Kitabı oku: «Rare Objects», sayfa 3
Adjusting my hat in the shop-window reflection, I wondered if it would work. The effect was more dramatic than I’d expected. I looked not just different but like a whole other person; my eyes seemed wider, deeper in color, and my skin went from being white and translucent to a pale ivory beneath my soft golden-blond waves. But would it be enough?
To my mother’s credit, she’d been thorough, covering every inch of my scalp in bleach at least three times to make certain there were no telltale signs. And when it was rinsed clean, she wound it into pin curls to be tied tight under a hairnet all night. When I woke, she was already up, sitting by the stove in her dressing gown sewing a Stearn’s label into the inside lapel of my coat. “It’s one of the only labels people ever notice,” she said. “And a coat from Stearn’s is a coat to be proud of.”
“Even though it’s not from Stearn’s?” I asked.
“They won’t know that. They’ll look at the name, not the cut.”
For someone who didn’t approve of what I was doing, she was dedicated nonetheless.
Now here I was, on a street I’d never even been down before, in my counterfeit coat and curls.
It was almost nine in the morning, and no one was around. In the North End everything was open by seven; there were people to greet, gossip to share, deals to be struck. The streets hummed and buzzed morning till late into the night. But here was the stillness and order of money, of a life that wasn’t driven by hustle, sacrifice, and industry. Time was the luxury of another class.
So I practiced smiling instead—not too eager, not too wide, but a discreet, dignified smile, the kind of gentle, unhurried expression that I imagined was natural to women in this part of town, an almost imperceptible softening of the lips, just enough to indicate the pleasant expectation of having every desire fulfilled.
Eventually an older man arrived, head bent down against the wind. He was perhaps five foot five, almost as wide as he was tall, with round wire-rimmed glasses. He glanced up as he fished a set of keys from his coat pocket. “You’re the new girl? From the agency?”
“Yes. I’m Miss Fanning.”
“You’re tall.” It was an accusation.
“Yes,” I agreed, uncertainly.
“Hmm.” He unlocked the door. “I ask for a clerk, and they send me an Amazon.”
He switched on the lights, and I followed him inside. Though narrow, the shop went back a long way and was much larger than it looked from the outside.
“Stay here,” he said. “I’m going to turn on the heat.”
He headed into the back.
I’d never been in an antiques store before—the dream of everyone I knew was to own something new. And I knew all too well the used furniture stalls in the South End where things were piled on top of one another in a haphazard jumble, smelling of dust and mildew. But this couldn’t have been more different.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the floors were covered with oriental carpets, and paintings of every description and time period were crowded on top of one another, dado rail to ceiling, like in a Victorian drawing room. There were ornate gilded mirrors, fine porcelain, gleaming silver. I picked up what I thought was a large pink seashell, only to discover that an elaborate cameo of the Three Graces had been painstakingly etched into one side. It was the most incredible, unnecessary thing I’d ever seen. And there was a table covered with maybe thirty tiny snuffboxes or more, all decorated with intricate mosaic designs of famous monuments, like the Leaning Tower of Pisa and the Great Pyramid at Giza, none of them bigger than a silver dollar. It was more like a museum than a shop.
Little cards with neatly printed descriptions were everywhere.
Here was a “17th-century French oak buffet,” a “gilded German Rococo writing desk,” a pair of stiff-backed “Tudor English chairs” in mahogany so old they were almost black. Tall freestanding cases housed porcelain vases, pottery urns, a trio of Italian Renaissance bronzes. A row of bizarre African wooden figures squatted on the floor, staring through round cartoon eyes, comical and yet shockingly sexual at the same time. And the prices! I had to keep myself from laughing out loud. Five hundred dollars for a dresser? You could buy a brand-new automobile for less! Near the back of the shop in glass display cases trinkets, watches, and fine estate jewelry were arranged against waves of dark green velvet. The ticking of half a dozen clocks hanging from the wall, ornamented with inlaid wood and gold, sounded gently.
The place even had a smell all its own, a rich musty scent of aging wood, old textiles, and silver polish. This was the perfume of centuries and continents, of time.
Now I knew why they’d wanted a “young woman of quality.” People didn’t come here to replace a table or sofa; they were collecting, searching out the rare and unique. They wanted a girl who knew what it was like to acquire things out of amusement rather than need. Who sympathized with those whose lives were so pleasantly arranged that they hungered for beauty and meaning rather than food.
The old man returned, took off his hat. His thinning hair was weightless and fine, circling the widening bald spot on the top of his head like a white wreath. “It’ll warm up soon. I’m Karl Kessler.” He gave a tug at his suit vest, which was struggling to cover his stomach. “What was your name again?”
“May. With a y, of course,” I added. (I didn’t want to use the Irish name Maeve.) “I was named after the month of my birth,” I lied.
“And do you know anything about antiques, May with a y?”
“Oh, I know a little.” I tried to seem casual. “My family had a few good pieces. I was wondering, that buffet over there … is that oak, by any chance?”
“Why, yes. It is.”
“I thought so.” I flashed my well-practiced smile. “I’m so fond of oak, aren’t you?”
He fixed me with a sharp black eye. “Where is your family from?”
“New York. Albany, actually. But I’m here staying with my aunt.” I ran my fingers lightly along the smooth finish of a Flemish bookcase, as if I were remembering something similar back home. “You see, I had a particularly troublesome beau, Mr. Kessler. We all thought it best that I get away for a while.”
“And you can type?”
“Oh, yes! I used to type all Papa’s letters. But to be honest, I’ve never considered a sales job before.” I frowned a little, as if pondering the details for the first time. “I suppose it means working every day?”
“Yes. Yes, it does.” He nodded slowly. “But I thought the woman from the agency was sending me a girl with secretarial skills?”
“Dear old Maude!” I gave what I hoped passed as an affectionate chuckle. “You see, she’s a family friend. I told her I’d try to help her out. Though, as it happens,” I added, “I did attend the Katherine Gibbs Secretarial School. Of course, it was more of a diversion than a necessity. But if I do something, Mr. Kessler, I like to be able to do it properly. I was taught that excellence and hard work are virtues, no matter what your situation.”
“I see.”
“And the wages?” I didn’t want to seem overeager. “I suppose they’re … reasonable?”
“Twenty-five a week. Does that seem reasonable to you?”
“I’m sure it will do very nicely.”
“So”—he leaned back against the counter—“do you have other interests?”
“Oh, yes! I like to travel and read, English literature mostly. Also I do a little painting and drawing …” I tried to remember what the heroines in Jane Austen novels did. “I’m terribly fond of long walks and embroidery.”
He nodded again. “You read a great deal?”
“Absolutely. I love books.”
“So you know how to tell a story?”
“I certainly hope so, Mr. Kessler.”
“Well, selling isn’t so different from telling a story. Everything here has a history. Where it comes from, how it’s made. Why it’s important. Once you understand that, the rest is easy. For example, take this piece.” He walked over to a small writing desk. “This is an eighteenth-century German Rococo Toilletentisch. This little table had many uses in its day. Primarily it would have been a dressing table, which is why it has a mirror in the center. Inside, below the mirror, the wash utensils would be stored.” He opened up the small drawers. “And to the sides, jars, combs, and jewelry. But that’s not all. There’s space for writing and working, playing card games. These tables are light enough to be easily carried from room to room. Mechanical fittings enable them to change use, for example from tea table to games table. It’s a fine example from the workshop of Abraham and David Roentgen, specialists in constructing such furniture.”
“Why, it’s ingenious!”
“Isn’t it?” he agreed. “But that’s not why someone would buy it. Someone would choose this little table over all the other little tables on this street for one reason alone: because it belonged to Maria Anna Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s older sister. Because this little table, with all its uses, sat in the same room, day after day, with the world’s greatest composer as he learned his scales as a boy.” His hand rested tenderly on the delicate inlaid wood top. “She wrote in her diary here, the same diary that her brother would later steal and fill with false entries about himself, all in the third person.”
“Really?” Suddenly I pictured it in a room with a harpsichord and a violin, overlooking the cobblestone streets of Salzburg, snowflakes dancing in the icy winter air. “How do you know all that?”
Mr. Kessler gave a little shrug. “You doubt me? I believe it because that’s what I’m told. Just as I believe you’re from Albany and used to type all your father’s letters.”
My heart skipped a beat, and I felt the heat rising in my cheeks. “Why … I’m not sure what you mean …”
He raised a hand to stop me. “A good counterfeit is as much a work of art as the real thing. Perhaps even better, May with a y. You see, I spoke to the lady at the agency yesterday afternoon. She rang to say she had a nice, reliable girl for me named Roberta, but she needed my address again because someone had stolen my card.”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I’d pushed it too far.
“And that, Miss Fanning, is how you sell an antique table. With a story and a smile and a healthy dose of truth and lies.” He cocked his head to one side. “The woman from the agency also told me to be on the lookout for a very determined redhead. I’m beginning to wonder, is your hair really blond?”
“Well, it is now!” I headed to the door.
“Where are you going?” he called.
I whipped round. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re angry!” Mr. Kessler chuckled. “Well, that beats all!”
“You think I’m funny?” Embarrassment vanished; now I was furious. “There’s nothing funny about it, Mr. Kessler! I’m flat broke, and I need a job!”
“And I still need a clerk. In fact”—he ran his fingers through his beard—“a blonde from Albany would suit me very well.”
“Ha, bloody, ha!” I flung open the door.
“Hold on a moment! I need a girl who can make sales and keep the books, and who fits in with my customers.”
“What about Roberta?”
He gave a distinctly Eastern European shrug, a kind of slow roll of the shoulders that came from centuries of inherited resignation. “I doubt Roberta has your dramatic intuition. Now calm down and close the door. Let’s see your dress.”
“Why?”
“Come now!” He made a soft tutting noise, as if he was luring a stray cat with a saucer of milk. “No one’s going to hurt you.”
I closed the door and took off my coat, careful to hold it so the label showed. I was wearing the navy blue knit. It was the nicest outfit I owned, and even at that, I’d spent the night before darning moth holes beneath the arms.
Mr. Kessler opened up the jewelry cabinet and took out a long string of pearls and a pair of pearl clip-on earrings. “Here,” he said, handing them over. “You can wear what you like from the display, as long as it goes back at the end of the day. If a man comes in, he likes to see the jewelry on a pretty girl. It’s the easiest way to sell it.”
I wasn’t sure I understood. “Are you hiring me?”
“If you can keep the fiction for the customers, you might be rather useful. I’m looking for someone adaptable, with a pragmatic disposition. And I have to admit, your stories have flair.” He winked, tapping the side of his nose. “The bit about the persistent beau was clever. You’ll be good at selling.”
“But … but aren’t you afraid I’m going to steal something?”
He gave me a rather surprised look. “Are you?”
“Well, no.”
“You’re an actress, May with a y. Not a thief,” he informed me. “A real thief doesn’t warn you of their intentions.”
I followed him back behind the glass counters to a room divided into two offices. He hung his coat up in one and pointed to the other. “You can use that desk. It’s Mr. Winshaw’s.”
“Won’t Mr. Winshaw need it?”
“Mr. Winshaw isn’t here. Do you drink tea or coffee?”
“Coffee, please.”
“So do I.” He gestured to the back storage room. “There’s a sink in the bathroom and a kettle on the hot plate.”
Then he went inside his office and closed the door.
I stood there, unsure of what exactly had just happened.
Then I slipped the pearls over my head. There was no mistaking the real thing. They were heavy with a creamy golden-pink luster. The echo of some long-lost perfume clung to them; sensual, sharp, and sophisticated, it could be muted by time but not silenced.
Instantly they transformed that old blue knit; when your jewels are real, your dress doesn’t matter.
But no sooner had I put them on than an eerie feeling came over me, at once familiar yet anxious and uncertain.
The pearls reminded me of someone—the girl on the far ward.
BINGHAMTON STATE HOSPITAL, NEW YORK, 1931
She was wearing pearls. That was the first thing I noticed about her. Large and even, perfectly matched, falling just below her collarbone over the thin blue cotton hospital gown. She strolled into the day room of the Binghamton State Hospital with its bare, institutional green walls and floor stinking of strong bleach like she was wandering into the dining room of the Ritz. Willowy and fine boned, she had blue eyes fringed by long, very black lashes and deep brown hair cut in a straight bob, pushed back from her face. A navy cardigan was draped casually over her shoulders, as if she were on her way to a summer luncheon and had turned back at the last minute to grab it, just in case the weather turned.
The rest of us were in the middle of what the nurses referred to as “occupational therapy,” or making ugly hook rugs. The girl with the pearls moved slowly from table to table like visiting royalty, surveying everyone’s work with a benign, interested expression.
“Oh, how interesting!” she’d murmur, or “What an unusual color choice!”
Then she stopped beside me. Up went a perfectly plucked eyebrow, like a question mark. “Well, now! Surely that’s the most deeply disturbing thing I’ve ever seen in my life!”
“Well, no one’s asking you, are they?” I was tired of crazy people. And this place was bursting with them in all shapes and sizes.
“There’s no need to take it that way. It’s a very powerful piece.”
I glared at her. “It’s not a piece. It’s a rug.”
“A very angry rug, if you ask me.” She sat down, picked up a hook. “Go on then—show me how you do it.”
I wasn’t in the mood for a demonstration. I was only here because the staff made me come, hauling me out of my usual spot in the rocking chair by the window. “Ask the nurse if you’re so interested.”
She laughed. It was a drawing-room laugh—the practiced jocularity of a hostess, high and false. “Don’t be so serious—I’m only teasing you!” She nodded to the other women in the room. “You’re the best of the lot, you know. An artist!”
It wasn’t much of a compliment. There were maybe a dozen of us rounded up for the afternoon session, all dressed in shapeless blue smocks, heads bowed over our work. There’d been a lice outbreak, and we’d all been clipped. But this girl still had a good head of hair. She must be new. The two of us were the youngest in the room by maybe ten years, although it was hard to tell for sure.
“So you’re a connoisseur, is that it?” I pointed to a thin, wiry woman in her mid-fifties with no teeth, furiously hooking across the room. “Mary’s pretty good. Why don’t you go bother her? She doesn’t speak. Ever. But she can make a rug in an afternoon.”
The girl twirled the hook between her fingers. “But you have talent—a real feeling for the medium, possibly even a great future in hooked rugs. Provided of course that people don’t want to actually use them in their homes. So”—she leaned forward—“tell me, how long have you been here?”
I yanked another yarn through. I’d been here long enough to wonder if I’d ever be allowed out again. Mine was an open-ended sentence: I needed the doctor’s consent before I’d see the outside world again. But I wasn’t about to let her see that I’d never been so alone and terrified in my life. I gave a shrug. “Maybe a month, I don’t know,” as if I hadn’t been counting every hour of every day. “What about you?”
“I’m just stopping in for a short while,” she said vaguely.
“‘Stopping in’?” I snorted. “On your way where, exactly?”
She ignored my sarcasm. “Why are you here? In for anything interesting?”
“This isn’t a resort, you know,” I reminded her.
“Are you here voluntarily or as a ward of the county?”
I gave her a look.
“You never know”—she held up her hands apologetically—“some people come in on their own.”
“Did you?”
For someone who liked asking questions, she was less keen on giving answers. Crossing her legs, she jogged her ankle up and down impatiently. “They say it’s an illness. Do you believe that? That we can all be magically cured?”
“How would I know? Where did you get those pearls?”
“My father gave them to me.” She ran her fingers over them in an automatic gesture, as if reassuring herself over and over again that they were still there. “I never take them off.”
“Neither would I.”
“I like them better than diamonds, don’t you? Diamonds lack subtlety. They’re so … common.”
She was definitely crazy. “Not in my neighborhood!” I laughed.
“Well …” Her fingers ran over the necklace again and again. “He’s dead now.”
“Who?”
“My dear devoted father.”
I considered saying something sympathetic, but social niceties weren’t expected or appreciated much here. Besides, I didn’t want her to feel like she could confide in me.
The girl watched Mute Mary across the room, working away. “What are you really in for?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Come on! Your secret’s safe—who am I going to tell?”
I don’t know why I told her, maybe just so she’d shut up and go away, or maybe in some sick way I was trying to impress her. “I cut myself with a razor blade.”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Deliberate or accidental?”
“Deliberate.” It was the first time I’d ever admitted it aloud.
But if I expected a reaction, I was disappointed; she didn’t bat an eye.
“So no voices in your head or anything?”
“No. What about you?” I looked across at her. “Do you hear voices?”
“Only my own. Mind you, that’s bad enough. I’m not entirely sure I’m on my side.”
Actually, that made me smile—for the first time in weeks.
“So at least you’re not really insane,” the girl with the pearls cheerfully pointed out.
“What about you? Why are you here?”
“Oh, they’ve given me all kinds of diagnoses. Hysterical, suicidal, depressive, delusional … Big Latin words for ‘a bad egg.’ This place is all right, actually. Not like some of the other ones I’ve been to before.” And she smiled again, as if to prove her point.
“So why haven’t I seen you on the ward? And why isn’t your hair cut?”
She picked up a ball of red yarn. “I don’t know. Are they meant to? I’d prefer they didn’t. I’ve just managed to grow it out from the most frightful French bob.” She stifled a yawn. “God, I’m tired! The woman in the room next to me moans all night.”
I stopped. “You have your own room?”
The nurse walked in and clapped her hands. “Work tools down, ladies! Stack your rugs on the table and follow me. It’s time for exercise.”
I got up and stood in line with the others. Then Mrs. Verdent, the head nurse, appeared in the doorway, casting a dark shadow across the floor. Instantly everyone went quiet.
Mrs. Verdent’s mouth was twisted into an expression of permanent disapproval and her white linen uniform was tightly fitted, covering her formidable curves so completely that she gave the impression of being upholstered rather than dressed. She scanned the room before advancing ominously toward the girl.
“I’m not sure you’re meant to be here,” she said pointedly.
“I quite agree.” The girl stood up, brushed off her hospital gown. “Have them bring the car round while I get my things.”
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.
