Karen Essex

  Seward easily rebuked me. “Lady Godalming refused food, made herself weak, and contracted a fever. You know all this, or rather, your rational mind knows this, but your disorder is causing your mind to distort the facts.” He turned to Von Helsinger. “Is that not correct?”

  Von Helsinger turned his palm up and shrugged as if to say of course. “The manifestations of Lady Godalming’s disease were the same as Mrs. Harker’s. Obsession, imagining the object of desire is in love with her, insisting that she is love’s victim, et cetera. It is a common female illness, born of the weakness of the female mind, which I believe has a strong genetic component. I have devoted my life’s work to finding a solution.”

  “Jon, do we have your permission to treat Mrs. Harker?” Seward maintained treacherous calm.

  Jonathan picked up the newspaper again and stared at the photograph. “Now that I reexamine it, I see that could be a ghostly image that resembles the Count. I am sorry that I caused a sensation this morning, but I had such a fright when I saw him, or what I thought was him, with my wife. But it is all for the best. God has been at work here, using this situation to expose Mina’s problem.”

  “Very well said, sir.” Seward opened his black bag, extracting a hypodermic kit, similar to the one Mr. Hawkins’s doctor had used.

  “No!” I protested. “I do not need medication!” The more I talked, the more I sounded like Lucy. I forced myself to be quiet, but when I saw Seward come toward me with the needle, I started to scream.

  Dr. Von Helsinger rang the bell beneath his desk, while Jonathan came to me, wrapping his arms around me. “Just let them help you, Mina. Soon, it will all be better,” he said. Seward stood in front of me holding the long, loaded syringe in his hand, needle pointing to the sky. Mrs. Kranz and Mrs. Vogt came through the door.

  “We will be admitting Mrs. Harker this morning as a patient,” Seward said. “Make all the preparations to begin the water cure immediately.”

  “What is the water cure?” My heart was racing as Jonathan gave way to the two women, who each took one of my arms. I was astonished at how strong they were, how able they were to subdue my efforts to resist.

  “It will relax you. It will expunge all the bad humors from your blood that cause nervous debility, and it will give you peace,” Seward said as I squirmed beneath the grip of the two women. “Mrs. Harker, please do not resist. You don’t want me to hurt you.”

  The room went silent but for the sound of Von Helsinger sucking on his pipe, and my silken sleeve being pushed above my elbow.

  The drug swept through the current of my veins, carrying with it some numbing agent that caused the tension in my muscles to vanish, rapidly giving way to a loss of interest in rebellion. My arguments and logic for self-preservation dissipated like so much smoke, disintegrating into the air like the fumes from Von Helsinger’s pipe. Waves of apathy rolled through my torso, limbs, and loins, and I was vaguely aware of being carried, of being undressed, of lying alone on a soft bed, of caresses, and of murmurs of comfort breathed into my ear. And then, of nothingness—the sheer relief of nonexistence.

  My next awareness was of cold—bitter freezing, arctic cold—enveloping me, as if I had been buried in a tomb of ice. At first, I thought I was a child again. I remembered being sick with chills and thinking that I would die from it. Horrible feelings and images came to me—of being baptized, submerged, and drowned; hands holding me under cold water as I struggled to rise. But as I opened my eyes, I saw two women I did not recognize standing above me. My arms were pinned against my body, which was swaddled tight in a freezing-cold sheet. “Where am I?” I asked through trembling lips. I thought that I had died and gone—where? To the antithesis of hell?

  “You are in the water treatment room, dearie,” said one of the women.

  I could take in only minuscule amounts of dank air with each breath, but enough to recognize the acrid odor of chemicals. I could not move my head enough to see what was being done to my body, but I felt the scratch of stiff, cold muslin against my skin.

  “Help me,” I managed to get out. “I am so cold.”

  “We are helping you, dearie. You are taking the water cure. It will do you a world of good.” The woman who spoke did not look at me, but I could see the saggy wattle beneath her grizzled chin move as she talked in a singsong voice that was not at all personal or friendly. “Now be a good girl. You needn’t do a thing but lie there. We have to do all the work.”

  I could not believe that they were going to leave me to freeze to death, but both walked away. I heard their bottoms hit chairs, each woman sighing as if she had just exhausted herself by troubling with me. I murmured over and over, moaning, crying for help through my chattering teeth. A few times I bit my tongue, which made me cry. A warm tear fell down my face, one drop of hot liquid in this frigid sea of cold. But no matter how many sounds I made, or how much I pleaded, they ignored me, even once or twice shushing me.

  I heard one of the women rise and leave the room, and before long, I heard what I thought was the clattering of knitting needles. I lay shivering, trying to warm my lips with my tongue, which had gone cold too. I was lying on some sort of hard metal slab. The room had a low ceiling of white tile with black grout. I do not know how much time had passed, maybe an hour or more, when my natural body temperature began to rise enough to take a slight bit of chill out of the muslin wrap. I thought that this would signal that the treatment was over. I heard the woman stand up and walk not toward me, to free me, as I had hoped, but to the other side of the room, where I heard the cranking of a pump and of water flowing from a tap.

  The next thing I knew, she was standing over me, pouring freezing water over my body. I could not move at all, but my body tried on instinct to escape, bouncing and flailing inside the sheet. This time I screamed and then screamed again, the sound of my shrieks echoing in the room. I thought that surely the sheer loudness would bring someone to my rescue, but my pitiful cries were lost in the pervasive moans that filled the rooms and halls of the asylum. Mine was nothing special, just another anonymous cry of suffering.

  Another hour or so passed the same way. The woman had a psychic instinct for the very moment when my body had begun to warm, and at those moments, she dumped more cold water on my already frigid form. I shivered so hard that sometimes I lost consciousness but not for any decent length of time during which I might escape my misery. Finally, I heard the other woman come back into the room, and the two of them began to unwrap the horrible cloth from my body. If I had had the strength, I would have thanked them. My body was rigid and cramped, and I anticipated being wrapped in a warm robe or blanket and told that my treatment was complete. Instead the two women lifted me, one by the shoulders and the other by the hips, and without warning plunged me into a tub of ice water, colder even than the sheet that had bound me. The shock took my breath away. Blackness rose up before me, but I did not faint. The full force of the cold hit every part of me at once, and I began to fight the hands that held me down.

  “Oh, dearie, why do you act this way?” The one who spoke pushed my head under the water, and it filled my nose and mouth. I felt myself choking, gulping and drowning with every swallow, the big hands on my neck keeping me down in what would surely be my watery grave. I have done this before, I thought. I knew all too well this feeling of insidious cold water taking me over.

  They pulled me out of the water and into the chilly air of the room, which made gooseflesh over every inch of my body. I was shivering hard again and weak in the knees. One of them held me up while the other wrapped me in a blanket. Together, they carried me to a chair, holding me beneath my armpits, while my numb feet dragged on the wet, tiled floor. They sat me down, and I keeled over to one side. One of the women caught me before I slid off the seat and onto the floor, while the other brought a tray with a huge pitcher of water and a glass.

  “Water on the inside is as important as the water on the outside,” she said. She poured a glass of water and tried to hand
it to me, but I could not lift my arm to take it. She held it to my lips, pouring the cold, unwanted liquid into my mouth. I tried to swallow, but I did not have the strength, and it dribbled out the sides of my mouth and down my neck. “Come now, you must drink the pitcher,” she said.

  I was still shaking from the cold bath and did not see how I could down all that water. The small bit that was traveling to my stomach was making me sick. I had eaten nothing since early the night before, but my empty insides were churning. I shook my head: I could not drink any more. The woman holding the glass let out an aggravated sigh. “It’s no use to disobey, miss. We cannot let you out of the room until you drink it.”

  “If I drink it, I can go?” I managed to choke out the words. I was still chilled through to the marrow and would have agreed to do anything to get out of the room and back into warmth of some kind.

  “Yes, so be a good girlie.” The full glass came toward me, and together, she and I held it to my lips as I drank down the water. I am not sure how I got through the next six glasses, but I did, fighting nausea and remembering that with every sip, I was closer to getting out of that room. It must have taken me the better part of an hour to gag all of it down, but I did it, and when I finished, I waited for release. They pulled me up out of the chair and took the blanket off me, leaving me naked and cold. Rather than head for the door, they directed me deeper into the room, where they opened a metal door and pushed me inside. I heard a cranking noise, and then water rushing through pipes. Suddenly, it came out of a spigot over my head and poured all over me, icy cold again, scaring me so that I threw myself against the side of the stall. But I could not escape.

  One of the women yelled out, “Be a good girlie, now, it’s just ten minutes.”

  I screamed and beat the walls of the stall for the duration of the shower. I could not believe that any person had survived this treatment. When I could take it no longer, I started to count out loud, sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight, and so on, but nothing seemed to make the time pass fast enough. I was well beyond the point of anything I thought I could endure, and yet I was still alive. Finally, I fell to the cold floor of the stall, letting the frigid water pour over me.

  After they released me from the cold shower, they did not bring me back into a warm room but sat me down and forced another pitcher of water into me. I do not know how long it took. I was utterly delirious and convinced that I would never again be dry, never be able to leave that torture chamber, never again wear warm clothes and sit in front of a fireplace with a cup of tea. Just as I was drinking the final glass, I started to remember people I knew who were outside this establishment, people who might help me—Kate, Jacob, Headmistress, even the mysterious stranger. Had I been hallucinating on the banks of the river when he pulled the attacker off me? I had one moment of hopefulness, remembering that rescue.

  On the heels of that fleeting moment of hope, the blanket was ripped away, and I discovered that the finale was yet to come. The two women hoisted up my limp, naked body, and plunged me once again into a fresh tub of icy water.

  When I regained consciousness, I was lying in a bed. Intoxicated by the small and fragile pleasure of being warm, my first thought was that I was safe. The warmth of the bed lulled me. My body felt weak, as if the substance that willed my muscles to move had been drained from it. As soon as I remembered where I was and what had been done to me, my thoughts turned to methods of escape. I opened my eyes. The single window in the room had two heavy iron bars. The halls were never without attendants, and guards manned the gates. A further and more insurmountable deterrent was that I did not have the strength to move.

  I dozed for a while and awoke to the smooth hush of Seward’s voice. “See? She is as peaceful as a lamb, like a sleeping angel.” His words came slowly, like thick syrup from a bottle.

  “The water cure purifies the blood of some of its undesirable elements.” Von Helsinger’s guttural notes chimed in. “It is the perfect treatment in preparation for the transfusion; otherwise, the fresh blood has too much to fight against.”

  Hoping that my reaction did not show on my face, I fought the urge to open my eyes. I wanted to hear what they would say next.

  “I must say, the water treatment brings more peace and tranquility to the female than any narcotic I have ever used,” Seward said.

  The men spoke in shaded tones, trying not to wake me.

  “She is very still,” Jonathan whispered. “I do not like that she is so pale.”

  “Harker, I want you to go to your room and rest. We are going to need your blood for the second transfusion,” Von Helsinger said.

  I raced, mouselike, through the tunnels of my mind for something that I could say, an argument that would convince them to let me walk, unscathed, out of the room, and out of the institution. I tried to peek through the tiny slits between my eyelids without alerting them that I was awake. I saw Von Helsinger nod to Seward, who held a syringe in his hand. I shut my eyes tight but heard his footsteps approach the bed. He took my arm in his hand, turning it palm up. My eyes darted open.

  “No!” I was so weak that the word came out as a whimper. I tried again, but it was as if I were in a dream where I was trying to run but could not move.

  “Don’t hurt her!” Jonathan said, pulling Seward’s arm away. His face, along with the rest of the room, was hazy to me, but I could tell he was concerned and perhaps would forbid them to proceed.

  “Do not worry, young Harker,” Von Helsinger said. “We are going to pump her full of brave men’s blood. That is the best thing on earth when a woman is in trouble. Your wife will be cured of her ills and, with the superior blood, will bear you strong children. That is what you want, is it not?”

  “Even the most benign medical procedures can be disturbing to the layman,” Seward said. “We will send for you when we’re ready.”

  Jonathan came to the bed and kissed my forehead. “You are going to get better, Mina. The doctors are going to make you well again.”

  I reached up with whatever strength I had and clutched at his shirt, but I did not have the strength to hold it. “Do not let them,” I whispered, my words slurred.

  Jonathan’s brown eyes, soft with concern, were searching mine. “What did you say?”

  “Lucy.” I whispered her name as best I could. The syllables dripped slowly from my numb lips.

  “I believe that she is calling for Lucy,” Jonathan said to Seward.

  Seward tried to move Jonathan aside. “She is hallucinating. Best to let her stay drowsy.”

  Jonathan gripped the doctor’s arm. “Lucy died here. You must promise me that you won’t let that happen to Mina. I must have your guarantee.”

  Oh steadfast reader, how many times do we revisit the past and wish that we had made differentt choices? Even at that moment, when I was virtually unconscious, I rued my decision to spare Jonathan the worst details of what the doctors had done to Lucy because I had feared that their gruesome aspects might impede his recovery. Why had I not given him her letters to read for himself? I believed that in protecting him, I was acting in his higher interest; little did I know that I was possibly signing my own death warrant.

  “Lady Godalming was given the blood as a last resort to save her from acute anemia. Your wife is physically strong. With the blood, she will also gain strength of mind,” Von Helsinger said. “But the donor of blood must also be in a state of relaxation to achieve a beneficial result. Perhaps the blood of Lord Godalming failed to save his wife because he was in an excitable state at the time.”

  “No wonder he is having nightmares,” Jonathan said thoughtfully. “He believes that he failed his wife. That will not happen here, sirs.”

  “I will take good care of her,” Seward said. “You can trust me.”

  “I do trust you,” Jonathan said. After all, who had stepped in front of Godalming as he wielded his fishing knife at Jonathan in Lucy’s crypt? Of course Jonathan would trust Seward.

  Jonathan leaned over me and took m
y limp hand. “Good-bye, Mina, darling,” he said, with a little catch in his throat. He kissed my hand and then squeezed it tight before turning away. I tried to speak again, but he receded from me, and I heard his footsteps as he walked away.

  Von Helsinger closed the door behind him and stood over the bed. “Now be a good little miss,” he said. Seward held my arm while Von Helsinger stroked it up and down. He put his monocle to his eye and examined me. “Such lovely skin, like a little baby’s.” He looked up and down my body, moving the neckline of my nightdress aside and slipping his hand inside, putting it over my chest. Then he cupped it under my left breast. “But she is not a little baby after all.” He left his hand on my breast for a long while, looking up to the ceiling. Finally he moved it away. “The heart rate is good,” he said. “You may give the injection now.”

  Seward took my arm in his hand. I tried to jerk it away, but he said, “No one will hurt you if you do not resist.” With brawny fingers, Von Helsinger held my arm in place while Seward slowly traced the lines of my veins from shoulder to wrist and back with his finger. “What a fine and delicate network,” he said as his finger slid the length of my inner arm, making me squirm. “As if a master painter has been here with his brush.” He caressed the sensitive skin near the top of my underarm. “I think you like that,” he said, smiling.

  “This is good!” Von Helsinger said enthusiastically. “She is getting more receptive to the blood.”

  Seward retraced the line of my vein back down my arm, stopping at my inner elbow, gently teasing the crease. “Here, I think,” he said, and he brought the needle to that place and stuck it in my vein.

  I felt the sting of the injection and the burn of the medicine as it flooded my arm. He rubbed the spot where the needle went in and then put his hand on my face, caressing my cheek. “Sweet Mina,” he said with a wry laugh. Von Helsinger said something to Seward in German, and the younger doctor laughed and answered him back in that language.