CHAPTER 4
CLARA
The Long Island Home for Nervous Invalids
New Year’s Day, 1930
Two and a half months after the fight with her parents, Clara stood at the narrow, six-paned window of her third-floor room in Norton Cottage, looking out over the main grounds of the Long Island Home for Nervous Invalids. It was early morning on New Year’s Day, gray clouds hanging low and ominous in the winter sky. It had been storming all night, a near blizzard, and everything was cloaked in white. The trees in the cedar grove drooped under the weight of wet snow, and the rushing water in the nearby creek was the color of tombstones. The groundskeeper was shoveling the sidewalks, his back hunched, his red hat bobbing up and down as he heaved the wet snow into higher and higher banks. A low, black truck plowed the wide driveway, its blades raising and lowering like the wings of a giant wasp, the rumble of the engine and the scrape of the plow vibrating through the thin window glass. The wind had finally stopped, but every few minutes the sky opened up again, releasing a slow flurry of thick flakes.
Blinking back tears, Clara wondered where she would be next year on New Year’s Day. She pictured herself living with Bruno, raising their child together, finally out from beneath her parents’ rule. But first, she had to get out of the Long Island Home. She had to convince Dr. Thorn that she was being needlessly confined. So far, nothing had worked. He was taking her father’s word over hers.
If nothing else, she was relieved that the morning walk had been canceled. Not only was she glad that she didn’t have to go out in the snow and cold, but she had spent the morning in the bathroom throwing up, her first bout of morning sickness leaving her weak and shaky. She slid her hand down to her abdomen, already feeling protective of the baby growing inside her. Luckily, no one was able to tell she was pregnant just by looking at her, but she could feel the slight, firm swell below her navel. The baby was a girl, she was certain of it. Every night for over a week, she’d dreamed about a toddler in a pink lace dress, Bruno’s dark curls and chocolate-colored eyes looking up at her. Now, Clara swallowed the growing lump in her throat, surprised by the overwhelming love she already felt for her unborn child.
It made her think of her mother, Ruth. While pregnant with her firstborn, had Ruth put a protective hand over her growing belly, vowing to love and protect her baby for the rest of her life no matter what? Or was her burgeoning girth a burden to her fashion sense? Did she long for the day when she could finally hold her newborn in her arms and kiss his tiny, sweet-smelling forehead, or did she want to get her pregnancy over with so she could hand the baby over to a nanny and get on with her life? Clara had to believe it must have been the latter. Otherwise, how could a loving, nurturing mother turn into a selfish woman who didn’t give a damn about what happened to her children?
Clara pushed the image of her mother from her mind, knowing that trying to figure out the woman who brought her into this world wouldn’t change anything. She turned and sat on the narrow bed, wrapping her sweater around herself, and stared at the unopened letter on her desk. It was from her father, the second she’d received since being admitted to the Long Island Home over two months ago, despite the fact that she’d written every day, begging to be released. The ivory envelope had been sitting there since she’d returned from breakfast an hour ago. She’d picked it up twenty times, thumb poised on the edge of the back flap, then set it back unopened every time.
Henry’s first letter, delivered a week after Clara arrived, said her stay in the Long Island Home was for her own good, that it was just temporary, until the doctors could help her. But as the weeks went by with no more word, Clara started to worry that her father had changed his mind and she was going to stay longer than originally thought. Now, her future could be determined by the words inside her father’s latest letter, and, for as long as possible, she wanted to hold on to the hope that her parents were going to allow her to come home. When James found out she was carrying another man’s baby, the marriage would be called off. Her parents would disown her and kick her out on the street. But anything was better than this. Anything was better than being locked up in a loony bin, even if it was the best money could buy.
The rooms at the Long Island Home were warm and clean, the grounds well maintained. And, for the most part, the staff was pleasant. Patients dined with silver and fancy porcelain, and lounged in parlors on Louis XV sofas. Treatment consisted of rest, relaxation, good food, fresh air, and activities such as bicycling and tennis on the grass. And, of course, therapy sessions. But there was no mistaking that she was being kept against her will. During her first therapy session the day after her arrival, she had asked Dr. Thorn what would happen if she tried to leave.
“Why do you want to leave?” he’d said, looking at her over his round spectacles. He was tall and whippet thin, with an enormous Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down in his leathery throat like a fish in a pelican’s beak.
“Because I don’t need to be here,” Clara said. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“I see,” Dr. Thorn said, scribbling on his pad. “How then, do you think you came to the Long Island Home?”
Clara sat in a wooden chair, her ankles crossed between the seat, her hands folded in her lap. She dug her fingernails into her palm and tried to look calm. “My father isn’t used to me standing up for myself. He thinks women should be seen and not heard. This is his way of silencing me, of trying to prove he can control me. He’s trying to force me to do something I don’t want to do.”
“Isn’t it a father’s job to do what’s best for his children?”
“Yes,” she said. “It is. But he’s not doing what’s best for me! He’s trying to force me to marry a lousy, no-good . . .” She paused, stomach churning, worried she was saying too much. “What did my father tell you about me? Why did he send me here?”
“He said you had some kind of breakdown. He’s worried that you’re not thinking clearly.”
“That’s absurd,” she said. “He just can’t handle the truth.”
“And what is the truth, Clara?”
“The truth is my parents care more about money and power than their children.”
“You seem to have a lot of anger toward them for sending you here.”
Clara sat up straighter. “Of course I’m angry!” she said, raising her voice. “Who wouldn’t be?”
Dr. Thorn nodded and wrote something down in his notebook. He asked the next question without looking up. “Do you believe your father is plotting against you, Clara?”
Clara stiffened. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Plotting is too strong a word. My father thinks sending me here will teach me a lesson. He doesn’t approve of the man I love. He thinks when I go back home I’ll go along with his plans.”
Dr. Thorn set down his pen. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then folded his hands on the desk and gazed at Clara, searching her face. “Sometimes,” he said in a quiet voice, “when we get anxious or upset, we imagine things. Your father says you accused him of killing your brother.”
“That’s not true!” she said. “My brother committed suicide because he thought he had nothing to live for. My father ruined him and my mother let it happen.”
“Do you hold your parents responsible for your brother’s death?”
“They could have handled things differently,” she said. “Instead they went to extremes like they always do. Instead of talking things through like normal parents, they got rid of him!”
“And now you think they’re trying to get rid of you too.”
“That’s not what I . . .” Clara stopped talking and tried to slow her thundering heart, suddenly realizing her words could be twisted around and used against her.
“Is something wrong?” Dr. Thorn said, lifting his eyebrows.
She shook her head.
“Why don’t you finish what you were saying?” he said.
She looked down at her hands, feeling her eyes flood. “You’re not listening to me,” she said. “You’re only hearing what you want to hear. You’re twisting my words and making it sound like I’m unstable.”
“You seem to be very suspicious of people,” he said. “Your parents, the man they want you to marry. Even me.”
“How would you feel if the tables were turned, Doctor? Wouldn’t you try to explain yourself and ask to be released if you were perfectly sane?”
Dr. Thorn closed his writing pad and put his glasses back on. “The patients here at the Long Island Home are only allowed to leave with a release from me, or at the request of the admitting party, in this case, your father.”
“So what would happen if I just packed up my suitcase and left? What if I just walked down the driveway and out the front gate?”
Dr. Thorn smiled and sniffed, as if suppressing a laugh. “I suppose you could try,” he said. “But the Long Island Home consists of fourteen acres and it’s quite a walk to the front gate. We’d stop you before you got very far. Besides, the gate is locked and I’ve seen the size of the trunk you brought with you. I can’t imagine you’d have a very easy time of carrying it out of your room, much less down the stairs and across the lawns.”
Clara’s face grew warm. She was about to tell him she didn’t give a damn about her steamer trunk. She’d leave without it if she had to. But then she realized he might take her anger as something else, as part of her “condition.”
Her first mistake the day she argued with her father was taking the time to pack a bag. She should have left the study, grabbed her coat, and run out of the house that very instant. She should have fled the minute she heard her father telling the lieutenant to bring a doctor. Instead, she’d hurried to her room and started packing her steamer trunk, forgetting that she’d have to carry the oversized chest down the stairs by herself, that the butler and driver would not be called upon to carry her luggage out to the car. After all, she was running away, not going on another overseas voyage. But she hadn’t been thinking clearly, her panicked mind unable to string two coherent thoughts together. All she knew was that she needed to take as much as possible, because, when she left, the clothes in the trunk and the dress on her back would be all she owned in the world.
Thinking about it now, she berated herself for being so stupid. She knew the police could be at her house within minutes because Ruth had called them numerous times—when she couldn’t find her string of pearls, when the candlesticks from the parlor went missing, when her favorite English tea set had disappeared. Every time, the police arrived and talked calmly to Ruth while she paced and wailed, convinced that the help was stealing. Then, like common criminals, the maids and butlers and limo drivers were lined up and questioned. Eventually, a logical explanation came to light; Ruth’s necklace had slipped behind her dressing table, the candlesticks were in the pantry waiting to be polished, the tea set had been returned to the wrong cupboard. After Ruth realized her precious things were no longer missing, she thanked the police for coming so quickly. Meanwhile, Clara did her best to apologize to the help.
If only Clara had remembered the speed at which the police could arrive, instead of being like Ruth and worrying about her “things,” she might have had the chance to slip away. When her father brought the lieutenant, two policemen, and a doctor up to her room, her steamer trunk was nearly full and the possibility of escape no longer existed. Henry ordered the men to close the trunk and take it away, along with his only daughter. She could still picture her father’s red face and wild eyes, his arms gesturing as if he were ordering a criminal taken out of his house.
“What seems to be the problem?” the lieutenant said.
“She was spouting all kinds of horrible accusations,” Henry said, shaking his head. “I’m afraid she’s imagining things.”
“It’s not true!” Clara said. “I just . . .”
Henry looked at the doctor, his eyes pleading. “Can you help her?”
Clara ran toward the door and a policeman grabbed her wrist. She struggled to break free but it was no use. “Let me go,” she cried. “You can’t do this! I didn’t do anything!”
“Has Clara suffered any emotional trauma recently?” the doctor asked Henry.
“She lost her brother,” Henry said. “And somehow she’s got it in her mind that I . . .” Henry hung his head, his clenched fists to his forehead, as if it was too much to bear.
“That’s not why I . . .” Clara cried. The policeman tightened his grip on her arm. “No, let me go!”
The lieutenant directed his attention to the doctor, letting him make the final call. The doctor nodded. Before Clara could protest further, the policemen grabbed her by the arms and led her out of the bedroom, down the stairs and outside, where she was shoved into the back of the doctor’s black Buick, her jacket and winter boots tossed onto the backseat beside her, her luggage thrown into the trunk. She remembered looking out the car window at the stone entrance of her parents’ house, the familiar granite balustrade and carved fleur-de-lis above the doorway. She wasn’t sure why she looked; maybe a small, hopeful part of her expected her mother to be crying on the steps, upset that her only daughter was being taken away. But the only thing she saw was the hem of her father’s smoking jacket as it disappeared through the entryway, the brass knocker bouncing with the slam of the door.
Now, Clara chewed on the inside of her cheek, trying to think of a way to convince Dr. Thorn to let her go.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “But I’m afraid our time is up.”
“But I . . .” Clara said.
The doctor stood and went around the desk. “We’re finished for today, Clara.”
Clara stood. “That’s it?” she said, throwing up her hands. “You’re going to make decisions based on a twenty-minute conversation?”
“We’ll talk more at your next appointment,” he said, opening the door.
“When?” she said. “Tomorrow?”
Dr. Thorn smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid I have to see some of my other patients tomorrow. We’ll meet again next week.”
Clara’s stomach dropped. Next week? The thought of staying a full week nearly caused her to cry out. Surely her father didn’t mean for her to stay that long.
Out in the hall, a young nurse waited to take Clara back to her room. Clara walked down the hall with her arms crossed over her middle, trying to keep herself from falling apart. It wouldn’t do any good to appear emotionally unstable in front of the nurse, even if the woman had smiled at her when she came out of the office, her soft blue eyes filled with pity.
A block of fear settled in Clara’s stomach and her skin prickled with goose bumps. The corridors seemed to stretch on forever, the red and green carpet and crystal sconces reminding her of being inside the Funhouse on Coney Island, where patrons were harassed by a clown with an electric wand through crooked rooms and dark corridors with tilting floors and moving walls. She’d always hated the Funhouse, remembering her panic when an air jet burst across her ankles. After turning and clawing her way past the other patrons to get back outside, she vowed never to go inside again, no matter how much her friends made fun of her. The Long Island Home was a thousand times worse. Here, there was no way out, no exit, no way back to sunshine and corn dogs and laughing friends.
When Clara reached her room, she stood at the door waiting for the nurse to let her in. She stared at the floor for what felt like a full minute before realizing the nurse had stopped a few steps behind her. The young nurse looked at Clara with a furrowed brow, as if trying to make a decision.
“Have you been out on the grounds yet?” the nurse said.
Clara shook her head. “I just got here.”
“I know when you arrived,” the nurse said. “I was with Nurse McCarn when she led you to your room last night. I helped unpack your things.”
“I’m sorry,” Clara said. “I don’t remember. I . . .”
“It’s all right,” the nurse said, smiling. “Would you like to go outside for a little while? We’ve got a little time before lunch and it might be one of the last warm days before winter comes. The lawns are beautiful.” The nurse looked up and down the hall, as if worried someone might hear.
Clara shook her head. “I just want to be left alone for a little while.”
“Are you sure?” the nurse said. “The sun is shining and it’s so warm you don’t even need a sweater. Tomorrow it’s supposed to start getting cold and . . .”
Clara sighed and let her shoulders drop. If nothing else, maybe she could learn her way around the Long Island Home and find a way out. She nodded and they started back down the hall, then turned to enter a stairwell. The nurse started down first, then stopped on the fourth step. Nurse McCarn was coming up the stairs.
“Oh,” the nurse said to Clara. “Never mind. Maybe some other time.” She turned and hurried back up the steps. Clara followed.
“Nurse Yott!” Nurse McCarn called behind them, her footsteps pounding up the steps. Nurse Yott’s shoulders dropped. She stopped and waited, frowning. Nurse McCarn reached them and put one hand on her hip, her forehead furrowed. “Where were you going? Your instructions were to deliver this patient to her room.”
“I was taking Clara outside,” Nurse Yott said. “To get a little fresh air.”
Nurse McCarn glared at Nurse Yott, her jaw working in and out. “It’s not up to you to make decisions about what’s best for a patient,” she said. “Take her back to her room this very instant.”
Nurse Yott dropped her eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Try to remember you’re not a doctor,” Nurse McCarn said. “You might do well to learn from my example. I’ve been at the Long Island Home for over twenty years and always follow the doctor’s orders to the letter!”
“I’m sorry,” Nurse Yott said, her face turning red.
Nurse McCarn shook her head and clucked her tongue. “This is the second time I’ve had to speak to you about something. You’d better watch your step, Nurse Yott.”
Clara swallowed and stepped forward. “Dr. Thorn instructed her to take me outside,” she said. “I told him I was feeling a little cooped up and he asked if going outside for a few minutes would help.”
Nurse McCarn stared at Clara, her mouth pinched. Clara held her gaze. Finally, Nurse McCarn looked at Nurse Yott. “Is this true?” she said.
Nurse Yott nodded.
Nurse McCarn pressed her lips together, a blue vein popping out on her forehead. She was struggling, trying not to lose her temper. “Carry on,” she said, waving a hand toward the stairwell. “You’ve got ten minutes before lunch. Make sure the patient is in the cafeteria on time. If she’s late, I’ll hold you responsible.” She shook her head in disgust and marched down the hallway.
Nurse Yott smiled at Clara. “Thank you,” she said. “I swear she’s got it out for me.”
That was ten weeks ago. It felt like ten years.
Now, Clara reached out for the letter on her desk. When she first saw it that morning, her heart leapt in her chest, hoping it was from Bruno. At long last, he had answered her daily letters. Then she saw Henry’s formal script on the front of the envelope and fell back on the bed, her hands over her face. She couldn’t imagine why Bruno hadn’t written back. At first, she worried her letters had been intercepted somehow. But that didn’t make sense. She took them down to the front desk and dropped them in the locked mailbox herself. After the first month went by with no word, she started waking up in a cold sweat, panicked that something bad had happened. Her father was a power-hungry tyrant, to be sure. But he wouldn’t go as far as getting rid of Bruno, would he? Briefly, the thought crossed her mind that Bruno forgot about her. Maybe their love affair had meant nothing to him. Maybe she was just one woman in a long line of women. But no. It had been more than that. Much more. She was certain of it. Still, she preferred picturing Bruno with another woman to the image that assaulted her mind every night: Bruno floating beside her brother, William, faceup in the Hudson River.
She took a step back from the desk and put her fingers over her mouth, suddenly sick to her stomach again, even though eating dry toast at breakfast had helped her nausea. Her father wasn’t writing to say hello after nearly three months of silence. Christmas and New Year’s had come and gone and there hadn’t been so much as a card. Was she finally getting out of this place, or was she being forced to stay longer?
She took a deep breath and picked up the letter again, vowing to open it this time. She bit down on her lip and slid her thumbnail beneath the back flap, then tore it open. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the single sheet of her father’s ivory stationery. She let the envelope fall to the floor and held the letter with shaking hands.
Dear Clara,
Your mother and I hope you are well and getting the help you need. It’s unfortunate that your life has taken this turn. Dr. Thorn has reassured me that, sometimes, no matter how hard we try, parents cannot determine the outcome of their children’s upbringing. But that is neither here nor there. What’s done is done. Your mother and I have done our best and that is all we can ask of ourselves. I’m writing to let you know that things have changed since the stock market crash in September. Due to our losses, and in an attempt to keep our home and the lifestyle to which your mother and I are accustomed, I regret to say that I can no longer afford to pay for your care at the Long Island Home. Dr. Thorn and I have talked at length about your condition, and what we both feel should be the necessary next step. Dr. Thorn will explain what we have agreed upon. Try to remember that your mother and I only want what’s best for you.
Warm regards,
Father
Clara stared at the letter, the words blurring on the paper, a hard lump forming in her throat. What did it mean? What was the necessary next step? Was she going to be released? Was she going to be let go, to be on her own? She dropped the letter on the floor and paced the small room, shivering. Her appointment with Dr. Thorn wasn’t until eleven. It was only nine-thirty. She stopped pacing and took several deep breaths, trying to slow her hammering heart. Emotional distress wasn’t good for the baby. She needed to calm down. After a minute, she lay on the bed and closed her eyes, pulling the thin blanket over her trembling shoulders.
Then she sat up with a start, realizing there was something she had to do. She needed to write to Bruno. If things were going to change, if she was being released or sent home, he needed to know. Even though she had no idea if he was getting her letters, she had to try to let him know what was going on. She got up, opened the desk drawer, and yanked out the stationery provided by the Long Island Home. She pulled out the desk chair and sat, pen poised over the paper, then realized she had no idea what to say. How could she tell Bruno what was happening when she didn’t know herself? The letter would have to wait until after her appointment with Dr. Thorn. Maybe Dr. Thorn would see her sooner. Maybe she could ask Nurse McCarn if the schedule could be changed. She got up and went to the door, then heard male voices in the hall.
She hurried back to the desk and shoved the stationery in the drawer, then looked around the room for something to make it look like she was busy. Nurse McCarn said idle hands were the devil’s playground, and if a patient had nothing to do, there were floors to be swept and toilets to be scrubbed. Clara pulled the institution-provided Bible from the shelf above her desk, sat on the bed, and opened the book to a random page. A light-headed, shaky feeling came over her, as if she hadn’t eaten in days.
Just then, there was a soft rap on the door. Dr. Thorn and a man she didn’t recognize entered the small room, Nurse McCarn on their heels. A layer of snow sat on the shoulders of the stranger’s wool coat and filled the cuffs of his trousers, puddles of melting condensation already forming on the floor around his galoshes.
“Good morning, Clara,” Dr. Thorn said. “How are you feeling today?”
She forced herself to smile, closing the Bible on her lap. “I’m fine, thank you. And yourself?”
Dr. Thorn glanced at the other man. “As I told you,” he said. “She’s always pleasant. She shouldn’t give you any trouble.” The man raised a gloved hand to his derby and tipped it in Clara’s direction. She gave him a half nod, her lips twitching as she attempted to smile. Dr. Thorn glanced at the letter on Clara’s desk. “I see you’ve read your father’s letter?”
“Yes,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “He said you would explain what was going on.”
“Well, yes,” Dr. Thorn said. “That’s what I’m here for.” He gestured toward the man in the wool coat. “This is Mr. Glen. He’s from Ovid, a small town next to Seneca Lake.” Nurse McCarn took a step forward to stand beside Dr. Thorn, keeping her arm straight and slightly behind the side seam of her white skirt. Clara caught a glimpse of something long and silver in her hand. It looked like a syringe. Ice filled Clara’s esophagus, making it hard to breathe. She stood. The Bible slid from her lap, slamming on the floor with a loud bang. Then she saw two orderlies and a nurse in a blue cape waiting in the hall.
Dr. Thorn held up a hand, as if to stop Clara from bolting. Nurse McCarn moved closer, her eyes wide and bright, as if on high alert. “Mr. Glen and a nurse are here to take you to Willard.”
“Willard?” Clara managed. She swallowed. Her tongue felt like stone.
“It’s a state-run hospital for the insane,” Dr. Thorn said. “Your father wants to make sure you get the help you need. Unfortunately, he can no longer afford your stay here.”
Clara stepped backward, her hands clutching her sweater. “But I don’t understand,” she said, sweat breaking out on her forehead. “My father said this was just temporary. I don’t need help. I just want to go home!”
Nurse McCarn stepped forward, bringing the syringe out of hiding. Dr. Thorn put up a hand to stop her. “I understand, Clara,” he said. “But you need to get better first. Go ahead and pack up your things. Mr. Glen has the car waiting outside.”
“But the weather,” Clara said, searching for any reason to delay.
“It’s clearing up,” Mr. Glen said. “We’ll be fine as long as we leave in the next few hours. We’ll be back at Willard by nightfall.”
“There’s no reason to be afraid,” Dr. Thorn said. “You’ll be taken good care of at Willard.”
Clara collapsed on the bed, her legs suddenly weak, her arms useless. It took all her strength not to fall in a heap on the floor. She searched for something to say to make them understand she was perfectly sane, that her only offense was arguing with her parents. She was being punished for standing up for herself, for standing strong for what was right and true. Words escaped her.
“Nurse McCarn,” Dr. Thorn said. “Have one of your nurses come help Clara pack while you show Mr. Glen and his nurse to the cafeteria. I’m sure they could use a hot meal before the long drive back to Willard. And bring Clara some hot tea and something to eat before she goes.”
Nurse McCarn and Mr. Glen left the room while Dr. Thorn remained in the entrance, one hand on the doorknob. “You’ll be all right,” he said to Clara. “You’re an intelligent young woman with a bright future ahead of you. You just need a little help figuring out the right direction for your life. If you cooperate, there should be no reason to fear going to Willard.” Then he closed the door and left, leaving Clara numb and staring at the wooden floor.
In what felt like slow motion, she got up and pulled her journal from beneath her bed. She sat at the desk and opened to her last entry, the words a blur on the page. She’d written in the journal every day since her arrival, but had not mentioned anything about the baby. For some reason, she was afraid she might jinx her pregnancy, or the doctors would find the journal and tell her father. If Henry found out she was going to have Bruno’s baby, there was no telling what he might do. He would probably send her away forever.
She wiped her eyes and picked up a pen, trying to think of a way to convey the feeling of being thrown away like a piece of trash, of being locked up like a criminal. She remembered hearing stories of parents who kept their children from public view; deformed limbs, uncontrollable tempers, slow intelligence, and cleft lips being put into hiding, locked away behind a doorway on the highest floor of the family home, or secreted away in a dark attic. Is that what her father was doing? Was he so ashamed that his daughter loved someone who didn’t meet his approval that he wanted to hide her away? Or did he truly believe that a doctor could make her see the error of her ways, that she could be forced to marry a man she didn’t love? Or did he really think she was sick? She put the pen to paper and wrote in her journal.
My father is getting rid of me, sending me away. I’m not sure what he thinks this will accomplish. It only makes me more determined, when I’m released, to live my life the way I wish and to get away from him. My father is sending me to Willard. I wonder if I should be afraid?
A few minutes later, Nurse Yott came into her room. She smiled at Clara and looked her in the eye, unlike the rest of the doctors and nurses who always seemed to look through her. Clara thought about telling the nurse she was being sent away, but knew there was no point. There was nothing the young nurse could do. She watched Nurse Yott pull the steamer trunk from the closet and lay it sideways on the floor. Nurse Yott turned on her toes as she went around to open the lid, her white-stocking legs and pale hands moving slowly and purposefully, like a ballerina doing a choreographed dance. Clara guessed that they were close in age, Nurse Yott being two to three years older. She pictured Nurse Yott’s parents, smiling and proud at her graduation from nursing school. Tears filled her eyes and she looked at Nurse Yott’s fingers to see if she was married. There was an engagement ring on her left hand.
Suddenly, Clara felt weighed down, like she was trapped beneath a giant boulder. Her chest constricted, the agony of grief pulling her shoulders down. She was certain she heard her heart break. All at once, she knew she was going to be sick. She stood, hurried to the wastebasket, and fell to her knees. The toast she’d eaten earlier came up, stinging her throat, and then there was nothing but pain and acid. She spit into the basket over and over, then stood on trembling legs. Nurse Yott came over and put a hand on her shoulder, concern written on her face.
“Are you all right?” she said.
Clara wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “No,” she said. “I’m not all right.”
“Are you sick? Do you want me to get the doctor?”
Clara pulled her sweater around her middle and sat on the bed. “I’m not sick,” she said, her voice catching. “I’m pregnant.”
Nurse Yott gasped. Clara put her face in her hands and sat forward, her elbows on her knees. Her shoulders convulsed, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
Nurse Yott knelt beside her, one hand rubbing Clara’s back. “There, there,” she said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
“No,” Clara said. “Everything is not going to be all right. The doctors here are supposed to help me, but how can they help me when they won’t listen?” She lay down on the bed and curled up on the blanket. Nurse Yott pulled the chair away from the desk and sat down, facing Clara.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Unless you can get me out of this place before they send me to Willard, then no. There’s nothing you can do.”
“Forgive me for asking,” Nurse Yott said. “But what about the baby’s father? Does he know? Are you together?”
Clara sat up, a crazy half-laugh, half-wail escaping her lips. “Yes,” she said, spittle flying from her mouth. She knew it wasn’t Nurse Yott’s fault, but she couldn’t control her anger. “We’re together. Didn’t you see him picking me up for a date the other night? He’s tall, dark, and handsome and was wearing his best suit. You couldn’t miss him!” Her voice was high and tight, and for a moment she wondered if she was losing her mind after all.
The young nurse folded her hands on her lap and looked down for a minute before speaking. When she looked up, her eyes were filled with tears.
“Listen,” she said in a soft voice. “I’ve only been working here for about six months. It’s not my ideal place of employment, but it’s the only job I could find. My fiancé and I want to get married as soon as possible, but he’s been out of work and . . .” She paused and chewed on her lower lip, as if wondering if she should go on. “I could tell the first time I saw you that you weren’t crazy. I don’t know how, but I just knew. Please don’t tell anyone, but I listened to some of your sessions with Dr. Thorn to find out if my hunch was right. I heard you say your father sent you here because you wouldn’t marry the person he wanted you to marry. I know how that is. My father doesn’t approve of my fiancé. That’s why I need this job. I’m trying to save enough money to get married and out of the house as soon as I can. Your father sent you here because you’re in love with someone else, right? Bruno Moretti?”
Clara sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “How do you know his name?” she said. “I never told Dr. Thorn his name!”
Nurse Yott’s breathing grew shallow, her chest rising and falling faster and faster. “You have to promise me you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone,” she whispered. “I’ll lose my job if anyone finds out.”
“I promise,” Clara said, feeling dizzy. “Just tell me how you know his name! Was he here? Did he come looking for me?”
Nurse Yott glanced at the door, then sat forward. “I saw the letters,” she whispered. “The letters you wrote to Bruno.”
Clara shook her head, confused. “What are you talking about? How could you have seen them? After I wrote them I put them in the mailbox down by the front desk!”
Nurse Yott pressed her lips together and stood. She paced the room, then gripped the back of the chair and looked at Clara, her knuckles turning white. “The letters were never mailed,” she whispered. “Nurse McCarn made me go through the outgoing mail to take them out. She said it was doctor’s orders. I suspect it was really your father’s orders.”
All of a sudden, Clara couldn’t breathe. Her neck and face felt on fire, a burning lump in her throat cutting off her words. No wonder Bruno never answered her letters! Her father had made sure he’d never received them! She stood and shoved the chair toward the desk, her knees quaking. She sat, pulled the stationery from the drawer, grabbed a pen and started writing, her fingers shaking as she tried to form coherent words.
“You have to mail this letter for me,” she said, talking and writing as fast as possible. “Bruno doesn’t know where I am, or where I’m going. Promise me you’ll mail this to him.” She finished the short letter, folded it and shoved it into an envelope, then looked at Nurse Yott, waiting for her to agree.
Nurse Yott wrung her hands, her thin shoulders hunched, her eyes watery. “I don’t know,” she said. “What if I get caught?”
“Hide the letter,” Clara said. “In your brassiere or your underwear. I don’t care where. Somewhere no one will look. When you get home, mail it from there.” She sealed the envelope, scribbled Bruno’s address on the front, and held it out to the nurse.
Nurse Yott looked at the letter, chewing on the corner of her lip. Suddenly, there were voices in the hall. Clara stood and shoved the letter into the nurse’s hands. The nurse unbuttoned the top button of her uniform and pushed the envelope inside her brassiere. Just then, the door to the room opened and Nurse McCarn entered with a tray of food. She stopped in her tracks and looked at the open trunk on the floor.
“What’s going on here?” she said. “Why haven’t you finished helping Clara pack?”
Nurse Yott turned and smiled. “Clara was upset and I was trying to help by telling her how nice the doctors and nurses are at Willard. I think she feels better now. Right, Clara?”
The nurses looked at Clara, waiting. Clara nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Thank you.” She went to the dresser and starting removing her clothes, carrying them in neat piles over to the steamer trunk. Her legs felt like water, ready to dissolve into a puddle on the floor. She knelt and laid her blouses in the trunk, trying to keep her hands steady.
Nurse McCarn let out a loud sigh. “Nurse Yott,” she said. “Your job was to help the patient pack her things. You’re not a doctor, remember? Please stick to your job description or I’ll be forced to write you up for noncompliance.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Nurse Yott said, taking the tray of food. She set the food on the desk and turned to face Nurse McCarn. “I’ll see that the patient finishes packing and eats a little bit before she leaves.”
Nurse McCarn watched Clara kneeling at her suitcase, her lips pursed, her eyes narrow. Clara looked up, giving her a weak smile. Finally, Nurse McCarn turned to leave.
“Don’t be long,” she said. “Mr. Glen and Nurse May are finishing their meals, then Mr. Glen will be going out to start the car. You’ve got less than half an hour to get ready.”
“Very good,” Nurse Yott said. “I’ll make sure Clara is down at the front entrance shortly.”
As soon as Nurse McCarn left the room, Nurse Yott hurried to the door. “I’ll be right back,” she said.
“Where are you going?” Clara said, her skin prickling with fear. What if she was going to give the letter to Dr. Thorn? What if the whole thing was a setup?
“Just hurry up and finish packing,” Nurse Yott said. “When you’re done, put on your coat and boots, but don’t shut the trunk. We’ll close it when I get back.” And then she left Clara alone.
After the last of her garments were in the steamer trunk, Clara pulled on her boots and shoved her arms into her coat. She went to the window and craned her neck to look toward the front entrance. The snow had stopped and she could see Mr. Glen in the driveway, smoking next to the running DeSoto. The smoke from his cigarette and the exhaust from the car billowed about his dark silhouette, reminding her of a scene in a movie. But this was no movie. And Mr. Glen was no hero coming to save the day.
Clara jumped when Nurse Yott burst into the room, an extra blanket held to her chest.
“Here,” Nurse Yott said, hurrying toward the steamer trunk. “I told Nurse McCarn you might need a warm blanket for the drive.” She knelt and unfolded the blanket. Clara’s letters to Bruno spilled out over the contents of the trunk. “I thought you would want these.”
Clara gasped and picked up one of the envelopes. Nurse Yott snatched it away and shoved it, along with the rest of the letters, beneath the clothes in Clara’s trunk. “There’s no time for that,” she said, breathing hard. She pulled the trunk closed, latched it, and pulled it upright. “Maybe someone at Willard will mail them for you.”
Clara threw her arms around Nurse Yott. “Thank you so much,” she said, choking back tears. Nurse Yott pulled away and led Clara to the door, but not before Clara saw tears welling up in her eyes.