A Deceptive Homecoming (15 page)

Then why have I gotten involved?
I wondered.

I'd told myself it was for Ginny's sake, but I knew now that she wanted nothing to do with discovering the truth behind her father's death or disappearance as it may be. Or at least she wanted me to have nothing to do with it. So why had I gotten involved? I didn't want to face the truth, so I faced Ginny instead.

“Mrs. Yardley believes that her husband was mistakenly identified as your father.” I pulled out the photograph of Levi Yardley. Ginny looked away, leaving me holding the photograph in the air between us. “If you saw this, you'd see why. The two men bear a striking resemblance to one another.”

“Did you have anything to do with this, Hattie?” She reached up and clutched her gold locket.

“I met Mrs. Yardley at the site of the accident, where your father was trampled. She was looking for her missing husband and I . . .”

“And you were snooping around where I'd asked you not to.” She glared at me. “Doesn't our friendship mean anything to you?” Her accusation stung. She was right to accuse me, but it was for the sake of our friendship that I'd done it.

“Of course it does.” She turned her gaze to the far wall. “Ginny, I think your father is still alive.”

Ginny gasped and then turned to look at me. Tears ran down her cheeks. Was she feeling the grief and sorrow of her loss or was she crying in relief? I couldn't tell.

“I didn't mean to bring you more pain, Ginny. I thought I could help.”

“Please just leave.”

“And if they discover that your father is still alive?”

“How cruel are you, Hattie? Get out of my house!” I felt a sharp pain in my chest and my breath quicken as I realized she didn't believe me. She thought I was toying with her. “Get out!”

“I'm so sorry,” was all I could say as I retreated from the room.

Grief threatened to overwhelm me as the impact of Ginny's accusation and mistrust grew. Mrs. Curbow gave me a questioning glance as I rushed past her in the hall, a tightening in my chest so unbearable I could barely breathe, let alone mutter good-bye. How could she ever think I'd be so cruel? Have I changed so much that she'd think this of me? I didn't want to consider what it would take for her to believe me. So for now, I simply fled from the Hayward house, determined to get answers from the one person I knew was withholding them, even if it meant going back to the asylum.

I'd walked the mile from the end of the streetcar line, in drizzling rain, and was approaching the imposing presence of State Lunatic Asylum Number Two again. This time I was all alone. This time it was personal. Once on the portico, I lowered my umbrella, took a deep breath, and then yanked on the heavy door. This time it opened. I'd assumed the rain had kept the patients inside as I hadn't passed any in the gardens or fields as I had before. Therefore, I expected a flurry of activity inside, but the hall was empty. I approached the open door of the nurse's office and waited for the nurse at the desk to acknowledge me.

“Yes, what can I do for you?”

“I'd like to see Frank Hayward. He's a patient of Dr. Hillman's.” She began flipping through a ledger on her desk.

“I don't think . . .” The woman paused mid-sentence. “Let me call Nurse Simmons. She may be able to help you. It may be a few moments. You can wait over there.” She pointed to a row of simple, wooden, high-backed chairs against the wall.

“I remember from years back that you once had a conservatory. Would it be possible for me to wait there?”

“It hasn't been used much in recent years, but I can certainly have Nurse Simmons find you there if you'd like.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you remember where it is? I can't leave my post to show you.”

“Through those doors and at the very end of the hallway?” I pointed in the direction I meant. She nodded.

“Yes, the conservatory door should be unlocked.”

I thanked her again and opened the doors to the hallway. To my dismay, the hallway wasn't empty. Dozens of rockers, parallel against the wall, creaked as silent, lethargic men rocked back and forth. I kept my eyes straight ahead as I swiftly made my way down the hallway, past the patients and the many open doors leading to their rooms. I had no desire to see anything but the conservatory.

When I pulled the conservatory door open, I was immediately assailed by the smell of soil, decaying plants, and mold. The nurse was right. When I'd been here last, dozens of plants, including several types of asters, lupines, lilies, citrus trees, and tomatoes, had been flourishing. One of the doctors had believed caring for the plants was therapeutic for his patients. Did the doctor leave or discover he was wrong? But now there was little left but the weeds. I was slightly disappointed not to see the thriving blossoms, but the weeds were exactly what I'd come to see.

I'd always enjoyed the scent and beauty of flowers and had been interested in the hidden language of plants, as many a young girl my age had been. And thus, on the day my father died, I'd sought solace in this place of color and life. I'd strolled under the glass, warm from the afternoon sun, in shock, barely conscious of the beauty around me, when I'd nearly tripped over a humble sorrel plant, a weed growing up through the gravel floor. How had it grown so large? Why hadn't anyone pulled it out? How had it even found its way into this haven of cultivated beauty? And then I'd realized what it meant.

Paternal love.
According to the flower dictionaries I'd memorized, the sorrel plant meant paternal love. I'd broken down then, letting out my exhaustion, my fear, my anger, my intense sorrow, and had fallen on my knees to the ground, ignorant of the dirt and litter on my dress or the gravel digging into my knees and palms. My father was dead, but here was a sign that he was at peace. I had no idea how long I'd knelt there not knowing or caring about my physical discomfort. When I couldn't cry any longer, I'd carefully pulled up the sorrel plant and, unpinning my hat, had placed it inside. I'd carried it home that day and haven't stopped collecting plants since. Whenever I miss my father, I pull out that original sorrel plant, preserved in my collection. I haven't looked at it for some time. And despite my hope, I didn't see another one today. Despite all the other weeds including dandelions, broadleaf plantain, and horseweed, there were no sorrel plants growing through the cracks.

“Miss Davish?” I turned to see Nurse Simmons standing in the doorway. I crossed the weed-covered gravel floor and followed the nurse out of the conservatory. “You were asking about another patient, a Frank Hayward?” She closed the door behind me.

“Yes, I wondered if I could speak with him.”

She shook her head. “I'm sorry, Miss Davish. I looked through the admittance paperwork and found nothing for a Frank Hayward.”

“He's not a patient here?” She shook her head again.

“And never has been. Who told you he was here?”

I evaded her question. “May I speak with Dr. Hillman, please?”

“If it's about Levi Yardley—”

“No, it's of a more personal nature.”

“Well, I'm afraid you'll have to come back. Dr. Hillman isn't here today.”

“Really?” I didn't want to have to come back again. “Is he visiting patients in town?”

“No, I believe one of his daughters has taken ill. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No, thank you. You've been most helpful.” The nurse furrowed her brow slightly.

“Well, then, I must get back to my rounds. I've already taken too much time away. I know it's irregular, but could you find your own way out?”

“Of course.”

“Then I'll leave you. Good day, Miss Davish.” The nurse headed down the hallway.

I watched her disappear into one of the patients' rooms less than halfway down before I headed in the same direction. As I passed the room she was in, I couldn't help but glance in. A man in a white nightshirt was sitting on the edge of his bed, his hands wrapped in what looked like a leather muff. His head was turned away as he dodged Nurse Simmons's attempts to coerce him into drinking medicine from a brown glass bottle. I rushed past, not waiting to see the man's inevitable defeat. When I came to the main lobby, instead of leaving, I ascended the stairs and made my way to Dr. Hillman's office. Whether the nurse was telling me the truth or not, I couldn't leave without confirming for myself that the man wasn't here. The door was slightly ajar. I looked about me to make sure I was alone and then peered through the crack in the door. The narrow view it afforded me showed me part of his desk and a bookcase. I couldn't tell if the doctor was in the room. I knocked. No answer. I knocked again, slightly harder, causing the door to open wider. I still couldn't tell if anyone was inside. And still there was no answer. I looked about me again. No one was in the hall as I pushed the door all the way open and slipped inside.

The room was empty. I glanced at Dr. Hillman's desk. It was mainly covered with closed files bearing patients' names. Resisting the urge to organize the haphazard files, I pulled open a drawer. It was filled with various medical supplies: bulb syringes, packets of cotton gauze, a mortar and pestle, and many glass bottles of varying sizes, filled with colored tablets, clear liquids, or powders. I closed it and pulled open another.

What was I looking for? I wondered even as I caught the sight of an open green velvet-lined mahogany box filled with shiny metal instruments: forceps, scissors, tweezers, hooks, knives, saws, drills, and others that I'd never seen before. I slammed the drawer shut as my breath and pulse quickened. Were those the same instruments Dr. Hillman had carried into my father's house? Had they had a hand in my father's demise? Ever since I'd seen the steel drill-like instrument Dr. Hillman considered using to cut a hole in my father's head, I haven't been able to abide the presence of medical instruments of any kind. Even Walter's stethoscope caused me to swoon. And here were possibly the very instruments used on my father. The very thought sent the room spinning. I dropped into the doctor's chair and put my head between my knees.

“Dr. Hillman?” In my position, I was invisible to the person calling at the door. “He's not here. Let's check to see if he's in his treatment room.”

I sighed with relief when I heard the door close and footsteps fade down the hall. I slowly sat up, feeling slightly better in the head but incredibly foolish for my predicament. I didn't want to imagine what would've happened to me if I'd been caught. Using the desk for support, I stood up, testing my balance. When I felt sure I wouldn't faint, I took a few tentative steps toward the door. The room seemed to shift beneath my feet and I grabbed the nearest surface, a metal cabinet. I read the labels on all four drawers, P
ATIENTS:
H
ILLMAN
. With something to focus on, I gained my balance and tugged open the filing drawer. I thumbed through the files searching for the name Frank Hayward. I didn't find it. I wasn't entirely surprised. It had been pure speculation on my part that Mr. Hayward was here. But then I noticed there wasn't a file for Levi Yardley either. I went back to the desk and searched the files there. No Levi Yardley.

But I'd seen it!
I thought. It must be here somewhere.

I purposely walked over and locked the door. It wouldn't prevent Dr. Hillman from finding me in his office, but it would at least prevent being accidentally discovered by someone else. It was a risk I had to take. I began a systematic search. First I went through all of the cabinet drawers, then all the desk drawers, carefully avoiding the one with the instrument case, and then his bookshelves. I lingered for a moment to study the photographs of the Hillman children: two boys and three girls. I still couldn't reconcile the fact that the man who killed my father was one himself.

These children still have their father,
I thought bitterly before pulling myself away and continuing my search.

Nowhere did I find anything with either Frank Hayward's or Levi Yardley's name on it. The last place I looked was a crate shoved far under the doctor's desk. It contained notebooks and loose papers full of statistics and medical notes. I was about to push it back into place when a notebook with the date 1882 caught my eye. The year my father died. I lifted it out and with trepidation, leafed through it, page by page, using my well-practiced eye, for any mention of George Davish. And then I found it. A hand-scribbled note that read:

He's so weak,
I thought. “Please eat some more, Father.”