The Address(55)

“You don’t?”

“No, sir. As I mentioned before, that would attract unnecessary attention.”

“Then where would you like me to send her?”

“Somewhere she can get help, for whatever is causing her confusion.”

Perhaps she’d misjudged Mr. Douglas. Indeed, he laid a hand on her shoulder, like a father might. She certainly needed to find out what was wrong with her, if it was the baby causing her befuddlement or something else. If she could avoid going to jail, she could straighten herself out, get well, and then figure out what exactly had happened. Without meaning to, she began to weep.

“She is certainly fragile,” offered the doctor.

“So you agree that she should be sent off?”

“I do, Your Honor.”

The judge sighed. “Very well. She can leave for the island this afternoon. They will determine if she can be rehabilitated.”

Rehabilitated?

Mr. Douglas gestured to the doctor, who pulled out a piece of paper from his bag and placed it on the judge’s desk. The judge glanced at it for only a second before signing it at the bottom.

“To the island, then, Mrs. Smythe. And may God help you.”



“What island?”

The policeman practically shoved her up into the wagon, ignoring her question.

“I have a right to know. Where am I being sent?”

After the judge had made his pronouncement, Sara was shuttled out a side door and into a transport where a worn-looking woman sat shivering in the corner, wrapped in a dingy gray blanket. The policeman shut the door, and Sara tried to ask the woman if she knew anything about where they were headed, but she looked back at her blankly. Another girl, wearing garish face paint over a blackened eye, lay against the backboard, mouth open, asleep.

The wagon stopped three times, and each time a new mixture of women climbed on board. Two were seriously confused and babbled to themselves. Several had terrible coughs that made Sara worry about her health, but at least it did seem that they were all going to a hospital of some sort.

Finally, the wagon stopped. Outside, the East River ran fast and cold, fierce waves dodged every which way with the turn of the tide. Across the river, a half dozen enormous buildings emerged through the sleet, spaced out in wide intervals on a thin strip of land.

If she got on this island, how would she get off? Panic built up in her throat, but there was nowhere to run, no means of escape. The women—they now numbered about a dozen or so—lumbered onto a boat that strained wildly in its moorings like a chained, rabid dog. On the other side of the dock, twenty men were being herded onto a separate ferry. A disheveled drunk called them all whores before being clocked by a guard’s baton.

She stared out the grimy window as the boat chugged away from the city. Several stocky officers and two nurses met them on the other side. A list of names was called out. Sara’s was not among them.

“I’m sorry, but what is this? Where are we?” she asked the woman holding the list.

“This is the Charity Hospital. If I didn’t call your name, stay put.”

She sat back as the boat headed off to the next stop, another pier several hundred yards north of the first one. A large sign indicated it was a workhouse for petty criminals and the like. Again, her name wasn’t called.

Sara looked at the four companions who were left with her. Two of them were the babblers.

Finally, near the northern tip of the island, Sara and the other women disembarked. “Out you go. Move along.”

Several orderlies herded them toward a five-story octagonal building of white stone with two wings flanking it at right angles. A windowed cupola on top of the octagon stuck out like an insect’s eye. “What is this?” Sara spoke softly, almost to herself. The woman walking next to her took her hand.

“Do you not know where you’ve been put away?”

Sara looked at her. The woman was young, with kind brown eyes. She didn’t wear a hat, and snowflakes dotted the waves of her hair. “A private hospital?”

“No. We’re going to Blackwell’s Island Insane Asylum.”

A madhouse.

They thought she was insane.

“But I’m not mad.”

“Nor am I,” said the woman.

“Shut up, you two. No talking.” A nurse the size of a bear banged the girl hard on the shoulder, causing her to stumble.

They were brought inside the octagon and placed on hard benches that lined the walls. Sara stared about her, trying desperately to get her bearings, to make sense of where she was. A wide staircase rose from the ground floor, twisting upward, and she could see doors off each landing. The place was cold, and most of the nurses wore several layers over their uniforms of brown-and-white-striped dresses and white aprons, making them appear much bigger than normal, and quite threatening. One by one, the new patients were brought into a room. When Sara’s name was called, she stumbled in and sat at a desk opposite a man who introduced himself as Dr. Fields. He asked her the same questions as the judge, her name, where she was from.

“Do you know why you are here?” He took off his glasses. His eyes were bloodshot, with puffy half-moons underneath.

She must make them see their diagnosis was wrong.

“I was told I needed to go to a hospital, and I think if you’ll check, you’ll see that I’ve been ill and my memory’s not been very reliable, and because of that I fell into a bit of trouble. But I don’t belong here. I need to rest and get my strength back, and once I’m well, I’ll be able to explain what happened, I’m sure of it.”