“Jemima, who you are about to meet, suffers from an emotional insanity.” He opened Jemima’s chart and read: “‘She is lively, cheerful, and very talkative, but at times becomes insensible and will take no nourishment. At these times, force-feeding is recommended.’”
“Force-feeding?” Lucy said she had been force-fed.
“Yes, the tube is put down the throat and a healthful concoction of milk, eggs, and cod-liver oil goes through the tube to nourish the patient.”
“I see.” I tried to imagine a tube being pushed down my throat.
“I know what you are thinking, Mina, but when a patient tries to destroy herself by not taking in food, what else can we do to save her? And it is so common with young women to refuse to eat.” He continued to read from the chart. “‘She has irregular menstrual periods and a peculiar nervous system, but her flow of animal spirits is abundant. If the menstrual cycle could be regulated, she would be able to be sent home.’ I do apologize for the indelicate nature of these details.”
A perfunctory apology, if I have ever heard one. I believe he was enjoying subjecting me to topics that in a social situation would have been strictly forbidden.
“Please don’t apologize, John,” I replied. “If I am to volunteer here, I want a complete picture of the patients. It will help me to interact with them.”
“Jemima came to us with fluttering, nervous hands, which aggravate the confused mind even more. The first step was to settle the hands.” He turned the key and opened the door, leading us into a long room, where about a dozen women of different ages sat at tables doing embroidery, needlepoint, knitting, and sewing at machines. All hands were busy making scarves, draperies, pillow slips, doilies, caps, and mittens. The colors of the fabrics and yarns were a jumble of brightness against the plain white walls and the gray asylum uniform worn by the patients.
A woman in the blue apron indicating that she was on the staff sat in the corner. Seward nodded to her. No one else looked up.
“The patients come to us distracted, their minds dizzy with all sorts of worries, phobias, and concerns, and we settle them by having them work with their hands,” the doctor said. “In turn, we sell the goods they make to raise funds for the asylum. We even fulfill personal orders from our neighbors. And the uniforms of the staff and the patients are all made in this room from donated cloth.”
“Impressive,” I said. “Very efficient.”
“Jemima?”
A young raven-haired woman looked up. When she saw Seward, she put down her embroidery frame and ran to him. Her creamy skin and bright eyes distracted from the drab gray dress hanging loosely around her frame and the fact that her nails were bitten to nothing, the surrounding cuticles and skin gnawed red. She tried to put her arms around the doctor for an embrace, but he held her at a distance. “There now, that will do,” he said, embarrassed, taking her by the wrist and placing her arm by her side. “Jemima, how are you feeling today? Well, from the looks of it.”
“Yes, Doctor, I am well. Very, very well.”
“Your chart says that you have been eating your meals. This is Mrs. Harker,” he said. “She might be bringing you your lunch tomorrow.”
The girl gave a little curtsy, though she was just a few years younger than I.
“If you continue to take your food and work steadily, you will be able to go home soon,” he said.
The girl took two steps back, firmly planting her feet in a show of protest. “No! I don’t want to go home,” she shrieked. “I’m not well at all. Not well, I tell you!”
The outburst was so sudden that I took a few steps back, in case she tried to attack us. The attendant rose from her seat, but the doctor motioned for her to sit back down. “There, there, Jemima. I did not mean to upset you. Of course, you won’t be sent home until you are ready.”
That seemed to settle her down. “Be a good girl and go back to your sewing.” She thrust her shoulder forward and rolled her head back in a sort of dance hall girl pose, and Seward escorted me out of the room.
“Do you see how changeable they are, Mina?” His eyes drooped at the corners. I knew that he wanted me to feel pity for him, but it occurred to me that the girl Jemima was probably in love with him, and that is why she wanted to remain in the institution. I even wondered if something might be going on between them.
“She has been with us for six months.” He fumbled through the charts and produced one with her name. He put the others in my hand while he read from hers.
“‘Facts Indicating Insanity: The patient left the family house for three days and nights during which time she claims that she married a railway policeman, though she cannot say where it was or recall his name. She ran away repeatedly to try to return to the policeman, whom the family says does not exist. At home, she displays herself in a window wearing a dressing gown without modesty.’
“The family physician committing her wrote: ‘She has lost all mental control in consequence of morbid sensual desires.’ She has attempted to escape Lindenwood by shattering windows and has subsequently been restrained.”
“Restrained?” I asked, smiling pleasantly, remembering Lucy’s letter and Kate’s instructions.
“In the most humane manner, I assure you,” Seward said. “Would you like to see the restraining instruments?”
“Oh yes!” I said with the enthusiasm of a child who had been offered candy.
Seward led me further down the hall to a mezzanine area, where we turned a corner. With a key, he opened a door, and we entered a room. Light streamed in through the single source of a small arched window. The room smelled of chemicals. He must have heard my little sniff. “It’s the ammonia used to clean the leathers. We sterilize them after every use. We are very modern here.”
Leather cuffs and straps of many sizes hung in bundles on hooks on the wall. He opened a closet, taking out a heavy linen garment with long sleeves that ended in mitts and a complex system of tie strings that dangled chaotically.
“Whatever is that used for?” I asked.
“We use the jackets in the more difficult cases to prevent the patients from harming themselves and others. In less severe cases, we use them to pacify.”
I cocked my head. “Pacify?”
“With male patients, we use them to control violent behavior. But with female patients, we have found that confinement of the arms and hands soothes the nerves. So many things cause ladies to become overexcited. You are such sensitive creatures. Prayer, which settles the male conscience and soothes his soul, has the opposite effect on ladies. We do not know why this is. Reading novels can have the same effect. We call these jackets camisoles because they calm a lady’s nerves in the same way that putting on a lovely garment might.”
“How does it accomplish that?” I asked, assuming a guileless face. I wished that Kate could be there to see me.
“I will show you,” he said. He walked behind me, reaching around and holding the jacket in front of me. I could feel his body, or some kind of kinetic energy, coming from it, though inches separated us. “Hold out your arms.”
I reached forward, and he slipped the sleeves over my arms. “It’s a bit too large for you,” he said. He tugged on the sleeves, pulling me backward so that I rested my back on his chest. He took a deep breath, and I felt his chest expanding against my shoulders. He worked the sleeves all the way up my arms, first one and then the other, until my hands were in the mitts. “There we are,” he said. “All snug.” He crossed my arms over my chest turning me into a mummy, and for a moment-just a moment-he stopped, wrapping me into his embrace. I shivered. If the garment was meant to settle nerves, it was having the opposite effect on me. I felt a stretch across my shoulders and forearms as he laced the strings hanging from the mitts of the garment behind my back, imprisoning my hands and arms and making me immobile. I thought I might panic, but I fought the urge. He rubbed his hands on my upper arms. “How does that feel?”
Though I was ashamed of the thought, I did not want him to stop touching me through the coarse linen. I was afraid, and yet I did not want the moment to end. I wanted to feel him, but not see him.
“Mina.” He said my name softly, letting the sound float past my ear and into the dark, damp room. I faced the wall of restraints, a jungle of buckles and straps.
“I feel helpless,” I said. “The more that I know I cannot move, the more I want to move. It’s a little
