Rare Objects by Kathleen Tessaro Page A

of diagnoses. Hysterical, suicidal, depressive, delusional . . . Big Latin words for ‘a bad egg.’ This place is all right, actually. Not like some of the other ones I’ve been to before.” And she smiled again, as if to prove her point.
    â€œSo why haven’t I seen you on the ward? And why isn’t your hair cut?”
    She picked up a ball of red yarn. “I don’t know. Are they meant to? I’d prefer they didn’t. I’ve just managed to grow it out from the most frightful French bob.” She stifled a yawn. “God, I’m tired! The woman in the room next to me moans all night.”
    I stopped. “You have your own room?”
    The nurse walked in and clapped her hands. “Work tools down, ladies! Stack your rugs on the table and follow me. It’s time for exercise.”
    I got up and stood in line with the others. Then Mrs. Verdent, the head nurse, appeared in the doorway, casting a dark shadow across the floor. Instantly everyone went quiet.
    Mrs. Verdent’s mouth was twisted into an expression of permanent disapproval and her white linen uniform was tightly fitted, covering her formidable curves so completely that she gave theimpression of being upholstered rather than dressed. She scanned the room before advancing ominously toward the girl.
    â€œI’m not sure you’re meant to be here,” she said pointedly.
    â€œI quite agree.” The girl stood up, brushed off her hospital gown. “Have them bring the car round while I get my things.”
    The joke did not go over well.
    We all held our breath in dreadful anticipation of what would come next.
    Mrs. Verdent’s eyes narrowed and her voice took on a subzero iciness. But she remained remarkably calm, far more civil than she ever was with any of us. “You’re not meant to mix with others. You know that. It’s time you went back to your room.” And taking the girl firmly by the elbow, she escorted her out.
    â€œGood-bye, ladies!” the girl called out as she was trundled down the hall. “It’s been a real pleasure! Truly! Keep up the good work!”
    As luck would have it, one of the other girls at the Nightingale Boarding House worked an early shift at a diner and found the bathroom locked from the inside at five in the morning. When no one answered, the landlady got the police to knock down the door, and there I was, passed out, job half done.
    Had I known what would happen next, though, I would’ve paid more attention to what I was doing. I was committed to the Binghamton State Hospital in upstate New York, declared temporarily insane, induced by extreme intoxication.
    The building itself might have been nice if it were used for any other purpose. Formerly the Binghamton Inebriate Asylum, it was a rambling Gothic Revival structure with ornately carved wooden staircases and high vaulted ceilings. The main entrancefeatured stained-glass windows depicting scenes of Jesus healing the sick, helping the lame to their feet in rich jewel tones that cast rainbows on the parquet floor. All the other windows were covered in metal mesh. Wide, gracious corridors led from one terrifying therapy room to another, and though the hospital was set on acres of rolling green landscaped lawns, the grounds were deserted; no one but the gardeners were allowed outside.
    The first week I was there, they gave me the famous belladonna cure, known among the patients as “puke and purge.” Regular doses of belladonna, herbs, and castor oil were meant to “clean out the system.” But all I remember is being doubled over with stomach cramps, vomiting, and diarrhea, drifting in and out of hallucinations. Two large nurses dragged me to and from the toilet to the bed, occasionally hosing me down with cold water in between. The doses came every hour on the hour for three days straight. And then the hydrotherapy and chemical shock treatments began. Only after another week