After Alice Fell(80)

I arch my back, clench my teeth, and slam the wood splint to her nose. There is a loud crack, and a gush of blood spatters on the cloth. I claw and rip it away and swing the splint again and again.

The forest dims around me. I see the swing of my arm. Cathy’s eyes glaze and stare into mine, the tiny red veins traversing the sclera bursting with each hit until the white in one eye is pink.

She lays her head to my chest. It is heavy as lead.

I swing in the air, and my arm drops to the ground. I’m too weak to lift it once more.

I open my eyes. The moon is low, just a thin crescent over the tree line. The water is indigo, streaked with wavering lines of pale sun. The water sliders skate on the pond’s skin. Toby has curled next to me, his hands tucked under my arm, his knees to his chest.

Cathy is not here.

I scan the clearing. Amos’s body is folded in on itself by the rocks. Just beyond are the snarls and twines of bushes, with one small opening in the buckthorn. The fort. There is a bright glint from a tree. Alice’s locket. It catches the sun and spins, though the air is still. On the next a lilac ribbon. A stand of birch, young saplings. A silver maple. A bit of pearl lodged in the wood. A round red bead. The teeth of a key. The Sentinels.

Cathy sways between them, then puts her hands to her knees and stumbles forward.

I slowly pull my arm from under Toby’s head.

His body stiffens when he sees her. His voice wheezes, as if he will scream. Then he digs his heels to the dirt, struggling against my grip, wanting to escape.

But Amos is dead behind us, and I won’t have the boy see that. I kiss his temple. With my lips next to his ears I whisper, “You are safe.”

There’s someone coming toward us. Loud feet that stomp and don’t mind if anyone hears them. “Mrs. Abbott! Someone answer!”

A man. He whistles, then calls again. “Anyone?”

“Here,” I call. My voice is rough, and the sound dies out at my feet.

Cathy trots toward him, waving. “Help me. Oh, please help me.”

A man pummels through the laurel and into the clearing. He carries a bundle of cotton batting folded and cinched with leather straps.

“Mrs. Abbott? What in the . . .”

Cathy stumbles toward him and grabs at his arm. He shakes her off, then stares from her, to Toby, to me. His gaze lands then on Amos’s slumped body. “My God.”

“You’ve come from the asylum. You’re going to commit me. You’re going to keep me safe.” My laugh becomes a sob. I’m too tired to stop.





Chapter Thirty-Two


The room is impossibly bright. A white linen tablecloth that sears my eyes. Porcelain cups and plates with bright berries. I push a spoon under a saucer to hide the reflection and shift my chair so I no longer face the sheen of sun scratching at the window.

“Are you comfortable now?” The man across from me perches on the edge of his chair. He holds his hands palm to palm, shoved between his knees. He twists his left boot tip against the floor. I think his feet are the size of a child’s. His hands and all his features—the grand hair and mutton chops, the saucer eyes, his Adam’s apple that struggles up and down his skinny neck—seem outsize to them, as if they were added on from the wrong pile or God had run out of the large. He’s been squinting and peering all morning. Attentive to a fault.

“Would you like more coffee?” He gestures to the pot. “Myself, a cup a day. It is a rule. Mmph.” His voice is a thin rasp. He shuffles back in his chair. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes. You are Mr. Finch. You were introduced in the hallway.”

“Enoch Finch. Doctor Enoch Finch.”

My head aches from the light. From his rasping, grating, horrible voice. I want to press my fingers to the bridge of my nose to stop the ache. But there are bandages there. And all across my head. I want the orderly to take me back to my room, so I can crawl under the bedding and let the pain dissipate in the dark. But instead, I rest my hands in my lap and shrug. “My sister-in-law sent me here. For you to examine me. To determine if I suffer from mania. Or not.”

“Mmph. Yes. That is indeed right.”

He frowns and looks over the railing to the whitewashed window. “I am one of the doctors here. I will be your doctor.”

“Did you see my room, Doctor Finch?”

“Indeed, I did.”

“This is the first day I’ve been let out in nearly a week.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it is so.”

“What do you think would cause—”

“You have this all turned around. I’m not the one with mania. Marion is. Her whole family is. I don’t know what she told you on the ride here to . . . Where are we?”

“You are at the New Hampshire Asylum for the Insane. In Concord.”

“Concord. She would have told you that I am awash in delusions and promulgate my own reality. That I killed my very best friend. But that was only due to the necessity that Lionel take some responsibility. And her sister, who did indeed die of an accident, a fall not a push off the roof. You should ask her who has the delusions. But before that—”

“Mrs. Snow—”

“Let me finish.”

He tilts his head and gestures for me to carry on.

“Before that . . .” But there’s saliva at the corner of my mouth. I dab the handkerchief Marion so kindly gave me to my lips, then tuck it into the pocket of the gown this horrid hospital provided. “Before that, her sister, Alice, lived with me and my husband, who, I am also certain you were told, had to then provide for her. She was just left at our door. And she was perfectly controlled. I made sure her life was in order. I did. I did everything for Alice. And if I wanted to shoot Marion with a bow and arrow, I would have. She would have been dead. I’m an excellent shot. I always win.”