An Inconvenient Wife (36 page)

I remembered Elmira, the water cure. This did not seem as benign. I stopped at the doorway. “No,” I whispered.

Maddy pulled me forward. “This is the punishment for women like you who can’t keep their hands off themselves.” She smiled.
“Hilary!”

A woman came through the far door. She was wearing a gray apron that looked to be made of rubber and heavy boots. “That her?”
At Maddy’s nod, she jerked her thumb toward a bed in the corner. I dug my heels in, but Maddy dragged me easily. Hilary spread
a rubber sheet, and before I knew what was happening, she had grabbed the collar of my nightgown. I heard the pop of buttons;
the gown slithered to the floor.

I tried to wrench from Maddy’s hold, but she slapped me hard. My ears rang, and my vision blurred. They forced me to the bed,
and I convulsed at the touch of the freezing-wet sheet they laid over me.

They bound my arms to my sides, wrapping me so tightly I could not move, and then they covered me with more sheets. They strapped
a cap filled with ice to the top of my head, and within moments my teeth were chattering; I could not feel my limbs. Whenever
the sheets began to warm, they wet them again, pouring ladles of cold water from a nearby tub.

I had no idea how long they kept me there. As that cold gradually seeped into my bones, a languor came over me. My thoughts
were scattered and strange: Dr. Little, Victor, and William pulsed and moved like bright colors in my mind. I could not keep
them straight. There was Victor, standing beside me, but the words that came from his mouth were not his words, not his voice.
How long have you been his whore, my sweet angel?
I shook my head mutely, unable to move my lips, they were so stiff and cold.

Maddy was at my side, feeling at my throat, taking my pulse. She leaned close; her face filled my vision. “You going to be
a good girl now, Mrs. Carelton? You going to mind your manners?” and I saw my father and William.
You are a lady. You are not yourself.
Then there was Papa telling me to be a wife, to make William’s home a castle. A hundred directions, a single road.

What if I can make you into the woman you were meant to be?

When they took the ice cap from my head and unwrapped the sheets, I lay there, unmoving. Maddy’s hand burned where she touched
my cold skin. They dressed me in my torn nightgown and paraded me down the hallway, back to my room, with nothing to hold
the gown together. Maddy went to close the door, and I heard myself whisper through inflexible lips, “Laudanum.” She smiled
meanly and said, “Well, now, that’d make it easy for both of us.”

She left briefly. I lay on my bed, burrowing beneath the blankets, shivering, and then she was back with a bottle and a cup.

What if I could make you into the woman you were meant to be?

I sipped the medicine gratefully. This was where I wanted to be, this calm, motionless place, where I could not think—not
about the husband whose love was slowly killing me, not about the man who had used and abandoned me so that his ambitions
could fly. For once I had what I wanted: a medicated world where my dreams were formless and fleeting and mine alone. I lost
the desire to leave them.

August 3, 1885

Dear Mr. Carelton,

I believe it remains wisest for your wife to have no contact with you. Therefore I must ask that you cancel your planned visit
to Beechwood Grove and keep to our original plan of waiting some weeks before a visit. I usually recommend—in fact, in most
cases I require—that three to six months pass before allowing family to visit, but I do understand your need for haste. Still,
I cannot help but think that seeing you at this time would further disturb a woman who is already extremely troubled.

I also wish to beg you to reconsider the time in which you wish us to effect Mrs. Carelton’s cure. I understand that you wish
for her to be if not well then at least capable for the ball celebrating the opening of your new home. I wish to emphasize
that at this time I find it extremely unlikely that Mrs. Carelton will be in any condition to resume her wifely duties and
obligations, much less host a ball. She is very fragile. The move to the new house, along with the crush of friends and neighbors,
will undoubtedly be too much for her.

I would like to be optimistic that this will not be the case, but I have no reason for optimism. Mrs. Carelton was quite distressed
when she came to us, and we have had to take some steps in calming her. I regret also to say that her erotomania has worsened.
At Beechwood Grove we are possessed of the most current methods for treating someone of Mrs. Carelton’s sensibilities, and
we have taken appropriate steps to curb your wife’s unfortunate tendency for self-abuse. It seems to have had the desired
effect, though she now refuses to speak and has regressed into a type of catatonia. You would, I think, not recognize her.
I must ask that you not contact her until such time that I advise you it is safe to do so. I continue to hope for the best,
but I regret to say that I have changed my original prognosis. I believe she is worsening by the day.

I urge you once again to reconsider the dilemma you have put upon us. You must begin to come to terms with the fact that your
wife may indeed need to remain here for some time to come. Unfortunately, it is impossible at this time to come to any other
conclusion.

Yours sincerely,

Dr. Robert Little

August 19, 1885

Dear Mr. Carelton,

I understand your need for a quick resolution to your wife’s case, though I am distressed at your insistence that she be capable
by the end of September. I am afraid that is quite impossible. Her prognosis is worse than ever and may be quite hopeless.
I have ceased daily meetings with her because she is incapable of communicating. She has begun to have extremely violent nightmares,
wherein she has attempted to harm her nurse. We have had no choice but to increase her medication, which calms her, but she
continues to thwart our every attempt to force her to speak.

I have asked my associate, Dr. Rush, for his esteemed opinion regarding her catatonia, and he believes we should consider
an ovariotomy. Of course, we will perform no surgery without consulting you.

I dislike having to send such a negative report, but I believe you must face the truth about your wife. Please do not continue
to insist upon having her well in time for your planned soiree. It is impossible.

Sincerely,

Dr. Robert Little

August 28, 1885

Dear Mr. Carelton,

I understand completely. We will do all in our power to have Mrs. Carelton ready to face her responsibilities by the end of
September. Your instructions—as well as your
assurances
—have been duly noted.

I will be leaving Beechwood Grove for several days this week to attend a meeting in Albany. My associate, Dr. Rush, will be
attending in the meantime, in the unlikely event that you should need to contact us.

Sincerely,

Dr. Robert Little

T
he morphia invaded my dreams so that I could not tell what was true and what was delusion. A part of me knew I must escape
from this place; it murmured seductively in my ear:
You have only yourself to rely on, Lucy. Your life is in your own hands now.
In that world I lived, thinking, plotting, praying. I dreamed of escape, of fleeing to Rome, to anywhere, and one night my
dream was so real that I actually felt Maddy’s hands all over me, her weight on my body, as I tried to get out of bed. The
hallucination pinched and mauled my skin, and I fought it. I tried to strangle the dream with my bedclothes, and then I rose
from the bed and ran down the hallway, thinking only of escape, of finding my own life, my real one.

But then I woke again, and though Maddy was gone, I was heavy with the effects of the drug. To speak was too difficult. Moving
was such an effort I remained still. The world seemed to spin by me in unfocused color—people moved too quickly for me, their
words were too fast, hard for me to concentrate on, so it was easier to close my eyes and retreat into the world I’d made
for myself, to delusions of escape that dulled the reality of my surrender.

When Dr. Little came into my room one morning, I stared at him, unable to place him.

“Good morning, Mrs. Carelton,” he said, coming to a stop a few feet from my bedside. I had no answer to give, and he sighed
and went on. “Your husband is very worried about you.”

My husband. It took me a moment to remember. William.

Dr. Little put a finger to his lips thoughtfully. “I was just in Albany. At a meeting of alienists and neurologists. I met
a man there—a quite brilliant man, actually, who delivered a quite brilliant paper. He had a patient who reminded me very
much of you, whom he managed to cure through hypnosis. I spoke to him of you, and he believes that he might be able to help
you.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, and I didn’t care.

He ignored me. “He’s waiting in the hall to see you, Mrs. Carelton. His name is Victor Seth.”

The name cut through my confusion. It was another hallucination. A wretched dream. Little stepped back, looking startled,
and then my nurse came in. Not Maddy, but . . . Jenny. Her name was Jenny. She carried a bottle and a cup.

She hurried to me, murmuring, “Here now, ma’am. You calm yourself now.” Her face filled my vision. Round and freckled. Pale
eyes. She pulled the cork from the bottle.

“No,” I murmured, and then, more strongly, “No.”

“Don’t give it to her.” The voice came through the fog.

Victor.

Jenny stepped away, and he came into view. The same. Not the same. It was Victor, but he had shaved; there was no hint of
a beard, no mustache. His hair had been cut short, and he wore a fawn-colored flannel suit. But it was his eyes that startled
me. There was no recognition in them, only polite interest. There was no indication that he knew me, that we had ever been
anything to each other.

This was the cruelest hallucination of all.

“You see?” Dr. Little said. “She is quite beyond communicating.”

“You mustn’t give her any more laudanum,” Victor said. He frowned and took the bottle from the nurse. “It will kill her.”

“Oh, come now, Dr. Seth,” Dr. Little said. “Most of our patients use morphia of some sort. It’s quite safe if administered
correctly.”

“I cannot work with her if she’s drugged,” Victor said tersely.

“But—”

“See that she doesn’t have any more. She’ll suffer for a few days, but then she’ll be fine.”

“She’s had terrible nightmares.”

“I’m sure I can manage her.” Victor crossed his arms. His fingers went to stroke a beard that was not there and stopped midmotion.

“She tried to strangle her nurse,” Dr. Little said. “The woman had to be removed. Though she was a huge creature, Mrs. Carelton
did considerable harm. Dr. Rush has been considering an ovariotomy, and I find myself inclined to agree with him.”

Victor frowned. “An ovariotomy? That’s hardly an enlightened treatment.”

“It is a last resort. We’ve tried everything else.”

“Why have you brought me here?”

“I had thought you might be able to help her. Your paper indicated remarkable success with a similar patient, and I must admit
we’re desperate. Her husband—”

“Yes, yes,” Victor said impatiently. “Very well.”

“Excellent. Excellent. We can arrange for tomorrow—”

“Tomorrow I will be on my way back to the city,” Victor said. “Unless I find that she responds positively to my methods. Leave
me alone with her.”

Dr. Little sighed. “You mean to begin now?”

“Yes. As soon as the drug wears off. But first I must examine her. Leave us.”

“Yes, of course.” Dr. Little started to the door. “I’ll leave Jenny.”

“She can wait outside the door.”

Dr. Little looked stunned. “Mrs. Carelton can be quite violent. Especially when the medication wears off.”

Victor scrutinized me dispassionately. “I assure you, I’ll be in no danger.”

Dr. Little cleared his throat. “Very well, then. I’ll leave you. Jenny will be in the hallway should you need her.”

“I expect not,” said Victor.

Jenny followed Dr. Little from the room. The door closed behind them with a thick, satisfying thud. Victor and I were alone.

He put aside the laudanum bottle and came to my bedside quickly, kneeling beside me, and the disinterest fell from his eyes;
I saw what looked like despair. “Lucy,” he whispered. “Lucy, what have they done to you?”

He didn’t touch me, and he said nothing more. He simply sat on the chair, staring out the window, there when I fell asleep,
still there when I woke. As the hours passed and the fog of morphia began to fade into feeling, I began to believe in the
truth of him.

“You’re not . . . an—” I swallowed hard; my throat was dry. I struggled for the word. “Illusion.”