A White Room (44 page)

Margaret scowled at me, her hands on her hips. “How dare you speak to him that way?”

I pleaded with Walter. “You saw Mr. Hughmen. You know I help people. I do good.”

“That, Emeline”—he pointed toward the parlor—“is not good.”

Lewis and Benedict joined the circle of authority surrounding us.

James swayed back and forth, his right arm wrapped around his torso and his left hand over his mouth.

Lewis stepped closer to John. “Of all the people. All this time we’ve been searching for this ‘illegal nurse’ and the entire time it’s been your wife.” He pointed at me.

A vein pulsed at Benedict’s temple. “You of all people know this is condoning murder,” Benedict said in that deep, proud voice.

John swallowed.

Lewis stood tall. “If you cooperate, you won’t be charged— just her.”

“You should be grateful,” Margaret said from her position outside the circle of men.

“Who are we taking in?” a patrolman asked.

“We need to get the dying confession.” Marcellus jerked his head to the side to crack his neck. “We’re going to need to speak with all of you in private.” He nodded in the direction of the parlor. “Starting with the victim.”

A patrolman marched into the parlor, his heavy boots clunking, and returned with Oliver and Carmine. Carmine went for James, but another patrolman cut her off and another grabbed Oliver.

The first patrolman went back into the parlor with Walter at his heel. “Wait. She needs a doctor present. Her condition is too unstable.”

Marcellus nodded, and Walter went in before shutting the doors.

Lewis took John by the arm. “We need to talk.”

“This way.” John led Lewis and Benedict down the hall toward the library.

“John!” I cried.

“Mrs. Dorr?” Marcellus hovered over me. “Where can we speak in private?”

I looked at John.

His face stiffened, but he nodded.

I took a breath and guided Marcellus down the hallway.

Margaret stepped out. “Watch out for that one. Your wife knew she was trash from the moment she saw her.”

I glared at her and then continued to the dining room. I watched John sit at his desk in the library just before Benedict shut the door.

We entered the dining room, and Marcellus closed the door with a snap. He sat at the head of the table, and I took the seat to his right—the same places where John and I sat for meals. The blood on my hands had dried and was flaking between my fingers. I wondered if John would cooperate and give me up. He should have. I’d destroyed his life, our reputations, and my family’s good name, and it looked very much like I was a murderer and my best friend the victim. Would any of this have happened if my father had lived? Would it be different if I had kept my promise?

Marcellus slammed his pointy elbow down on the dining room table, slanted his shoulders, and lurched forward. “Dr. Bradbridge informs me”—he rolled his jaw around—“you’re a bit mad.”

I imagined the house smirking at me.

He stood up from his chair and pushed closer to me. He towered over me, his gray hair squiggling out of his scalp. “The term is
hysteria
, I believe.”

“I am not crazy.”

“Hmm. After everything you’ve done, you don’t think something is wrong with you?”

I hesitated. “I am not crazy.”

“Hysteria is an interesting disease.”

I held my breath and shut my eyes.

“Do you know why it only afflicts women?”

I opened my eyes.

He turned his back to me. “How has your husband performed in your marriage?”

“Pardon me?”

“Your husband?” He spun back around. “How has he”—he leaned forward, breathing heavily—“performed?”

I avoided looking directly at him as he hovered inches from my face. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He straightened and started pacing. “Hysteria is linked to the female organs. The usual culprit is organ dysfunction…or dissatisfaction.”

“What?”

“So, how has your husband performed?”

I realized what he was asking. I didn’t respond.

He paced. “Another cause: The uterus detaches and wanders the body, tampers with the brain.”

My lungs constricted and forced me to work to breathe. I sat up straighter and leaned back. Next to me—through the wall—I heard a muffled voice. The parlor was next to us. It was Lottie.

“Do you know how they treat hysteria?”

“The rest cure.”

“Perhaps, when you were first diagnosed, you experienced such mild treatments.” He fiddled with his fingers behind his back. “But for extreme cases like yours, they’ll treat you
manually
.” He peered down at me with hollow eyes. “Can you guess where they’ll touch you?”

I cringed and recoiled. A sense of violation and disgust crept inside me.

He stood next to me, too close. “There’s this device they connect to an electrical current. That’s what they’ll use to draw out your nervous tension. Or they remove the defective organs all together—a hysterectomy.”

The pleading from the parlor sounded louder now, and I could tell it was Lottie moaning and cursing, fighting someone. I turned my head toward the wall, listening.

“But you’re not just hysterical,” Marcellus continued. “You’re a criminal. Insane criminals don’t have the same rights as others.” His nostrils flared and his upper lip curled. “Do you know what they do with insane criminals?”

I wondered what they were doing to Lottie and whispered, “No.”

He slammed his hand on the table, forcing my attention from the wall. “You won’t get a trial. Your madness is the only evidence I need. They will stick you in a back ward where you’ll be restrained and forgotten. If you fight, you’ll be disabled.”

I realized I was shaking.

“They drill into your skull.” He stood over me and mimicked cranking something over my head.

I didn’t move. The sound of my heart thudded in my ears.

“They take a knife and slice out a chunk of your brain.” He drove an imaginary scalpel toward my head, gritted his teeth, and ripped the nonexistent blade back up. He held up his hand as if putting the conquest on display. I unwillingly imagined the tissue wiggling on the tip of his dagger.

He darted back around and faced me. “Your husband will cooperate with us. We have our dying confession. If you cooperate, confess, I’ll send you to a women’s prison instead of an asylum.”

Would they really all give me up? Wouldn’t that be for the best?

“I—”

A knock on the door interrupted me. Marcellus stomped over and opened it. I couldn’t make out what the other man said, but Marcellus responded with frustration. “What? How hard—no, I have a better idea. Round them up.”

The man left, and Marcellus turned back, folded his arms, and inhaled deeply through his nose, his lower jaw jutting out. “Stand up.”

“Why?”

“I’m taking you into custody.”

I stood. “But—”

“Move.” He grabbed my arm, squeezing his thumb into my bicep, and yanked me into the hallway.

At the end of the hall, Lewis spoke to John in hushed tones. John rubbed the back of his neck, and his cheeks twitched as he listened intently.

Marcellus escorted me past John.

I craned my neck to keep my eyes on him, desperately seeking a glimmer, anything.

“Move!” Marcellus shouted.

I walked forward and saw Carmine grasping my brother’s shirt while she wept encircled in his arms. A patrolman stood next to them at the front door. I tried to give James an apologetic look, but he focused on his wife.

I peered into the parlor at the two patrolmen circling Lottie like vultures. “Get her up!” one shouted.

Walter held his hands up. “If you move her…”

Marcellus dragged me out the front doors and down the steps as I scuffled and slipped. James and Carmine were marched out behind me.

Marcellus led me to a black carriage, pushed me in, and slammed the door shut. I scooted to the window and watched as James and Carmine clung to each other until the patrolman pried them apart. He escorted Carmine in my direction, and then they disappeared as they walked around the carriage. The door opened and Carmine stepped in and fell onto the seat next to me. She slumped over and wept on my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her. She didn’t deserve this. I turned back to the window, waiting for them to drag the others out. I felt the carriage bounce as one of the patrolman got on to drive. No one brought John or Lottie out. I didn’t see Walter. What would they do to her?

Forty-Two

October 1901

C
armine and I watched from the carriage as Marcellus and the patrolman who’d brought us here talked to the hefty Sheriff Robert Neal. Their faces were hardened, and then the sheriff raised a hand to his double chin. Finally, the men shook hands and the sheriff ordered a short, scruffy-looking deputy toward us. The deputy lumbered to the carriage and opened the door. “Get out.” Puffed up, he looked pleased to talk down to two women of our station.

We stepped out, and he took us each by the arm. He marched us into the stone jailhouse, which opened into a room with two desks and filing cabinets and then split off into two separate rooms with cells. The deputy took us into the room to the left, which consisted of a hall and two cells. He opened the first cell door with a creak and shoved us from behind. We stumbled in, and he locked the door, doused the lamps, and lumbered out.

I looked around the cell. An empty bucket sat in the corner for excrement, and there weren’t any chairs or beds, just cold, hard floor. A small table and a single chair sat outside the cell, as if placed there to torment us. I pressed my face against the bars, trying to peer down the hall and into the first room, but couldn’t see anything. I tried to listen for when they brought James in but heard only footsteps and doors opening and closing. They would surely take the men to the separate room on the right of the jailhouse rather than give us the comfort of their company. After a while, I gave up and sat on the floor. Carmine had crumpled against the wall opposite me. Her head rested on her knees, buried under her unraveled tresses. We sat there for a long time, nothing but Carmine’s sobs echoing in the air.

“Carmine?”

She moaned a little and sniffled. White moonlight from a tiny window streamed across her, making her dark hair look black as night.

“Carmine, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry this is happening.”

She wrapped her arms around her head. “Don’t speak to me,” she said between whimpers.

“You weren’t involved. You’re not going to be in trouble, I promise.”

“Just leave me alone.” She sniffed hard, and her curly unfurled hair bounced around her head.

“You have every right to hate me.”

The stillness of the air thickened, and I could hear someone scuffing around in the front entrance. I pictured the deputy falling asleep at one of the desks.

“I do,” Carmine said and lifted her head, revealing her streaked porcelain face. “I do hate you.”

My cheeks flushed and I swallowed, surprised—hurt. I suddenly realized how much I didn’t want my brother’s wife to hate me, but I had earned her hatred. My mouth moved, but no words came out.

She glared a moment longer and dropped her head back down.

“I just want you to know I’m glad you married my brother. You make him happy.”

She didn’t respond.

“He didn’t know about all of this. He never would have put you in such a position. He loves you.”

Nothing.

“Hate me, but don’t hate him for this.”

“Please…don’t speak to me.”

I woke the next morning to the clank-clank of a wooden baton hitting the metal bars of our cell. The sound prodded at a throbbing headache I had from sleeping all night sitting up with my head hanging to the right. The left side of my neck was so stiff that I had to use my hands to push my head up.

“Hey, poodle.” The stout deputy leered at Carmine, flashing black and brown teeth. “Let’s go. Get up.”

Carmine appeared to be as stiff as I was but even more disheveled. She got onto all fours and teetered up, stumbling a little.

I rubbed my face and felt the dried blood that still covered my hands and arms. I slowly started to stand, rubbing my left temple.