A White Room Read online

  A White Room

  Stephanie Carroll

  UNHINGED BOOKS

  Copyright © 2013 by Stephanie Carroll.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  Published in the United States.

  Edition ISBNs

  Trade Paperback: 978-0-9888674-0-6

  eBook: 978-0-9888674-1-3

  LCCN: 2013930913

  Cover Design by Jennifer Quinlan of Historical Editorial

  Original Painting: Lady Astor by John Singer Sargent, 1909

  Author Photo by Corey Ralston

  Book Design by Christopher Fisher

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

  Never without Jonathan …

  It is not that women are really smaller-minded, weaker-minded, more timid and vacillating, but that whosoever, man or woman, lives always in a small, dark place, is always guarded, protected, directed and restrained, will become inevitably narrowed and weakened by it.

  —Charlotte Perkins Gilman

  When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained.

  —Mark Twain

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Prologue

  October 1901

  Labellum, Missouri

  My father died with the taste of blood on his lips. To think that’s why I now sat covered in blood. That’s why there were red handprints on the walls, crimson footprints on the floor, and screaming streaks across my white dress.

  The investigator scrutinized me, and I rubbed my hands together under the table, the blood dry and cracking on my fingertips. I had been caught, and the house smirked in triumph. The furniture trembled with joy, and the critter designs on the dishes bit their tongues, holding back cheers. Had the house won? Would it finally swallow me whole? Would my husband—still very much a stranger to me but a man who only hours ago claimed to love me—would he choose to turn me in to his colleagues waiting outside?

  Now I had to choose. I could fight for my freedom—my sanity—or I could keep the promise I’d made my father. After all, it had been such a simple request made with blood-smeared lips.

  One

  March 1900

  St. Louis, Missouri

  Florence squealed and dropped the pot onto the iron range with a loud clang.

  “What’s wrong?” I looked up from chopping carrots on the breadboard.

  “I burned myself.” Cringing, she held her hand palm up. “It hurts a lot.”

  “Let me see.” I dunked a cloth into the cool water I had used to soak the vegetables.

  Florence walked over, passing through a ray of light coming from the window. It cut through the kitchen and illuminated the dust in the air. “I thought I had enough cloth on the handle. Sin to Moses, it hurts!”

  Florence and I had offered to help with supper after our father started feeling poorly that morning. It was probably just a cold, but my mother had a tendency to overreact. She’d had herself and our handmaid Kathy fluttering for the better part of the day.

  I studied the puffy red streak across Florence’s palm. It had reacted quickly but wasn’t bubbling or peeling. Still, it was probably enough to burn for a few hours.

  She winced. “What should I do? I don’t want to bother Mother.”

  “No need.” I grinned mischievously. “Follow me,” I said.

  We slipped out of the kitchen, skittered down the hall, and made a hard right up the central staircase. Florence hid the burn on her hand as we noisily scaled the steps, our skirts swishing and our boots clunking.

  In our room, I clipped some leaves from an aloe plant I had learned how to grow in class at the university. We sat on Florence’s bed, and I broke open a fleshy clipping and applied its liquid with cotton.

  She squirmed a little when I touched it. “This is extraordinary, Emeline,” she said.

  I glanced up for a second and then back down. “What do you mean?”

  “That you know things like this.” Although I’d say my brother, James, was my best friend, my seventeen-year-old sister, Florence, understood and admired me more.

  I held down a flattered grin. “I don’t know much of anything, no more than what Mother knows. She probably has some of this in her kit.” I placed the clippings on the nightstand.

  Florence lifted her brown eyes. “But she didn’t grow it.” She used her other hand to scratch her head.

  “Be careful. It took me all morning to get your hair right.” Florence still needed my help to create the popular pompadour look, a style that required me to tease the hair at the crown, flip it up and back, high off the forehead, and shape the curls into an ornate bundle on top of a hidden crepe pad pinned underneath.

  “Sorry.” She lowered her hand.

  I heard the sound of little bare feet scampering across the wood floor. It was probably my youngest sister, Ruth.

  Florence shrugged. “Anyway, I think it’s just extraordinary.”

  “I’ve only taken a few introductory courses. After I go to an actual nursing school, I’ll really impress you.”

  “You’re not going anywhere unless you ask.”

  I focused on the red skin. “I’m just waiting for the right time.” I had returned from college at the end of the year. My parents had sent me in hopes that I’d find a husband or at least acquire enough education to engage in meaningful conversation, but instead I discovered a passion for medicine. “They want me to hurry up and get married. They won’t automatically say yes. If I had asked right away, Mother would have assumed it was a silly whim and refused. Then I didn’t want to spoil the holidays with arguments and debates, and everyone gets so tired after the holidays, and before I knew it—”

  “It’s March,” Florence said.

  I nodded.

  “What’s wrong with right now?” she asked.

  “Father isn’t feeling well.”

  “It’s just a cold.”

  I heard a scuff at the door. A little voice said, “Ahh. Shhh!”

  Florence and I squinted at each other and then at the door.

  Another noise, and someone whispered, “Liste
n.”

  I sighed and stood. I walked to the door and swung it open to reveal my two youngest sisters, thirteen-year-old Lillian on her knees with her hand cupped around her ear and seven-year-old Ruth standing by her side. Lillian had recently taken little Ruth under her wing, which meant trouble for all.

  “Lillian, what kind of nonsense have you gotten Ruth into now?” I could hardly scold. They’d learned this from years of my own coaxing to listen at closed doors.

  Kathy had clothed Ruth in a puffy lavender dress with little green and pink flowers, and her long dark hair was tied in two braids, but Lillian was still in her nightclothes, with a single knotted plait down her back.

  “And why aren’t you dressed? It’s half past one. Mother will have a fit.”

  Lillian unfroze and jumped to her feet. “Are you really going to be a nurse?”

  I slapped my hand to my face.

  “You should help Father.”

  “It’s just a cold,” Florence interjected from the bed.

  “Get in here.” I grabbed Lillian by the nightshirt and pulled her into the room. Ruth followed willingly, and I clacked the door shut.

  “Use a special nurse thing,” Lillian said. “Then he’ll let you go.”

  Ruth inched toward Florence, quickened her step, and jumped onto the bed with her.

  I sighed. “I don’t know any special nurse things. I have to go to school for that, and I didn’t want to talk to you about this anyway.”

  “Tell Father you could fix his cold if you went to school.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Florence said.

  “Tell him! Tell him!” Ruth interjected, unable to glean my annoyed tone.

  I looked from Lillian to Ruth, hardening my face. “This is a secret. I haven’t asked Father or Mother, and I don’t want anyone telling them.”

  “That’s a great idea.” Lillian pointed to herself. “If I tell him, then you won’t have to.” She whirled around.

  I snatched her by the nightshirt, grabbed her shoulder, and flung her back. “You wouldn’t.”

  She flashed a conniving grin.

  “Why? What do you want?”

  “Nothing.” She pursed her lips. “But if you’re too scared…”

  “I am not scared.”

  Florence cleared her throat, and I glared over my shoulder at her. She absentmindedly played with one of Ruth’s braids. “Maybe right now is the right time.”

  “Are you really encouraging this?”

  She sat up straight and dropped the braid. “If it will get you to do something.”

  Ruth’s eyes popped from me to Lillian and back.

  I scowled back at Lillian.

  She smirked in a way only a little sister could.

  An hour or so later, I had built up the nerve to approach my father. He was probably asleep having not felt well. I should just ask, I thought to myself. No, that conversation couldn’t happen now, but I couldn’t let Lillian tell him, either. She would, too, and she would do it in a flamboyant, ridiculous way, so my parents would never seriously consider it—how ludicrous to allow the eldest daughter to attend school instead of finding a husband. I had to show them why nursing was worth pursuing—I had to make my case to a lawyer and—worse—my mother! I should just get it over with, I thought to myself. I knew if I presented it properly, Father would understand. Mother might take some work, but if I could get Father to say yes…I held my breath, straightened my posture, and made my way down the hall to my parents’ room.

  Inside, a rancid smell hit me. My father was seated bent over in the bed. He gurgled a black, grainy substance into a chamber pot while my mother stroked his back. His nightclothes were streaked with pale shades of yellow from sweat.

  I stared, shocked.

  My mother held a glass of water to his lips. He sipped, sloshed it about, and spit. With a gentle touch on the back of his neck, my mother guided him down onto his pillow. She examined the contents of the chamber pot and then fixed her eyes on me. She beckoned me as she walked out. “Emeline?”

  I hesitated, thinking it was only supposed to be a cold, and then followed her quick heels, staring at her dark hair pulled back into a tight bun.

  “This is not an ordinary case of dyspepsia,” she said.

  “Do you think it’s influenza?”

  “I don’t know. He says it feels like something is slicing him from the inside.” She made a clawing gesture across her stomach. She stopped and turned around. “This—this isn’t normal.” She held out the chamber pot. The putrid-smelling contents resembled wet coffee grounds. “He’s hardly eaten anything. I don’t know what this is. He doesn’t have anything in his stomach.”

  “What’s wrong?” Lillian and Ruth popped out from around the corner, having been listening in again.

  My mother jumped and then glared at them. “Go downstairs, please.”

  Their eyes shot to me.

  “Go,” she ordered. “And get dressed.”

  Lillian stopped and flashed worried eyes back before leading Ruth past us toward the stairs.

  I returned my attention to my mother. “I should send for the doctor.”

  She took a deep breath and sighed. “No, I’ll send for Dr. Morris. Go sit with him. I’ll only be a moment.”

  I turned back and jumped when Lillian leapt out again, without Ruth this time. I brought my hand to my chest at first, not sure how she’d sneaked there so quickly, but then I narrowed my eyes and dropped my hands. “Didn’t Mother just tell you to go downstairs?”

  “Is Father all right?”

  “I don’t know.” I walked past her.

  “Fix him.”

  I turned back. “Mother’s sending for the doctor.”

  “No. You can fix him. You know how. You can.”

  “Lillian.”

  “You can, you can.” She bounced.

  “Lillian,” I said with enough force in my voice to stop her, “go downstairs.”

  She scowled at me, pushing her chin out.

  “Now.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me before stomping down the hall, probably only to sneak back the moment I turned my back.

  I returned to my parents’ room and lowered myself into the rocking chair next to the bed. My father’s large belly rose high and then fell. His breath rustled his droopy mustache with a low rumble. It was only supposed to be a cold. I wished I did know more nursing so I could help him. He couldn’t be too sick. It couldn’t be serious. What if it was serious?

  I wished I were a little girl again. I wanted him to pick me up and spin me around and around. I wanted him to put me on his shoulders so I could see the city, or let James and me hang from his arms and swing us back and forth, pretending he was a giant. Sunday walks in Forest Park. Back then he’d seemed too powerful to get sick. I couldn’t remember him having ever gotten sick. He’d seemed invulnerable. He was a strong lawyer who wore fancy suits and argued on behalf of the innocent. Whenever something didn’t make sense, he could explain it, make it right. He knew everything; he could do anything. He was strong and protected us. He would wrestle a wild beast to protect us, and in fact he had when he stopped a mad dog from attacking Lillian when we were little. He took care of me when I fell ill, stroked my hair, read me stories, and made me laugh.

  I noticed droplets of sweat along his thin hairline and was searching for a cloth when his snore broke into a wet choke. He hacked himself out of sleep and up into a slumped position.

  I grabbed the glass of water from the nightstand. “Father, Father, drink this.” I lifted the glass to his mouth.

  He held the hacking back long enough to take a sip, but when he swallowed, his throat constricted and he spewed water all over the bed and my arm. I pulled back, and he gagged and gagged until more black tar gurgled down his chest. I stepped back, horrified. I didn’t know what to do. I just stared. He wouldn’t stop. He gagged, gagged, gagged until bright red blood dribbled down his chin.

  Almost a month later, we crowded into m
y parents’ room, positioning ourselves among my parents’ dressing tables, a vanity, the washstand, and the bulky armoire. I held little Ruth on my hip and stood near the door. My father lay there pale and wilted, his lips stained red. Dried blood streaked the rumpled sheets. My father’s condition had worsened until Dr. Morris informed us of the need to remove a tumor from his stomach. The doctor had warned us the procedure might not save him, so my father asked to see all of us together in case this was the end. I told myself this would not be his final goodbyes. He would get better. He had to. We needed him. We all needed him. He could always calm Mother, encourage me to take a risk, guide James to pursue the right and just thing, inspire confidence in Florence, and tickle giggles and good behavior out of my youngest sisters. He took care of us. He was going to be all right. He was going to get better. He had to get better.

  He asked for James, who had Lillian by the hand. My brother clung to his composure, but his eyes were red. James released Lillian and maneuvered around Mother and Florence, who were sitting in chairs next to the bed. Florence clutched my mother’s hand, and my mother clutched her embroidered handkerchief.

  “James.” My father fumbled for his grasp.

  James clasped his hand and lowered himself.

  “Be strong. You will need to be the head of the family,” my father’s voice rasped.

  James closed his eyes and shook his head slightly but didn’t say anything. My father squeezed his hand. James bent over and clutched my father and then retreated to a chair next to the window. He dropped his head into his hands. Lillian nudged him until he sat up and took her in his arms.