The Cure for Dreaming(50)

“What words? What topics?”

“I can’t say them out loud to you, either.” She glanced over her shoulder. “They’ll hurt you.”

Father plodded back into view with three floppy dollars in hand. “Here are your wages. Mark my word, as soon as you come to your senses, you’ll regret this ridiculous decision.”

“Thank you for the wages.” Gerda took the money with a polite nod. “There’s cold ham and carrots in the icebox. Fresh bread is cooling on the kitchen table. You should be just fine for tonight’s supper.” She darted a quick glance at me. “I’m sorry, Miss Mead. Lycka till. Good luck.”





o numb, I told myself from the far corner of my bed, in the crook of my cherry-pink walls. Don’t move. Don’t think.

I pushed the palms of my hands against my temples until my head was as clamped as those of Father’s patients in his wicked operatory chair. Moving even the smallest muscle would bring memories and, with them, an anger that burned through the lining of my stomach.

You will submerge yourself in a depth of relaxation such as you have never experienced before . . .

Father knocked on my closed bedroom door. “Olivia? I’ve prepared supper for us.”

I still didn’t move, but I asked, “You prepared supper?”

“I’ve lived without a wife for thirteen years now. I have been known to assemble a meal or two.” He rapped against the door again. “I know you’re angry, but you need to eat.”

“What terrible thing am I going to do if I speak the wrong words?”

“I don’t want to say.”

“Why not? Because you realize how horribly you’re behaving?”

“No, because it’s for the best if you don’t even envision the subjects I’ve asked you to forget. Now, come down and eat your dinner.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Olivia . . .”

“No.”

“You’re not supposed to be arguing with me.”

“I’m not supposed to be saying volatile words, which I’m not. I’m speaking quite calmly.” I turned on my side, away from the door, and made myself go stiff again.

“Very well. I’ll place a plate of food outside your door.”

“Like a jailer,” I said under my breath as his footsteps creaked down the stairs.


AROUND EIGHT O’CLOCK, WHEN THE GAS LAMPS GLOWED and my stomach growled too much to bear, I brought the plate of food into my room. I sat down on the floor and ate cold ham and carrots. All the while, the yellow cigar box stuffed with money peeked at me from beneath the ruffles of my bed.

I’m settled in an apartment near Barnard College, Mother had said in her letter, and I think of you every time I see those smart young women walking around with books tucked under their arms.

And then . . . I would even let you take a tour of Barnard, and perhaps I’d allow you to watch that delicious play Sapho, if the moralists don’t shut it down again.

The box was just sitting there, waiting for me to lift the lid and dip my fingers into the stack of bills both limp and crisp. A train ticket. Rent money to use while finishing my requirements for my high school diploma. A typewriter to help me start a journalism career. College tuition. Textbooks. The possibilities were all there, within my grasp. All I had to do was reach out, grab the thick wad of bills, and escape out the window.

Yet . . .

One hundred twenty-three dollars might also pay for Genevieve’s surgery.

It might allow Henry to release me from my treatments that very night.

Before my fingers could stretch forward and touch the smooth lid, Father swung open my door without knocking.

“We have guests arriving.”

“What guests?”

“The Underhills.” He took hold of me by one elbow and jerked me to my feet. “Do not ruin this for me.”

Father steered me out of my bedroom and down the stairs just as someone was clanging our brass knocker. The closer we got to the door, the more the knocking deteriorated into muffled thuds that sounded strange to my ears.

Another vision neared. I sucked in my breath and prepared for the worst.

Father lunged for the door and opened it up to a startling collection of sideshow oddities:

Sunken-Eyed John with his long, crooked teeth.

The bulging-eyed, dark-haired girl with the scrawny neck and blue lips from Sadie’s party.

The lady carnival barker in the red-striped coat and straw hat.

A Draculean man with a white mustache, oddly arched nostrils, and teeth that protruded over a ruddy lip.

“Welcome to my house,” said Father, and I half expected him to quote the rest of Count Dracula’s first spoken lines to the fellow who resembled Stoker’s character: Enter freely and of your own will! Instead, he uttered a nervous-sounding, “P-p-please, c-c-come inside.”

The Underhills passed across our threshold, and my eyes readjusted. The delusion ceased. Our guests became a normal family of four, albeit a garishly wealthy one, with plush silk jackets for the ladies and solid-gold cuff links and pocket-watch chains for the gentlemen. The lady barker again transformed into the brunette woman who was handing out pamphlets in front of the headquarters for the Oregon Association Opposed to the Extension of Suffrage to Women.