Free What She Left Behind by Ellen Marie Wiseman Page A

it this time. She bit down on her lip and slid her thumbnail beneath the back flap, then tore it open. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the single sheet of her father’s ivory stationery. She let the envelope fall to the floor and held the letter with shaking hands.

    Dear Clara,
    Your mother and I hope you are well and getting the help you need. It’s unfortunate that your life has taken this turn. Dr. Thorn has reassured me that, sometimes, no matter how hard we try, parents cannot determine the outcome of their children’s upbringing. But that is neither here nor there. What’s done is done. Your mother and I have done our best and that is all we can ask of ourselves. I’m writing to let you know that things have changed since the stock market crash in September. Due to our losses, and in an attempt to keep our home and the lifestyle to which your mother and I are accustomed, I regret to say that I can no longer afford to pay for your care at the Long Island Home. Dr. Thorn and I have talked at length about your condition, and what we both feel should be the necessary next step. Dr. Thorn will explain what we have agreed upon. Try to remember that your mother and I only want what’s best for you.
    Warm regards,
    Father

    Clara stared at the letter, the words blurring on the paper, a hard lump forming in her throat. What did it mean? What was the necessary next step? Was she going to be released? Was she going to be let go, to be on her own? She dropped the letter on the floor and paced the small room, shivering. Her appointment with Dr. Thorn wasn’t until eleven. It was only nine-thirty. She stopped pacing and took several deep breaths, trying to slow her hammering heart. Emotional distress wasn’t good for the baby. She needed to calm down. After a minute, she lay on the bed and closed her eyes, pulling the thin blanket over her trembling shoulders.
    Then she sat up with a start, realizing there was something she had to do. She needed to write to Bruno. If things were going to change, if she was being released or sent home, he needed to know. Even though she had no idea if he was getting her letters, she had to try to let him know what was going on. She got up, opened the desk drawer, and yanked out the stationery provided by the Long Island Home. She pulled out the desk chair and sat, pen poised over the paper, then realized she had no idea what to say. How could she tell Bruno what was happening when she didn’t know herself? The letter would have to wait until after her appointment with Dr. Thorn. Maybe Dr. Thorn would see her sooner. Maybe she could ask Nurse McCarn if the schedule could be changed. She got up and went to the door, then heard male voices in the hall.
    She hurried back to the desk and shoved the stationery in the drawer, then looked around the room for something to make it look like she was busy. Nurse McCarn said idle hands were the devil’s playground, and if a patient had nothing to do, there were floors to be swept and toilets to be scrubbed. Clara pulled the institution-provided Bible from the shelf above her desk, sat on the bed, and opened the book to a random page. A light-headed, shaky feeling came over her, as if she hadn’t eaten in days.
    Just then, there was a soft rap on the door. Dr. Thorn and a man she didn’t recognize entered the small room, Nurse McCarn on their heels. A layer of snow sat on the shoulders of the stranger’s wool coat and filled the cuffs of his trousers, puddles of melting condensation already forming on the floor around his galoshes.
    “Good morning, Clara,” Dr. Thorn said. “How are you feeling today?”
    She forced herself to smile, closing the Bible on her lap. “I’m fine, thank you. And yourself?”
    Dr. Thorn glanced at the other man. “As I told you,” he said. “She’s always pleasant. She shouldn’t give you any trouble.” The man raised a gloved hand to his derby and tipped it in Clara’s direction. She gave him a half nod,