CHAPTER 8
C
LARA
Willard—The Day After Admission
Dust-filled shafts of sunlight came in through the caged floor-to-ceiling windows, cutting through the dim light in the high-ceilinged room but doing little to ward off the chill. Six claw-foot tubs lined one wall, each with a canvas cover strapped to metal pipes that surrounded the bathtub. Drains lined the floor, black mold darkening the cracked tiles. Nurses barked orders and patients argued and screamed and struggled, trying to resist being put into the tubs of icy water.
Clara stood naked in front of one of the bathtubs, one arm across her chest, the other attempting to cover her pubic area. The black and white tiled floor felt like ice on her feet. She shivered, watching a nurse fill the water with ice cubes. Nurse Trench and a muscular patient with a droopy eye stood near the faucets, waiting. In the next tub over, a woman’s pale face poked out from a reinforced hole in the canvas, her lips blue. On the other side of the room, two orderlies pulled an unconscious woman from the water and carried her toward an examining table against the far wall.
“Get in,” Nurse Trench said to Clara.
“But I . . .” Clara started.
“Do as you’re told, remember?” Nurse Trench said. “It’s for your own good.”
“But I . . .” Clara said, her voice weak.
Nurse Trench moved forward and wrapped her giant mitt around Clara’s arm. “We’re here to help you,” she said, her voice firm. “This will relax you. It will clear your mind.”
Before Clara knew what was happening, Nurse Trench picked her up and put her in the tub, shoving her beneath the frigid water. A jolt of pain ripped through Clara’s chest as the air was pulled from her lungs. She accidently inhaled, choking on a mouthful of water. She grabbed the edge of the bathtub and pulled herself above the surface, her hands slipping on the wet porcelain. Coughing and trying to breathe, she struggled to stay upright. For a second everything went black and she was certain she was going to pass out. Then the one-eyed patient grabbed her by the shoulder and started scrubbing her face and neck, scraping a rough, discolored cloth over her skin. At last, Clara pulled in lungfuls of air. The patient scrubbed under Clara’s arms and between her legs, yanking her limbs out of the way with more force than necessary.
The ice water felt like a thousand knives in Clara’s skin. It took everything she had not to push herself up and out of the tub. She let the patient scrub her down, her body shaking violently, hoping the sooner the patient was finished, the sooner she would be let out. Nurse Trench stood watching at the end of the tub, her massive arms crossed over her ample bosom, her crooked red smile contorting the lower half of her bloated face.
“Please,” Clara said, looking up at her. “I’m . . .”
“Quiet now,” Nurse Trench said, wagging a thick finger in the air. “That posh life over at the Long Island Home has made you soft, that’s all.”
Clara squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the patient to finish scouring her hair with lye. When buckets of ice water were poured over her head, she pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs, nearly hyperventilating, shaking so hard her heart felt on the verge of bursting. Finally, the rough washing ended and the one-eyed patient stood back, panting.
“Step out,” Nurse Trench said.
Coughing and spitting, Clara scrambled out of the tub. The one-eyed patient gave her a once-over with a coarse towel.
“Normally, we’d make you stay in there longer,” Nurse Trench said. “But you’ve got your first appointment with Dr. Roach today. Now, do as you’re told and we’ll get along fine.”
The one-eyed patient handed Clara her yellow housedress and undergarments. Clara’s teeth chattered uncontrollably, her legs so weak she could barely stand. Somehow, she managed to put on her clothes and tie her shoes. Nurse Trench ordered Clara to follow her, then marched toward the door. Clara did as she was told, her hair dripping down her face and the back of her neck. She used her sweater to mop her brow, then fell in behind Nurse Trench. In the hall, she put her hand on her abdomen.
Would a tiny, unborn baby be able to survive such treatment?
Her eyes filled and her heart slowed, a heavy, black mass weighing it down. If something happened to Bruno’s baby, she wasn’t sure she’d survive.
Clara followed Nurse Trench across the vast lobby of Chapin Hall, through a double doorway and around a curved hallway to another wing. They passed the telegraph office and the apothecary, then came to a short hallway with a door at the end. Outside Dr. Roach’s office, a pale, petite woman in a red wool coat sat in one of three chairs, her head down, her hands on a leather clutch in her lap. She looked up and smiled.
“Good morning, Nurse Trench,” the woman said. She looked young, about Clara’s age, with high cheekbones, platinum hair, and porcelain skin. When she smiled, her entire face lit up. But there was a trace of sadness in her eyes. Then Clara noticed the woman’s bulging stomach. She couldn’t imagine what a pregnant girl was doing here, waiting to see Dr. Roach.
“Good morning, Mrs. Roach,” Nurse Trench said. “How long have you been waiting?” Clara dropped her eyes, trying to hide her shock. Why would a beautiful, young woman be married to a man twenty years her senior, especially a doctor who worked in an insane asylum?
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mrs. Roach said. “Not too awfully long.”
“Does he know you’re here?” Nurse Trench said, one oversized hand on the office door.
Mrs. Roach nodded. “I called before I came, like always,” she said. “He said he’d come out and talk to me when he has time.”
“You just sit tight,” Nurse Trench said, smiling. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
Nurse Trench pushed open the door and led Clara inside. An elaborately carved desk sat in the center of the room, a gold-framed portrait of an elderly, bald man wearing a monocle hanging on the wall behind it. Framed medical degrees and black-and-white photos of men in top hats and women in long, bustled dresses posing in front of Chapin Hall surrounded the portrait. The other walls were lined with pictures of the railway, the factories, the orchards, and the apothecary filled with thousands of glass bottles.
At the desk, Dr. Roach smiled around his pipe at Nurse May, who sat perched in a small chair, her white-stocking legs crossed, the hem of her skirt hiked up to mid-thigh. She jumped up when the door opened, her cheeks turning red. Dr. Roach looked up, startled. Nurse Trench led Clara toward the desk.
“How many times have I asked you to knock before entering my office?” Dr. Roach said.
“My apologies, Doctor,” Nurse Trench said, her eyes burning. “I guess I’m not used to your new rules yet. Maybe I’d remember if they didn’t change every week.”
“Just leave the patient,” Dr. Roach said, his voice tight. “You’re dismissed, Nurse Trench. I’ll have Nurse May take her to the cafeteria when we’re finished here.”
“Your wife is waiting in the hall, Doctor,” Nurse Trench said, glaring at Nurse May. “Shall I have her come in?”
Dr. Roach stood. “No,” he said. “I’ll go out and talk to her.”
“Very well,” Nurse Trench said. She sniffed and turned, then marched out of the room and slammed the door. Nurse May looked at Dr. Roach, a nervous smile playing on her lips. Dr. Roach motioned toward a glass door to the right of his desk, his forehead furrowed.
“Take the patient into the examination room,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”
Nurse May picked up a chart from the desk and opened the glass door. “This way, Clara,” she said, louder than necessary. Clara followed her into the examination room, trying to stop shivering. A cast-iron radiator hissed and clanked beneath an octagon window, filling the room with a moist, even heat. Clara wanted to kneel on the floor and lean up against it.
“Get on the scales, Clara,” Nurse May said, still talking loudly, as if Clara were dim-witted, hard of hearing, or unable to understand English.
Nurse May wrote Clara’s height and weight down on her chart and took her temperature and blood pressure. Finally, Dr. Roach came into the room and closed the door. Nurse May pulled a small step stool up to the examination table.
“Take off your dress and sit on the table, Clara,” she said.
“I know you’re talking to me,” Clara said. “I know my name.”
“Excuse me?” Nurse May said, her penciled eyebrows raised.
“You don’t need to shout and keep saying my name,” Clara said, unbuttoning her housedress. She took off her sweater and pulled her clothes over her head, draping the garments over her arm. “I speak English and can hear just fine. And I’m not an idiot.” Clara climbed onto the paper-covered examination table and sat down.
Scowling, Nurse May snatched the clothes from Clara and tossed them onto a chair. She looked at Dr. Roach with wide eyes, as if expecting him to defend her. Ignoring the exchange, Dr. Roach went to the sink to scrub his hands, put on a pair of rubber gloves, then took his stethoscope from a wall peg and positioned the earpiece in his ears. He placed the cold chest piece above Clara’s left breast and listened, his brows knitted. The smell of rubber and Brylcreem filled Clara’s nostrils and she nearly gagged. Now that she was warming up, her stomach churned with a sour mix of hunger and nausea.
“I really don’t understand why this is necessary, Doctor,” Clara said. “I can assure you, there’s nothing wrong with me.”
“It’s just part of the admissions process,” Dr. Roach said. He gave her a condescending smile. “Nothing to worry about.”
“But I don’t need to be admitted,” Clara said. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, taking the chart from Nurse May and writing something down. Nurse May stared at him, like a dog waiting for a reward.
“What did she say?” she said.
Dr. Roach scowled at her. “We’ll discuss it later,” he said, giving her a stern look.
“Please,” Clara said. “Just listen to me. I don’t need to be here. My father just . . .”
“This is a physical examination,” Dr. Roach interrupted. “We’ll talk about why you’re here another time. For now, let’s just cooperate, shall we?”
“When?” Clara said.
“A nurse will get you when it’s time,” Dr. Roach said.
Clara sighed, clenching her teeth in frustration. Dr. Roach handed the chart back to Nurse May, who took it with both hands, her fingers lingering on his arm for several seconds. Finally, he smiled at her, a knowing look in his eyes. Nurse May’s shoulders relaxed. Dr. Roach checked Clara’s reflexes with a rubber hammer, then looked in her ears with a magnifying lens. He asked her to step down from the table and bend over so he could check the curvature of her spine. She did as she was told and he ran his fingers along her backbone, then pulled her arms backward and tugged on her wrists.
“Do you have any pain in your back or shoulders?” he asked, pressing his pelvis against her buttocks.
“No,” Clara said, wincing. Dr. Roach let go and she straightened, rubbing her wrists. Still behind her, Dr. Roach put his hands on her shoulders and pulled them back. He felt the vertebrae in her neck and pressed his fingers into her scalp, feeling the shape of her skull. He reached around and felt her collarbones, then pushed her arms up and out, instructing her to hold them there while he felt beneath her armpits.
“Nurse May,” he said. “Will you be staying at the nurses’ residence again tonight?”
“Yes, Dr. Roach,” Nurse May said, her voice dripping with sugar.
“And how do you find the accommodations? You know how hard we strive to make our employees comfortable here at Willard.”
“The accommodations here at Willard are the best I’ve ever had,” Nurse May said.
Before Clara knew what was happening, Dr. Roach’s hands were on her breasts. He squeezed once, twice, then pinched her nipples and let go. It was over so fast it was hard to tell if it was part of the exam or something else. She dropped her arms and crossed them over her breasts, turning to face him, her cheeks burning. Dr. Roach ignored her, removing his gloves. He went to the sink and re-scrubbed his hands, soaping and rinsing them twice, the water so hot it was steaming. He dried his hands on a clean towel, put his gloves back on, then took a wooden tongue depressor from a glass jar on the medicine cabinet.
“Up on the table, Clara,” he said. Clara climbed back on the examination table, her arms still over her breasts. “So you really like it here at Willard, Nurse May?”
“Oh yes,” Nurse May said, moving closer, as if she needed to look down Clara’s throat too. “I enjoy it very much.”
Dr. Roach smirked and held up the tongue depressor. “Open your mouth,” he said to Clara. “Say ah.” Clara did as she was told and Dr. Roach pressed her tongue down with the wooden stick. It was too much. Clara gagged and threw up, vomiting all over Dr. Roach’s hand and the front of his lab coat. He recoiled and looked down at his clothes, his arms out, his mouth curling in disgust. Nurse May gasped and dropped Clara’s chart on the floor, where it landed upside down in a puddle of vomit. For a second, they stood staring, wide-eyed and frozen.
Finally, Nurse May came to her senses. She opened the doors beneath the medicine cabinet and pulled out a stack of towels, then stepped over the puddle of vomit and began mopping the mess off the front of Dr. Roach’s lab coat. Dr. Roach stood stock still, his lips pressed together in a thin, hard line. Nurse May unbuttoned his coat and peeled it off his arms, careful not to let it touch his clothes. Then she removed his gloves, threw them away, and quickly washed her hands. Dr. Roach moved back, carefully stepping over the vomit, then went to the sink and scrubbed his hands with a stiff brush, pressing so hard his skin turned red. Nurse May grabbed Clara by the arm, digging her fingernails into her skin.
“How dare you!” she hissed. “Do you want to be put into isolation? Is that it?”
“It’s all right,” Dr. Roach said, drying his hands. “I don’t think she did it on purpose. Just clean up the mess and we’ll get this over with.”