Yet just as he’d arrived at that conclusion, Mr. Olson shifted in his seat, eyes narrowing. “I will say there were a fewstrange incidents while I was a patient. They didn’t directly involve me, so…well, I didn’t think much of them after I left.”
“Oh?” Henry shared a questioning look with Fletcher.
“I’m a light sleeper, you see, mainly because of the pain from the gout,” Mr. Olson began, folding his hands in his lap. “And I heard sounds from the room of an older woman next door. A low rumble of voices, hurried footsteps in the hall, moans and cries at times.” He gave a mock shudder. “Quite unsettling in the middle of the night. I asked the attendants what happened, but they always denied any problem. Only said the guest had an uncomfortable night.”
Henry waited, hoping there was more to the story; what the older man had shared thus far wasn’t enough.
“It happened several times over the course of a week. I managed to speak to the older woman involved during one of our prescribed community sessions, and she acted almost frightened.”
“Did she say why?”
“She started to say something but a staff member interrupted us.” Mr. Olson shrugged. “Needless to say, I was quite disturbed the following day to hear she’d died.”
Henry frowned as excitement lurched. “And you’d just spoken with her the previous day?”
“Yes, and she seemed in relatively good health other than acting nervous.”
“Can you tell me her name, why she was at the sanatorium?”
“Mrs. Dorothy Symes. She was a widow and had cancer.” He shook his head as if puzzled. “I didn’t see how the treatments were going to help her.”
“The hydropathy, the fasting?” Henry needed to confirm whether that was all the sanatorium offered, though both sounded terrible.
“Hydropathy might be a more attractive term than daily enemas, but that was what it involved in my experience,” the retired professor said dryly. “Long enemas that required mental fortitude to endure. I tried to remember how poorly I’d been feeling in order to suffer through them.”
Fletcher’s grunt suggested he couldn’t imagine such a thing. Neither could Henry.
“On two different occasions I saw attendants carrying small trays covered with cloths,” Mr. Olson continued. “I didn’t think much of it as they never came into my room with one. But I caught a glimpse of an attendant through an open door and when they removed the cloth, there was a hypodermic needle on it. I don’t know what treatment it involved, but they concerned me. Nothing of the sort was noted in the advertisement, nor was it mentioned to me, nor offered to me. That has puzzled me on numerous occasions.”
“Did you ever ask?” Fletcher lifted a brow, suggesting that would’ve been the logical thing to do.
“I did.” Mr. Olson sniffed as if offended. “And I was told such things were a matter of patient confidentiality and to mind my own business.”
How often was privacy used as an excuse to hide secrets in a place like the sanatorium, Henry wondered—and how successfully?
“I heard visitors aren’t allowed,” Henry began, wondering how Mr. Olson felt about that.
“No, they weren’t.” He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “I can understand that, as fasting alone can be challenging. Patients would be asking their friends and relatives to bring them food, I would imagine. I certainly would have done so at several points. Hearing of the outside world could be distracting when you’re in the throes of one health regimen or another.”
Henry tried to smile. It was so confusing; the man’s experience seemed so…strange. “Did you spend much time with other patients?” Just how much privacy was involved?
“A few at first. There were orientation meetings, so patients knew what to expect. Of course, they didn’t share too many details.” Mr. Olson gave a rueful smile. “With some of the treatments, it’s better not to know what’s coming, if you know what I mean.”
“Just take each hour as it comes,” Henry suggested.
“Exactly. Best not to look too far into the future. Anyway, I spoke with a few briefly on a regular basis. We were allowed to sit outside for a few minutes each day, but conversations were discouraged. I suppose they didn’t want us comparing our stay with one another, our progress, our recovery. Books on health were available. We were instructed to keep a journal but not to write letters home other than absolutely necessary. After a couple of weeks, you had little to say. Each day was the same as the last, and my thoughts turned…inward.”
Henry waited, wondering what the older man meant. Inward?
Mr. Olson saw his unspoken question. “I suppose I was too busy questioning my decision to come to the sanatorium andhow I was feeling, to worry about communicating with anyone who wasn’t going through the same experience.”
“At what point did you begin to believe the treatments were helping?” Fletcher asked.
“Hmmm. It took nearly a month. I started to sleep through the night, something I hadn’t done in years except on rare occasions.” The older man smiled. “That alone felt like a small miracle.”
“And you continue to feel well?” Henry wondered if Mr. Olson might be regressing without the treatments. While he could certainly fast on his own, enemas at home weren’t an option for most people.
“I am.” The older man gave a decisive nod. “I confess to worrying whether the gout will return, but I’m taking care with what I eat and trying to be more active. Meanwhile, I intend to enjoy my good health.”
