VIOLET
Ree Hutchins was dozing at the old woman’s bedside, a dog-eared copy of The Call of the Wild open on her lap, when Violet Tisdale passed away.
Exhausted from her hectic schedule, Ree had fallen asleep reading from the leather-bound edition Miss Violet always kept on her nightstand. Ree often wondered how many times the old woman had heard Buck’s story during her confinement at the Milton H. Farrante Psychiatric Hospital. She was well into her eighties and had been institutionalized for as long as anyone could remember. Other than her clothing and toiletries, the book was the only personal item in her quarters, although the inscription in the front read: To my daughter, Ilsa, on the occasion of her tenth birthday. June 3, 1915.
No doubt the tattered volume was a hand-me-down from some former staff member or another patient perhaps, because no one could remember the last time Miss Violet had a visitor.
Ree shivered awake as a chill seeped into the room. The fluorescent reading lamp over her shoulder flickered and she would later remember that the clock on the nightstand had stopped precisely at 8:30. Twilight had fallen, which meant she’d been asleep for close to an hour. Miss Violet lay propped against her pillows, eyes open but unseeing, lips parted but forever silent. She hadn’t been gone long. Her wrist was still warm where Ree felt for a pulse.
Closing the book, Ree set it aside and rose to summon a nurse. Trudy McIntyre came at once with a stethoscope and mirror, and after a cursory examination, left to notify the proper authorities. Ree didn’t know what else to do so she followed her out.
“What about next of kin?”
Trudy was an efficient woman with a careworn face and weary eyes. She’d been at the hospital for a very long time. “There is no next of kin that I know of. I expect Dr. Farrante will handle the arrangements himself. He always does in cases like this.”
At the mere mention of his name, Ree’s heart fluttered. Dr. Nicholas Farrante was out of her league and much too old for any serious romantic notions, but that didn’t stop her and every other female student in the Emerson University psych department from hanging on his every word. Not that Ree wouldn’t have found “Experimental Psychology and Human Aging” fascinating regardless of the professor, but Dr. Farrante brought so much to the classroom beyond his charm and charisma. The niche his family had carved in the field of developmental psychology was astounding, going all the way back to his grandfather, Dr. Milton H. Farrante, who had been a student of Wilhelm Wundt, the father of modern psychology.
Milton had opened the facility in the early 1900s and for nearly a century, it had remained one of the preeminent private psychiatric hospitals in the country. Ree was lucky to have been accepted as a volunteer because even the unpaid positions were quickly snapped up, usually by other grad students whose families had a lot more clout than hers.
Following Trudy to her desk, Ree battled an inexplicable urge to glance over her shoulder. “Can we at least check the files? There must be someone out there who would want to know about Miss Violet.”
Trudy looked up with a heavy sigh. “Honey, I’ve been here for over twenty-five years, and in all that time, not a single, solitary soul has ever paid that old woman a visit. I’m sure her family’s all gone by now. Or else they just don’t care. Anyway, it’s out of my hands. As I said, Dr. Farrante will handle the arrangements. He’s always taken good care of Miss Violet.”
Ree couldn’t argue with that. Miss Violet’s private suite—bedroom, bath and sitting area—was located in the south wing of the hospital, a quiet, sunny area with peaceful garden views. Ree could imagine Miss Violet sitting there year after year, watching the seasons pass by. Waiting for spring. Waiting for the violets outside her window to bloom.
Trudy picked up a thick packet from her desk
Ree Hutchins was dozing at the old woman’s bedside, a dog-eared copy of The Call of the Wild open on her lap, when Violet Tisdale passed away.
Exhausted from her hectic schedule, Ree had fallen asleep reading from the leather-bound edition Miss Violet always kept on her nightstand. Ree often wondered how many times the old woman had heard Buck’s story during her confinement at the Milton H. Farrante Psychiatric Hospital. She was well into her eighties and had been institutionalized for as long as anyone could remember. Other than her clothing and toiletries, the book was the only personal item in her quarters, although the inscription in the front read: To my daughter, Ilsa, on the occasion of her tenth birthday. June 3, 1915.
No doubt the tattered volume was a hand-me-down from some former staff member or another patient perhaps, because no one could remember the last time Miss Violet had a visitor.
Ree shivered awake as a chill seeped into the room. The fluorescent reading lamp over her shoulder flickered and she would later remember that the clock on the nightstand had stopped precisely at 8:30. Twilight had fallen, which meant she’d been asleep for close to an hour. Miss Violet lay propped against her pillows, eyes open but unseeing, lips parted but forever silent. She hadn’t been gone long. Her wrist was still warm where Ree felt for a pulse.
Closing the book, Ree set it aside and rose to summon a nurse. Trudy McIntyre came at once with a stethoscope and mirror, and after a cursory examination, left to notify the proper authorities. Ree didn’t know what else to do so she followed her out.
“What about next of kin?”
Trudy was an efficient woman with a careworn face and weary eyes. She’d been at the hospital for a very long time. “There is no next of kin that I know of. I expect Dr. Farrante will handle the arrangements himself. He always does in cases like this.”
At the mere mention of his name, Ree’s heart fluttered. Dr. Nicholas Farrante was out of her league and much too old for any serious romantic notions, but that didn’t stop her and every other female student in the Emerson University psych department from hanging on his every word. Not that Ree wouldn’t have found “Experimental Psychology and Human Aging” fascinating regardless of the professor, but Dr. Farrante brought so much to the classroom beyond his charm and charisma. The niche his family had carved in the field of developmental psychology was astounding, going all the way back to his grandfather, Dr. Milton H. Farrante, who had been a student of Wilhelm Wundt, the father of modern psychology.
Milton had opened the facility in the early 1900s and for nearly a century, it had remained one of the preeminent private psychiatric hospitals in the country. Ree was lucky to have been accepted as a volunteer because even the unpaid positions were quickly snapped up, usually by other grad students whose families had a lot more clout than hers.
Following Trudy to her desk, Ree battled an inexplicable urge to glance over her shoulder. “Can we at least check the files? There must be someone out there who would want to know about Miss Violet.”
Trudy looked up with a heavy sigh. “Honey, I’ve been here for over twenty-five years, and in all that time, not a single, solitary soul has ever paid that old woman a visit. I’m sure her family’s all gone by now. Or else they just don’t care. Anyway, it’s out of my hands. As I said, Dr. Farrante will handle the arrangements. He’s always taken good care of Miss Violet.”
Ree couldn’t argue with that. Miss Violet’s private suite—bedroom, bath and sitting area—was located in the south wing of the hospital, a quiet, sunny area with peaceful garden views. Ree could imagine Miss Violet sitting there year after year, watching the seasons pass by. Waiting for spring. Waiting for the violets outside her window to bloom.
Trudy picked up a thick packet from her desk
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