CHAPTER 10
CLARA
Clara’s first winter at Willard was the longest of her life. Nearly every week, furious storms pelted the windows with thick flurries, coating the glass with ice curtains. When every windowpane was packed with wet snow and the only thing Clara could see through the small gaps in the buildup were the ashen clouds in the low sky, she felt trapped inside a giant ice fortress. She imagined she and the other patients were made of ice too, ready to shatter or explode at any second. The ice was made of tears, mixed with mud and blood, and she could taste the salty mixture on her chapped lips.
Like all patients during their first weeks at Willard, she’d been forced to sit in the “Sun Room,” eight hours a day, seven days a week. Patients were only allowed to leave the Sun Room for meals and scheduled bathroom breaks. For the rest of the day, until after supper, they were required to sit on hard benches lining the walls, while orderlies watched to make sure they didn’t act out or stand up. Clara did her best to shift her weight from one hip to the other, but by the end of the first week her buttocks felt like they were raw and bleeding.
It was a Saturday morning when she stood without permission for the first time, tears of pain burning her eyes, and asked if she could use the bathroom. The orderlies in charge that day, Dan and Richard, sat on folding chairs in the center of the room, playing poker on a card table. The other patients stayed seated, heads hanging, leaning against the walls, sleeping, crying, drooling, singing, or looking around the room as if watching invisible people.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Clara said, holding a hand over her stomach.
Richard put his cards down on the table and stood. He turned to face Clara, his face hard. “Sit down,” he said, jerking his stubbled chin toward the bench. “There will be a bathroom break in an hour.”
“But I need to go now,” she said. “Please.”
Richard moved toward her, his chin up, his shoulders back. He stopped a couple feet away. “I told you to sit down.”
“You can’t do this to people,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s not right!”
Richard rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue, mocking her. Clara felt like she was looking at a six-year-old having a fight in the school yard. Then he took a step closer.
“My orders are to keep you sitting down,” he said, his upper lip twitching.
Clara moved to go around him, her hand over her mouth, and he grabbed her arm, his fingers like talons on her wrist. She slapped his arm and he yanked her toward the center of the room. She twisted her wrist, trying to wrench free, but it was no use. Richard’s grip was too strong. “Let go of me!” she shouted. “You’re supposed to be helping people, not torturing them!” Then, unable to stop herself, she bent over and vomited on the floor, just missing Richard’s shoes.
The other orderly stood. One of the patients started screaming and crying, another ran for the door. Another stood, rocking back and forth, while a third paced the floor, nodding his head and wringing his hands. Nurse Trench rushed into the room and made the other patients sit back down.
“Take her to room C!” she shouted.
Richard hauled Clara out of the room and down the hall, dragging her behind him as if she were no bigger than a child. He pushed open a door and, with an angry grunt of disgust, shoved her into a windowless room with a single bed. Then he followed her, closing the door behind him. She stumbled, then found her footing. He moved toward her and she backed away, legs and arms trembling. Then her back was against the wall. Before she realized he’d raised it, Richard’s open hand collided with her face in a black bolt of pain. Her neck whipped to the side, her hair flying in her face. She put her hands to her hot, throbbing cheek and glared at him, tears burning her eyes.
He grabbed her by the arms, wrestled her toward the bed in the middle of the room, picked her up, and threw her down on the filthy mattress. Another orderly came into the room and held her down, his hot hands crushing her upper arms. She thrashed on the bed, using every ounce of strength to get away. It was no use. While the other orderly held her down, Richard buckled leather straps around her wrists and ankles, tying her to the bed.
“Why are you doing this?” she screamed. “I just wanted to use the bathroom!”
The door opened and another nurse hurried into the room, a glistening syringe in her hand. She slid between Richard and the edge of the bed, pinched the flesh of Clara’s upper arm between her thumb and fingers, and pushed the needle into Clara’s skin.
“No!” Clara screamed. “Let me up!”
“This is for your own good,” the nurse said.
Richard and the other orderly stepped back and looked down on Clara, their brows shining with sweat, their shoulders heaving.
“Seems like they all have to learn the hard way,” Richard said, wiping his hand across his forehead.
“Please,” Clara said. “Let me go.”
The nurse and the orderlies ignored her and left the room, slamming the iron door behind them. Keys rattled and turned in the lock. A few minutes later, the high-pitched shriek of metal sliding against metal made her cringe as someone opened the square, barred hole in the upper half of the door. She raised her head to look, but could only see part of a forehead and two blinking eyes. Then the window closed and there were muffled voices in the hall. Clara put her head back on the mattress. The ceiling grew fuzzy and dim. She looked at the walls. The corners of the room seemed to curl inward, the lines and moldings pulsating with every beat of her thundering heart. All of a sudden, she knew she was going to be sick again. She turned her head to one side and threw up, coughing and gagging on her own vomit. Her eyelids felt heavy and she blinked twice, then the world disappeared.
The first thing Clara became aware of was the ache in her stomach and the burning skin around her wrists and ankles. She felt like she’d been in a brawl, every muscle throbbing and sore. She tried to turn on her side, but she was strapped to the bed. The sheet beneath her was cold and wet, the air filled with the stench of vomit and urine. It all came back to her now. She was in isolation.
She lifted her heavy head and looked around the room, blinking and trying to clear her vision. The domed ceiling light filled the room with a hazy, yellow glow. Then the walls started spinning and she put her head back down, waiting for the dizzy sensation to stop. When it felt safe to open her eyes again, she looked down at the end of the bed, toward the door. She started to shout for help, then saw Nurse Trench sitting in a corner, reading a book.
“Can you untie me, please?” Clara said, her voice raspy and weak.
Nurse Trench made a small, startled sound, her head jerking up. To Clara’s surprise, the nurse’s eyes looked red and watery. Nurse Trench wiped her cheeks and stood, setting the book on the seat of the chair, then came over to stand next to the bed. She looked down at Clara, her forehead furrowed.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Are you going to behave?”
“Please,” Clara said. “I’m freezing and starving.”
“Maybe you should have thought of that before you caused such a ruckus in the Sun Room.”
“They wouldn’t let me use the bathroom and I . . .”
Nurse Trench shook her head. “The rules are in place for a reason,” she said. “How are we going to help you if you don’t follow them?”
“But I knew I was going to be sick and . . .”
“The orderly said you stood without asking.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Weren’t you told to ask before standing?”
Clara nodded.
“That’s right,” Nurse Trench said. “Now, before I can let you up, you need to tell me you’ll remember that.”
“I’ll remember,” Clara said.
“And from now on, you’ll do as you’re told?”
“Yes.”
“You have to say it for me, Clara.”
“From now on, I’ll do as I’m told.”
“Very good!” Nurse Trench said, smiling. “You can sleep in the ward tonight, as long as you don’t try anything. Otherwise, you’ll just find yourself right back here. Do you understand?”
Clara nodded. “I understand,” she said.
Nurse Trench lowered the bed railing, unbuckled the leather straps, then stepped back. Clara sat up and rubbed her wrists, her head pounding. She swung her feet over the side of the mattress and pushed her hair out of her face. It was stiff and smelled like vomit. The room tilted to one side. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she tried to maintain her equilibrium. Finally, the room stopped spinning and she slid down from the mattress, her wet nightclothes clinging to her legs. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stop shaking.
“Can I wash up and get a clean nightgown?” she said, her teeth chattering.
“It’s too late for that,” Nurse Trench said, starting toward the door. “It’s almost time for lights out. You’ll have to wait until to morrow.”
“But I haven’t had anything to eat since this morning,” Clara said.
“Yesterday morning,” Nurse Trench said. She picked the book up from the chair and turned to face Clara, one arm holding the novel against her ample chest. “You’ve been asleep for two days.”
Clara put a hand on her abdomen. “You’re going to make me wait for food until morning?” She opened her mouth to say something about being pregnant, then stopped. Nurse Trench had told her not to mention the baby again.
“I’m sorry,” Nurse Trench said, reaching for the door. “When you break the rules, you get punished.”
Clara bit down on her lip. Somehow, she needed to reach this woman, to make her see that she wasn’t like the rest of the patients. Nurse Trench had to have a heart, somewhere inside that tough, manly exterior. Clara glanced at the novel in the nurse’s hand. On the cover, a woman slouched beneath a tree, her head down, her eyes shut. The book was The Sun Also Rises, by Ernest Hemingway. Clara remembered the day she and Nurse Trench walked in on Dr. Roach and Nurse May. Nurse Trench had been angry, disgusted that the doctor would make his wife wait in the hall while he flirted with his mistress. But there had been something else in the nurse’s eyes that day; something that looked like the pain of a broken heart.
Clara swallowed, trying to ignore her empty stomach and churning head. “I felt sorry for the main character in that book,” she said, nodding toward the novel. “Didn’t you?”
Nurse Trench frowned, her brow furrowed. She looked like she was about to say something, to express her feelings about the book, then changed her mind. She pulled herself together, yanked open the door, and jerked her chin toward the hall. “Let’s go,” she said.
Clara went through the door on watery legs. “It breaks my heart being away from the man I love,” she said, trying to sound friendly. “His name is Bruno.” Nurse Trench ignored her and trudged down the hall, the novel gripped in one oversized hand. Clara followed. “I can’t imagine how much it would hurt to love someone if he didn’t return my feelings.”
“That’s enough talking,” Nurse Trench said.
“Especially if he was in love with someone else,” Clara said. “And I knew he could never be mine. It would be pure torture.”
Nurse Trench stopped and turned to face Clara, her arm out, pointing down the hall. “I can put you back in that room if you’d like,” she said, her face crimson.
Clara shook her head and lowered her eyes. Nurse Trench grunted and started moving again, her shoulders hunched, her mouth twisted in frustration.
From that day on, Clara sat on the benches in the Sun Room without a word, trying to picture Bruno’s dark hair and sparkling eyes, or silently singing the words to her favorite songs, anything to pull her attention away from her screaming buttocks and numb legs. She did her best to wipe the tears from her eyes before they spilled over her cheeks, trying not to draw attention to herself. Luckily, by the end of the second week, it was determined she could be trusted enough to be put to work. On the day she was sent to peel potatoes in the kitchen, she said a prayer of thanks, her heart breaking for the unfortunate women who would never get the same opportunity.
The main kitchen was housed in a group of large buildings behind Chapin Hall, near the center of the giant, staggered U formed by the connected wards. The factory-style structures included the main kitchen, the bakery, the laundry, the boiler room, and the coal house. From the kitchen, food was delivered to the wards through a series of underground tunnels and dumbwaiters.
Every day through the long winter, Clara sat on a wooden stool, peeling potatoes in the sweltering kitchen. The seat of the stool was cracked and hard, and it wobbled back and forth on one too-short leg, but at least Clara was able to stand when she needed a change of position. She couldn’t imagine the patients who were never allowed to work and had to spend day after day sitting on benches in the Sun Room. If they weren’t insane when they arrived at Willard, they certainly were now. Clara couldn’t imagine why the doctors thought that kind of torture would be good for anyone.
No matter the weather, Clara relished her turn at being sent out the back door of the kitchen, to take the potato peelings out to the fenced-in backyard and dump them in the compost pile, where they would be picked up and fed to Willard’s chickens and pigs. Even during the winter, when her face felt solid from the frigid air, the bitter wind pushing tears from her eyes, she stayed outside as long as she could, knowing it might be her only escape for days. On mornings when the air was clear and still, she could hear the screech and chug of incoming locomotives, and the deep thump-thump of shifting lake ice, like the hollow gulp of a gargantuan drain. Even though she couldn’t see the body of water from behind Chapin Hall, she felt a kinship with it, both of them frozen in time, waiting.
By the end of February, she could tell by looking at her boney arms and legs that she was thinner than she’d ever been. Except for a small, protruding bump below her navel, no one could tell she was pregnant. Most of the time, she felt weak and light-headed, as if the baby growing inside her was sapping the strength from her body. But she did her best to eat all the food she was given, even when it was nothing more than a bowl of thin broth or a runny poached egg that made her gag when she tried to swallow it. While working in the kitchen every day, she hid a potato in the pile of peelings, taking bites when no one was looking. The raw potatoes tasted like dirt and cold starch, but she ate them anyway.
On a gray, rainy day in late March, in the backyard of the kitchen, a chubby, wet rat ran from the top of the compost pile and scurried through a small opening at the bottom of the high wooden fence. Clara went over to the enclosure, set the basket of potato peelings down, and knelt in the mud. The hole was the size of a baseball, the wood around it soggy and jagged. She stood and kicked the planks surrounding the opening, trying to bust the wood, then knelt and broke pieces away with her hands. Splinters gouged her palm but she kept working, breaking away a bowl-sized chunk. She looked through the gap and saw more mud and, several yards away, the stone foundation of another building. She threw the broken wood through the hole, then hid the opening behind a pile of potato and vegetable peelings. The next day, she removed more pieces of the fence. By the end of the week, her palms and fingers were raw, but the opening was nearly big enough to squeeze through.
The next afternoon, she went out to the compost pile, dumped her peelings, and broke away another chunk of wood. She got down on the soggy ground next to the fence, lay on her back so she wouldn’t hurt the baby, then shimmied backward until her head and shoulders were through the hole. She dug in her heels and tried to push herself through, but her stomach was too big. The baby was in the way. Just as she was about to work her way out and make the opening bigger, someone grabbed her ankles and yanked her out of the hole, dragging her through the mud.
“You okay?” a man said, panting above her. He wore a plaid wool jacket and filthy overalls, his boots covered with sludge. “You fall?”
Clara sat up. “I . . .” she said, her heart like a train in her chest.
“You tryin’ to get out?” He glared at her with one good eye, the other swollen closed.
Clara shook her head and tried to stand. The man reached down to help her up, gesturing toward the fence with one hand. “Won’t do no good to get through that fence,” he said. “Boiler room is over there. Ain’t no way around it.”
“How did you get in here?” she said, wiping her hands on her dress. Her hair felt stiff and cold on her neck, the back of her arms and legs wet with mud.
The man spit in the dirt, a string of saliva running from the corner of his mouth. He pointed at the fence near the back wall of the kitchen. “Door’s right there,” he said. “We got a new passel of hogs. Boss sent me to get some extra scraps. I saw you on the ground and . . .”
Clara squinted at the wooden fence, trying to see the opening. The only sign of an entrance was a slightly wider space between two planks. It was barely noticeable. A shovel and wheelbarrow sat inside the enclosure, tilting sideways next to the compost pile. She trudged through the mud over to the entrance and pushed her nails into the crack, trying to pry open the door. But the crack was too narrow. Her fingers wouldn’t fit in far enough to get a grip.
“How do you open it?” she asked the man.
He plodded toward her and stopped in front of the door. “Boss gave me a key to get in,” he said. “Showed me a trick to get out.” He thumped the end of his fist on the wood and the door popped open. He caught it by the edge and pushed it closed. “See?”
“Can I try?” she said.
He shrugged and stood back. Clara thumped her fist on the same spot. The wood vibrated and bounced, but the door didn’t open.
“I told you it was a trick,” the man said, grinning.
Clara took a deep breath and hit the wood again, using all her strength. This time, the edge of the door popped away from the fence. She grabbed it and yanked the door open. On the other side, a rutted driveway followed the length of the building, then turned a stone corner and disappeared. Clara bolted out of the enclosure, running as fast as she could, her pulse roaring in her ears. A few yards from the corner, the man grabbed her from behind and lifted her off the ground, his arms clamped around her belly, squeezing so hard she could barely breathe. He carried her back inside the fence, set her down, and slammed the door, panting.
“You played a trick on me,” he said, his red face contorted. “Boss said not to let anyone use this door. Ever.”
“I’m sorry,” Clara said, trying to catch her breath. “It’s just that . . . I’m not supposed to be here, you see.”
“You can’t leave,” the man said, shaking his head. “That’s breaking the rules. You’ll get in a heapload of trouble if you break the rules.”
“I know,” she said. “It’s just . . .” She hesitated, trying to find the right words. “By the way, what’s your name?”
“Stanley,” he said. “My father named me Stanford, but my mother called me Stanley.”
“Are you a patient here, Stanley?” she said, hoping to make him see they were on the same side.
“Twenty years,” Stanley said, nodding. “Since I was seventeen.”
Clara’s stomach tightened. “Why were you sent here?”
“Parents died,” he said. “I was nothin’ but trouble and gettin’ too old for the orphanage.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to get you in any more trouble, Stanley,” she said. She bit down on the edge of her lip, trying to think of another approach. “When I was growing up I used to live on a farm. I love animals. Do you think you could show me the new hogs?”
“Nope,” he said. “Boss wouldn’t like that. Boss says no one else is allowed in the pig barn.”
“How about just letting me through that door, then?” she said. “No one has to know.”
Stanley shook his head, teetering back and forth as if marching in place without taking his toes off the ground. Just then, a growling engine approached from the other side of the fence.
“I gotta get back to work,” Stanley said, his good eye blinking. “Boss is coming.” He hurried over to the wheelbarrow, pushed it closer to the compost pile, and started filling it with vegetable scraps.
Clara followed him. “When do you normally pick up the compost?” she said. “What time do you usually come?”
Stanley shoved his pitchfork into the kitchen scraps and slung a pile of vegetable peelings into the wheelbarrow. “Before the sun is up,” he said, keeping his head down. “When everyone is still sleeping and no one bothers me.”
A vehicle stopped outside the fence, gears grinding. A heavy door opened and closed, metal slamming against metal. Then the fence door opened and a man in muddy overalls entered.
“What in blue blazes is taking so long, Stanley?” he said. “You were supposed to meet me out on the road ten minutes ago!”
Stanley kept working, his shoulders hunched. “Sorry, Boss,” he said. “This lady was stuck in the fence and I had to help her get out.” The man looked at the hole, then considered Clara, his brows knitted.
“What’s going on here?” he said.
“Nothing.” Clara picked up her basket and headed toward the kitchen. “We were just talking.”
The man followed, entering the kitchen behind her. “You let Stanley be,” he said. “You hear me? He’s a good worker and stays out of trouble. You might make note of that.”
Clara kept walking and Stanley’s boss went in the other direction. She looked over her shoulder and watched him make his way between the dishwashers and prep counters. Then he turned left and disappeared. Clara went back to her station and got to work, swallowing the surge of panic that threatened to shut off her breathing. Surely, Stanley’s boss was going to turn her in. The other women stared at her, no doubt wondering why her arms and legs were covered with drying mud.
A few minutes later, Stanley’s boss and the pudgy kitchen forewoman approached. The hunched-over forewoman trudged toward Clara, her chin jutting out to one side. She had to be at least sixty, and yet her pale, thick arms were corded with muscle.
“What’s this I hear about you getting stuck in the fence outside?” she said.
“I fell in the mud,” Clara said. “My leg went through a hole. It was an accident.”
The forewoman took her by the arm and dragged her outside. Stanley waited by the fence, his wheelbarrow full. He dropped his eyes, fidgeting with the edge of his jacket.
“Did you make that hole?” the forewoman said to Clara.
“No,” Clara said. “I told you I fell and . . .”
“Get that boarded up right away,” the forewoman said to Stanley’s boss. Then she dragged Clara back inside, led her out of the kitchen, and took her to Dr. Roach’s office.
“Where would you have gone if you’d escaped, Clara?” Dr. Roach said. “Willard consists of hundreds of acres, including dense forests. The nearest town is miles away.”
“I don’t know,” she said, her fists in her lap. “All I know is I need to get out of here!”
“What if something happened to you? How would I explain that to your father?”
“I don’t care about my father!” she said. “You can tell him anything you want. You and he both know I don’t belong here.”
Dr. Roach furrowed his brow, clearly taken aback. “I don’t know any such thing,” he said. “You’re here for a reason, Clara. And I want to help you get well.”
“Like I told you before,” she said. “I’m here because I had a fight with my father. I don’t need help!”
“But don’t you see?” Dr. Roach said. “Trying to escape just reinforces my opinion that you’re not thinking clearly. A woman of your status and frail constitution shouldn’t be out hiking alone across the countryside. It’s not safe!”
“I’m not as helpless as you think.”
“You know what kind of hospital Willard is, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” she said. “It’s an institution for the insane. But I don’t hear voices. I don’t see hallucinations. I know my father told you I’m insane, but he’s lying!”
“Lying?” Dr. Roach said. He gave her a sad smile. “My dear, Clara. Why would he do that?”
“To keep me here.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Yes. I do! At first, I thought he just wanted to teach me a lesson and would eventually let me come home. Now I think he’s just glad to be rid of me.”
Dr. Roach shook his head, his brow creased. “You’re worrying me, Clara,” he said. “You continue to believe your father is plotting against you, that we’re keeping you here to hurt you somehow.”
“Please,” she said. “Just let me go. You can tell my father I’m still here. Tell him I’ve gone completely mad and you had to lock me up for the rest of my life. I don’t care. Just release me! He doesn’t have to know!”
“You’re being irrational, Clara,” he said. “I’m a doctor. I took an oath to help people. That’s all I’m trying to do.”
“I’ve never been more rational in my life,” Clara said. “I’m being kept in an insane asylum against my will. My mind is all I have left and I assure you it’s perfectly clear! I’m not like the rest of the patients here, blindly believing everything you say, letting you lock them up like animals. That’s not what a doctor is supposed to do. It’s criminal.”
Dr. Roach frowned, his eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you need a break,” he said. “Maybe some time to think will do you good. Trying to escape is a serious offense that usually warrants harsh treatment. But I’m willing to be lenient because I think you’re smart enough to learn from your mistakes . . .”
She reached across his desk and grabbed his hands, the dried mud on her elbows smudging the spotless blotter. He recoiled and tried to pull away, a small, startled sound escaping his lips. She tightened her grip.
“How would you feel if I refused to let go?” she said. “I know you don’t like people touching you. I have no idea why, but it frightens you. And in case you haven’t heard, morally upright men don’t cheat on their wives. Perhaps you’re the one in need of help, Doctor. Perhaps you’re the one who needs to be locked up! How would you like that?”
He stood and yanked his hands from her grasp, his face red, his nostrils flaring. “I don’t know what games you’re trying to play,” he said. “But I won’t stand for it.” He closed her folder. “We’ll talk again at your next appointment. In the meantime, I’m not the enemy, Clara. Perhaps by your next appointment, you’ll have a change of heart.”
For the next six days, Clara was locked in a foul-smelling, cement-walled room on the isolation ward, the only furniture a toilet and a metal cot bolted to the floor. Twice a day, a tray with dry bread and a tin of broth was shoved under the riveted door through a hinged slot. The only way to distinguish night from day was by a bare bulb on the ceiling, turning on and off. Clinking chains and slamming metal doors echoed in the hall, punctuated by screams and groans. On the sixth day, Nurse Trench unlocked the door to let Clara out, clucking her tongue with disapproval. Too weak to speak, Clara followed the nurse back to the ward without a word.
By mid-April, approximately two months before what Clara estimated was her due date, her belly protruded enough to make her dresses skintight. But she had seen similar-looking stomachs on other female patients—maybe they had been obese before being half-starved at Willard, or carried all their weight in their abdomens—so she knew there was nothing remarkable about a woman with a bulging belly. No one paid attention to the fact that Clara’s was getting bigger every day. No one believed or cared that she was indeed going to give birth, and no one had bothered to check to see if she was telling the truth.
On the last day of May, during her second appointment with Dr. Roach, Clara sat in the chair opposite his desk, the rigid seat pressing hard against her pelvic bones. Her skeleton ached as if she were ninety years old instead of nineteen. She wasn’t sure if her body was stiff because she was pregnant and suffering from the lack of proper nutrition, or if it was from the thin, lumpy mattresses she’d been trying to sleep on for the last five months.
Every night, her fitful sleep was filled with nightmares about going into labor in the ward, with no one to help her give birth but the other patients. In the dream, she was screaming on the filthy bed, the other women gathered around, rocking back and forth, drooling, wailing. She sat up, clutching the edges of the mattress, and bared down, her face twisting with exertion. The woman with the tattered doll ripped the newborn from between Clara’s legs and ran out of the ward, the bloody umbilical cord trailing behind her.
Now, as she always did, Clara sat with one hand on her belly, waiting to feel the baby move. Her greatest fear was that the fetus had died and she wouldn’t know until she gave birth. As usual, she felt nothing. The only time she felt movement was at night. Even then, she worried she had imagined it; so slight was the flutter beneath her hand. For the millionth time she thought that either the baby was abnormally tiny, or something was horribly wrong. The idea made her heart constrict.
From the other side of the desk, Dr. Roach considered her, his pen poised over her chart. She looked at the fancy, carved pen in his hand. How foolish she had been, thinking she would have access to ink and stationery to write letters to Bruno, thinking she would ever get anyone to mail them. No one at Willard cared about why she was there, let alone her previous life. She thought about Nurse Yott. For some reason, the young nurse had been able to tell immediately that Clara was sane. Why was it that no one at Willard could do the same? Clara had to believe that Nurse Yott had either changed her mind about mailing the letter, or had been caught somehow. Otherwise, Bruno would have come to rescue her by now. A dull, empty ache gnawed beneath her ribcage.
“What were you just thinking, Clara?” Dr. Roach said, his voice deep and relaxed.
“I was wondering how you expect to help patients if you never see them,” she said.
His brow furrowed. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean,” he said.
“I’ve been here five months and this is only my second appointment with you. The only other time I saw you was when I got in trouble.”
He sat back in his chair, stroking the edges of his neatly trimmed goatee between his thumb and fingers. “We have over three thousand patients here at Willard,” he said. “Male and female. You can’t expect special treatment now, can you? This isn’t the Long Island Home.”
“I’m not asking for special treatment,” she said. “But you claim you want to help me. How can you help me if you never see me? I’m beginning to think the only thing Willard is good for is locking people away.”
“This institution was founded on the belief that madness can be cured by a firm but humane hand, a safe haven from the stresses of life, rest, and regular work. You’re getting all of those things, aren’t you, Clara?”
Clara shifted in her seat, her back screaming in pain. “First of all, I’m not mad. Second, this is not a safe haven from the stresses of life. I’m being kept here against my will. Is that supposed to make me feel peaceful and carefree?”
“How can I relieve some of your stress, Clara?”
“Release me. I’ve been here long enough. I’m sure even my father would agree.”
Dr. Roach shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re wrong,” he said. “Your father is counting on me to cure you. Unfortunately, you haven’t said anything to show me that you’ve made progress.”
“What do you want me to say? Tell me, and I’ll say it.”
“Do you still believe your father sent you here to get rid of you?”
Her shoulders dropped. “That’s the tenth time you’ve asked me that question.”
“It’s my job to ask questions.”
“But you twist my answers around to fit your preconceived notions of who I am. You’re convinced that just because I’m here, something is wrong with me!”
“Just answer the question, please.”
She took a deep breath and sighed loudly. “My father sent me here, that’s all I know. If you send me home, I’ll do whatever he wants.”
“Are you saying you finally understand your father only wants what’s best?”
She bit down on the inside of her cheek and nodded. Right now she’d agree to anything if it meant she would regain her freedom. Whatever happened when she got home would be better than being locked up. Dr. Roach scribbled on her chart, his forehead wrinkled in concentration. Then he looked up.
“Do you ever entertain thoughts of suicide, Clara?”
She shook her head. “Why are you even asking me that? I haven’t given you any reason to think . . .”
“I’m not sure if you’re aware of it, but suicide can run in families. I just want to make sure . . .”
“No,” she said. “Like I said before, all I want is the chance to live a normal life, to be with the man I love, to raise our baby. But I can’t do any of that as long as you keep me here.”
“I assume you’re talking about Bruno.”
Clara’s breath caught in her chest. “How do you know his name? Did my father tell you?”
Dr. Roach glanced at her file, frowning and rolling his pen between his thumb and fingers. Then he looked up at her, searching her face. “I’m afraid it’s time to tell you the truth, Clara.”
She sat forward in her seat, her heart thundering in her chest. “The truth about what?” she said.
“You’re right about one thing,” Dr. Roach said. “Your father told me about Bruno Moretti.”
“Yes?” she said, unable to breathe. “What did he tell you?”
Dr. Roach set down his pen and folded his hands on his desk. “Clara,” he said, his face etched with pity. “Bruno Moretti doesn’t exist.”
By the first of June, the spring rains finally stopped. Now that the grounds of Willard were dry, the patients were allowed outside for supervised walks. Each ward was kept in their own group, lined up four across like a confused marching band. Some patients turned left when the group turned right, others fell back, unable to keep up. Females were sent in one direction, males in the other. Squinting beneath the blazing sun, Clara followed the other women on her ward, looking out over the shimmering waters of Seneca Lake.
A tall, slender woman hummed beside Clara, rolling up her sleeves and turning her face toward the sun. Esther had been at Willard six weeks, committed by her husband when he caught her kissing another man. Even without makeup and wearing a plain, blue housedress, she looked like a movie star, with thick blond hair and peaches-and-cream skin. The first time Clara saw her in the cafeteria, looking around at the other patients with fear-filled eyes, Clara knew she didn’t belong in Willard any more than she did. Later, in the ward, Clara warned her about the Sun Room, and told her that the only way to escape it was to behave. Since then, they’d struck up a friendship and Clara was beyond grateful to have someone to talk to.
Walking on the other side of Esther was Madeline, a petite woman in her mid-twenties, admitted to Willard over a year ago, after losing two babies and leaving her abusive husband. She and Clara had become friends while working in the kitchen, where Madeline washed dishes.
“The sun was shining just like this when I came to Willard,” Madeline said, lifting her chin toward the sky. “The buildings and the lake looked so beautiful that day. I thought someone was finally going to take care of me.”
“Ain’t no one going to take care of us in this place,” Esther said. “When I get out of here, I’m going to find me a sugar daddy and never have to worry about being taken care of again.”
“Maybe that’s what I should have done,” Madeline said, grinning. “I should have found a sugar daddy to pay rent to that miserable old landlady.”
“She would have called the cops on you anyway,” Esther said. “She probably would have said you were a prostitute or something.”
“I thought you were sick in bed when the cops came?” Clara said. “Isn’t that why you couldn’t work and pay your rent?”
“I wasn’t sick,” Madeline said. “I’d just come back from asking my no-good husband to give me a little money for food. He beat the tar out of me. Took me a week before I could get out of bed other than to use the bathroom. After the cops took me in, the doctor said I was below normal physically and should go to the hospital. But that damn landlady said I used vulgar language and talked to myself, so they sent me to the loony bin instead.”
Clara shook her head. She looked at the other women in line ahead of her, shuffling with their heads down or their shoulders hunched, women who, like her and Esther and Madeline, had believed they would live ordinary, happy lives. Of course some of them were truly sick, with mental issues that prevented them from being normal and productive. But how many were victims of circumstance, women left penniless by husbands who abandoned them or died, women who lost children and needed help coping with unbearable grief, women banished by parents who disapproved of their decisions? How many were at Willard because of a single angry outburst, or because they had grown old and been abandoned by their children, or had lost their parents at a young age and had grown up in an orphanage? How many were sane when they got here, but after months of abuse or overtreatment with ice baths and sedatives, would never be rational again?
A while back, Madeline had told Clara the story of Ruby, an Italian immigrant who had come to America with her husband twelve years ago. Two years after they arrived, Ruby’s husband was killed in a construction accident. Starving and homeless, Ruby took to prostitution on the streets of New York, unable to speak more than a few words of English. Eventually, she was arrested and sent to Willard. That was ten years ago. Now, she sat in the Sun Room every day with her head down, silently picking at the skin on her arms.
Being locked up was bad enough, but Clara couldn’t imagine the torture of being unable to communicate, of not having the right words to try to explain how she got there, or that she was perfectly sane. Why hadn’t the doctors found someone who spoke Ruby’s language? What if Ruby had family in Italy, wondering where she was and what happened to her? What if all it had taken was a simple letter to get her out of this hell? Thinking about the injustice of it all, Clara felt a dull, empty ache gnawing inside her chest.
“How are you feeling today?” Esther asked her. “Won’t be long now before your daughter is here.”
Clara put a protective hand over her stomach, her heart filling with a strange mixture of love and fear. She had told Esther and Madeline everything; about Bruno and her father, about her belief that the baby was a girl. “I’m fine,” she said. “A little weak, but other than that . . .”
“What do you think is going to happen after the baby comes?” Esther asked Madeline. “Do you think they’ll let Clara go?”
Madeline shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never heard of anyone giving birth here.” She turned her face toward the lake, avoiding Clara’s eyes.
Clara took a deep breath, trying to ignore the feeling that Madeline wasn’t being completely honest. She couldn’t fault her for it. If Madeline knew something and wasn’t telling, she was only trying to be kind. Madeline understood that if Clara allowed herself to think any further than the day of the baby’s birth, she might not find the strength to put one foot in front of the other. For now, Clara had to believe things would change for the better. There was no other choice.
“I hope they’re going to let me go,” Clara said. “This is no place to raise a baby.”
“I think you’re right,” Esther said, smiling. “They’ll let you go.”
The group of women followed Willard’s main road toward a thick pine grove on the other side of Creek Mears, a long, wide stream that emptied into Seneca Lake. Due to weeks of heavy wind and rain, the grass-banked creek barreled west like a raging river, nearly overflowing, branches and leaves swirling and spinning in the swift, gray water. The women crossed a wooden bridge, the rushing surge drowning out their voices. Clara thought about jumping over the railing, letting the strong current sweep her out to the lake, where a passing boater could pick her up or she could make her way to the opposite shore. But the creek was too deep and powerful, the rough water breaking thick branches on boulders and rocks. Besides, she didn’t know how to swim, having done little more than wade and splash on the beach at Coney Island. Even if she wasn’t pregnant, the risk of drowning was too high. What good would freedom be, if she were dead?
At the end of the bridge, the women turned right, following a dirt road toward the lake. To their right, between the road and the pine grove, a wide field was filled with row after row of iron markers, each two feet high and a foot wide. In the back row, a man in rubber boots and overalls was digging a hole in the ground. When he saw the women, he stopped and pushed his shovel into a mound of fresh dirt, took off his cap, and waved.
“That’s the grave digger, Lawrence Lawrence,” Madeline said. “He’s been at Willard for over thirty years and can pretty much do whatever he wants. I heard that one summer he started sleeping in that shack over there, by the cedar grove.” She pointed toward a small, one-story house nestled at the edge of the woods, its roof littered with pinecones and needles. Clara had no idea how long the dwelling had stood empty, but to her it looked tired; ready to collapse into a dusty heap, years of bone-dry wood and stale attic air released into a thunderous cloud of sawdust and jagged splinters. She couldn’t imagine what condition it was inside. “Lawrence asked the doctors if he could stay in the house instead of the men’s ward,” Madeline continued. “He told them not to worry. He wasn’t going anywhere because he doesn’t have any place to go.”
“He never tries to leave?” Esther said, her eyes wide.
“He says he’s happy here.”
“He must be crazy,” Esther said. “No one could be happy here.”
On the left side of the road stood a four-story building with a green-tiled roof that sagged in the middle, as if supporting an invisible burden. At one time, apparently, the brick building had been painted white. Now, the exposed stone looked grainy and pink, with ashy patches of peeling paint clinging under the eaves and around the window casings. Iron bars crisscrossed the grimy windows, like black thread in a mended sock. Beside the structure, a tall, dark tree reached for the sky, its limbs twisted and bent.
In the side yard, two groups of patients trudged along the ragged edge of weed-choked grass, some with their wrists tied together, some in straitjackets or leather mittens with chains, all bound together by ropes around their middles. Males made up one group, females the other. Their white hospital gowns were torn and caked with filth, their legs, arms, and hair encrusted with feces, vomit, and urine. One woman kept falling and being dragged along by the others, until the orderlies stopped the group long enough for her to stand up. Every ten steps or so, the woman fell again. Several of the patients staggered or limped, and some cried out for help. One kept trying to hit everyone around her, and another tried to turn around and walk in the other direction. A male patient in a straitjacket thrust a shoulder forward with every step, first the left, then the right, like a football player practicing his moves. One of the men had a muzzle over his mouth. Several of them cursed at the top of their lungs.
Clara tried to look away, but couldn’t. “Who are they?” she asked Esther.
“They’re too violent to be put in with the general population,” Esther said. “The doctors keep them locked up there, in the Rookie Pest House. I heard there’s no heat and they chain the patients to the beds.”
Clara shivered, even though she wasn’t cold, and looked out over the lake. A teakwood boat cut a white line through the waves, a string of colored flags from the mast to the bow flapping in the wind. She squinted, trying to see the people sitting in the open area behind the cabin, wondering what they thought when they looked across the water toward Willard. Did they know what this place was? Did they think of the patients as real people, or did they look at them as nonhumans who never stood a chance at a normal existence anyway? Were they happy the patients had been locked away, relieved that they could enjoy their lives unburdened by someone who might have a problem? Did they realize that most of the patients once had hopes and dreams of their own? That some were being kept locked up against their will?
Just then, Clara was pulled from her thoughts by someone shouting. A naked man ran out of the Rookie Pest House, wild eyes above a scraggly beard. He raced toward the lake as fast as his spindly legs would carry him. Two orderlies ran after him. The naked man tripped over a tree trunk and fell, then scrambled back to his feet. The orderlies caught up to him and wrestled him to the ground. Then they yanked him upright and dragged him backward, toward the brick building. Clara pulled her eyes away, relieved when the orderlies led her group in the other direction, toward the boathouse and dock, away from the Rookie Pest House.
Later, in the kitchen, she couldn’t stop thinking about the man from the Rookie Pest House, wondering what horrors he was running from. How could there be a place like Willard, where people are treated like cattle, while everyone else goes on with their lives? She wondered if her father knew how awful Willard was, or if he’d even care. From where she sat peeling potatoes, she could see Madeline at the sink washing dishes, sweat dripping from her brow. The woman in charge of the kitchen didn’t allow talking between workers, but Clara was just glad to have Madeline nearby, to exchange a smile or wave, to remind her that she and others at Willard were still sane. The woman sitting on a stool to Clara’s left never said a word. She just sat with her head down, peeling potatoes and mumbling to herself.
As if Madeline had heard Clara’s thoughts, she turned and raised a soapy hand, her eyes tired, but smiling. Just then the kitchen boss crossed the room, moving between Clara and Madeline, her mouth twisted into a determined scowl. Madeline turned and put a thumb to her nose and stuck out her tongue, making a face at the kitchen boss’s back. A wet plate slid from her other hand, shattering into a hundred white shards on the tiled floor.
The kitchen boss stopped in her tracks and spun around to see what happened. Without missing a beat, she rushed toward Madeline. Madeline edged backward until she was trapped in the corner between the wall and the metal sink. The kitchen boss dug her fingers into Madeline’s arms, pulled her forward, then shoved her into the counter. The back of Madeline’s head collided with the cupboards with a hollow thump, rattling the silverware in the strainer. The kitchen boss raised a hand to slap her, yelling something about the cost of supplies. Clara dropped the potato peeler and started toward them.
“Leave her alone!” she shouted. She grabbed the kitchen boss’s wrist, trying to pull her away from Madeline. The kitchen boss turned, red-faced and panting, and shoved Clara away with both hands. In what felt like slow motion, Clara flew backward, arms circling, eyes wide. She scrambled to keep her footing, slipped on the wet floor, then fell and hit her head on the tiles with a nauseating thud, a bolt of pain shooting through her skull. She looked up and blinked, black curtains of unconsciousness threatening to close in from every side. Then she felt a warm, wet gush between her legs and passed out.
Clara blinked and opened her eyes, trying to focus on the bright orbs flashing overhead. She was moving forward, feet first, drafts of foul-smelling air gliding across her face and arms. She had no idea where she was. Then she realized the fuzzy lights passing above her were ceiling lamps. She turned her head and saw dimly lit rooms and hospital beds, nurses bending over patients, giving shots, checking pulses, writing in charts. She was on a stretcher, being rushed along the halls of the infirmary. All of a sudden, her stomach muscles twisted and pulled, like a knife stabbing into her lower abdomen. She struggled to sit upright, to pull her knees up and curl into a ball, but a strong hand pushed her back down. Looking up to see who was pushing the stretcher, she saw a nurse she didn’t recognize.
The nurse directed the stretcher around a corner and inside an examination room, where a doctor stood waiting. He looked like a toad, short and swollen, his jowls sliding down into his double chin.
“What happened?” the doctor asked the nurse.
“She fell and hit her head,” the nurse said, coming around to stand beside the stretcher. “She just woke up.”
“How long has she been unconscious?” the doctor said. He bent over and held Clara’s eyelids open, looking into her pupils with a tiny, bright light.
“Maybe fifteen minutes?” the nurse said.
“How are you feeling?” he said to Clara in a loud voice. “Are you dizzy?”
Clara shook her head. Another contraction started and she pulled up her knees, trying to stop the ripping, burning pain in her lower abdomen. She felt like she was being torn apart. She bit down on her lip, moaning softly.
“Are you having pain in your head?” the doctor said.
“No,” Clara said. “I’m in labor.”
The doctor’s brows shot up and he looked at the nurse, a question on his face. The nurse shrugged.
“Can you get up and move over to the examination table?” he said to Clara.
Clara pushed herself up on shaky arms, her head pounding in time with her thundering heart. She swung her legs over the mattress and got down from the stretcher, one hand on her belly. Warm liquid ran down the inside of her leg, wetting her leather shoes. The doctor went over to the sink to wash his hands.
“She’ll need to remove her bloomers,” he said to the nurse.
Clara slipped off her shoes without untying them, the pain in her belly making it impossible to stand up straight. The nurse came over and started lifting Clara’s dress, reaching for her underwear. Clara pushed the nurse’s hands away and pulled her underwear off herself, trying to step out of them without falling. She climbed onto the examining table, struggling to take slow, deep breaths.
The doctor pulled the foot stirrups out and motioned for Clara to lie back. She did as she was told, her head coming to a rest on a small, lumpy pillow. The doctor guided her feet into the stirrups and she closed her eyes, trying to picture Bruno’s face, his dark hair and white smile. When the doctor’s hands touched her, she jumped and turned her head, staring at her reflection in the glass of a white cabinet filled with tongue depressors, cotton balls, and shiny, sharp-looking instruments. When the exam was over, the doctor patted her knee and told her to sit up.
“This poor girl is about to have a baby,” he said to the nurse. “Let’s get her into a room.”
The nurse glanced at Clara, her lips pressed together, then picked up a clipboard and handed it to the doctor.
“Who is her physician?” the doctor asked, scribbling something on the chart.
“Dr. Roach,” the nurse said. “Should I get a wheelchair?”
“Yes,” the doctor said. “And be quick about it.” The nurse left the room and the doctor addressed Clara. “Do you know who the father is?”
Clara nodded, unsure that she could answer. The contractions were getting closer and closer together. “My boyfriend, Bruno,” she said, gasping.
“And where is Bruno now?”
“I don’t know,” Clara managed.
“Is he a patient here?” the doctor said.
Clara shook her head, beads of sweat forming on her forehead and upper lip. The nurse came back into the room with a wheelchair and retrieved a hospital gown from a cupboard. Clara climbed down from the table and sat in the wheelchair, doubling over in the seat. Her insides felt like they were coming out, and would soon be a bloody pile in her lap. Suddenly, the urge to stand up overwhelmed her, and she tried pushing herself out of the chair.
“Sit down!” the nurse said, shoving her back into the seat. Before Clara could protest, the nurse started pushing the wheelchair across the room.
“The baby is coming!” Clara screamed.
The doctor threw open the door and the nurse pushed Clara into the hall. She turned right and ran along the corridor, yelling at other nurses and patients to get out of the way. An orderly pushed a wheelchair straight at them, one hand trying to keep the unconscious man in the seat upright. The orderly couldn’t turn fast enough and they nearly collided. Finally, the nurse turned down a short hallway and wheeled Clara into a room with a single bed.
“Stand up,” the nurse said.
A second nurse helped Clara out of the wheelchair and started stripping off her clothes. “Let’s get you into this hospital gown.” she said, yanking off Clara’s brassiere. “You’re about to have a baby. Do you understand that?”
“Yes,” Clara said, gasping. “I told Dr. Roach I was pregnant but he didn’t care.” She slipped her arms into the hospital gown, climbed up on the mattress, and lay back. Another band of pain tightened around her middle and again she felt the overwhelming urge to push.
The first nurse covered Clara with a thin sheet while the second held her legs together at the ankles, telling her not to push until the doctor came. Clara thrashed on the bed, fighting the urge to bear down. Her body felt like it was being ripped in two, sinew and muscle twisting in opposite directions, veins stretching until they burst. Finally the doctor hurried in, instructing the nurses to get blankets, towels, and a basin of hot water.
“We’ll need morphine and scopolamine,” he said, his voice filled with urgency. The nurses hurried out of the room and he examined Clara again. She pushed herself up on her elbows and looked at the doctor, studying his face for any sign that might convey her baby’s condition. Her roaring heart clogged her throat.
If her estimates were right, the baby was two weeks early. And now, because of the sudden onset of labor, she was terrified that, along with everything else, her daughter was coming too soon and wouldn’t survive. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the powerful contraction eased. Clara collapsed back on the pillows, panting.
“Is something wrong?” she said.
“Just lie as still as you can now,” the doctor said. “I’ll take care of you.”
The nurses rushed back into the room, their arms laden with towels, a basin, a doctor’s bag, and a pitcher of steaming water. Clara’s stomach tightened again and another contraction started, every muscle feeling squeezed inside a giant vise. She took a deep breath, put her hands on her knees, and bore down. The baby was crowning; she could feel its wide, damp head forcing its way out of her body and into the world.
Clara started to hyperventilate, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. A rush of fluid gushed between her legs. The sting of a needle in her skin made her jump. She turned to see a nurse burying a syringe in her upper arm, her mouth pressed into a thin, hard line. Clara tried to sit up again, but her strength was gone. She looked down at the doctor, his determined scowl the last thing she saw before the world went dark.