“Stop right there!” Dr. Roach shouted. He stumbled down the rocky embankment, slipping and nearly falling before he reached the bottom.
The orderlies charged across the rocks and rushed into the water, slogging through the waves as fast as possible, their arms swinging in the air. One grabbed Lawrence by the head and pushed him down, holding him underwater. Bruno let go of the boat and punched the orderly in the face, trying to get him to release Lawrence. The second orderly wrapped his arms around Bruno’s shoulders, pulling him away from the first. The boat started drifting away. Clara stood, scrambled over the middle seat, and put the oars in the water. She pulled the oar handles toward her, moving the boat farther from shore. Trying not to panic, she dipped the oars in the water again and pushed. This time, the rowboat moved toward the men.
A third orderly appeared and scrambled down the embankment into the water. He hit Bruno over the head with a truncheon, his face contorting with the effort. The second orderly let go and Bruno disappeared beneath the surface. The orderly reached down, his shoulders nearly submerged, and pulled Bruno up. Bruno’s eyes were closed, his face red with blood, his hair plastered to his forehead like wet seaweed. The orderly dragged him to the shoreline and left him on the rocks, Bruno’s lower half still in the water, then hurried back into the lake. One of the orderlies grabbed the boat and tried lifting himself over the transom. Clara stood, pulled an oar from its rowlock and hit the orderly over the head. He fell back in the water, his head lolling. Then he recovered and reached blindly for the boat again, rivers of blood running into his eyes. She lifted the oar a second time, ready to bring it down with all her strength.
A gunshot rang through the air. She froze and looked up, the oar wavering above her head. Dr. Roach stood at the edge of the shoreline with a smoking pistol in his hand, his arm stretched toward the sky.
“I said stop right there!” he shouted.
Clara dropped the oar, the wood clattering on the rowboat seats. Three more orderlies appeared at the top of the embankment, straitjackets and chains in their hands. The orderly holding Lawrence underwater pulled him up. Lawrence’s eyes were closed, his mouth hanging open. The orderly dragged him back to the shoreline and dropped him beside Bruno. Clara jumped out of the boat and slogged through the icy water toward shore, her legs like stone, the cold air like knives in her lungs. She fell to her knees on the rocks between Lawrence and Bruno, fear filling her throat like oil. She shook their shoulders, trying to get them to wake up. It was no use.
Lawrence lay on his back with his head to one side, his skin colorless, his lips purple. He wasn’t breathing. Clara pushed Bruno onto his back, moved his wet hair away from his eyes, and held his bloody face in her trembling hands, shouting his name over and over. His skin was ice cold, his white hands limp. She put her ear to his chest, holding her breath to hear his heartbeat. The only heartbeat she heard was her own. She screamed and slumped over his body, her limbs vibrating out of control, her shoulders convulsing. One after the other, before she could catch her next mouthful of air, violent sobs burst from her throat, wrenching the air from her lungs. A pair of galoshes appeared in front of her. With what little strength she had left, Clara looked up.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Dr. Roach said, gazing down at her.
CHAPTER 21
IZZY
Shivering despite her winter coat, Izzy sat on Peg and Harry’s deck, her hood pulled up, her fists in her pockets. The sky spit snow and a bitter wind made her eyes water. But she didn’t care. She needed to be outside. Earlier, she and Peg had gone to the Geneva funeral home to sort out the details of her mother’s interment, the dim chandeliers, heavy damask curtains, and hint of formaldehyde reminding her of her father’s wake. Sitting in front of the funeral director’s desk, she felt seven years old again, lost in a sea of black jackets and dresses, searching for her grandmother, begging to go home. It had taken all her strength to pick out her mother’s casket, decide on a grave liner, and explain why there wouldn’t be a service. What she really wanted to do was jump out of the Queen Anne chair, throw open a window, and ask why the place had to look and feel so damn depressing.
Now, she couldn’t get enough fresh air. She imagined her mother, lying on a metal slab inside a cold vault in the funeral home, her muscles stiff, her eyes sewn shut. All of a sudden, Izzy couldn’t breathe. She stood and trudged across the lawn, trying to fill her lungs, the frozen grass crunching beneath her feet. So this is what it feels like to be an orphan, she thought, her throat and eyes burning. From now on, there will never be at least one person in the world thinking of me every day, loving me unconditionally. I am finally, truly alone.
For years, she’d told herself that after being on her own for so long, her mother’s death wouldn’t affect her as badly as if she’d seen her every day. But she was wrong. When Peg told her the news, Izzy fell to the floor, violent sobs stealing the air from her lungs. With tears in her eyes, Peg knelt on the rug and held Izzy, letting her cry, a gentle hand stroking her head. Nearly an hour went by before Izzy trusted her legs enough to stand.
Now, between her mother’s passing, worrying about turning eighteen, and the incident at Willard, the urge to cut herself grew by the hour. So far, she hadn’t given in, but she couldn’t stop imagining breaking the compact in her purse and using the shattered mirror to slice through the thin skin on her arms. Over and over, she reminded herself that the relief would only last a minute, and physical pain wouldn’t bring her mother back. She had to learn to be an adult, to find her way in the world without giving in to self-pity and misery. Her mother had sacrificed her life for her. The least Izzy could do was make the best of it.
Luckily, after the incident at Willard, Shannon and her friends had left Izzy alone. When they passed in the hallways at school, Shannon dropped her eyes. Izzy wondered if Shannon was afraid she was going to press charges. Shannon and Ethan weren’t together anymore, but Izzy ignored Ethan’s attempts to talk. He’d sent a note through Alex, apologizing for everything and begging to come over. Izzy threw the letter in the trash. When Ethan called the house, she instructed Peg and Harry to say she was in the shower or out with friends. She needed time to sort out her life and figure out what to do next. With everything else, the last thing she wanted was more heartache. Besides, who would want to date a girl with no family and an uncertain future?
“Izzy?” Peg called from the kitchen door. “Why don’t you come inside? Dinner will be ready soon.”
Izzy sighed, wiped her eyes, and turned toward the house, her stomach churning. She didn’t think she could eat anything, but Peg and Harry had been incredibly kind through everything. The least she could do was be polite. In the kitchen, Harry stood at the island counter, chopping lettuce.
“I’m making tacos,” he said, smiling at her. “They’re your favorite, right?”
Izzy nodded, fresh tears forming in her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone knew what her favorite food was, let alone taking the time to make it. But Peg and Harry had gone above and beyond making Izzy’s favorite dinner. They had paid for Izzy’s mother’s casket and burial, saving her from an eternity spent in a prison cemetery. She would be buried next to her parents in Geneva. Izzy had never known anyone to be so generous. She was still trying to think of an adequate way to say thank you. But every time the words formed in her mind, her throat closed and she couldn’t speak.
Izzy hung up her jacket and stood at the island counter, still shivering. Peg got the milk out of the refrigerator, poured some in a saucepan, and placed it on the stove.
“I’m going to make you some hot chocolate,” she said to Izzy. “And you’re going to drink it. You haven’t had anything since this morning.”
“Thanks,” Izzy said, managing a thin smile.
Just then, the doorbell rang. Harry put down his knife and hurried to answer it, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. A minute later, he came back, Alex and Ethan at his side. Despite Izzy’s decision to keep her dis
tance from Ethan, her heart leapt at the sight of him. He was wearing work boots, a black jacket and black jeans, his cheeks ruddy from the cold. Izzy chewed on her bottom lip, fighting the urge to run into his arms. Alex hurried toward Izzy, her eyes wet.
“Are you all right?” she said.
Izzy nodded and let Alex hug her, blinking back tears. When Izzy drew away, Ethan wrapped his arms around her. He smelled like winter and spiced cologne, his cool cheek pressing against her temple. It was all she could do not to bury her face in his neck.
“I’m so sorry about your mother,” he said.
“Thanks,” Izzy said. She gave him a quick hug and pulled away, unable to look him in the eye. But he held on, his strong arms drawing her closer.
“I’m here for you,” he whispered in her ear. “Whether you like it or not.”
Izzy squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to cry. It was no use. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Why don’t you guys stay for dinner?” Peg said. “Harry is making tacos. He always cooks enough for an army, so there’s plenty.”
Ethan leaned back and wiped Izzy’s cheek with his thumb. “I love tacos,” he said, grinning.
“Me too,” Alex said, rubbing Izzy’s shoulder.
Izzy smiled, her heart swelling. Maybe she wasn’t alone after all.
CHAPTER 22
CLARA
March 1946
Due to a continuous downpour over the last seven days, muddy water flowed in the drainage ditches along the tunnel walls below Chapin Hall, making the stone floors wet with condensation. Clara stood in line behind Esther at the bottom of the basement stairs, wondering if anyone would notice if she slipped out of line and hurried down the tunnel toward the morgue, toward the double doors that led outside, toward the green lawn. If she broke the window and squeezed through the pane, then ran as fast as she could toward the lake, she could make it into the water before anyone caught her. She could put an end to this.
She could put an end to sleeping on a hard bed in a cold, filthy ward, listening to women mumble and weep. She could put an end to eternal mornings when it took all her strength to pull herself out of bed and face another day of watching women staring out windows, banging their heads against walls, wailing that they just want to go home. She could put an end to a life spent sewing and playing checkers and eating tasteless food. She could put an end to watching people being mistreated and drugged. She could put an end to the black ache in her chest, every beat of her broken heart like a knife between her ribs.
She looked down at her hands, at the tiny cracks in her fingertips, worn into the skin from years of pulling thread, and the indent on the top of her middle finger left by hundreds of thimbles. Her nails were chewed to the quick, her skin dry and calloused; the hands of an old woman. She thought of her mother’s hands; soft and manicured, her nails polished and red, her skin smelling of lavender. She tried to picture her mother now, with gray hair and a wrinkled face, sipping tea from imported china while sitting on a velvet settee. She wondered if her father was still alive, if the two of them were happily living out their years, safe and warm in their mansion. Did they ever think of her? Did they ever wonder if she was all right, if she was still alive? Did they ever think about coming to Willard and begging her forgiveness, or telling the doctors to allow her to go free? Or were they so heartless that they never gave her a second thought? Did they ever doubt their decision to dispose of their daughter like a piece of rubbish?
Now, in the tunnel, the cold iron smell of wet cement reminded Clara of the night she and Bruno tried to escape. After all these years, she could still picture Bruno looking down at her above the coffin, his eyes sad as he slid the cover closed to nail it shut. If she’d known back then what she knew now, she might have asked Bruno and Lawrence to go ahead and bury her instead of Miss Annie Blumberg.
Her eyes began to burn and, as she’d done countless times over the years, she pushed the painful memories from her mind and tried to think of something else. She lifted her chin, remembering it was movie night in Hadley Hall and the annual Fourth of July picnic was coming soon. They were small distractions, but it was something different to look forward to. Something to keep her from going insane. Every day, she reminded herself it was never too late for a miracle to happen; someday she could be let free. If she gave in to self-pity, she would surely go mad. And she couldn’t let that happen. She had to keep her wits about her if she was going to survive, if she was going to find Beatrice someday.
The line moved forward and finally, she could see down the tunnel in front of her.
“What do they call this new treatment again?” she asked Esther.
“Electroshock therapy,” Esther said. “But I overheard the orderlies calling it ‘The Blitz.’”
“What does it mean?” Clara said.
Esther shrugged. Clara leaned sideways, trying to see around the line of women. Just then, two orderlies carried an unconscious woman on a stretcher out of the treatment room, a sheet draped across her body. The sheet slipped off and fell to the cement floor, revealing that the woman was naked. The orderlies took her into a room across the hall. A nurse picked up the sheet and followed them, her mouth pinched. The orderlies returned to the treatment room. A minute later, they brought another woman out, holding her upright as she stumbled toward one of the chairs along the tunnel wall. The woman behind Clara started whimpering. Clara wanted her to stop. The line moved forward again.
Dr. Roach came into the tunnel and strolled along the line, writing the patients’ names on a clipboard. Just before Dr. Roach reached Esther, the orderlies rushed out of the treatment room carrying another woman strapped to a stretcher. She writhed and screamed in pain, her hands clawing the air. Behind the orderlies, Nurse Trench raced toward Dr. Roach, her red face contorted.
“Dr. Roach!” she shouted. “I think her back is broken!”
Dr. Roach put the clipboard under his arm and hurried toward the patient. The orderlies stopped so he could examine her. He ran a rubber-gloved hand along the woman’s spine, pulled the clipboard from beneath his arm, and gestured toward the service elevator.
“Take her up to the infirmary,” he said.
The orderlies carried the stretcher toward the service elevator, struggling to keep it level while the woman thrashed and twisted. Nurse Trench stared at Dr. Roach, her lips pursed. “I told you it was too high,” she said.
Dr. Roach grabbed her arm and led her toward the treatment room, grumbling something in her ear. Clara clenched her jaw, her breath coming faster and faster. What were they doing in that room? She looked behind her, down the tunnel, wondering if she should make a run for it. Maybe she could reach the double doors leading outside before anyone noticed she was gone. Then she reminded herself what happened the last time she tried to escape. She started to shiver, remembering the ten months spent in isolation. She couldn’t do that again. She couldn’t. It had nearly killed her.
The line moved forward. Clara looked at the woman sitting in the chair. She was leaning back, her head against the tunnel wall, her eyes closed as if she were sleeping. Two more women were led out to sit beside her. Maybe the treatment wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was just bad for certain people, people with other problems. Then, before she knew it, an orderly led her and Esther by the arm into the treatment room.
Inside, Nurse May and seven other nurses stood waiting. Four beds lined the middle of the room, each mattress covered with a fresh sheet. Beside the beds, four wooden boxes sat on metal carts, each box filled with some kind of machine, dials and gages and wires coming out in all directions. The machines looked like giant batteries, plugged into wall outlets with thick, black wires. Two more wires connected each machine to handheld paddles. The orderlies led Esther and Clara to the beds, where the nurses instructed them to lie down.
Clara did as she was told, her arms and legs trembling, a slick sheen of sweat breaking out on her forehead and upper lip. Nurse Trench put her fingers on Clara’s chin and p
ushed down, forcing Clara’s lips open. She put a round piece of wood in Clara’s mouth. The thick, wet wood smelled like tooth decay and vomit. Nurse May appeared at the head of the bed and held the mouthpiece in place, telling Clara to bite down. Clara breathed through her nose, trying not to gag, her heart racing in her chest. Nurse Trench strapped Clara’s wrists and ankles to the bed. Dr. Roach held up the paddles connected to the machine.
“You’re about to receive electroshock therapy,” he said. “I’m going to put these paddles on the sides of your head and then you’ll feel a little shock. There’s nothing to be afraid of. My colleagues assure me they’ve had positive results with patients suffering from schizophrenia and delusions. This is going to help you, Clara.”
Two nurses held Clara’s shoulders down. All at once, Clara was overcome with the absolute certainty that she had to get out of the bed. She couldn’t let them do this to her, couldn’t let them shock her brain with electricity. She thrashed and twisted, trying to break free, struggling to push the wood out of her mouth with her tongue. Nurse May pushed down on the wood, making Clara gag. Just then, there was a commotion in the hall. Something rumbled, like distant thunder, and there was another sound, like splashing water.
Women bolted into the room, screaming and knocking each other over in their haste, trampling those who had fallen. Some tried shutting the door, piling against the entrance, while others tried pushing their way inside. Someone yelled, “Flood!” and the door flew open, slamming against the wall and tossing the women to the floor. A knee-high wall of brown water blasted into the room, knocking patients and nurses and orderlies off their feet. Clara gaped at Dr. Roach and Nurse May, silently begging to be untied. Nurse May stared at the door, frozen, still holding the mouthpiece in place. Clara thrashed her head back and forth. Nurse May finally let go. Clara spit the wooden plug out of her mouth and sat up.