After Alice Fell(58)

Thomas was here last night. He followed us up the stairs, his hand sliding along the railing. He’s waiting for the lie I’ll need to tell now because Ada shut him from the room and told him he was no help in the matter.

“Tell me your story again.”

“I was visiting a friend.” My lip has scabbed. My tongue hits the back of my teeth as I talk, careful to keep my mouth still as possible. “From Baltimore. From the hospital. The war.” I try to conjure a name, but my thoughts spread like a fine mist. “Dinner at the Phoenix.”

“Good.” The feather mattress plumps as she stands and paces along the windows. “You had lamb and mint. Strawberry tart.”

“I don’t like mint.”

“Stewed apples.” The window casing groans as she opens it. The outside noises slip in: horse hooves and boys calling and the constant rumble of people living life. “Someone might ask.”

“Thomas will?”

“Yes. He will. And Lionel. I’ve sent a telegram.”

“Help me up.” I twist and shove my heel and knee to the bed. I want up. I want clothing. I want my brother to tell me why he lied.

Ada assists, pushing and plumping pillows.

“Is he coming here?” I ask.

She nods. Her eyes flick to me, then she makes a fuss with the sheet that slid sideways. “Did you find your answers?”

“She was pushed. Someone took her to the roof and pushed her over the edge.”

Her palms smooth the sheet over my legs. She tucks in the lower corners. “My God.”

The light flattens and flashes. Black and white, like a train. There—something white and the whinny of the Morgan. But the room returns to the robins and blues, and a knock on the door interrupts us.

“I let myself in.” Cathy’s voice is muted behind the door.

Ada rushes over, pulling the door wide, holding it open. She says something I can’t quite hear. She taps her chin with her thumb, listening. Nodding. Then Cathy has rounded the doorway, stands at the end of the bed. She grips a leather travel case with both hands.

“You’ve got yourself in a fine mess.” She sets the case to the floor, unpins her traveling hat, and lays it atop my feet. Her eyes graze the scrapes and bruises on my face, stop on the stitch in my lip. “That, unfortunately, will scar.” She shrugs. “There are worse things. The arm, for one.”

“I was out with a friend. To dinner.”

She picks up the water glass and holds it to the sunlight. “Just water?”

Ada steps forward. “We’ve no potions. We’re teetotalers. I could bring chamomile.”

Cathy’s eyebrow lifts and she sets the glass down before bending to the case and unbuckling it. “I’ve brought clothing. You really do need new clothes, Marion. I’ve a shawl you can wear over your chemise. Until we’re home.” She lays out bloomers, a petticoat, a brown twill skirt. “We’ll dye it when there’s an opportunity, but for now, this will have to do. Can you stand?”

I push my good hand into the mattress to lift myself; Ada holds me under the arm when I stand and tilt too far forward, digging my toes into the rag rug to maintain balance.

“I’m all right.”

Cathy is all motion. Here untying the sling, there the buttons of the nightdress, flicking the bloomers in the air as if she’s just pulled them from the laundry line. “Was it only you, then? In the accident, I mean. Were there others involved?” She lifts the bloomers up each of my legs and pulls at the waist to fasten them. “What was her name?”

“Who?”

“Step in.” She points to the petticoat. “Your friend. You had dinner, remember?”

Ada gives me an imploring look, then picks up the sling and fusses it around my arm. “I’ll have you come another time,” she says. “For the girls.”

“We should contact your friend. Let her know. And your rescuers. I think a note of acknowledgment would be in order.” Cathy pins her hat again and gives Ada a peck on the cheek. “Lionel will talk to Thomas about any damages.”

It is glaringly bright outside. The buggy is open, the canvas top folded away, leaving the sun to pound at my skin. Ada says nothing as we depart, just stands at the short iron gate. The windows of the houses reflect the glare. I squint against it. Close my eyes. But the sway and bump of the cab and Cathy’s silence make me light-headed and nauseous.

The buggy whip sits perpendicular to the road. Cathy’s back is just as straight. She takes a route that skirts the town, and I’m thankful for the reprieve from the sun, for the trees are thick and the light dappled.

I can’t stop the images that skim across my mind. That horrid box. The ice baths and white, white walls. Miss Clough’s starched skirts. Mrs. Brighton’s voice echoing in the hallway. I shudder, as if ice water has dripped on my back. My hands and fingers grow cold and numb. My teeth chatter and clack. I know it’s shock.

When we turn to Turee Road, she flicks the reins. “You lie as badly as your brother.”

“I was at the asylum,” I say.

“Yes. Yes, Ada told me.”

“Lionel has Alice’s notebooks.”

“Does he?” She shakes her head. Gives a quick smile and without warning pats my leg. “I think you’re the only one who knew how to take care of Alice.”