FIFTEEN
Sunlight streamed in through the large windows of the hotel room. I squeezed my eyelids tightly against the morning light. My head erupted in an explosion of throbbing pain. The bridge of my nose felt the heat of the morning sun, and I turned and shoved my face deeper into my pillow—forgetting temporarily that I just spent a night in 1910 New York with Drake Montague. For a few seconds, my pounding head and exhausted body could only recoil at the reality of being awake. My stomach churned dangerously.
Images from last night flooded my brain with sickening clarity: the drunken stroll, the kiss, pushing Drake away, and Ryan’s face behind my eyelids. I shut my eyes even tighter, trying to block the miserable images from unfurling so mercilessly in my brain.
What was wrong with me? What had I done and more so, why was I so depressed that I hadn’t been able to do more with Drake?
“Good morning!” said a chirpy Drake, suddenly standing at my side.
I rolled over just far enough to crack one eyelid and stare up at his imposing frame. Thankfully, he blocked the horrid sun. My sheets were a tangled mess beneath me—and I obviously hadn’t had a very restful night. My inflamed eyes confirmed that assumption.
Words were too much for me at the moment so I replied to his greeting with a low grunt.
“Sit up; drink this,” he commanded me.
Responding with another grunt, I stuffed my face back into my pillow. He prodded my side and I flapped my hand uselessly at him. Begrudgingly, I sat up, my hair a disheveled mess in front of my face. Drake handed me a glass of milky water.
“What’s this?” I asked, growing suspicious.
“Drink it, you’ll feel better.”
“Rule number two, don’t ever wake me up with dodgy beverages, especially when I have a hangover.”
“It’s almost eleven, mon chaton.”
My eyes snapped open like a roll of Venetian blinds. The news from Lola Reilly was due in just over an hour.
I took the drink from his hand, carefully avoiding eye contact. Guilt ran through every vein in my body.
“How are you not dying?” I asked, wincing. The slightest movement disturbed my tender stomach. He flashed me an icy scowl. “Sorry, sore spot. Got it.”
He laughed in a low growl and nodded to the glass. I took a sip of the unappetizing drink and nearly gagged.
“What is this?” I blanched when the acrid, vinegary flavor burned its way down my throat.
“It’s an old remedy.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I procured some supplies this morning. Apple vinegar and bicarbonate. It will help your head.”
Wincing again as another throb of pain shot through my head and neck, I managed to finish the potion. Although my stomach churned violently in protest, I ignored it and tried to organize the jumble of thoughts leaping around my head like wild toads.
“I’m sorry about last night,” I said, thinking it was probably something that we needed to get out in the open.
“Last night? Pfff!” he said and waved it away as if it were of little interest to him. “I have already forgotten it, ma minette.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that until I realized it wasn’t true and his words were just for my benefit. I smiled at him in gratitude and then tried to beat down the feelings of disappointment and depression that suddenly plagued me.
Even though he quickly brushed last night off as though it meant nothing, I was still piecing through the jagged memories, and cringing with each one. I nearly buried my face in shame and kept wishing, not for the first time, that I could somehow change the past.
Drake took the glass from my hand and looked at me slowly. After removing the cumbersome dress last night, I apparently wrapped myself up in the starched, white sheet. I hadn’t moved from my place on the bed and the need for more sleep still tugged at my eyelids. I couldn’t read Drake’s body language to know what he was thinking.
“You sure that stuff is safe to drink?” I asked.
“Yes, of course. Last night certainly wasn’t my first bash in New York.”
I shifted uncomfortably at the mention of his shadowy time in New York.
“Ohhh, I see… so you give this drink to all the unsuspecting girls then?” I asked, nudging him with my foot. He shrugged and remained aloof.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
He let out a plaintive sigh.
“What?” I asked, still annoyed that he changed the topic of the night before so quickly.
“It isn’t necessary for me to be inside your head to know what you’re thinking, ma minette.”
“And what, exactly, am I thinking?”
He looked at me for a moment longer, but just as he began to speak, there was a knock at the door. We both jumped with surprise.
He set my glass on the desk and walked across the room to answer the door. My view was obscured by a wall but I heard the door creak open before a low murmur of a man’s voice spoke from outside.
“Thank you,” Drake said.
The door closed. Drake came back holding a small, white envelope with a wax seal.
“What is it?” I asked as he broke the seal and opened the envelope. His brows furrowed while he read.
“It’s for you,” he replied, and his eyebrows knitted together.
“For me?” Curious, I reached forward to grab the letter. In the process, the sheet fell away from my chest and I quickly tried to pull it up over my bra. Blushing, I took the short letter from Drake’s hand and read:
Peyton Montague,
A car will be waiting for you outside your place of residence at 1 p.m. Your kind discretion is most appreciated,
-LR
“LR?” I asked.
“Lola Reilly,” Drake replied without missing a beat. I grimaced at hearing the name. She was nice enough to me but the jealous stab in my already uneasy stomach was hard to ignore. I eyed her sprawling handwriting with unmasked disdain.
Drake’s face was still pinched in thought. Stubble darkened his cheeks and he looked like he hadn’t gotten much sleep either. I had a nagging feeling it wasn’t because of the uncomfortable couch. Red rims framed his chocolate eyes. He shook his head.
“We’ll have to find another way; I won’t let you go alone.”
“Wait. Go where?” The cloud still hovered over my brain. The drink certainly helped but I was hopelessly unaware and groggy.
“Do you remember what Lola said last night about doctors who remove ‘blockages’?” he asked.
I nodded but my comprehension failed me.
“Peyton, do you realize that Dorothy got into that car to get an abortion? And Lola has arranged for you to get into the same car.”
“Well, that’s impossible.” I said, trying to make sense of his words through the thick haze of my hangover and muddled brain. “She couldn’t have gotten an abortion because… How could she if she had Alice, right? She gave birth to the baby. Even if she intended to do that, it’s obviously not what happened… Perhaps she could have run away, that’s a possibility, isn’t it?” The concept of that dawned on me slowly.
“Oui, we have no way of knowing what happened after she got into the car yesterday. Perhaps she never arrived at the hospital.”
“Either way, I have to follow in her footsteps. The driver is the last person who saw her, as far as we know.”
“It’s too dangerous for you to go alone,” Drake said, shaking his head.
“The letter was addressed to me, Drake. I don’t think we have any choice.”
“Abortions aren’t exactly common practice in my day, Peyton,” he protested. “No self-respecting doctor would ever perform one! Whoever agreed to do that for Dorothy may not even be a doctor at all! If she really intended to get an abortion, then she was in much more trouble than either of us estimated. And I’m not about to let you risk your life trying to learn what that trouble is.”
“I came here to find out what happened to Dorothy and I intend to do all I can before I abandon my mission.”
My guilt from the previous night was swiftly transforming into a renewed fervor toward my purpose. I had to remember exactly why I came here. I couldn’t return as a failure or face Ada and Jill without at least saying honestly that I’d done all I could.
Drake’s mood remained dark, but I think he also realized there was no way around it. Or at least he knew that he couldn’t change my mind. He shook his head. His mouth formed a thin, straight line and his eyebrows furrowed with frustration.
After a moment, during which I stared stubbornly at him, his expression shifted into resigned admiration. His eyes sparkled as if he just thought of a funny joke.
“What?” I asked nervously.
“Well, I’m afraid you can’t go anywhere dressed in that sheet, mon amour.”
I blushed and stood up to collect the myriad layers of clothing that lay on the couch. Drake watched me with a devilish grin, crossing his arms over his chest smugly.
***
At precisely one o’clock, I stood outside the hotel in my navy outfit. After I choked down some breakfast at the hotel, my stomach finally began to settle. My head still throbbed painfully, but it was gradually starting to lessen.
I was thankful for the high collar that protected me from the chilly December breeze. Despite the brazen sunshine over the grimy road, the cold wind still froze my ears and fingertips with unyielding ferocity.
I locked eyes with Drake. He was sitting in a taxi about a half block down from the hotel. A few moments later, a car, or something close to it, sputtered its way to the hotel entrance. The license plate was too familiar: the same as yesterday afternoon, 176-54.
Exhaling, I watched my breath turn into a burst of white vapor in the frigid New York air before climbing inside. The car was a convertible and the heavy black canvas roof was pulled overhead. A large pane of glass separated the driver from the chilly December wind. Except for the height, it felt like sitting in a large, red golf cart. The driver’s face was hidden, and only the back of his wool cap was visible. The smoke from his cigar drifted into the backseat and I stared at him. So this was Thomas Dickerson!
I debated on how to approach the subject of Dorothy.
“All set, miss?” said the gravelly voice. He turned, and I saw a deeply pockmarked cheek as he waited for my response. Another puff of smoke wafted in front of me.
My voice came out in a tiny squeak, “Yes.”
Releasing a lever at his feet, we took off with a jolt. I turned to see if Drake were following but my view was blocked because there was no window in the convertible top. I settled down and stared at my hands, thinking of Dorothy and her mysterious life.
Drake had already proved how much one’s name meant in 1910. People must have invested a lot of stock in their social image and rank. The sight of a pregnant, unwed daughter certainly would have been frowned upon. I tried to imagine how helpless Dorothy must have felt, sitting in the back of this same car, scared and alone. Did she know then that she wouldn’t ever be coming back?
I wanted to question the driver without arousing any suspicion. Drake and I decided the best plan was to see the location where he took me before we started stirring up the pot. This way, if my journey got interrupted, I’d at least have some backup.
We rode along bumpy city roads for what felt like hours until we turned onto a single-laned road that led out into the countryside. The car plugged along, trundling past the brown hills, cracked and thawing in the dry winter air. The pale blue sky was decorated with wispy, gray clouds. Trees hugged the sides of the long road and green patches of grass appeared at random as we rolled steadily along to the tune of the car’s spluttering, metallic rumble.
When we turned down another single-laned road, I started to become nervous. I worried about how Drake could manage to keep a low profile since it was probably pretty obvious that he was following us. I doubted too many cars came this way. I desperately wanted to turn in my seat and see if the cab were still behind us. But I forced myself to stare at my hands as they bounced in my lap. I tried to dry off my palms, which were sweaty with anxiety.
We stopped in front of a large, brick house. It was surrounded by barren tree skeletons and an expansive, brown lawn. The driver got out and offered me a hand to exit the vehicle. When I stepped down, my shoes instantly sank into the soft earth.
Thomas Dickerson was a short, portly man in his mid-fifties. He had a ruddy face dominated by a large, potato-shaped nose with a crooked bridge. His eyes were a dull, watery gray and his cap was pulled down low over his weathered face. Suffering from a terrible case of acne as a young man, the scars made his skin puffy on his cheeks, nose, and chin. His suit was the same color as his hat and his clothes were nice, although a little worn. He nodded at me as I regained my balance in the soft earth. I struggled against the urge to turn around and look for the cab. I couldn’t do anything too obvious.
“Do you wait for me? Or do I…?” I trailed off, growing more apprehensive.
“Aye, miss, I’ll be out here.”
“How long does it usually take? I mean… do they always come back?”
“I’m sorry, miss, but who are they?”
I was trying to determine whether or not Dorothy got back into Thomas Dickerson’s car after her appointment yesterday. What if something terrible happened to her in the brick building that I was about to enter? A sense of doom and foreboding made my stomach hurt.
I guessed whatever happened to Dorothy yesterday didn’t concern the little toad of a man who stood in front of me. Thomas Dickerson wasn’t a threatening sort, and he definitely didn’t look like a murderer or kidnapper, not that murderers or kidnappers looked a certain way. So where had Dorothy’s journey ended? I wasn’t sure why but I seriously doubted it was with this man.
Then I remembered something through the cloudy veil of booze: Lola referred to Dickerson as a “middle-man.” It was too soon to know, but I wondered if he had a hand in Dorothy’s ultimate demise? I only hoped now that I wasn’t about to meet the same fate as Dorothy. Part of me wished Drake had been more insistent about not letting me come here alone. I restrained the impulse to look over my shoulder again.
“Thank you,” was all I could think of to reply. Thomas nodded and stepped aside, allowing me to walk past him toward the path of the house. As I neared the house, the squishy earth began to harden. My black shoes were caked with mud but there was little I could do about that. I lifted my skirt and wiped my shoes on the drier bits of dead grass.
Thomas was back in his car, watching me from the front seat with a cigar dangling loosely from his lips. When I looked further down the road, there was no sign of Drake’s cab. My stomach flipped with anxiety and I looked up at the large building looming ominously in front of me. Suddenly, I felt totally alone. I realized how quiet the inside of my head actually was. I had no one to consult as I stared anxiously at the naked trees on the sides of the road. There was no cab in sight.
I missed Drake. Not the fleshy Drake, but the Drake who lived in my head. The one whose voice I could turn to for guidance and consolation in situations such as these. Now, with nothing but my wild, anxious thoughts for company, I began to tremble and it started in my hands. I ground my jaw with worry and cast a hopeful glance back at the car. Thomas Dickerson offered me no sign of support. He could have at least given me a thumbs-up for good luck, but his indifferent scowl only reaffirmed his apathy.
Squaring my shoulders, I started toward the building. Ivy covered the front of the house except for the large, white-trimmed windows. Four Corinthian columns designated the rather grand entrance. The brick was darker, almost sepia-toned, in the overcast sky. The sound of my black shoes echoed with each footstep on the stairs leading up to the broad front porch.
I stood at the front door, and stared at the peeling white paint that revealed a dull brown wood beneath. I stopped. Was I supposed to knock? Or just step inside? Lola said I was there to see a doctor, but my indecision protracted the moment and all I could do was wonder. I became very unsure if I even wanted to know what was on the other side of that door.
Just as I raised my hand to knock, the door swung open and a young, mousey girl in a long, black frock and a white kerchief tied around her hair appeared.
“Um. Hi. I have an appointment?” I said, lacking anything better to say. I highly doubted that she’d hand me a clipboard and ask me to describe (in embarrassing detail) my smoking habits and sexual history, I wondered if they had any good magazines in the waiting room. Then I wondered if they had a waiting room.
She didn’t say anything, but stepped aside to let me in. I entered the house and edged my way along the wall until she closed the door. Inside, I saw a long room lined with rows upon rows of empty beds. The room was eerily silent. The only noise came from the creaking door hinges when she shut and then securely locked the front door with an old key. She pocketed it in her apron.
I stood there silently, waiting for her to say something. She suddenly took off on her short legs, disappearing down a hallway that led away from the room on the right. I didn’t know if I were supposed to follow her, but quickly decided it was my best option. I hurried to catch up to her. Her heels echoed down the airy hall. She turned and started up a staircase. It was in the same shabby shape as the front door—peeling white paint that covered dull, splintered, gray wood. The stairs were unpainted, and a few uneven planks every few steps indicated they had been replaced more than once.
I kept following the silent nurse until we reached a landing on the second level. I walked through a small door into a hallway. The hallway had an array of closed doors and the girl opened one, the second one from the stairs. I couldn’t see what lay behind the door from where I stood in the hallway, but as I approached it, the ungodly silence stretched the moments it took me to reach her. I finally saw a small room.
Inside, stood a tall, single bed with iron railings and metal supports that reminded me of the front legs of a praying mantis at the footboard. Against the wall, a tall desk with a stool beneath it caught my eye. Cluttering the desk’s surface were myriad brown and clear vials and jars, each containing various colors and quantities of liquids. A pile of wispy, irregularly-sized cotton balls spilled from a mason jar on the counter. A single wooden chair occupied one corner and light streamed in from a cracked window that overlooked the large, brown yard at the far end of the room. As I entered, I turned back to ask the nurse what I should do but she wordlessly shut the door behind me.
A strong, ominous gust of wind blew outside that rattled the cracked window. It made an eerie whoosh! Walking over to the window, I looked out to see if I could spot Drake’s cab from the higher vantage point. Beyond the tops of the sparse trees, I managed to make out the main road leading to the house’s driveway. Thomas Dickerson’s car was parked in front of the house but there wasn’t a cab or any other vehicle in sight. I gulped and tried to swallow but my throat was too dry as I helplessly waited for whatever happened next.
Dorothy Arnold’s unsolved disappearance was the talk of the century. A respected and high profile woman in her community one day, she was gone the next, virtually expunged from the world, never to be seen or heard from again. And here I was, possibly occupying the same room Dorothy was in not twenty-four hours ago.
Had she come here to get an abortion without realizing she was already too far along? Did she run away? Or did something much more tragic occur? Did her father become a raging murderer at the possible threat of her tarnishing the family name like Drake had originally suggested? It seemed extreme but not totally outside the realm of possibility. Or maybe the father of her baby came back into the picture? I read online something about a summertime romance between her and a strange man. The only shred of hope I had to rely on was Alice. The baby. Dorothy had to be alive long enough to give birth to a baby, and someone had to help her accomplish that.
As if in response to my anxiety-filled questions, the door opened and snapped me out of my reverie. I nearly leaped out of my skin. This time, I didn’t see the small, quiet nurse. Instead, I saw a man. He was tall and thin, and his skin was sickly pale. He wore a white kerchief on his head just like the one the nurse was wearing, and his dirty blond hair jutted out in sparse strands beneath it. A few scant mustache hairs darkened his upper lip and his long, thin nose extended almost comically beyond his face. His eyes were too close together and the color reminded me of deep, slimy, greenish-brown pond water. His bushy eyebrows looked like caterpillars when he raised them in an expression of pleasant surprise. His mouth was full of sharp, pointy teeth. He swiftly wetted his thin, anemic lips with a fast, flickering tongue that made me think of a lizard.
“Hello, Mrs. Montague. I’ve been expecting you.”