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Clara dropped her hands, looking around in the hallway. She was alone, but anyone could have happened upon her—fondling herself!
She stood demurely, hands clasped before her. Within, though, tension built, gathering force like water set to boil.
Never in her memory had she exploded in frustration. She wanted to now.
Clara leaned her head back to stare up at the plaster on the ceiling, desperate for someone to help her hold herself together.
Some assistance from on high would not go amiss.
Gussie’s muffled cry came through the closed door only a few feet away. Clara pressed her ear to the white enameled wood.Crying out in her sleep again.
She opened the door and slipped in. The curtains were drawn; both residents slept in their narrow beds on either side of the window. As silently as she could, she moved a chair to Gussie’s bedside.
Once her eyes adjusted to the dim room, she saw the outline of Gussie’s only leg under the blanket. One of Gussie’s gnarled hands shook as it lifted from her abdomen. She cried out again before it resettled.
“Shhh,” Clara soothed, but didn’t touch her, not wanting to startle her. “Shhh.”
Gussie inhaled audibly, then quieted.
Clara sighed, wondering whether it was another nightmare or pain afflicting the woman—or both.
She hadn’t known Gussie in her prime, only after her miraculous recovery from an amputation at London Hospital. Being struck by a carriage then becoming a rare female survivor of amputation were but two of the many difficulties she experienced before becoming one of Violet House’s first residents.
She soon established herself within the household as the old hen who kept the others in order, all but holding court—when she was awake.
The first time they met, Gussie’s good eye had looked her up and down before rolling. “`Ave a look, tarts, the queen is `ere ter visit!”
Clara had laughed, Gussie cackled, and they found their way upon a foundation of mutual respect. Gussie was proud but needed help, and Clara and Stella both appreciated Gussie’s role with the other residents.
Suddenly, Gussie’s wrinkled mouth opened with a gasp. She turned her head toward Clara as if she’d known she was there.
“Yor baby,” Gussie rasped.
Clara took her hands into hers, stroking her fragile skin. “Shhh.”
“Where's yor baby?”
“I’m here, Gussie,” she murmured.
Gussie strained to lift her head from the pillow. “Find `er, now!”
Clara would have offered her another general reassurance, but Gussie sat up into the line of dim light beaming through a gap in the curtains. Her eyes weren’t unfocused or confused; she peered at Clara urgently.
“Yor baby,” she said, her lower lip trembling.
“I haven’t a babe.”
I haven’t a babe. The words echoed back at her painfully.
“Yes, yer do. Find 'er!”
Clara and Gussie locked eyes, and it was as if they traveled together. She saw a rosy-cheeked babe with silky dark hair. Her arms knew what it felt like to hold her plump, wiggling body. She knew her squeal of delight, her hazel eyes matching—
Clara busied herself, settling Gussie’s trembling body back down into the mattress, promising her quietly that she’d go look for her babe. It took several minutes for Gussie’s hands to relax, and by then, Clara couldn’t see a clear image of the babe anymore.
Slipping from the room, Clara blinked away tears.
Your comportment!
