Terry Thomas - The House of Secrets

Back in my bedroom, I made quick work of my evening ablutions. I took the drops of morphine and crawled into bed exhausted from my long day, confident that the tincture would continue to stave off the merciless sobbing.

I dreamed that Zeke had recovered from his injuries. In my dream we were on a picnic in Golden Gate Park. Zeke put his sandwich down and reached out his hand to touch my face. ‘I’ll never leave you, Sarah,’ he whispered to me. He morphed into someone different, someone who stroked my face, saying strange words I did not understand. I awoke, disoriented, not sure where I was.

As my eyes adjusted to the light, the shape of a man standing near my bed came into focus. This was no dream. A flesh-and-blood man stood at the end of my bed. When he moved close to me and reached out to touch my face, I screamed.

My scream pierced the silence. When my eyes adjusted to the light, I recognized Mr Collins as he scurried crablike to the corner of my bedroom. He squatted there, shielding his face with his hands, rocking back and forth.

A nurse stood in my bedroom doorway, the light from the hallway forming a halo behind her. She took one look at Mr Collins and at me and called out. ‘Staff, please.’ When no one responded she said, ‘Now.’

Soon another nurse with mousy brown hair joined us.

‘Miss Joffey, please see if you can get him settled down.’

The nurse who arrived first stood aside to let the woman into the room. She motioned for the two orderlies who stood in the corridor to wait outside. When she turned on the lamp, I saw her red hair, the smattering of freckles across the nose. The nametag on her chest said Eunice Martin. She grabbed my robe from the chair where I had thrown it the previous night and wrapped it around my shoulders. Miss Joffey knelt next to Mr Collins. She spoke to him in a soothing voice until his breathing quieted and the rocking motion stopped. Mr Collins took his hands away from his face and gazed at us, a befuddled look on his face.

‘What’s going on?’ Bethany hurried into the room. She had wrapped a flannel dressing gown over her pyjamas. In her haste, she hadn’t noticed that the dressing gown was inside out.

‘It’s Mr Collins,’ Eunice Martin said. ‘He’s been wandering again.’

‘Mr Collins, you need to go back to your room now.’ Bethany spoke with a sure authority. ‘Let Nurse Martin and Nurse Joffey take you back to bed. It’s time to go back to sleep.’

Mr Collins allowed the nurses to help him to his feet.

‘You know it’s not polite to go into anyone else’s bedroom without permission.’ Bethany spoke in the same tone she would use to speak to a child.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Bethany. I just wanted to touch the fire in her hair.’

‘Mr Collins, you mustn’t sneak into other people’s rooms, no matter the reason. You owe Miss Bennett an apology.’

‘I’m sorry, but the light—’

‘That’s all right, Mr Collins. But I would prefer if you would knock before you enter my room.’

He grabbed Eunice’s arm and pointed to me. ‘Can you see the light?’

‘You may take him,’ Bethany said.

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Miss Joffey put her arm around Mr Collins and led him away.

He followed like an obedient puppy.

‘Sarah, are you okay to go back to sleep? I can give you something, if you need it,’ Bethany said.

‘No thank you.’

‘I’m sorry if you were frightened. Mr Collins should not have entered your room. He’s never done anything like that before. I can’t imagine what has got into him.’

‘I’ll be fine. Thank you.’

‘Good night then.’

‘Good night,’ I said.

After Bethany shut the door behind her, I opened the window. I took the chair from the writing desk and dragged it over to the door, where I wedged it underneath the knob. Only then, secure in the knowledge that no one else could get in, was I able to sleep.

* * *

When I awoke the next morning, a shroud of fog had settled over the city. The wind blew against my windows, rattling them like a witch’s curse, causing the grey mist to swirl like waves. I dressed and headed downstairs, anxious to begin my day. In the foyer, two maids swept the marble floor. Chloe, the young woman who answered the door for me yesterday, had her head bent over some sort of ledger, copying numbers from a pile of receipts. She nodded at me as I passed her desk.

Once again, I followed the smell of coffee and cinnamon to the kitchen, where Alice laboured over something that smelled like heaven. She rolled out dough onto the section of the chopping block that had been covered in flour. Mrs McDougal stood near her, arms across her chest, supervising the girl’s efforts. Both women nodded at me when I came into the room.

The young woman twisted the dough and with expert fingers, dusted it with cinnamon and sugar from the bowl that rested near her elbow. She then placed the twisted dough onto a cookie sheet, waiting its turn in the oven.

‘There are cinnamon rolls, toast, scrambled eggs, and coffee.’ Mrs McDougal nodded to the table, where a breakfast buffet had been laid out. ‘We won’t have butter until tomorrow, so you’ll have to use jam.’ I grabbed a mug, filled it with coffee, took two pieces of toast, and sat down to watch the women tend to the baking.

Under Mrs McDougal’s watchful eye, the young girl went to the oven and took out a cookie sheet laden with half a dozen cinnamon rolls. She set these on a cooling rack, slid the sheet of uncooked rolls into the oven, shut the door, and set the timer.

‘Those look beautiful,’ Mrs McDougal said with pride. ‘Now glaze them with the icing, and I bet Miss Bennett will volunteer to taste one for you.’

‘Two for me, please. I’m famished.’ Dr Geisler burst into the room. He poured himself a cup of coffee and loaded a plate up with toast, scrambled eggs, and two of the cinnamon rolls – a surprising amount of food for a man so slight of build. He sat down across from me, put his linen napkin on his lap, and dug into his breakfast.

‘You’re probably wondering why we eat in the kitchen. The dining room has been converted to a visiting area. I’m hopeful that when our beds are full, the patients’ families will come to visit them. There’s something warm and cosy about eating in the kitchen, don’t you think?’

He didn’t give me a chance to answer.

‘We dine formally in the alcove across the hall. We can seat eight people, and that is sufficient for our needs.’ He picked up the newspaper that lay folded on the table near his plate. ‘I’m sorry about Mr Collins. You’ll have a key to your room by lunchtime. I should have had the foresight to give you one when you first arrived. Did you sleep well after your interruption?’

‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Although I confess I wedged a chair under the doorknob.’

‘Mr Collins is quite taken with you, Sarah. I assure you he’s harmless, so if you come across him just know that he will not hurt you.’

‘What do you do with patients like Mr Collins? Has he always been like that? Can you cure him?’

‘Mr Collins used to be a prodigious piano player, a respected professional. He suffered a horrible tragedy, which pushed him over the edge. He hasn’t played the piano since.’ Dr Geisler set his fork down and used his toast to mop up the last of his eggs. He didn’t speak until he finished chewing and dabbed his mouth once again with his napkin.

‘I have no idea if I can do anything for him at this point. He seems to be a different person when he is under hypnosis. But when I bring him back, he regresses. When Mr Collins’s brother brought him here, he mentioned that he had no idea what to do with his brother’s piano. I suggested he bring it here, just in case it might trigger a memory. Music is great therapy.