Isolation
Saint Agnes of Assisi Medical Hospital, Ward 3
ATTN: Physician Lindsey Wallace
May 3, 1765
To my dearest husband,
I know you said not to write, but I simply cannot wait any longer. It’s been almost a week and Charles is yet to send for me with a carriage. They do say that one’s heart swells to cover the distance between lovers. But, my darling, I feel that my heart was full to bursting even before you left.
Rather, what I fear is that my heart has grown so heavy with overfondness that it has stricken me with a great deal of ill humour. If you were here beside me, you could put your stethoscope to my back to hear how loudly the drums beat inside my chest. I wouldn’t even complain if you didn’t warm the metal first, as nothing could feel so cold as our bedchamber during these nights of your leave.
I am sure that you also express these feelings, but oh how dreadfully busy you must be! The scant time of a physician stretched so thin by the sick and demanding. I imagine that, when the hour of leisure approaches, summoning the strength to even lift a pen must be beyond your abilities–let alone write a letter. I am certain that you curse the clock’s hands as they push you toward sleep. If only there were hours in the day to both save lives and love your wife.
Forgive me, I don’t mean that as any kind of marital discordance. You know how I get with idle hands and some ink. It is just that, my dearest Lindsey, this isn’t at all what I thought it would be. I must confess that when you first spoke of Quarantine I assumed we were to be sojourning in a Spanish villa. And, forgive this admission, but when I had been dusting the encyclopaedias in the library, my eyes oft wandered to the pages of the ‘M’ collection and their vivid descriptions of the Mediterranean. It’s written that the sea is warm all year round, and reading about those brave, robust explorers who championed its trade routes flushed my body with heat. Of course, I didn’t so much as glance at the descriptions of deviant flagellation that you forewarned reside in the ‘Mas’ entries.
And then it came time to leave and Charles was only carrying down your luggage...I suppose it shocked me. Enough to trigger a primal response; to put me in a state of distress similar to the Howling Monkeys of Central America (I again thank your encyclopaedias for such a broad education).
I hope you can look past such an outburst. You must understand how empty our wardrobes appeared once all of your suits and smoking hats were bundled away. Removing a great presence leaves an equally great void, and I felt like I could have crawled onto the shelves right there and made a small home for myself, living in the spaces where you no longer were. Though this thought perished quickly–I never did like the smell of pine. If only you had paid for the oak finish, which I must have only dreamt that we had jointly agreed upon. Perhaps, then, the bare wood might have afforded me a small comfort.
No matter, we can discuss the benefits of investing in oak once we are in each other’s arms once more.
Your devoted wife,
Gertrude Wallace
❦ ❦ ❦
Saint Agnes of Assisi Medical Hospital, Ward 3
ATTN: Physician Lindsey Wallace
May 6, 1765
To my beleaguered Lindsey,
I hope that this finds you before you have drafted your reply. I would hate for you to spend your energy responding to the dour sourpuss that first wrote you. I have meditated on my situation over the past few nights and I am now a woman with redoubled resolve! Do you know what spurred such reinvigoration? It is as you always prescribe–thoughts of my good husband!
The fifth anniversary of our marriage is to be in one week and, given your proclivities for ostentation, I suspect that our upcoming milestone may have something to do with this whole medical ‘Quarantine’ experiment. I’ve definitely given you cause to think that I watch your every move, so it’s quite convenient for your assignment to have removed you from your wife’s supervision for two weeks, isn’t it?
I shan’t question the matter any further. I’ll let you have your secrets, Lindsey. Instead, I wanted to let you know that I had plans of my own. I intend to give you something of myself. After all, you give so much of yourself to everyone else. It’s almost as if you’re married to every crippled veteran and snot-nosed baby in the town. Even though you didn’t walk them down the cathedral steps, did you?
When I was younger, while I was still a sewing machinist, my mother would bake me apricot pie to take to the girls at the factory. Without fail, it would summon the widest smiles when I set it down at the table. Even from the poor girls who had tottered over from the infirmary, hands still broken from the wheel. We’d help the little ones crack the crust with their forks and oh how merry a time it was. The latticework of the pastry was always laid with such precision, as if stitched with fine needlework itself. Of course, my mother still had her eyes at that point. It really is such a shame that you were never able to meet her. She would have been ever so sweet on that handsome face of yours, even if she couldn’t see past her nose. It’s unfortunate that, as you said, breathing the air south of the river turns your lungs black. You were right, in the end. I do regret that you weren’t able to secure leave to attend her funeral, though.
Regardless, this is about the pie. Lindsesy, you simply must taste this pie. Nothing has ever tasted so sweet to me since, and I have decided that I will share this memory with you. While you squirrel away in your secret laboratory and concoct your big surprise, I will prepare the perfect dessert to cap off a perfect night. I’ll get Rosa to help me, tomorrow, when she comes to fill the pantry.
Also, I should absolve you of your guilt and let you know that I’ve been finding the nights much less lonely of late. It’s not my intention to cause jealousy, but I’ve been making good bedfellows with your scotch. I have found my mood to be much improved ever since. The words come out and onto the page much more easily after a nip or two, as well. Which reminds me that I must stop writing here–someone ought to go and keep the bottle warm.
Affectionately yours,
Gertie
❦ ❦ ❦
Saint Agnes of Assisi Medical Hospital, Wards 1-6
ATTN: Physician Lindsey Wallace
May 8, 1765
To Lindsey,
Well Rosa never deigned to make an appearance, did she? I hope that she has not hoodwinked her pay from you as yet, because she has hardly performed her duties about the manor at all. Just this very afternoon I awoke with a terrible ache in my head, which I am certain was brought about by the poorly conditions in which the rooms are kept. Not a single window attended to; all drapes tightly drawn and blocking the sun. There wasn’t even a fire lit. The air was so stagnant that I could see the dust hanging still before me. Without a fresh breeze or ray of sunshine, I was befallen with a torpor that, had I not summoned the initiative to rouse myself, may have swallowed the night as well as the day.
It will cause you no small grievance to know that, even in such a weakened state, I had to take it upon myself to begin the pie-work in the kitchen. Alone. And the horrors don’t stop there. Once I had all the rolling pins lined up and prepared for the flour, I took a candle down to the pantry and was met with a mausoleum. The cheeses were black, the meats moving as if alive, and the preserves could hardly be called so anymore. Wherever the shelves weren’t barren and pocked with rat droppings, they were blooming with fuzzy growths that made one's stomach revolt. The very sight induced a dizzy spell, forcing me to rest at the bottom of the stairwell for what must have been hours. It was yet another strike against our housekeeper-in-absentia.
Nevertheless, Rosa cannot sabotage our big day, Lindsey. Once I had recovered somewhat, I set about mixing and kneading the crust. The dairy was a lot thicker than I would have hoped, but with enough sugar rolled into the milkened-flour, the smell lessened. Certainly the rose petals that I infused into the dough elevated its bitterness further up the palate. A wonderful addition to the recipe, I must say. A tragedy that mother never had the green thumbs, nor many other fingers, to grow a flower garden.
Actually, while I’m on that matter, I haven’t seen the gardener at all, either. When I stepped into the yard this evening I thought I had wandered into a wilderness, so unkempt and unruly the hedges have become. The blueberry bushes, too, have completely swallowed the front fence and their fruit has just been left to rot. This has attracted a rather bloated haze of fruit flies, floating just overhead.
This stress has taken a toll on my body. I lost a nail kneading the dough today. I don’t even know when. At first I thought the flour was blushing with the rose petals, but lo, it was blood from the exposed nerves of my finger! I had to retire early, putting the dough aside to finish tomorrow. Perhaps I was simply pushing myself too hard. I remember you promising me that, when we were wed, my hands would touch naught but silver and cloth. And now here I am breaking my fingers upon my own labour!
As I am writing now I notice that two more nails have vanished. Who knows the cause, yet it mirrors exactly how I feel. Like my body is vanishing and not a soul has come for vigil. Don’t bother replying until you have a written apology from Rosa and the gardener for their truancy.
Also, we’re out of scotch.
Yours,
Gertrude
❦ ❦ ❦
Saint Agnes of Assisi Medical Hospital, Ward 3, Hatted & Smoking Man
URGENT ATTN: Physician Lindsey Wallace
May 10, 1765
My Love,
I must again beg forgiveness for my brash outburst. I have been nauseous with guilt since I last wrote. To think that I might have caused you, my handsome saviour, to crease your perfect brow with worry over my injurious words. You’re much too busy to concern yourself with the trifling matters of the manor. It was foolish of me to think otherwise. On the very same night I wrote my last letter I awoke to an awful trembling in my body. A symptom no doubt linked to the anguish you felt while reading the vile pedantry of your wife. I have been shivering ever since.
Wherever I go, I feel a deep, soulful chill. The halls are haunted by your memory. Sometimes images of your body materialise before me, unbidden. Your face is always covered by the haze of your pipe smoke. No matter how I try, how low I crawl along the floorboards, I can never see past it, never catch a glimpse of your smile. In those moments the trembling is at its worst.
I tried to catch the postman earlier, to ask if he had seen your face when delivering my letters. A simple description was all I needed; to know if you were still sporting that vagabond’s moustache. Unfortunately, a stranger had taken over his position. A man dressed in black, staring, just outside the gates. I swear he had a beak, a long shiny one, just like the crows that now came daily to peck at the seething fog of flies. I had only a moment to call out before the birds swooped and cawed at me, beating me back behind doors. They seemed to mistake me for a field mouse, which I suppose is only natural given the way I have to scuttle about on all fours these days.
I thought, perhaps, the beaked man may have wanted to come in. Not that he or anyone can, because some cretin has chained the gates shut. Can you believe that Lindsey? How such vandalism takes place once word spreads the man of the house is absent. It may shock you to see the state of your home when you return. But don’t you worry, all your burdens will be relieved when you taste this pie. It’s been a hard-fought struggle against the creeping mould in the pantry, but I have reclaimed some of the fruits. The parts of the flesh that still have colour, at least. The crust I had put aside has hardened nicely, as well. It’ll snap so pleasantly when you crack it with a fork. It might remind you of work, as if breaking open the ribs to get to the bleeding heart. A joke, Lindsey.
It’s just four days now, my precious husband. Just four days until our anniversary arrives–and you along with it. I cannot wait for your energy to flush light back into this darkened place, igniting the snuffed candles of this dead manor once more.
Thinking of you,
Gertrude
❦ ❦ ❦
Saint Agnes of Assisi Medical Hospital, Ward 3
ATTN: Physician Lindsey Wallace
May 12, 1765
My Lindsey,
Such a divinely romantic thing happened this morning. I had to write to let you know.
Do you remember when we first moved to the manor, before you took that assignment in Prague? You had asked me for a lock of hair so that you may curl your fingers through it at night. To remember me while you were abroad. Well, while I was grooming this morning, a lock of my own hair fell into my lap. A fated gesture! You’ve been forced away from me for such an insufferable duration that I feel it was mercy, not luck, that has now intervened. I’ve enclosed this lock of hair, along with the other locks that fell shortly thereafter, so you may again cure yourself of your sleepless nights.
My birds also came again today. This time there were three of them. And they brought gifts! They each held a bouquet of posies for me, setting them against the gates while I watched from between the crack in the doors. Such strange postmen. Maybe they feared being bitten by the fruit flies? Even so, I was sure that one of them beckoned to me. Yet when I opened the doors to greet them, they all took flight. I wonder if they are friends of yours, Lindsey?
Perhaps it was for the best that I again had no guests today. If they had caught sight of the pie in the kitchen, they would have begged me to slice it. But such a dish is not for anyone’s lips but my husband’s. I was worried that the sores on my hands had discoloured the dough too much, but I think the pinkness is rather fetching. And who needs apricots when you have all manner of exotic fruits and vegetables instead. I cannot identify half of what I got from the pantry–what a surprise it will be! However, there is one special ingredient I can reveal to you: I sealed every item with a kiss, just for you. I’ve been finding it hard to summon moisture in my mouth these days, but I made an extra effort to ensure you would taste love in every bite.
To tell the truth, I am greatly relieved that the pie is finished. I found it quite straining. I’ve lost every nail now, and I dread to think what else might have fallen off were I to continue. I don’t seem to have the energy to take the trip down to the pantry anymore, either. Typically, my eyes have been setting with the sun, and I find myself waking up quite unexpectedly in different rooms. I never remember falling asleep. It takes most of the night just to walk my way back to bed. Perhaps you could bring more of that rubbing cocaine from the apothecary when you return? That always returns me to high spirits.
Yours,
Gertrude
❦ ❦ ❦
Saint Agnes of Assisi Medical Hospital
ATTN: Whoever Bloody Cares
May 14, 1765
Damn you.
God forbid I should expect anything other than nothing. Have you any idea what roused me this evening? Not the tender caress of my husband, that’s for certain. What I thought to be the brush of your moustache was instead just the flies bristling about my lips, carrying off the kisses I saved for you in their vomit filled mouths.
I’ll be upfront with you: I found my letters. That miserable, untouched pile in the postbox. Chained shut. Condemned.
Don’t try to tell me you didn’t know. Your crow men must have sent their whispers back to you. I could always hear them scratching about at night, poking their needlepoint beaks through the bars and raking over my words. Perhaps I ought to have tossed your pie on top of the heap. They might have enjoyed the lunch.
I don’t expect you to write back. I don’t care what you think and I cannot write anymore. The air here has become so thick it burns my lungs. Plus the pen bruises my fingers. In the event that you manage to find your way back to your home and your duties, I've set the table for dessert.
Happy Anniversary,
Your Wife
Based in Sydney, Australia, Ben Hudson is a professional creative seeking to bring more attention to the art of short-form fiction.
The focus of his work centres on highlighting the small slices of humanity that can be found in the banal, creating works across genres – including speculative fiction, personal essays, and satire. You can read more of his work at bhudsonstories.com