The Dead Girls of Hysteria Hall
By: Katie Alender
Florence’s idea, it turned out, was for them to give me lessons on interacting with the physical world—specifically, learning to pick up a brittle old red rubber ball. It was kind of them to offer, but it felt like a consolation prize—one designed to placate me and keep me from asking questions. I pictured Florence cajoling Eliza into helping me: The new girl is a crazy rebel, bless her heart; let’s indulge her a little.
I didn’t want their pity. But I really did want to learn. Being able to manipulate objects would help my investigation. I could go back and look over Aunt Cordelia’s letters, and when I found her office, I could search for information on the history of the institute.
So I went along with it. I thought it would be like learning to ride a bike. You ride a little, fall off, ride a little longer, fall off, and keep trying until you miraculously don’t fall off. But in actual practice it was more like trying to ride a bike that you couldn’t even manage to sit on. Repeatedly, I tried to scoop the ball off the table or the floor or from Florence’s delicate hand, and every time, I failed completely. After about nine hundred attempts, Eliza and Florence looked like they were sincerely regretting their generous tutelage.
Finally, giving up, all three of us flopped onto the couch.
“I don’t think I’ve been so worn out since I died,” Eliza said. “I feel like I could actually sleep.”
Florence smiled wistfully. “Oh, that would be wonderful. I want to dream again.”
“Dreams,” Eliza said. “I had the best dreams. Every night, it was like something out of the cinema—only there was talking, obviously.”
Right—living when she did, Eliza would have seen only silent films. I tried to remember what little I knew about the 1920s. Flappers came to mind—women with short, dramatic hairdos and fringed dresses dancing flouncily in jazzy nightclubs. I could easily picture Eliza there, dancing among them.
“Am I allowed to ask what you did—why you were sent here?” I asked, fully expecting to be snubbed.
Eliza made an unhappy sound. “Nothing,” she said, a note of protest in her voice.
Florence clucked and laughed. “That old story?”
Eliza reached up and pushed her hair back behind her ear. “I was thinking about eloping with an American boy. My father was very British, very old-fashioned, and couldn’t stand the thought that I would marry a young man with no family or money. Despite the fact that my father himself had come to America to marry my mother for her money, and that was fine.”
It confirmed my suspicion about a lot of the patients here; Eliza’s misbehavior didn’t sound so bad at all. Certainly not worse than sneaking off to Daytona for spring break. I wondered if, had we lived a hundred years ago, my parents would have locked me up here just like Eliza’s had. But wondering that opened some dark well of untested emotions inside me, and I suppressed the thought before I could be flooded with feelings I wasn’t ready to face.
I focused back on Eliza. “Eloping?” I asked. “You were going to get married? How old were—are you?”
“Seventeen,” Eliza said. “Yes, I was eager to be married. The alternative was sitting around and watching my mother do needlepoint and gossip about her friends. It was bound to happen eventually, and I wanted it to be on my terms.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to imagine a life with such a narrow scope.
“You didn’t plan to get married, then?” Eliza asked.
“Well, I don’t know.” I shook my head. “Maybe someday, down the road. People don’t really get married that young anymore. I mean, my parents would have had a conniption if I’d ever talked about marrying my boyfriend.”
Eliza and Florence exchanged a glance. “Boyfriend?” Eliza asked, sounding intrigued. “What was he like? What was he called?”
“Ex-boyfriend,” I said, correcting myself. “His name was Landon. He was cute and smart. And I thought he loved me, but apparently not.”
Florence sighed dramatically. “Men.”
Eliza leaned forward. “Did you love him?”
I shrugged. “I thought I did.”
“Did he make you feel more alive, every time you were near him?” she asked suddenly. “Is that what it felt like?”
“Honestly?” I said. “No. Not really. Mostly I felt sort of nervous, like he was too good for me.”
Both Eliza and Florence frowned.
“I don’t know,” I said, wishing I had an answer that made me sound slightly less pathetic. “I liked being around him, and we always got along. But somehow I did always feel sort of … smaller.”
Saying it out loud made me realize that it was true.
“What about you?” I asked Florence. “Have you ever been in love?”
Her eyes glazed over. “Oh, yes, I was in love. I love being in love.”
“Florence is like a fairy-tale princess,” Eliza said. “She spends a lot of time sitting in the parlor, reading poetry, and waiting for Prince Charming to show up.”
“Old habits die hard,” Florence said. “That’s how I spent my teenage years … sitting around lookin’ pretty, trying to catch a man good enough for my mama.”