In the Shadow of Lakecrest(30)

Great strides are being made in the understanding of the human brain, and we are pleased to offer the latest advances in modern medicine, tested and approved by the finest experts in the field. The Clinic was the first institution in the United States to offer the Millchen Cap, with impressive results, and we continue to seek out promising new therapies. Every patient is given a personalized course of treatment, tailored to her particular needs.



Her needs. Of course. Were men ever diagnosed with “nervous disorders”?

There was a picture of a nurse wearing a crisp cap and sturdy shoes, holding the hand of a smiling young woman wrapped in a dressing gown. Another photo showed what looked like a recreation room, with card tables and a piano and a seated figure in the corner fitting together a jigsaw puzzle. It could have been the common room of a college dormitory or a ladies’ social club. The Clinic, it seemed, was intent on not looking like a hospital, at least in its advertising.

My eyes wandered to the text at the bottom of the page.



For a private consultation in complete confidence, please contact our Medical Director, Dr. Ernest McNally.



An address on South Blackstone Avenue. A telephone number. And then, in tiny letters at the very end: Est. 1870. Founder: Dr. Martin Rieger.

I’d seen the name before. Heard it.

Then I remembered. Rieger was Hannah’s maiden name. Dr. Rieger was her father.





CHAPTER SEVEN


I’d read novels about innocent young women being carted off to insane asylums by evil stepfathers or jealous relatives out for an inheritance. I’d imagined what it would be like to be tossed into a dingy cell and left to rot. I told myself not to get caught up in such melodramatic nonsense, but I couldn’t help wondering if that had indeed been Cecily’s fate. And the more such thoughts consumed me, the harder it was to wait for Mr. Haveleck’s official report. He’d shown a flicker of interest when I told him the Chicago Clinic for Nervous Disorders was founded by Hannah’s father, but he didn’t seem to take the connection as seriously as I did.

“A thorough investigation takes time, Mrs. Lemont,” he’d told me as I rose to leave. “You must be patient.”

I didn’t think I could wait. And so I headed to the Clinic a week later, telling myself not to get my hopes up, that I’d most likely find out nothing at all. The most important thing was to find a convincing reason for this sudden excursion to the south side of Chicago. I was pretty sure Hank, the driver, reported all my comings and goings to Hannah.

Hank rounded a corner and announced, “Blackstone Avenue.” Brick apartment buildings filled most of the block, with a few houses scattered in between.

“You can drop me off here,” I said. “My cousin swears by this Italian woman, says she makes the most exquisite lace handkerchiefs. I’d love to surprise Mrs. Lemont with one, so I hope we can keep this visit between us?”

Hank’s broad, dark face was set in its usual blandly pleasant expression, and it was hard to tell whether he believed me. Suddenly, I had an idea. I knew Hank had a wife and children who lived somewhere called the Black Belt, south of downtown; he stayed with them on Sundays, his day off. Hannah had told me Hank had come up from Mississippi to work in a factory during the war, but Negros weren’t welcome on the assembly lines after the white boys came home. “And it all worked out for the best,” she’d concluded. “Hank has the right temperament for domestic service.”

“Does your family live in this part of the city?” I asked.

“A few miles from here,” Hank said cautiously.

Strange that I’d spent so many hours sitting a few feet behind him, yet I didn’t even know the ages of his children or if they were boys or girls.

“Why don’t you stop by and visit?” I suggested. “Come back in an hour or so. It’ll be our little secret.”

Hank considered my offer and nodded. I’d all but promised not to tell Hannah where he was going. Hopefully, he’d do the same for me.

I waited for the car to drive away, then walked to the end of the block. The Chicago Clinic for Nervous Disorders looked exactly like the picture on the pamphlet: a somber, respectable building that did nothing to draw attention to itself. Three rows of evenly spaced windows crossed the stone fa?ade, and a doorbell at the top of the front steps was marked with a small brass plaque that said simply, “Visitors.”

I rang the bell. A middle-aged nurse in a starched white dress and cap opened the door.

“May I help you?”

I stepped confidently into the entryway. A narrow hall ran straight through the center of the building, with closed doors along either side.

“I’d like to speak to the director, Dr. McNally.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“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.