The Address(63)

Nurse Garelick laughed and shoved Sara back down with her free hand. She turned to Marianne, studying her like a wicked child would an injured butterfly. “I hear this one used to be a dancer, back in the day.”

Marianne’s arms dropped to her sides.

“That got your attention, did it? I think you should dance for us, then, since you’re incapable of sitting still like the rest of the patients.”

Marianne shook her head.

“Dance. Or don’t eat for three days.”

Sara flinched, ready to spring to the woman’s aid, to try and distract the nurses, but Natalia grabbed her arm. “Don’t do it. Stay put.”

“Dance. Now.”

Marianne hopped like a robin, wary and watchful.

“That’s not dancing. No dancing, no food.”

Tentatively at first, the woman began moving her feet in dainty steps, then her hands fluttered and she hummed a tune under her breath.

“That’s right, keep on.” Nurse Garelick stared hard, licking her lips.

Marianne’s movements became stronger, her arms wide out, then up above her head, her legs extended in long, clean lines. For a moment, Sara forgot where she was. The bare room might as well have been a London stage, and Marianne a debut ballerina in a skirt of layered gauze. Her hair whirled about her as she spun on one leg, the other wrapping around and back out, the momentum turning her around and around. She finished and gave a low bow, her aged body still limber, the steps fixed in her memory.

For a moment, no one stirred, mesmerized. Nurse Garelick indicated for the other nurses to sit and took a seat herself at the center table. No doubt the dance had transported them away from the mundane tasks at hand, to a place where beauty and kindness were still possible.

But when Sara got a glimpse of Nurse Garelick’s profile, her heart sank. A vein throbbed on her forehead, her eyes shone with a shrewish ferocity. The unexpected grace of Marianne had enraged her further.

“You’ll keep dancing until I say you can’t.”

Marianne did so, but less committed to the steps this time, her eyes never leaving Nurse Garelick’s face. After ten minutes, she had become a ghost of her former self, all energy sapped by the unexpected exertion. After twenty, she fell to her knees.

The bell rang, but Nurse Garelick put up her hands and everyone stayed seated. “More dancing. Jump around like you were doing before. You’re pathetic. A weakling. A sad, old lady.”

The other nurses joined in, teasing and laughing at the woman. Tears slid down Marianne’s face; her mouth was slack with exhaustion.

“Get up, you old bitch. Get up.”

Sara silently willed for the woman to do so. They had to be excused soon, and then she’d take her upstairs to bed and tuck her in. Show her some kindness.

Marianne was on her hands and knees, trying to get a foot under her to stand, when Nurse Garelick strode over and shoved her with her boot so hard she collapsed on the stone floor.

“Enough!”

Sara raced to her side, not caring what happened. If only all of the other women would do the same, they could overpower the nurses, take over a boat, and ferry themselves to safety and sanity.

“You’re the maniacs, how could you do this to a poor old woman?” She held Marianne in her arms and looked up.

Nurse Garelick’s expression, which she expected to be full of hate, was not. Her eyes shone, her cheeks burned red. She was happy. The thought of having another person to torture was a pleasure in her sick mind. Physical pleasure. The thought turned Sara’s stomach.

Her baby. The world slowed down for a second as she saw Nurse Garelick’s black boot draw back, but she didn’t have enough time to protect herself. The impact landed on the exposed side of her torso, hard, her body sliding a few inches across the floor. Her breath left her lungs in a rush and she groaned, releasing the woman and wrapping her arms around her own belly. The next kick struck her hip bone, reverberating through her pelvis.

A deep-throated cackle was the last thing Sara heard as Nurse Garelick’s boot connected with her temple.





CHAPTER TWENTY



New York City, January 1885


Sara stared out of the window into another bleak dawn. She’d been locked up for five days now, and other than resting on the cot, allowing her sore ribs to heal, she spent hours standing at the window. During the day, she could hear the shouts of the nurses rounding up the inmates after their walk, but other than that, no human noises reached her ears. Her meager ration of food was shoved through an opening in the bottom of the door. For the first two days, the silence was a respite from the commotion of the place, but now she was desperate for a human touch, a smile, something that acknowledged her presence in the world. By the third day, she’d looked around to try to find something with which to kill herself, but the bed had no metal springs, nothing sharp. She considered smashing her head against the bare walls.

The door to her room opened and she jumped at the sound, her ears unused to the squeaking of the hinges.

“Mrs. Smythe, you’re out.”

“I’m out?” A burst of joy collected in her throat. Had Theo finally come?

An unfamiliar nurse smiled. A missing front tooth gave her grin a menacing air. “Not out like that. You’re back on the main ward. Back to hall six.”

Of course. How stupid to think she would be released.