“He’s very busy. If you let me know what it’s about, I’ll see if one of the other doctors is available.”
“I do apologize for the inconvenience,” I said. “Only it’s very important, and I simply must see him. Please?”
I fingered the mink stole around my neck and made a show of inspecting my diamond-inlaid watch. The nurse looked me over, calculating what my clothes must have cost. Apparently, I was worth making an effort for, because she invited me in and said she’d see what she could do. She indicated a sitting room to the right where I could wait.
I glanced around. There wasn’t much furniture, just a row of wooden chairs lined up against the walls. In the corner was a desk, and I strolled over to take a closer look. A visitors’ log—no entries for today—and a pile of letters. A few blank forms labeled Patient Information. Was it worth rifling through the drawers? It was unlikely they’d keep anything important out here, in a public space.
I heard the clatter of heels in the hall and moved back from the desk. Expecting the nurse, I was surprised to see someone else enter, a woman in an old-fashioned, shabby dress. She walked with a slight hunch and the overall weariness of someone in bad health. But she smiled brightly and seemed eager to chat.
“Hello! Here for the visiting hours?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I’m meeting one of the doctors.”
“I’m usually the only one here on Tuesdays. It’s a shame. So many patients get no visitors at all.”
Patients. So there were people living here.
“I just popped off to the washroom, but I heard the bell, and I tell you, it’s a pleasure to have some company on such a gloomy day. I come see my sister Lizzie every Tuesday and Thursday. Holidays, too, when I can. She may not know what day it is, but she deserves a Christmas present and something on her birthday as much as anyone else. It makes a difference—I know it does.”
“Is she well cared for here?”
“Oh, they’ve been wonderful, under the most trying circumstances. We couldn’t keep Lizzie at home, not after she started hearing voices. I had my children to think about. She scared them something awful—not meaning to, she’d feel terrible afterward, but my husband finally put his foot down and I can’t blame him. I’m grateful he’s willing to pay the fees. She’d be at the state asylum otherwise.”
“How long has your sister been at the clinic?”
The woman looked up at the ceiling as she did her mental calculations. “Eleven years, just about.”
Eleven years! Then it was possible Cecily had been here even longer.
“They’ve done what they can,” the woman went on. “She’ll never get back to normal, but she has good days, now and then.”
I heard approaching footsteps, and the woman reached out to pat my hand. “It’s the hardest thing in the world, sending someone away. I’m sorry if that’s what you’re going through.”
The nurse walked up to us, all brisk efficiency. “Dr. McNally will see you,” she said to me. “Mrs. Wilson, if you don’t mind waiting a bit—Lizzie’s had a difficult morning, and we’d like her to settle down before you see her.”
The nurse escorted me to the doctor’s office across the hall. It was appropriately imposing, with a vast cherrywood desk, Oriental carpet, framed diplomas and letters, and a bookshelf filled with medical texts—all designed to show off the importance of its occupant. Dr. McNally himself was a wiry, short man with thick glasses and thinning white hair. Full of fidgety nervous energy, he shook my hand. I introduced myself as Mrs. Douglas Marshall (Aunt Nellie’s married name), and he ushered me toward an armchair. The doctor took a seat next to me instead of sitting behind his desk. Was he trying to put me at ease? Or examine me more closely?
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Marshall?”
“Thank you so much for seeing me on such short notice.” I smiled brightly. “I’ve heard about the wonderful work you do here. How you’ve helped so many sick women.” I leaned in toward him, dropping my voice. “I’ve been told you have a connection with the Lemont family?”
Dr. McNally looked wary.
“I meant”—I was grasping for the right words—“I’m told your hospital caters to the right sort of people. The support of a family like the Lemonts reflects very highly on your establishment.”
The appeal to vanity was the right approach; I watched as the doctor puffed up with pride. “Hannah Lemont is the daughter of our founder, Dr. Rieger. A great man. Very influential in the field.”
“Really? How so?”
“Well, Dr. Rieger called himself a scholar of madness. He was very well-read, not just in medicine, but history, philosophy, literature—anything that shed light on the workings of the human brain. In his view, mental disorders are a reflection of the society in which they appear. As we move into a modern age, our treatments must adapt accordingly. Many of the methods he pioneered here have been adopted by hospitals all over the country.”
“How marvelous. You trained under him, I suppose?”
“Yes. Though he is no longer with us, I like to think I am continuing his work exactly as he would have wished.” Dr. McNally gave me a concerned smile. “Are you here on a family matter, Mrs. Marshall?”
I brushed my fingers against the sleeve of his white coat and pretended to blink away tears, just to be sure I’d snagged him.
“I’m here on behalf of a friend. A dear person, but she’s been going through a difficult time. Brooding, refusing to eat, that kind of thing. I was hoping I might have a tour and learn about your various treatments.”
“It would be my pleasure. I can explain our work along the way.”
I’d imagined cell-like rooms and lunatics in straitjackets. What I hadn’t expected was for the Chicago Center for Nervous Disorders to feel like my old Catholic boarding school. The corridors were dark, and the doors were equipped with sturdy locks, but the rooms were bright and spotless. It was one of those frigid winter days when the sky turns an almost blinding shade of blue, and the sunlight streaming through the windows made every surface gleam.
We walked into the common room I’d seen in the brochure. A teenage girl was picking out “Three Blind Mice” on a grand piano, and women who didn’t look the least bit insane sat reading and sewing, watched over by nurses. We peeked into what looked like perfectly normal bedrooms on the second floor, all with pictures on the wall and immaculately folded blankets. The rooms could be bolted from the outside, I noticed, but there weren’t any restraints in sight.
“How many residents do you have?” I asked.
“A dozen or so, at any given time. Most of our residents are with us a few months.”
“A woman I met in the visiting room said her sister had been here eleven years.”