth dragging in huge desperate breaths.
“What's the matter, Nellie?” asked Anne.
I shook my head. On my other side, Tillie began stroking my arm. “It will be fine, Nellie. It will be just fine. Shhh. Shhhh.”
“She should be quiet,” advised Mrs. Despereaux in an undertone, her accent adding a sibilant hiss. “The nurses.”
I could not help myself, even when I heard Miss Grupe saying, “I knew she was noisy.” I wondered why she had even come back. Yet her voice only propelled me further into helpless paroxysms of torrential weeping.
“Put her back in her cell tonight,” said Miss Grady.
Never had I felt so helpless. Shuddering, I thought with fear of how completely we were in the power of our keepers. We could all weep, and wail, and plead—for release, for bread, for kindness, even—all to no avail.
Eventually fatigue set in, and the tears began to slow as we marched off to bed. I wanted to ask if I might stay with the others, but an invisible hand clamped over my mouth to prevent me. So I docilely followed to Cell 28, took off my dress, and sat on the bed.
And thought.
Why did I lose my composure so thoroughly? I had never cried with such abandon in my life. Not when Ford beat me and Mother and Albert. Not when I discovered I could not return to school. Not even over Wilson. I had not cried like that since…
Since Father died.
My father, who had called me Pink. My father, who had failed us so badly. Not only by dying, but by not providing afterwards. My father, who had adored me and abandoned me. Making me the lonely orphan girl named Pink. A frightened girl who pushed her way to the front so no one would see she was afraid. Afraid she wasn't brave enough, or smart enough, or lovable enough. All she was, at heart, was angry. Only girls aren't supposed to be angry, are they? Sugar and spice and everything nice. And that had never been Pink.
It isn't Nellie Bly, either. But Nellie Bly was different. Nellie Bly was bold and daring, never afraid. Look at the things she did: newspapers, factories, Mexico. Look what she's doing right now!
I wanted to be Nellie Bly. Nellie Bly was brave. I was not. I might pretend to be brave, but that night I'd faced a moment that required bravery. And I had frozen.
Is that who you are? Who you have become? You ran away from Mexico when faced with danger. Even with Wilson, rather than be brave and dare the world to judge you, you ran away. Are you a coward? Are you really that timid? That fearful? That… womanish?
I was surprised by the heavy turn of a key in the door's lock. The night nurse, Miss Burns, opened my door and saw me sitting there. “It's ten o'clock. You should sleep, Miss Brown.”
“I know.” My voice sounded small.
She hesitated, then said, “It is easier to sleep if you lay down.”
“I know.”
Her advice sounded well-intentioned. So far she had been kind, at least in comparison to the other nurses. I could almost hear her shake her head before she closed the door.
I hoped she had just gone for coffee, or to read. No such luck. There were returning footsteps, my door opened, and Miss Grady stormed in.
“You are determined to be trouble.” The head nurse was wearing her nightclothes.
“I am not bothering anyone,” I said softly.
“Liar. You are bothering me. I am bothered. If I were not bothered, I would be in my bed right now. This is bothersome. You are bothersome. Go. To. Sleep.”
“I am quiet, I am still. Why may I not sit and think?”
“Because this is the time for sleeping. And the less thinking you do, the better off you will be here. Believe me. Ah, here it is.” Miss Burns arrived with a glass that she handed to Miss Grady. Though the light from Miss Burns's candle showed the liquid was clear, I knew it was not water.
“This will make you sleep,” said Miss Grady.
“Help you sleep,” amended Miss Burns.
Coming close, Miss Grady held it under my nose. “Drink it.”
From the powerful scent, it was probably chloral hydrate. I recalled with fear the stories of women who had become addicted to that wretched stuff. More than simply resistance now, this was becoming a battle for my wits. “No, thank you.”
“Drink it down this instant.”
“I will not,” I answered.
“You are determined to be troublesome, aren't you?”
“No,” I said with growing mulishness. “I simply do not want to sleep just this moment.”
Miss Grady waited a long moment before storming from my cell. Miss Burns said, “Please try to sleep.” And she shut the door.
A victory. See, I am not a coward.
My inner voice did not reply. Perhaps it suspected trouble.
Ten minutes later I was considering putting my head on my pillow when again I heard the clack of the heels on the floor outside. The door opened and Dr. Kinier stepped into my cell, the offensive glass in his hand.
“Nellie Brown,” he said with drowsy boredom, “drink this and go to sleep.”
“I do not want to sleep just now. And I do not want to lose my wits.”
“Too late for that,” he said with dark humor. “Just be a good girl and drink this and we may all go to our beds.”
Biting my lip, I shook my head.
That brought an immediate change to the air. Dr. Kinier set aside gentleness, and even politeness. “Fine. Fine. If that's the way you want to be, I won't waste any more time with you. Miss Grady, fetch me a syringe.”
Panic flooded through me. If they injected the foul stuff into my body, there was no hope of resisting. But if I swallowed it…
“I will drink.”
Smug with satisfaction, Dr. Kinier held out the glass. Then he withdrew it for a moment. I was confused. Reaching into his bag, he withdrew a phial and before my eyes he doubled the portion in the cup. Only then did he put the glass in my hand.
I wondered what would happen if I smashed it. You will probably end up in the Lodge.
Miss Grady's toady face was expansive with anticipation. “Drink it.”
I opened my mouth and drank it down at a single gulp. The doctor made me open my mouth to prove I had swallowed, then patted me on the head. “Good night, Nellie Brown.” He left.
“Put your head on that pillow and give yourself over,” instructed Miss Grady. I curled up on the bed, and put my head on the pillow. Nodding once, she departed.
“Sleep well,” said Miss Burns with sad kindness, and shut the door.
No sooner had I heard the heavy lock turn over than I leaned over the side of my bed and pressed two fingers into my mouth and down my throat. I was already dazed, my eyelids drooping, but I forced myself to press on.
It took several tries, and I worried at the retching noises I was making. But after two minutes there was a little pool on the floor, and the chloral was allowed to try its effect there.
Returning my head to the pillow, I stared at the darkness, feeling woozy and weightless. Scenes started drifting before my eyes, in strange hues of brown and orange. I could hear music, a chorus of “Auld Lang Syne.”
And I was fourteen again, and singing by a piano, trying to spite Ford by enjoying New Year's Night.
I am there, and it's all so real…
♦ ◊ ♦
Holidays are a dreadful time. Because Ford loves them. I think he likes the excuse to drink without guilt. Every Christmas, New Year's, Easter, Fourth of July, he insists on big celebrations and becomes enraged if things are not just right. He always catches Mother out for small imperfections: the bunting is hung wrong, the food isn't ripe enough, the candles aren't bright enough. Nothing Mother does is ever good enough.
Christmas and New Year's Eve are both awful, vibrating with violence and nastiness. A snickering Ford tries to teach little Harry to call Mother a “black-eyed devil.”
To relieve our hearts, Mother has taken us to the New Year's Night celebration thrown by our church at the Odd Fellows Hall on Main Street. Little children run about, but I am expected to sit with Mother and the other ladies, chatting.
I hear the commotion from the floor below us, smell the reek of whiskey as Ford barges up the stairs, cringe as he storms toward us with his pistol. “You inconsiderate bitch! I'll kill you, even if you were the last woman on earth!”
He points the gun at my mother's head.
For the first time in my life I'm glad to see Albert, who jumps on Ford with two other men. I reach out and clutch Mother's hand, dragging her down the back stairs and into the street. Breathless from running, we come at last to the Kings' home, where Mother hides behind the chimney while Mr. King stamps up and down the room swearing and calling for Ford's head.
I feel the sickening lurch when, next morning, Mother takes us back home.
Back to him.
“I love him,” she tells us. “It will be better now.”
I won't be better. It can't go on. Why is everything spinning?
Ford is here, a cocked hammer, vowing never to drink again. It's my job to make the gun go away. So I needle him as only a fourteen-year-old girl can. Night after night, I never let up. If there's a politician he detests, I heap praise. If there's a neighbor he despises, I sing paeans. If there's an opinion he holds, I deride it.
Time hurtles by. In March he swats my head.
In July he strikes my face.
In August he throws me into a wall.
In September our house of cards comes crashing down.
“I think Mr. Stitt's new horse and wagon is nowhere near so fine as the one Mother used to own,” I say, slurring my words. “You know, the ones she sold to pay your debts.”
His hand goes up and I clench my jaw. But Mother steps between us. “No. No more.”
That ignites him. Swearing at us all, he is terrifying as he pummels the furniture to splinters, punches holes in the walls, shreds baskets of flowers, kicks a hole in the rocking chair's wicker seat. The next day he's still in a state, taking all our freshly ironed clothes and dragging them through the backyard, pouring bucket after bucket across them. At dinner that night he smashes his coffee cup on the floor even as he waves the carving knife in the air. He flings a bone at Mother, and when she flings it back, he finally draws his pistol.
I know that pistol so well. A Remington New Model Army with a long octagonal barrel and a walnut handle, scored and chipped. Having stolen it many times and secretly unloaded it even more, I've considered firing it. One shot and I can save my family.
But I don't have the gun. He does. And he's pointing it at Mother's head.
Suddenly I'm between them, looking down the maw of that pistol, wondering if this is the moment.
Albert puts his body between me and the gun and yells, “Mother! Run!” Albert and I keep getting between Ford and Mother as he tries to aim. Finally she's out the door, and Kate and Henry and Charlie too.
That's when Albert turns and runs.
Leaving me alone with Ford.
Who fires the gun.
It's an impotent shot, through the empty front door. But the bullet passes within a foot of me. I feel its passage through the air, smell the cordite even as my ears take in the snap.
I want to turn and run. But I'm the last outlet for his rage. If I show fear, he will put a slug between my tiny shoulders. So I stand here, staring, waiting.
“Your mother's a whore, and a bitch, Pinky. And you're just like her.”
“I hope so,” I tell him.
He doesn't hear me. “You are. No sense in your head. Want to be a boy, don't you, Pinky? Want what you haven't got.”
“I don't want anything you've got.” With that, I turn and march toward the front door.
My ears strain for the snap of the hammer falling, the pop of the powder igniting, the punch of the bullet.
It doesn't come. I jump as the door slams behind me. It locks.
Just like the lock on the cell door here on Blackwell's.
♦ ◊ ♦
Gasping, I rolled over and vomited again. I was desperately thirsty, but kept spitting, attempting to get the last of the foul chloral out of my body. Struggling to stay on my feet, I staggered to the corner, wedging myself against it and pressing into the wall for strength and support.
Ford! It had been so real! It was as if I could still feel his presence in the cell. I slammed the back of my head twice against the stone wall, using the pain to ground myself in the real world.
That memory—I had tried not to think about that night for the last nine years. Nine years? I thought of the date. September 29.
It will be exactly nine years tomorrow.
I marveled at the thought. Was it the anniversary that had dredged all this up? Was that the cause of my tears this night, a burst dam of memory? Or was it the look McCarten had given me, making me feel as small as I'd been during those five years with Ford.
I could not be ashamed of my younger self. I looked back at her with awe. She had been fearless.
No, not fearless. She had been afraid. But she had also been determined. Her determination had proven greater than her fear.
Hunched in the corner, slowly reclaiming my thoughts, I recalled how after that day we'd never seen Ford again. He'd stayed in the house tearing up the floorboards and nailing the windows and door shut. No one knew what he was doing, save when he snuck out a second-floor window for liquor.
After a week, Albert and Charlie had ventured back and found the house wrecked. Ford had disappeared after smashing all the furniture in a final act of spite.
That's who Grupe and Grady and McCarten were. They were spiteful creatures, unhappy souls who took out their unhappiness on others.
As my head cleared, I pushed upwards, sliding my back against the wall until I was standing. Lifting my face to the window, I looked up into the night sky, recalling that moment, alone with Ford. The gun pointing at me. Certain I was going to die.
I tried to feel now what I had felt then. It wasn't bravery. The only time women were told to be brave was when they had to endure a hardship. All the people in Apollo had told Mother to be brave when my father died. They said it when our money vanished. They said it whenever Ford went wild.
Bravery for women was enduring men.
No, I hadn't felt brave.
I had felt defiant.
I had felt determined.
I had felt strong.
I had felt beautiful.
Returning to the bed at last, I placed my head upon the pillow and, for the first time since I came to Blackwell's, I slept well.