“Seven total.”
“And they have all died?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“In my mind, the chances of seven out of seven patients dying under questionable circumstances is a rather convincing argument for the point I’m trying to make here. Do you not see it in those terms?”
“I suppose I do,” Mitt reluctantly agreed. He’d been arguing the same point with himself.
“Earlier when I asked you if you’d seen the blond girl, you answered yes, but you used the term ‘hallucination.’ I prefer ‘ghost’ or ‘specter’ or ‘phantasm,’ as they are more substantive to me. A hallucination is a product of the mind, so I can’t see your hallucinations and vice versa. But be that as it may, have you had other ‘hallucinations’ over the few days you have been a resident?”
“I have,” Mitt said. “I’ve seen a pitiful crowd of post-surgical patients with many of the people carrying amputated limbs or excised organs. I’ve also seen hordes of rats. On top of that, I’ve also been assaulted with some of the worst odors I’ve ever confronted as well as the sounds of distant cries of anguish.”
“I’m not surprised. I would have guessed as much. Bellevue’s ghosts have a lot to complain about. During its long history it was described as the place where the groans of the dying met the stink of disease. The hospital did serve the poor of New York, but at the unimaginable cost of overcrowding and lack of sanitation. Its patients were also considered fair game for doctors, particularly surgeons, to hone their skills and also try whatever their imagination might suggest, which nowadays is considered a major ethical lapse. What this all underlines is that Bellevue Hospital and you are uniquely mismatched because of your direct link to Homer Fuller, Otto Fuller, Benjamin Fuller, and Clarence Fuller. I hope you will give serious thought to everything I have said tonight. Obviously, I am not going anywhere, as Bellevue is my life, so if you want to talk to me some more or have some specific questions, just call the main housekeeping number anytime, day or night. Between eleven p.m. and seven a.m. I will answer. Otherwise just leave a message for me, and I will get back to you. My days off this week will be Sunday and Monday, so you can put that in your memory bank.”
“Am I being dismissed?” Mitt asked.
“Heavens no,” Lashonda said. “I just assumed you’d want to leave since it appears that you don’t want to eat any more.”
“I lost my appetite,” Mitt said. “My mind is racing around in circles. I don’t quite know what to think. I’ve wanted to share the phantasms, the noxious odor, the pitiful, distant cries, with someone but I’ve been reluctant. I was afraid of what people would think of me. Hell, I didn’t even know what to think of myself. And then, out of the blue you not only bring them up but provide an explanation.
“To be entirely honest, I’ve never given the supernatural much thought. Well, that’s not true. What I mean to say is that I’ve never given the supernatural much credence. I think of myself as scientifically oriented, yet everything that you have said makes sense, and I’m blown away by it. Still, I don’t know quite what to think.”
“I’m glad you’re being open with me. To be equally honest, I wrestled with the idea of talking with you or not, which is why I didn’t approach you Tuesday morning when our eyes met and I realized we shared the gift or burden of being portals. My concern was that you wouldn’t believe me or, worse, would think I was deranged and possibly cause me trouble with the administration. I hadn’t really decided whether to approach you or not until you unexpectedly showed up here at the cafeteria during my middle-of-the-night lunch break. The moment I saw you I decided it was fate. If you had not come to my table, I would have come to yours.”
“It certainly sounds as if fate played a significant role,” Mitt said. “After my patient with the thyroid storm died, I was suddenly not tired, which is weird because of how little sleep I’ve had all this week. Instead, I decided I was hungry, which was also weird. I can’t remember that ever happening to me before.”
“It seems destiny was involved,” Lashonda agreed. She then paused before adding: “Is there anything specific you’d like to ask me before we part?”
“Actually, there is,” Mitt said. “When you described in detail the instrument Charlene Wagner apparently holds every time she appears, you said you learned it from your unique sources. What did you mean by that?”
Lashonda’s eyes did a quick detour around the room before settling back on Mitt. She leaned forward again and lowered her voice. “I have access to a cache of patient records, thanks to my mother, bless her soul, that have not seen the light of day and probably never will, at least in my lifetime.”
“What kind of patient records?” Mitt asked. Sensing Lashonda’s interest in being secretive, he also leaned forward. His curiosity was piqued.
“Not very flattering ones,” Lashonda said. “At least that is my take. Apparently they were purposefully gathered and then hidden away by your ancestor Dr. Clarence Fuller. Of the ones I’ve looked at, they include a lot of the records of unsuccessful or outlandish medical and surgical procedures carried out over several hundred years at the whim of the involved doctors, including a number performed by your ancestors. More important and related to Charlene Wagner, they include most of Dr. Clarence Fuller’s lobotomy records. He did a lot more lobotomies than what has generally been attributed to him, which apparently he didn’t want the world to know after the procedure fell out of favor.”
Suddenly Lashonda paused and for a few beats stared directly at Mitt. “I’m sorry. Is this upsetting for you to hear?”
“Moderately,” Mitt admitted. He was shocked and horrified to hear about Clarence. It was so contrary to what he’d been raised to believe, yet it was consistent with what he’d read in the Pendleton paper.
“Do you want to hear more, or have you heard enough?”
“Definitely I want to hear more. Please!”
“I read through many of Dr. Clarence Fuller’s records, and doing so, I learned that he’d lobotomized quite a few young patients where the indication was marginal. In Charlene’s case, although she was for a time housed on the ‘distressed ward’ — the locked ward, where restraints were occasionally needed — her diagnosis was ‘age-related behavioral disorder’ and certainly not something more serious. Such a diagnosis, which is a condition children often outgrow, makes her death that much more tragic. It also makes the decision to lobotomize her an inexcusable mistake.”
“I would like to see these records personally,” Mitt said. “Can you get them for me? Or at least some of them, particularly records of my ancestors?”
“I’m sorry, but that’s not possible.”
“Oh?” Mitt questioned with obvious disappointment. “Why not?”
“Because of a promise I made to my mother.”
“How is your mother involved?” Mitt asked with confusion. Lashonda’s evocation of her late mother might have been the absolute last thing he expected.
“Well, it’s a rather long story, and it most definitely has something to do with how long our family has been associated with Bellevue Hospital. Are you sure you want to hear it?”
“Absolutely,” Mitt said.
“The records we’re talking about have been hidden away for more than a half century, most likely initiated by your ancestor Dr. Clarence Fuller’s wish to hide his advocacy of lobotomy. But it became more than that. He’d also gathered other records he wanted to hide, some of your earlier ancestors’ files as well as their surgeon colleagues’, presumably because their operative survival rate was so low, and it reflected badly on them, as well as on the hospital. At least this is my educated guess. Before Clarence Fuller retired back in 1975, he turned the care of this cache of hospital records over to one of the hospital hospitality administrators, who happened to be my mother’s boss. Before this administrator could decide what to do with them, as they were still in your ancestor’s vacated office, they were inadvertently found by an NYU researcher named Robert Pendleton, who then threatened to publish them.”