“Will these do?” she said.
Nurse May briefly examined the dresses, then took them from Clara. “They’ll do,” she said, her mouth twisted in an angry pucker.
Nurse May tossed the dresses on the table, opened the door and led Clara back into the hall, where Mr. Glen and Dr. Roach, now wearing a white lab coat, waited. Another nurse stood beside them, a tall, heavyset woman with broad shoulders and curly red hair. Her neck was thick and her cheeks looked bloated, extending past her mouth like overblown balloons. Her narrow eyes sat back in her chubby face and her lipstick stood out against her pale skin, like blood on snow. Although her facial features were those of an obese person, she wasn’t fat. Muscle made up the substantial girth of her arms and legs. The giant nurse held a square of white cloth under one arm.
“Mr. Glen,” Dr. Roach said, his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. “Please remove Clara’s trunk to the foyer. We’ll take care of it in the morning.”
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Glen said. He went into the changing room to retrieve Clara’s luggage, then made his way toward the foyer.
“Nurse May,” Dr. Roach said. “You can return to the nurses’ residence.” For the first time since they arrived, he looked Nurse May in the eye. Nurse May smiled at him, but he quickly looked away, his jaw working. “Nurse Trench will take over from here.”
“Should I return to my usual room, Dr. Roach?” Nurse May said, her eyes bright with anticipation.
“You can stay in whichever room you choose,” Dr. Roach said. He finally smiled at her, a smug, self-righteous grin cloaked in refinement.
Nurse May nodded, her cheeks flushing. She beamed at Dr. Roach longer than necessary, a silent agreement passing between them. The giant nurse cleared her throat. Nurse May dropped her eyes and followed Mr. Glen down the hall.
“We’ll get Clara settled in for the night,” Dr. Roach said to Nurse Trench. “Then take care of the paperwork tomorrow. It’s almost time for lights out and we don’t want to upset the schedule.”
“Yes, Doctor,” Nurse Trench said.
Dr. Roach gestured to Clara and started down the hall. “Come this way,” he said.
Clara bit down on the inside of her cheek and followed the doctor, every nerve vibrating like an electric current, her arms and legs quivering as if she’d stuck her finger in a light socket and held it there. Where were they taking her? Would she be in a room with another patient, or would she have her own? It was bad enough being sent here, not knowing what was going to happen, or how long she was going to stay, but what if she was forced to share a room with a stranger who might be violent or disturbed? The thought was almost more than she could bear.
She walked faster, trying to keep up with Dr. Roach and Nurse Trench, her fists in her coat pockets. At the end of the hall they turned left, then stopped at a riveted iron door with a small, caged window in the center. Dr. Roach stepped aside while Nurse Trench unlocked and opened the door, iron hinges screeching. Dr. Roach gestured for Clara to enter, then followed her into the chilly hallway.
The sharp odor of urine and bleach filled Clara’s nose and she gagged, putting a hand over her nose and mouth. She trailed behind Dr. Roach and Nurse Trench, wishing she’d made a run for it while she could. Escaping Mr. Glen was doubtful, but she should have tried. Anything would have been better than letting them take her inside this awful place.
The long hallway looked wide enough to fit two trains side by side, countless doorways lining the high walls. Every Willard building seemed designed to house giants, and Clara couldn’t understand why. Halfway down the hall, a door flew open and two orderlies dragged a woman into the corridor, her stringy hair flying over her contorted face, the lower half of her wet nightgown clinging to her bare legs. A nurse rushed out of the room and followed the orderlies as they half carried, half dragged the woman in the opposite direction. The woman screamed, her bare feet unable to catch traction on the floor, and Clara stopped moving, her heart thundering in her chest. Dr. Roach hesitated and glanced back at her. Without missing a beat, Nurse Trench turned, clamped an oversized hand around Clara’s upper arm, and pulled her forward.
“Come along,” she said, her voice firm.
Clara tried yanking out of Nurse Trench’s grasp, but it was no use. Nurse Trench plowed forward, unfazed by Clara’s struggle, her face calm and even, as if she were taking a poodle for a stroll. Through an open door on the left, patients called out from what looked like oversized cribs with padlocked lids. Clara felt like she was going to throw up.
At the end of the hall they turned left again and went through another locked iron door, into another hallway exactly like the first. At the fourth door on the right, they stopped. Nurse Trench let go of Clara’s arm.
“Give me your coat,” she said. With trembling fingers, Clara unbuttoned her coat and removed it. Luckily, she’d put on a sweater before leaving the Long Island Home, unaware that Willard would be so cold. “And your boots.”
Again, Clara did as she was told, slipping her stocking feet from her boots, the floor like ice on her soles.
“Bring her to my office for an examination tomorrow morning,” Dr. Roach said.
“Yes, Doctor,” Nurse Trench said. “She’ll be there.”
“Very good,” Dr. Roach said. He looked at Clara. “We’re here to help you, just remember that. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Then he gave Clara a quick nod and hurried down the hall.
Nurse Trench watched him walk away, her tongue clicking. She pressed her lips together and shook her head, a flash of pain crossing her bloated face. Then she unlocked the door and entered the room. Clara’s stomach tightened. Nurse Trench held the door open, waiting. Clara slowly edged inside, her hands crossed over her galloping heart.
The odor of feces and urine was as thick as the pale green paint on the enamel walls. Clara pulled the sleeve of her sweater over her hand and held it over her mouth. The frigid room contained fifty metal beds bolted to the floor in rows, all with grimy pillows, sheets, and horsehair mattresses. Female patients sat on the beds or moved around the room, wearing thin nightgowns with no undergarments, the sagging shapes of their unbound breasts fully visible. Some wore sweaters and socks, but most were barefoot. Several wore straitjackets. One sat in a corner with a tattered doll in her arms, rocking and singing a lullaby. Two women stood at the tall, barred windows, one staring out into the night, the other bashing her head against the wire mesh protecting the glass. A thin film of ice edged the windowpanes.
“Lights out!” Nurse Trench shouted. The women scrambled toward their beds. The woman with the baby doll stood on thin, crooked legs and shuffled toward the nearest cot, the doll shoved inside her worn sweater. Nurse Trench stood in silence, watching and waiting. When all of the women were sitting or lying on a bed, there was one empty cot left. It was next to the woman with the baby doll. The linens looked as if someone had already been sleeping there, the discolored sheets and pillow askew and crumpled. Nurse Trench took the folded piece of cloth from beneath her arm and held it out to Clara. It was a nightgown.
“Put this on,” Nurse Trench said.
Clara’s breath caught in her chest. “Here?”
“The first rule at Willard is ‘Do as you’re told,’” Nurse Trench said. “Obey that and we’ll get along just fine.”
“Is there a water closet nearby?” Clara said. “Somewhere I can change in private?”
Nurse Trench smiled, one corner of her painted red lips lifting higher than the other. “The second rule of Willard is ‘Don’t question me.’”
Clara dropped her eyes and turned away from the patients, her legs and arms quivering. She took off her stockings and sweater, then pulled her dress over her head and let it fall to the floor. Then she turned to take the nightgown from Nurse Trench.
“Everything off,” Nurse Trench said. “Best not to test me, girl.”
Clara removed her slip and brassiere, holding one arm over her bare breasts, then reached for the nightgown again. This time, Nurse Trench gave it to her. Clara slipped the thin garment over her head and stepped out of her underwear. She started to bend over to pick her sweater off the floor, then stopped. Shivering, she looked at Nurse Trench.
“May I?” she said, pointing at the sweater.
“I’m not heartless,” Nurse Trench said.
Clara scooped up her sweater and put her arms in the sleeves, grateful that the wool was still warm.
“Just remember what Dr. Roach said,” Nurse Trench said. “We’re here to help.” She gestured toward the empty cot. “It’s hard to help someone if they don’t follow the rules.”
Clara started toward the bed, her stomach churning. She swallowed over and over, trying not to be sick. The woman in the opposite bed rocked back and forth, making a soft, high-pitched noise that sounded like “Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh.” Another pulled at her long, filthy hair, laughing and yanking out several strands at once. Clara reached the bed and sat down, still holding the edge of her sweater over her nose.
“Lights out!” Nurse Trench shouted again. The women lay down and pulled up their blankets. Clara did the same, cringing when she touched the dirty linens. She lay on her back, loathing the thought of putting her cheek on the pillow. “And stay in bed tonight, Charlotte!” Nurse Trench yelled.
Then the room went dark.
Nurse Trench opened the door and exited, a rectangle of weak light silhouetting her mammoth frame. Then the door slammed with a final thud and the room was pitched into blackness again. The key turned in the dead bolt. And then, all around Clara, the women started making noises—whimpering, coughing, singing, humming, mumbling, sobbing. Clara heard the creak of bedsprings beside her and felt someone brush past her arm. Someone stood at the foot of her bed, breathing hard. Clara pulled the dirty blanket over her head and curled into a fetal position. She covered her wet face with trembling hands and sobbed, praying for morning.
CHAPTER 7
I
ZZY
The night after opening the first batch of Willard suitcases, Izzy stretched out on her bed in a T-shirt and underwear, trying to shut off her mind by watching music videos on MTV. It was no use. Every young, kissing couple reminded her of Clara and Bruno. And Ethan. And her parents. Her finger throbbed beneath the first aid gauze, reminding her of Ethan on his knees at her feet. She remembered his soft touch and dark hair, his smile flashing when he looked up at her.
He has a girlfriend,
she told herself.
And even if he didn’t, he’s better off with someone else. Besides, he’s an arrogant ass, remember? He helps his girlfriend bully people. Why are you even thinking about him?
At midnight she switched off the TV and turned over on her stomach, hoping to drift off into the blissful ignorance of sleep. But despite her exhaustion, Ethan’s face floated behind her closed lids, his raven hair, his silver eyes. Then Ethan’s face morphed into her father’s, his dead eyes staring, his head bleeding. Izzy got out of bed and opened the window to let in some fresh air.
Is this how it starts?
she thought.
Is this how a person slowly becomes mentally ill? The same images and thoughts enter their brain over and over and they can’t shut them off? What’s wrong with me?
She went into the bathroom, brushed her teeth a second time, drank a glass of water, and looked in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, no doubt from the tears she shed earlier. Willard, the suitcases, Clara. It all hit too close to home. If she’d known the suitcase project was going to remind her of all the terrible things she was trying to forget, she would have tried harder to get out of helping. And yet, she didn’t want to disappoint Peg and Harry, no matter the cost to herself.
It surprised her that, after all this time, the memory of her parents and the horrible images of what happened that night still held so much power. She was nearly eighteen years old. She should have been able to put it behind her by now, to shelve it with the rest of her past and move on. And yet, every time she thought about her mother and father, she felt seven years old again—like a terrified, confused, and abandoned little girl. And then there was the fear that she could end up like her mother, spending the rest of her life alone and locked up, either in a mental ward or a prison. That, she reasoned, was what really made her cry.
How would she ever have a normal life with those nightmarish genes floating around inside her brain, waiting to make their appearance? How could she ever hope to have a relationship or get married, knowing she might be putting someone else in danger? How could she ever become a mother, knowing she might abandon her children without warning?
She ran her fingers over the scars on her forearms, fighting the urge to dig her nails into her skin.
No,
she thought, squeezing the tears from her eyes.
I’ve come too far to go back now.
She gripped the edge of the sink, her knuckles turning white.
I’m not going to give in. I’m not going to let my past determine my future. I’m not my mother.
She took a deep breath and rinsed her face, then went back to bed, letting the cool nighttime breeze drift over her bare legs, her hair pulled up over the back of her pillow. She shut off the light, closed her eyes, and started counting backward, knowing it was foolish but trying anything to keep the constant barrage of thoughts and images from popping into her mind.
Then something hit her window. She opened her eyes. It sounded like fingernails tapping on the glass and scraping down the screen. It happened again and she sat up. Something tumbled along the siding. She swung her legs over the bed and held her breath, listening. Two more taps—
clink, clink
—on the upper pane. She turned on the light.
“Izzy?” a male voice hissed from outside.
She turned off the light again and stood. Wrapping a blanket around herself, she edged toward the window. Another loud
clink
made her jump.
“Izzy!” the voice said again, more insistent.
She peered over the window ledge, trying to make out a figure on the dark lawn. A full moon cast long shadows over the grass and five human-shaped forms stood in a row near the clothesline, their shirts and pants billowing in the breeze, their long, scraggly hair flapping like a string of black flags. Izzy’s heart seized in her chest. Her first thought was that a gang of zombie pirates from John Carpenter’s film
The Fog
was staring up at her. Then she realized she was looking at the dark silhouettes of branches and leaves, twitching and fluttering on the tree outside her room. She breathed a sigh of relief and wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders.
“Down here!” the voice called. Izzy moved closer to the window and checked the length of the gravel driveway. Ethan looked up at her from the corner of the garage, his face a white mask in the gloom. When he saw her, he dropped the pebbles in his hand, picked up a flashlight and held it beneath his chin. “Surprise!” he said in a loud whisper. He grinned, the light casting shadows beneath his eyes and nose, like the black and white visage of a Halloween ghoul.
Izzy leaned out the window. “What are you doing here?” she said, trying to ignore the flutter of her heart.
“I brought you a present,” Ethan said. He held up something flat and square, about the size of a paperback novel.
“It’s the middle of the night!” Izzy whispered. “Are you crazy?”
Oh, wait,
she thought,
never mind. That’s me.
“Come down!” Ethan said.
“No!” Izzy said. “You’re going to get me in trouble!”
Just then a car turned a corner out on the street, headlights sweeping over the lawn and driveway. Ethan ducked behind the garage. When the car was gone, he came out of hiding.
“Come on,” he said. “It will only take a minute. I promise.”
Izzy bit her lip. What was he doing here? What could he possibly have for her? It was Saturday night. Why wasn’t he with Shannon? Her heart started racing. What if it was a trick? What if Shannon was down there too, waiting to pull another prank?
“I’m not coming down,” she said. “You should leave.”
“Seriously?” he said, his voice full of disbelief. “I came to your window in the middle of the night with a surprise and now you tell me to leave? I thought we were friends.” It was on the tip of Izzy’s tongue to tell him he could give her the surprise in school when he said, “If you don’t come down, I’ll ring the doorbell and ask for you.”
Izzy sighed. “Give me a minute,” she said. She closed the curtains, tossed the blanket on the bed, and pulled on a pair of shorts. She started toward the door, then turned and went back into the bathroom to look in the mirror. Her hair was snarled, her mascara smudged. She licked her finger and did her best to remove the leftover makeup, then ran a brush through her hair and pulled it into a high ponytail. She yanked off her T-shirt and hurried to her dresser to find a sweatshirt.
Down in the kitchen, she grabbed her sandals, then slid through the sliding patio door and tiptoed across the back deck. On the grass, she slipped her sandals on and hurried toward the garage, her shoulders hunched. Thankfully, Peg and Harry’s bedroom was on the other side of the house, so they probably hadn’t heard anything. Ethan was waiting on the other side of the garage, leaning against the cedar shingles and shining the flashlight at a small, open book in his hand. When he saw her, he closed it and straightened.
“What are you doing here?” she said.
“Hi to you too,” he said, smiling.
“What do you want?”
“How’s your finger?”
She held out her injured finger, the white gauze glowing like a tiny ghost in the dark. “It’s fine,” she said. She crossed her arms. “Okay. I came down like you wanted. What’s the big surprise?”
He held up the book, shining the flashlight on its cover. The light reflected off the green, fleur-de-lis-stamped leather, shimmering on the black patent spine. Clara’s journal.
Izzy tore it from his hands. “What are you doing with this?” she said. “You have no right to it!”
“Relax,” he said. “I just borrowed it.”
“It’s none of your business!” she hissed.
Ethan scowled. “You were reading it. Besides, that crazy woman is long gone . . .”
“It doesn’t matter! You shouldn’t have taken it.”
“I saw you looking at it and thought you wanted to read it.”
“Do you know how much trouble you could get in for having this?” she said, surprised by her anger. “This is state-owned property!”
“Jesus,” Ethan said, rolling his eyes. “Will you chill out? We can return it when you’re done reading it. Just put it back in the trunk next Saturday when we go to the warehouse. No big deal. No one will even know it was gone.”
She held out the journal. “You take it back.”
“Okay,” he said, shrugging. “I’ll take it back. Sorry I bothered you.” He took the journal and started walking away. “See you around.”
She grit her teeth. He was right. For some reason, she wanted to read Clara’s journal more than anything. But not like this. Not when she had to worry about getting in trouble for having it. But then again, what if she never got another chance?
“Wait,” she said.
He came back, smiling. “Change your mind?”
“Maybe,” she said.
He leaned against the garage and handed her the journal. “They say it’s haunted, you know,” he said.
She frowned, confused. “What’s haunted?”
“Willard Asylum.”
Izzy looked down at the journal. “Oh,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t notice her cringe.
“Some of my friends broke in a couple weeks ago and had the shit scared out of them. One of them was scratched on the neck inside the women’s ward and they both heard what sounded like moaning in the hospital.”
Izzy shivered. “That’s gross,” she said.
“I think it’s awesome,” Ethan said, laughing.
“Well, you’re weird.”
“The journal isn’t the only reason I’m here,” he said, his voice suddenly serious. “I wanted to apologize for helping Shannon put those . . . those things on your locker. You’re right. It was horrible and mean. When you were reading the journal back at the warehouse, I could tell you were crying and . . .”
Izzy stiffened. “Listen,” she said. “Things are finally going good for me and I’m not going to mess it up. If Peg and Harry find out I have this journal, they’ll probably ask me to leave.”
“Read it over the weekend and bring it to school on Monday. I’ll take it back. No one will ever know you had it. I promise.”
Izzy sighed and ran her fingers over the green leather. All these years she’d wanted nothing more than to get inside her mother’s head, to try to figure out what would make a perfectly sane person suddenly lose her mind. She couldn’t ask the doctors. They had declared her mother sane. But Izzy knew better. And right now, right here in her hands, could be the answers she’d been looking for. She was just about to ask Ethan if she should give it to him in homeroom when another thought came to her.
“What about Shannon?” she said. “I don’t think she’d be very happy to find out you were here.” To her surprise, Ethan went quiet, scratching the back of his neck, his eyes on the ground. Then he looked at Izzy and frowned.
“She’s not as bad as you think,” he said.
“Yes, she is,” Izzy said. “First she acted like she wanted to be friends, then she started playing tricks on me. She’s horrible.”
“It might seem that way when she’s around other people, but when it’s just us . . .”
“Oh,” Izzy said, crossing her arms. “So you don’t care how she treats everyone else, as long as she’s nice to you.”
“No,” Ethan said. “That’s not it. We’ve been together since eighth grade and it’s just been the last year or so that she started acting . . . I don’t know . . . different. I just want you to know that she’s been through a lot.”
Izzy rolled her eyes. “That’s no excuse. She should rise above whatever happened to her, not perpetuate it. I hate it when people blame everyone but themselves for their behavior.”
“Her father left, and her mother is an alcoholic.”
“That doesn’t give her a license to be a bitch!” The minute the words were out of Izzy’s mouth, her stomach tightened with regret.
Ethan sighed and dropped his shoulders. “Her father used to slap her around and beat up her mother. When Shannon was twelve she stepped between them and ended up in the hospital with a concussion and a broken arm. But her mother wouldn’t tell the doctors the truth. She lied and said Shannon jumped off the porch roof because she thought she could fly.”
Izzy swallowed. She couldn’t imagine a father hurting his child. Or a mother failing to protect her child. Granted, Izzy’s mother had shot her father, but she had gone mad. Izzy wanted to believe her mother hadn’t been thinking about the consequences. Her mother had to be out of her mind not to realize that Izzy would be devastated by the loss of her father, that when the police found out what she’d done, Izzy would lose both parents. Only a mentally ill person wouldn’t think it through. The irony was, before that fateful night, Izzy’s mother was overprotective, not allowing her to walk to second grade with her friends, even though the school was only a block away, making her wear a life jacket at the beach while the other kids were free to splash in the waves and play in the sand, unencumbered by a thick, orange vest. Izzy’s father had doted on her, buying her pretty dresses and taking her to dance lessons, even promising her a pony when she turned ten. Even now, after everything that happened, Izzy couldn’t imagine either of her parents intentionally harming her.
“After that,” Ethan continued, “Shannon’s father cleaned out their bank account and left them with nothing. They haven’t heard from him since.” Ethan glanced at the ground, then looked up at Izzy with pleading eyes. “Please don’t tell anybody I told you. I’ve said too much already. Everyone already knows about Shannon’s parents, but she’d kill me if she found out I’m the one who told you. I just want you to understand where she’s coming from.”