Chapter 34
Thea

She stared at the document in her hand. A plain sheet of paper, ink-stained from wayward drops from the pen that once had drafted the words onto the page. She reread the name at the top with its looping letters and slanted handwriting.

Penelope Alice Reed Wayfair

The first evidence—beside the gravestone—that her mother had indeed been a resident here. Thea skimmed down the page to the doctor’s signature at the bottom. Not Dr. Ackerman, but the original doctor. Dr. Thomas Ingles.

Date of Admittance: January 28, 1889

Thea drew in a sharp breath. Not long after Thea had been left at the orphanage. Just mere months later, her mother was committed to the newly constructed Valley Heights Asylum. Never to leave again, but in death.

Female. White. Unmarried. Shows evidence of unpredictable seizing of the body, followed by prolonged periods of stupidity. She remains not speaking nor addressing anyone. If spoken to, it is with great difficulty she replies with a monosyllable. She is stubborn. Willful. At times shows hallucinative effects. Cries for a child it has been purported she never birthed.

Thea dropped onto her chair. Her hand shook, and the paper rattled as she stared at the handwriting. The child she never birthed. Unmarried. Was it possible that Penelope had been like her mother, Misty Wayfair? Secret relations with others? Thea would never know her father—there was no one to claim her. Had Penelope secreted Thea away to the orphanage before whoever committed her to the institution was able to discover where Thea was? Or that she existed?

She read the rest of the page. More statements of her mother’s medical condition. A schedule for routine testing. The word gave Thea pause.

Testing.

She didn’t know of any specific testing that Dr. Ackerman currently practiced on his patients. Constraints, yes. Medications, of course. But . . .

A chill settled over her. The kind that confirmed what Mr. Fritz had eluded to: abuse, experimentation . . . Had all of this occurred, not recently, but when Penelope and Effie were younger? Under Dr. Ingles’s supervision? It might account for the gravestones in the woods.

Thea laid the page on the desk and began sifting through the remaining loose-leaf papers. The quivering in her hands matched the urgency rising within her. She felt that at any moment Dr. Ingles himself would enter the office and condemn her for searching the files. Staring at her with emotionless, heartless eyes as if assessing her own mental stability.

Effie exhibited very similar symptoms to the records on Penelope. If it were possible that Penelope had been sane enough to whisk Thea away to an orphanage, then there was merit in considering that Effie might not be as insane as perhaps thought. That argument would not be well received, yet Thea couldn’t ignore it as she skimmed another page.

The office door opened. Thea shrieked, spinning to face the newcomer, clutching loose documents to her chest.

Rose froze in the doorway. Her eyes wide, her black hair swooping up and under her triangular cap. Tea, from the cup in her hand, sloshed over the side and landed with a splash on the floor.

“Rose!” Thea gasped. “You frightened me.”

Rose stared at her with some disbelief. She held out the cup in a tentative gesture. “I brought you tea. You seemed upset this morning when you arrived.”

Thea lowered the papers and arranged them in a subtle gesture on the desktop with the others. She reached for the cup and sipped the tea, relishing the warmth that trailed down her throat.

Rose stepped forward and touched Thea’s hand, concern in her eyes. “You’re very pale, Thea. What is it?” Rose tilted her head.

Thea took another sip of the tea before setting it on the desk. “It’s my mother.” She lifted the signed document and held it toward Rose. “She was a patient here. Did you know that?”

Rose’s expression translated surprise. Her eyes flew from their glancing at the document to meet Thea’s. “Oh, my heavens. I had no idea.”

Thea nodded. “My mother was admitted here, and Effie knew her.” She turned back to the desk, reaching for the papers she’d put there on Rose’s abrupt entry. “I’m afraid to know what happened to them. To all the patients who passed away here.”

Rose ran a finger over the other pages littering the desktop. “Patients are unwell, Thea. They don’t always live as long as those who have good health.”

“Yes, but testing? They experimented on my mother, Rose. Are you aware of any trials that Dr. Ackerman performs on the patients here?”

Rose’s eyes dimmed. She shook her head. “No. But I’ve heard stories. Dr. Ackerman has mentioned his distaste for some of Dr. Ingles’s previous methods. I don’t know which ones he incorporated. Some of the larger hospitals have tried electricity. Even surgical procedures on the brain to try to—”

Thea clapped her hand over her mouth. She shook her head. “That’s awful.”

Rose drew in an anxious breath, glancing toward the closed door. She took a step toward Thea. “It is awful. But, perhaps necessary? The patients have no lives. They have been left here to die, and what if we have a cure for them? For Effie to cease thrashing and seizing and to be normal?”

“Normal?” Thea whispered. “Who defines what normal is?”

Rose blinked. “There are treatments . . .” Her words waned as Thea stared at her.

“Do you believe that?” Thea asked. “If Mary, your sister, had been admitted here because she was—she was sad—would you condone their using electricity on her to make her happy again?”

Rose stumbled backward. Her hands flew to her chest, and she clenched them there. Her eyes darkened. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“No. No, I don’t!” Thea swiped a tear from her cheek. “But my mother was here, Rose. She died here. These tests might have even been the cause, yet I’ll never know for certain.”

Rose swallowed hard, pressed her hands flat against her apron, smoothing it over her skirt and seeming to compose her own emotions. Nodding toward the tea, she offered Thea a small smile. “It is horrible. This place—the people in it—it is all very sad. But it is here. Now, drink your tea, take deep breaths, and then carry on. It’s what I do. Every day, Thea. We carry on.”

Mr. Fritz met her on the porch of the boardinghouse. Dinner had concluded. The pot roast and potatoes Thea consumed adding to her already increasing nausea. She’d found no more records on her mother, nor on Effie, but already some things were becoming clearer. If not now, then in the not-so-distant past, Valley Heights Asylum had been a place of experimentation. Once she knew what to look for, Thea began to peruse other patients’ records, five years and older. Always the words testing, procedure, or in a few cases, surgery were mentioned. She referenced the small cemetery’s logbook, and many, if not most, of the names were written there as well.

“You’ve uncovered something?” The newspaperman asked eagerly.

Thea nodded. “But it is from the past. Dr. Ackerman appears to be genuinely concerned for the welfare of his patients.” She summarized her findings for the man, who listened intently.

“This is consistent with what I’ve uncovered at other hospitals. Slowly the care seems to be improving for the patients, but there’s much yet to be done.”

Thea eyed him as he took a step toward the porch rail and looked out onto the street.

“This is a strange town, Thea Reed. I’ve no regrets in saying I will be glad to leave it behind me.”

“You’re finished with your story, then?” Thea drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

Mr. Fritz gave her a quick nod. “After the other night? Yes. I’ve no wish to aggravate the ghost of Misty Wayfair any further. If you’ve discovered nothing untoward at the hospital, I will be pleased to take what you’ve given me as foundation for my story about institutional care and leave it at that.”

Thea hesitated. She had no way to hold him to it, but she had to ask regardless. “And you will not mention the Coyles? Or Misty Wayfair? Because their story has no bearing or impact on patient care at the hospital.”

Mr. Fritz turned to face her directly. “The Coyles? No. You are correct. But the history of that place! To think that Edward Fortune constructed the hospital where he did. That’s a story in and of itself.”

“A small story,” Thea stated, hoping that Mr. Fritz saw no sensation in its retelling.

“Not small, really. Still, it is all conjecture.”

Thea was confused. “I thought you confirmed Mr. Fortune had built the hospital?” What conjecture could there be if the land deeds and records were there at the town hall?

Mr. Fritz raised an eyebrow and gave her a look that communicated more untold details. He scratched the side of his head about his ear, as if debating whether he should divulge them to her. Thea tipped her head, catching his eyes and not looking away.

“All right then.” Mr. Fritz gave his head a little shake, like he’d lost an argument neither of them had verbalized. “I did inquire of some of the older, longtime citizens of Pleasant Valley. They don’t share much, mostly because it might speak ill of Mr. Fortune, and the town needs him and his company to keep it alive economically. Even our dear Mrs. Brummel here bites her tongue about those slanderous tales. It took some cajoling to get the snippets I did. Cajoling and bribery too, I must admit.”

Mr. Fritz tapped the porch rail with his left hand. “So, not long after Misty Wayfair was found murdered, it seems Edward Fortune and his new wife became benefactors for a young girl. A waif. No more than a few years of age. No one knew where she came from, and no one asked. The child grew up in the Fortune home but moved away once she reached adulthood. A few years later, she mysteriously returned. Shortly after that, Mr. Fortune began construction of the asylum.”

Thea stared at the newspaperman. “Do you know this woman’s name?”

Mr. Fritz eyed Thea. “Therein lies the mystery. All the years she lived with the Fortunes, they never brought her to town. In fact, even now, some question whether she existed at all. They only heard that her name was Penelope.”

Thea turned swiftly away, her breaths coming fast. The motion made the porch spin around her, and for a moment Thea felt as if she might faint. She grabbed for the rail as the world closed in and went dark.

“Miss Reed?” Mr. Fritz’s concerned voice heralded her from the blackness.

Thea squeezed her eyes tight and then opened them. Clarity returned then, and she looked at the newspaperman. “Where did she go after the asylum was built?” Though Thea already knew the answer, she wanted to hear the story as known by the town.

Mr. Fritz shrugged. “A few say she traveled south and disappeared. Others say Mr. Fortune built the hospital for her. But no one really knows for certain. The Fortunes never spoke of her again, and there was never any sign of their providing for another person other than the children they’d had of their own. As I said, not a small story, but there’s just too much conjecture overall. I’m not comfortable publishing it.”

Thea’s breath caught in her chest. “So, you won’t write it?”

Mr. Fritz waved her off. “I don’t have enough facts, not to mention I’ve no desire to flirt with a spirit such as Misty Wayfair’s. There are too many loose threads, and somehow she seems to weave in and out of them all. Besides, I cannot forget her face. That awful, hollow expression. It chills me even now to think of it.”

Her face. Thea still clutched the porch rail, her knees weak, nausea creeping into her throat. When she’d witnessed Misty Wayfair dancing near the boardinghouse in the street below, she saw no distinguishable features. Of course, the night and the fog hadn’t allowed for much detail.

“What did she look like?” Thea asked.

Mr. Fritz patted the hair he’d combed across his balding spot. He grimaced and shook his head. “She looked like death. Pale, her hair dark and stringy, with eyes set deep in her head. Her cheeks were so thin, the cheekbones reminded me of razors. Miss Reed, it still grants me nightmares. The way she wove and leaned, as if she could not walk on bare feet, and yet, in some ways, it was like she floated.”

“Did she float?” Thea couldn’t help but ask.

“No,” Mr. Fritz answered, “but it seemed so. And the words she spoke were horrifying. I shall never forget them.”

“What words? What did she say?” Thea had only heard her sing and call out her own name, taunting.

“It was poetry.” He drew a deep breath, as though it frightened him to remember.

“My Mother raised her eyes,

They were blank and could not see;

Yet they held me with their stare

While they seemed to look at me.”

Thea gaped at Mr. Fritz in dumbfounded shock. The words. The recitation. She could still hear her voice. The thin, wispy tone of Effie as she muttered the verse while posing for her portrait. The haunting words before her declaration, which still replayed in Thea’s head.

You’ve come back.