Rare Objects

The joke did not go over well.

We all held our breath in dreadful anticipation of what would come next.

Mrs. Verdent’s eyes narrowed and her voice took on a subzero iciness. But she remained remarkably calm, far more civil than she ever was with any of us. “You’re not meant to mix with others. You know that. It’s time you went back to your room.” And taking the girl firmly by the elbow, she escorted her out.

“Good-bye, ladies!” the girl called out as she was trundled down the hall. “It’s been a real pleasure! Truly! Keep up the good work!”

As luck would have it, one of the other girls at the Nightingale Boarding House worked an early shift at a diner and found the bathroom locked from the inside at five in the morning. When no one answered, the landlady got the police to knock down the door, and there I was, passed out, job half done.

Had I known what would happen next, though, I would’ve paid more attention to what I was doing. I was committed to the Binghamton State Hospital in upstate New York, declared temporarily insane, induced by extreme intoxication.

The building itself might have been nice if it were used for any other purpose. Formerly the Binghamton Inebriate Asylum, it was a rambling Gothic Revival structure with ornately carved wooden staircases and high vaulted ceilings. The main entrance featured stained-glass windows depicting scenes of Jesus healing the sick, helping the lame to their feet in rich jewel tones that cast rainbows on the parquet floor. All the other windows were covered in metal mesh. Wide, gracious corridors led from one terrifying therapy room to another, and though the hospital was set on acres of rolling green landscaped lawns, the grounds were deserted; no one but the gardeners were allowed outside.

The first week I was there, they gave me the famous belladonna cure, known among the patients as “puke and purge.” Regular doses of belladonna, herbs, and castor oil were meant to “clean out the system.” But all I remember is being doubled over with stomach cramps, vomiting, and diarrhea, drifting in and out of hallucinations. Two large nurses dragged me to and from the toilet to the bed, occasionally hosing me down with cold water in between. The doses came every hour on the hour for three days straight. And then the hydrotherapy and chemical shock treatments began. Only after another week of those was I finally deemed lucid enough to meet with Dr. Joseph, the psychiatrist.

With his closely trimmed beard, spectacles, and shiny bald head, Dr. Joseph looked like a modern-day Santa Claus. But looks were deceiving. Beneath his benevolent exterior, he held our fate in his hands. Without his signature on the release papers, none of us was going anywhere. Every question he asked was a test, each answer proof of either recovery or illness, and all the while he took endless notes with a shiny silver pen. It must’ve had a broken nib because it made a soft scratching noise on the paper like a thorn scraping against skin. I couldn’t work out if more notes meant a right answer or a wrong one.

He wanted to know everything—why I went to New York in the first place, about my job, why I’d tried to do myself in.

I gave him the edited version—told him about the customer who accused me of stealing, described the scene he made on the dance floor. I could still feel the shame; the humiliation of being escorted to my locker by the manager, the other girls standing around, watching, more indifferent than sad … Lois hadn’t even bothered to look me in the eye.

“I felt so exposed.”

“Exposed?” More scratching, pen against paper. “What do you mean by that exactly?”

How could I explain it? A feeling that all my life I’d been heading down an endless hallway lined with mirrors, running as fast as I could, doing anything to distract myself and avoid seeing my own reflection.

“Miss Fanning,” he prompted, “you were saying?”

I realized my mistake at using such an open-ended word. “I don’t know. That was a stupid thing to say. I don’t know why I said it.”

“And that’s what precipitated the incident? Losing your job?”

“Yes.”

He seemed unconvinced. “Are you sure nothing else happened? Before?”

I didn’t understand.

“You may have been aware,” he continued, “that we performed a complete physical examination on you when you were admitted. I have the results of that examination here.” He paused, resting his hand on a folder in front of him. “Are you certain there isn’t anything you want to tell me, Miss Fanning? Something you would like to confide?”

I looked down at my hands folded in my lap.

“The report says you’ve had an operation within the past six months. An abortion. You were pregnant when you came to New York, isn’t that right?”

My head felt weightless and my mouth dry.

“And the father? Who was the father?”

“No one … I mean, someone I knew in Boston,” I managed.

“That was the real reason you left, wasn’t it? You were running away.”

I couldn’t answer.

Sighing heavily, he leaned back in his chair. He already had low expectations, and still I’d managed to disappoint him. “Most women see children as a blessing.” He waited for me to explain myself but I had no excuses. We both shared the same poor opinion of me. “Can you see that your problems are of your own making?” he asked after a while. “That in trying to escape life you’ve only made yours worse?”

“I guess I’m not like other women,” I mumbled.

“No, you certainly are not. There’s a line between normal and abnormal behavior. You’ve already crossed that line. Now you must work very hard to get back on the right side of it again. Make no mistake: it will require all your efforts. You’re in a very dangerous position.” He held out his hands. “Look at where you are, Miss Fanning. You’re a burden on society. Sexually promiscuous, morally bereft; if you don’t change, then this is most likely where your descendants will end up too. I’ve seen it time and time again. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

The mirrored hallway came to an abrupt end; the reflection I’d been avoiding stared back at me, ugly and void of hope.

“Do you want to spend your life locked up in institutions?”

“No, Dr. Joseph.”

“Then stay away from dance halls, strange men, and speakeasies. And avoid drink all together. No one likes a fast young woman, and a drunkard is repulsive in the extreme.” He stared at me hard. “It’s a matter of discipline and character. Of willpower. I’ll be frank: you have a long road ahead of you.”

His words frightened me. “But I will be able to leave? I mean if I try very hard to change, will you let me go?”

“If you cooperate and do what’s required, you’ll be released in due course,” he allowed. “But it’s up to you to continue to reform your ways out in the real world. Otherwise you’ll end up right back inside.”

He made a final note to my file and then looked up.

“When a person becomes dependent upon the habit of escaping their difficulties, they lose touch with reality and deteriorate rapidly. But there is hope. Remove the habit and sanity returns. It will take effort, but if you change your ways and monitor yourself carefully, you can recover and be like everyone else. You can live a normal life.”

He let me go after that, back to the dayroom with the rows of rocking chairs and wire-mesh-covered windows.

I sat down and stared out at the gray winter sky.

A normal life.

Who in the world wanted anything so small?

I only saw the girl with the pearls one more time after that, two weeks later.

It was a Tuesday morning, just before they let me out. Tuesdays and Thursdays were treatment days. Extra orderlies were called in, banging on the doorframes of the wards with wooden clubs to round the patients up. “Time for treatment! Get in line! Treatment time!”

Treatment was a form of shock therapy that took place in a room at the end of the ward. Outside was a long row of wooden chairs that went all the way down the hall, overseen by nurses and orderlies standing with their backs to the windows, keeping the line moving.

It was early morning and the sky was clear and bright. Outside, a thin coating of snow was melting on the sunny side of the sloping lawn.

One by one, we all went into the room, and the line moved down. I wanted to be last; to feel that after I was finished, there would be only peace and stillness.

But I didn’t get my wish. Instead a nurse appeared at the other end of the hallway with another patient from a different wing. It was the girl. Even from a distance, I knew it was her from the way she moved, as if she’d spent her entire life walking from one cocktail party to another balancing books on her head. The nurse was talking quietly to her, hand on her elbow, pulling her gently along. Her eyes were wide with fear, footsteps slow. For all her bravado and sophisticated talk before, she was clearly frightened now.

The nurse put her in the chair next to mine.