Meanwhile, Ana flailed at me, so strong in her fury, it was as if a demon possessed her. I struggled to reason with her, much less defend myself from her blows as she dragged me to the floor. “Ana, please. You’ll hurt yourself, my love. Please.”
“Je ne vous connais pas!” Ana spat at me.
My sister helped me pin her namesake’s shoulders to the floor while I held her wrists down. Sympathy carved a frown into Angelica’s reddening face as Ana struggled. “She said she doesn’t know you.”
And in that devastating moment, I finally faced the reality that my beautiful daughter was lost—to me, to herself, to time itself.
The loss had been a steady one, like a tree losing its fall foliage one fiery leaf at a time, so that you didn’t notice the falling away until the tree was nearly, and suddenly, bare.
When the fight bled out of Ana and her muscles went lax, she curled against my sister’s knees and sobbed. “He’s an imposter, Aunt Angelica,” Ana wailed between hitching breaths. “If he goes away, the real Philip can come home.”
“If who goes away?” Angelica asked, rubbing my daughter’s back.
“Little Phil!” Ana cried. “He stole my brother’s name and his place in our family. And the real Philip wants to come home to us.”
I cupped my hand to my mouth, believing it entirely possible that I might be ill. I hadn’t ever thought Ana could be a danger to the other children. I’d even relied upon her to look after them. But now my beautiful, talented daughter had tried to suffocate her youngest brother . . . to bring back her oldest.
Dear God. Dear God, no more.
It was true that I’d had a double share of good fortune and blessings in my life, but had that happiness not yet been repaid many times over in grief? When I recounted all the losses—my sister, my son, my mother, my husband, my father—I wanted to scream at God that my ledger must now be balanced.
Seeing me near to breaking, Angelica nodded to the door. “Go. Take the little ones.”
Dragging myself off the floor, I was a disheveled wreck—bruised, tendrils of hair askew, a tear in my sleeve. I righted myself and ushered Little Phil and Lysbet into the hall, grateful beyond measure that the rest of the boys were at school. “Are you hurt?” I asked my little boy.
“No, Mama,” he said, being brave despite his quivering lower lip. I pulled him into my arms and held him tight against me in gratitude. Then reached for Lysbet and cuddled her, too.
“This can’t go on,” Angelica said, later. After she’d finally calmed Ana, who’d fallen into a troubled sleep, my sister had locked the door to her room. But when she put the door key beside me where I stood, staring out at a bleak winter world, I shuddered, hearing my husband’s voice.
They will lock her away.
Angelica’s hand rested upon my shoulder. “You’ve done all you could for as long as you could, Eliza. My niece needs more care than any one person is capable of giving.”
But years of charitable visits to hospitals and almshouses had left me with a horrifying knowledge of the conditions. “I cannot tolerate the thought of Ana . . .” I shook my head and searched for another answer, another way. What kind of mother cast out her own daughter?
They locked my mother up. I will never let it happen to Ana.
“I know what you’re thinking,” my sister said, taking my hand.
But I didn’t think she did. Alexander’s voice didn’t echo for her, as it did now for me.
But you aren’t here, Alexander, I thought. You aren’t here to take care of her or of any of us. You aren’t here or anywhere I can find you.
Angelica cleared her throat. “Private asylums can provide the appropriate environment. She’ll be offered exercise, work, education, religious instruction.”
I nodded, having read the work of Dr. Rush and others emphasizing humane treatment to those with disordered minds instead of restraint, exorcism, and punishment.
How had it come to this? With a shiver, I admitted, “She could have killed Little Phil today.”
“Yes. And she might succeed next time.”
Next time. As much as I wanted to deny it, I knew there would be a next time. “But . . . she wasn’t aware, she didn’t know. It’s not her fault,” I managed, a knot in my throat. “She was always such a sweet girl before. You remember, don’t you? She was—”
“I remember,” Angelica said. “And of course it’s not her fault. It’s not yours, either. Even if you kept watch over her every moment of every day, you couldn’t make her better. And your other children would suffer from your inattention. To say nothing of the burden on young Alex.”
My eldest surviving son had taken up the practice of law to help support the family and felt the burden keenly. To add another worry upon his still slender shoulders . . .
“You must make the only choice a loving mother can,” my sister concluded.
I swallowed hard. “How do I . . . ?”
Angelica pulled me into her embrace before I could sob. “Let me make the arrangements.”
And she did.
It was snowing when the doctor arrived a few mornings later to take my daughter to what Angelica assured me was a reputable private asylum about ten miles away, with bucolic views of forests, fields, and the East River. My sister had even arranged for Ana to have a new piano there—for Ana still played, singing the same songs—and only the songs—she’d sung before Philip died.
To my surprise, Ana was amenable to going, assuming the doctor was a coachman meant to take her to visit her grandfather, as she’d done so many times before. I gathered my coat to join
