Chapter Twenty-Three

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1871

Dear Father,

It’s me, Sylvie. It’s one o’clock in the morning, but I can’t sleep.

I don’t even know if you’re getting our mail. Somehow it’s easier to write what I have to say thinking that you won’t, that no one will ever see this. But part of me wants you to as well.

I’m having a difficult time adjusting, after the fire. Nate said what I’m experiencing sounded familiar. Now I wonder if he was referring to you.

My heart beats too fast sometimes, and I have episodes where I sweat far too much for a lady if I’m thinking about the fire. Sometimes even in the day, my memories overwhelm me and it’s like I’m right there all over again. My nightmares are so vivid I’d rather suffer insomnia than willingly rest. I think I understand why you barely slept.

I wish I had asked you more questions about how you were doing when you were home. Maybe you wouldn’t have wanted to answer them, anyway.

I wish I knew you better.

I want you to be well. Come home, and we’ll try again.

Your daughter,
Sylvie

NOVEMBER 13, 1871

Dear Father,

I hope this letter finds you well. I hope it finds you at all. Did you get our letter about what the Spencers told us?

By this time next week, you can send mail to us at our old address. I don’t want to upset you, but they are building our temporary shelter in the backyard, over your map of Andersonville. We plan to sell books out of the house on the back of the lot until the new shop can be built.

I’m trying to paint with my left hand, because my right will never cooperate. I’ve been working on a portrait of Sylvie for practice. Do you remember when I was very little and starting to paint? The flower I made on the paper was nothing like what I had in mind, and I wanted to quit. But you told me not to. You told me that if painting was what I loved, I shouldn’t give it up, I should do it more. That’s what I’m telling myself now.

Do you have enough books to read? I know the asylum has Bibles. I’d like to send or deliver something else too, but I wish I knew the package would reach you. Please write and let me know what you’d like to read. If you can. (Asylum staff, if you’re reading this, the least you can do is reply to this question.)

We can’t wait for you to come home. We still need our father.

Your loving daughter,
Meg

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 1871

Stephen paced four steps in his cell and about-faced to march the other way. It was past time for the medicine, and they wouldn’t let him out until he’d had it. He could tell by the vigorous beating of his heart that the previous dose had worn off almost completely.

Letters from Sylvie and Meg had arrived today, and what Sylvie had shared upset him. His little girl was suffering.

Hours ago, when the drugs were still dimming his mind and spirit, this discovery bobbed among his turbid thoughts, refusing to sink below the surface. Sylvie suffered in a way she didn’t understand. Meg wouldn’t fully understand it either. But he did.

He cared. He felt. He hurt, but he felt alive again. Perhaps it was by some miracle that his next dose had been delayed long enough for him to reawaken.

Stephen knew exactly what was happening to Sylvie. He didn’t pretend to know why or how, but her descriptions were indeed familiar, just as that reporter had said. The young man ought to be thanked for mentioning it, for if he hadn’t, Sylvie might not have brought this to him.

She was embarrassed. He understood that, of course he did, but she shouldn’t be ashamed about this, not with him. Once upon a time he’d been able to soothe her cares by scooping her onto his lap and letting her stay there until she wanted to climb down of her own accord. Sometimes he’d read stories to her, other times he made them up, customized to fit her trouble and please her. He’d never pushed her away.

At least not before the war.

If asylum patients were allowed to communicate with the outside world, he would pick up a pencil and write to her now. He would tell her a story of a father who lost his way, and of the daughter who was the light that led him home.

He wanted to go home now. He needed to go home. Sylvie wasn’t insane for her reactions, and if she wasn’t insane, neither was he.

Stephen wasn’t getting better here. He was disappearing.

In a sense, staying here was easier than leaving, but his girls had already lost their mother. They still needed their father. He bowed his head into his hands, fingertips grazing scabs left by vermin, and examined himself afresh. The Spencers had said they’d seen a man take his gun from him, which meant he hadn’t killed Hiram.

But they’d also seen him pointing that gun at people. It was loaded. If he hadn’t killed anyone that night, it was only by the grace of God. Were his daughters really better off with a father as volatile as he was?

Anguish dropped him to his knees on the hard floor. Stephen cried out, “Oh, Lord, I need you now. I need you to make me into the man my daughters deserve.”

The iron door squealed on its hinges, and two attendants filled the room. Linden folded his arms across his white uniform while Slattery brought the glass vial forward. “Talking to someone who isn’t here again? Good thing we’ve brought your next dose.”

“I was praying to God.” Stephen pushed himself up, his joints aching. “And He is here.”

Linden smirked. “Remind me to add religious fanaticism to your list of mental diseases.”

“I’m not taking that.” Stephen planted his feet wide and clenched his fists to keep them from nervous tapping.

“This bottle has your name on it,” Slattery said. “It’s yours. It’s time for you to take it.”

“I told you, I won’t do it.” Sweat trickled from Stephen’s temples.

Linden latched and locked the door behind him before angling toward Stephen again. “You’re saying you want the jacket, then. And solitary confinement. Is that it?”

Nausea rolled through his middle. He swallowed hard and shook his head. To be alone with his thoughts and hallucinations made for poor company indeed. Last time he’d nearly gone mad with the isolation.

“You can’t go without treatment.”

His wits scattering, Stephen uncurled his fists and slapped his legs before he could stop himself. He rubbed his chin and felt only stubble, his former beard a phantom. He was weak. But God’s strength was made perfect in weakness, wasn’t it? The Bible’s promise, long ago memorized, rattled through him now.

Slattery whistled. “Look at you. You’re a mess. This is what happens when we’re late with medicine, Linden. I told you we should have come earlier. Now 283 isn’t in a temper to cooperate.”

Were these really the only two options? Isolation or mind-numbing drugs? His knees softened. He needed to be sharp, to remember who he was and the daughters he could still father.

The attendants grabbed him by the arms and threw him to the cot, pinning him there. Stephen clenched his teeth and thrashed until a knee to his groin sent white-hot pain darting through his middle. He closed his eyes, and a hand squeezed his jaw, forcing it open.

He didn’t want these vile drugs. But God help him, he could not face confinement again.