A Deceptive Homecoming (10 page)

 

“Who was the doctor?” I asked. The nurse still hadn't given us a name.

“Dr. Hillman. He's in charge of the nervous patients.”

“Dr. Hillman?” Had I heard her right? The cursed man who had admitted my father and had overseen his treatment all those years ago? I expected to feel the room sway, but instead I felt a wave of anger flow through me and my face flushed.

“Yes, Dr. Cyrus Hillman,” the nurse said.

“If he was Mr. Yardley's doctor, Bertha,” I said, “your poor husband didn't have a chance.” And before I knew what I was doing, I pushed past the nurse, strode into the hall, and began looking at the nameplates on the doors. Not seeing what I was looking for, I rushed toward the stairs.

“Hattie?” Bertha called from the doorway as I ascended the stairs. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

“I'm going to find Dr. Hillman and find out once and for all what happened to my father!” I shouted without looking back.

“Don't you mean my husband?” she said, as she scuttled through the door to follow me.

Intent on finding his office, I hadn't realized my mistake. I merely nodded and continued on, but unlike the hallway below, the doors on the second floor were all closed. And then suddenly it was there, the name I was looking for. Without a moment of hesitation, I placed my hand on the doorknob and turned it.

“Hattie, what are you doing?” Bertha called, having reached the top of the stair.

“Follow me, Bertha. Dr. Hillman has some questions to answer.”

 

“What's the meaning of this?”

Dr. Cyrus Hillman, sitting behind a small oak desk, looked up from the paper he was reading. Oak bookshelves lined the wall behind him, populated mostly with medical books and rows and rows of medical journals. On the opposite wall were two metal filing cabinets and a wooden hat rack, with a single tan derby hanging from a hook. Several high-backed wooden side chairs were scattered about the room, and a Hermann Herzog landscape painting of a river scene hung on the far wall. With dark circles beneath his eyes and patches of gray in the temples of his dark brown hair and his neatly trimmed beard, the man before me was older and more tired looking than I remembered. Yet, I could never forget the gaze from his deep-set eyes.

“I'm sorry, Doctor,” Nurse Simmons said. “They were asking about Mr. Yardley and then shoved their way by me.”

“This is highly irregular. You've interrupted my work. I must insist that you please leave.”

I didn't move. I couldn't say a word. My anger, and with it my courage, had abandoned me the moment I heard his voice. Then I stared at the photographs. An entire shelf on the bookcase behind the doctor was dedicated to a row of silver-framed photographs of smiling dark-haired children. How could the man who killed my father be a father? The idea further unsettled me. Luckily Bertha Yardley wasn't so dumbstruck.

“We're not leaving until I know what's become of my husband.” Bertha advanced on him. “Why did you admit him? What was wrong with him? Where's he now? Did he escape from here? Tell me, Dr. Hillman. I want to see my husband!”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Yardley, but I cannot discuss my patients without a careful review of their files and certainly not under duress. Make an appointment and I will do my best to answer your questions. Nurse Simmons, if you would escort these women back downstairs, I'd be much obliged.” He looked back down at the paper on his desk. I couldn't stand by in silence any longer. I joined Bertha at the edge of the physician's desk.

“Do you remember me, Dr. Hillman?” I managed to say.

Without looking at me, he said, “Were you a patient?”

“No, but my father was. George Davish? Do you remember him?”

“Of course. How is your father?”

“Dead, thanks to you.” His head jerked up to glare at me. That got his attention, I thought.

“I'm sorry about your father, but I did everything I could. He was a very sick man.”

“If you remember my father, Doctor, why did you ask how he was?”

“Because all of my patients are very sick men. Now please, as you can see”—he indicated the papers on his desk—“I have work to do.”

“And we have unanswered questions,” Bertha chimed in. “Is it true my husband escaped from your care here?”

“If I answer, will you leave me in peace?” She nodded. I didn't. Now that I was close enough that I could smell the Macassar oil in his hair, I never intended to leave this man in peace.

“Very well. The truth is, Mrs. Yardley, neither your husband nor anyone else has recently escaped from these walls. It's been known to happen, yes, but not in a very long time.” The doctor shuffled through the files on his desk before finding the one he wanted. He picked it up and perused the contents. It was labeled, L
EVI
Y
ARDLEY
.

“But, Doctor?” Nurse Simmons said.

“Your husband,” Dr. Hillman continued, ignoring the nurse's protest, “was suffering from a severe case of business nerves.” He put the file down but didn't look up. Instead, he shoved the file into a desk drawer. “I admitted him, treated him, and then released him. That's all. He was here for a few days and then left.”

“But he wasn't at home when I came back from my sister's,” Bertha said. Dr. Hillman looked at the distressed woman.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Yardley, but I don't keep track of my patients after they leave.”

“If no one escaped recently, why were there orderlies in town searching for a missing patient?” I asked. “And why did you say it was Mr. Yardley they were looking for, Nurse Simmons?” Nurse Simmons opened her mouth but said nothing.

“Nurse Simmons must've misunderstood. I've answered your questions and have nothing more to tell you. Now, if you'd be so kind and let me return to my work.”

Bertha and Nurse Simmons retreated quietly, but I couldn't let him have the last word. I leaned on the desk, my heart thumping in my chest, and stared at him until he looked up.

“What is it? I've told you all I know.”

“Have you? We'll see about that.” I enjoyed the scowl on the man's face, before turning my back on him to leave.

“Y
ou know what Dr. Hillman told Levi Yardley's wife?”

Nurse Simmons huddled in a circle of nurses standing outside the nurse's office as Bertha and I descended the grand staircase. After several of the nurses inquired about what he'd said, Nurse Simmons declared, “That he released the patient, that Levi Yardley never escaped.”

To the protests and astonishment of the nurses, Nurse Simmons nodded. “I know, I know.”

“You don't believe him?” I asked, approaching the nurses.

“Were you eavesdropping, Miss Davish?” Nurse Simmons said.

“No, I couldn't help but overhear your entire conversation with the acoustics in this hall.” I pointed up to the tin ceiling tiles.

“You certainly weren't whispering,” Bertha added. Several nurses nodded. Nurse Simmons shrugged.

“Well, I'd no reason to. It's ridiculous for Dr. Hillman to claim he discharged your husband, Mrs. Yardley. Why else would the asylum staff be searching for Mr. Yardley all over the city? I don't know why he'd say such a thing.”

“Don't you have records of such things?” I asked.

“Of course.” Nurse Simmons gestured for us to follow her. She led us down a flight of back stairs and into a room marked RECORDS above the door. Every wall was lined with tall, black metal cabinets. Each drawer of every cabinet was labeled. Nurse Simmons walked over to a cabinet on the far wall and pulled a drawer out labeled “Y.” She scanned through several files until selecting the one she wanted.

“You see, this is for Mr. Yardley and there are no discharge papers here.”

“May I see?” Bertha eagerly reached for the file that could tell her more about her husband's condition and his time spent here.

“No, I'm sorry.” Nurse Simmons hurriedly refiled the folder and slammed the drawer shut. “The files are restricted to staff. But at least we know for sure that Dr. Hillman wasn't being truthful.”

“I wonder why?”

“That's what I'd like to know, Miss Davish.” Nurse Simmons indicated for us to precede her out of the room. “He's normally meticulous about everything. I can't see him making such an important mistake.”

I was the first one through the doorway. I turned my head to ask Nurse Simmons another question when Bertha yelled, “Look out, Hattie!”

I twisted around and nearly collided with a stretcher carrying the remains of a deceased patient. I stopped less than an inch short of touching the pale, waxy arm that flopped out as the orderlies jerked the stretcher sideways to avoid me. The hallway tilted and spun as I grappled for something to hold.

“Hey, careful, lady,” one of the orderlies warned as the other carefully returned the arm to its place at the dead man's side.

Ironically I'd seen several dead bodies of late and all in much more distressing positions, but the draping of the sheet, the rhythm of the orderlies' feet as they carried their load past us, coupled with the smell of formaldehyde that I hadn't noticed until now, was enough to unhinge me. I recalled seeing my father being carried out like that. For a moment I saw nothing but the tiny bumps in the whitewashed plaster wall. And then everything went black.

 

“Walter?” I said, slowly opening my eyes. I felt the warmth of someone's body against me. But instead of Walter, I was looking up into the face of Nurse Simmons; I was lying partially in her lap. “Oh!” I gasped, and sat up with a jerk.

“Please move more slowly, Miss Davish.” I ignored the nurse and pushed myself up, making every effort to stand. I brushed my skirt off and glanced about me. The stretcher was nowhere to be seen.

“What happened?” I asked, readjusting my hat. It had slipped to the side of my head when I fell.

“You fainted, Hattie,” Bertha said.

“You're extremely lucky I was able to catch you before you hit your head.”

“What? Yes, thank you, Nurse.” I was still a bit befuddled.

“I think you should lie down. You still look very pale.”

“No, thank you.” My heart throbbed and my fingers and toes were tingling, but I wasn't about to let her believe I needed aid. I might not be allowed to leave.

“But you may be ill, Miss Davish. It would be for your own good. I'm sure we have an empty bed we can—”

Bertha placed her hand on my arm. “Thank you for your concern, Nurse, but Miss Davish is fine. We will be going now.” I gave Bertha a weak smile, grateful for her intervention, but I had no intention of leaving—yet.

“Actually, I think one more visit to Dr. Hillman's office is in order, don't you?” Bertha looked surprised, but then nodded. She followed as I pushed past Nurse Simmons before the nurse could object. “Aren't you coming, Nurse Simmons? He lied to you too.”

After a moment of hesitation, the nurse followed as Bertha and I ascended the stairs. When we arrived at his office, I knocked several times with no response. Thinking my knocks were too timid, Bertha leaned over me and pounded on the door, causing the door to open of its own accord.

“Dr. Hillman?” I called as I pushed the door slightly to see more inside. Still no response.

“Dr. Hillman, you lied to us. Where's my husband?” Bertha pushed the door open all the way, eager to step inside. She stopped a few feet past the threshold as the nurse pushed past both of us.

“I'm sorry, Dr. Hillman but—” Nurse Simmons stopped mid-sentence. I couldn't see the doctor's desk without peering over Bertha's shoulder.

“What is it?” I suddenly pictured another office in Newport where a dead man lay sprawled out on the floor. “What's wrong?” Bertha looked back at me, her lips pursed in frustration.

“The room's empty,” she grumbled. “The liar's gone!”

 

Despite the desire to confront Dr. Hillman, I'd never been so relieved to feel the sway of horses pulling a moving cab in my life. Feeling the fresh air on my face as I sat close to the open window, I no longer felt the nausea rise in my throat. My heart had settled back into a more peaceful rhythm and I could sit up without the fear of falling. I watched as the gargantuan building receded from sight.

That was too close,
I thought. If the nurse had truly known how distressed I'd been, I might never have been allowed to leave. If I never saw State Lunatic Asylum Number Two again, I wouldn't mind.

And then I caught a glance of Bertha. Her head hung low as she wrung her hands over and over in her lap. Our quest had been only partially successful and we'd uncovered more questions than answers. Bertha's husband might have indeed been the escaped patient, but where was he now? I pulled out my notebook and pencil.

“I hope we don't ever have to go back there again,” Bertha whispered, as I put my notebook away.

“Don't worry, Bertha. We won't.” Even as I said the words and took the woman's hands in mine, a knot formed in the pit of my stomach. I was lying and I knew it. Someone was going to have to confront Dr. Hillman and find out the whole truth.

We didn't speak again until we reached the St. Charles Hotel. I offered her money to pay for the cab, but she refused. Instead, Bertha flung her arms around me.

“Thank you so much for helping me, Hattie.”

“You're welcome, Bertha, but I'm afraid I haven't helped very much. I wish I could've done more.” The driver opened the door and offered me his hand. I gladly took his help and alighted from the cab. I turned to face Bertha, huddled in the darkness of the cab.

“At least we know something about Levi. It's a start and I couldn't have done any of this without you. Here, take this.” She leaned out the window and thrust the photograph of her husband into my hand.

“But—”

Before I could say another word, she tapped on the roof of the cab and it drove into the flow of traffic. I looked at the photograph in my hand. One of the edges had bent and a crease cut across the top of the man's head. I was struck again by Mr. Yardley's resemblance to Frank Hayward.

Where are you?
I wondered, not knowing myself which man I referred to. And then instead of returning to my room, I headed for the nearest streetcar stop.

 

“I'm sorry, Miss Davish, Miss Hayward isn't at home,” the housekeeper said, shaking her head. I'd returned to Ginny's house hoping to learn whether her father had spent any time recently at the asylum. I knew I couldn't rest until I confirmed, without a doubt, that it was Levi Yardley who had escaped that dreadful institution and not a case of mistaken identity.

“In my day, a daughter wouldn't leave the house this soon after a father died. If I remember right, you stayed in for weeks after your father passed.” I winced at her comparing my mourning to Ginny's, but chose not to comment.

“That's all right. Maybe you can help me, Mrs. Curbow.”

“If you think I can.”

“Do you know if Mr. Hayward had been away at all in the days before his death?”

The housekeeper shook her head and stared for a moment at the band of black crape around her arm. “No, bless his soul, dear man. He was as reliable as the sun, going every morning but Sunday to Mrs. Chaplin's school and coming home every night on time for dinner. Well, every night except . . .” I waited, but she didn't say more.

“Yes, I'm sorry,” I said. “Did a doctor visit recently?”

“No, as far as I knew that man was as healthy as a horse. Oh!” Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, appalled by her slip of the tongue. “I don't know what's gotten into me. One moment he was here and the next he was gone.” She leaned toward me a bit. “I saw him the morning of his death, you know.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, I handed him the lunch I'd packed for him. It was probably his last meal: cold boiled beef, bread, butter, pickles, and a few lemon jumbles. If I'd known, I would've packed him a meal Grover Cleveland would've envied.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Curbow.” My suspicions were confirmed; Levi Yardley must've been the asylum patient and not Frank Hayward. “You've been a big help.”

She nodded sadly, still thinking of the inadequacy of the leftover beef. “Should I let Miss Hayward know you came by?”

“No, you needn't trouble her. I'll send her my good-byes.”

“Oh, here.” The housekeeper reached for a plate on the table covered with a linen cloth. “If I remember right, you used to eat nothing but sweets. We have too much; Miss Ginny could never eat it all.” I took the plate and peeked under the cloth. There were several pieces each of apple pie and squash pie. I caught my breath.

“Thank you, Mrs. Curbow. That's . . . very thoughtful.” I struggled to maintain my composure. The old woman's kindness had startled me.

Far kinder than Ginny has been,
I thought.

“Good-bye then to you, Miss Davish. I wish your return had been for a happier occasion.”

“So do I.”

I walked the distance to my hotel, hoping the brisk walk would help me shake the melancholy I'd begun to feel the moment Mrs. Curbow closed her door. Instead of thinking about Ginny and her inexplicable reversal of feelings toward me, I concentrated on the questions still buzzing in my head. True, I'd confirmed that Levi Yardley was the escaped patient, but we still didn't know where he was. And sadly, it wasn't my business to find him. I pulled the photograph of him from my bag as I walked up the hotel steps. The resemblance to Frank Hayward was still unnerving. I'd accompanied Bertha Yardley and helped her with her inquiries out of a sense that Frank Hayward might've been involved, or so I told myself. Yet Ginny had expressly asked me to stop questioning her father's death. So why did I help Bertha? Why did I subject myself to such distress for the sake of a stranger? An image of the dead body being carried out on the stretcher flashed through my mind.

“These arrived for you, Miss Davish.” Mr. Putney's announcement interrupted my morbid thoughts. He thrust two hand-delivered cards toward me. I took them and frowned. Again I didn't recognize the handwriting.

Now what?
I thought. Who else could possibly want something from me? At least it wasn't another one of those anonymous letters.

I pulled the first card from its envelope and immediately regretted my uncharitable thought. It was signed by several of the instructors from Mrs. Chaplin's school, inviting me to a luncheon tomorrow to speak with their best pupils. Since I wasn't able to leave town until Sir Arthur was satisfied with the research I'd done, I could gladly accept. Helping one student find her way in the world would go far in redeeming my otherwise ill-fated trip back home.

I looked up at Mr. Putney and smiled as I pulled the second card from its envelope. He smiled back, leaning forward over the edge of the desk.

“Good news?”

“Happily, yes.” I opened the second envelope and then groaned.

“Spoke too soon?”

“Yes, I'm afraid so.” The second was from Nate Boone, inviting me to dine with him. I glanced at the tall, oak clock against the wall. Luckily it was already too late to respond.

“Thank you, Mr. Putney,” I said, folding the cards up. “Could you arrange to have coffee, cold meat pie, and toast sent to my room?”