We Found Her

We were ensconced in a corner of the Philadelphia City Archives at 6th and Spring Garden—Mom and I—hoping to find a police report or record of Mary from that tragic night in 1897. A smart archivist named Ken was helping us. He was engrossed in our story as if we were searching for his own relative, and his earnest face and eager suggestions calmed my nerves. I wondered if this was how he felt about all the folks who came here searching for answers. After a detailed interview to determine what we were looking for, Ken went away, down into the storage stacks with the notes from our discussion, where he'd search for evidence of Mary's arrest, incarceration, or anything else he could find.

The archive viewing room was well-lit, long and narrow, with large yellow tables scattered about in the center. High windows lined the walls toward the ceiling, giving a view of pedestrians' feet above. We were down a level in a basement room. The inner wall boasted a hand-painted mural of historic city scenes. Ladies and gentlemen dressed in period clothing worked at jobs that no longer exist. The milk and coal delivery men, the street lamp lighters. Their sepia faces looked out at me with challenging eyes. "What are you searching for?" they seemed to ask. "Why won't you let us rest in peace?" One woman, pictured with a brood of children in front of a water pump in a brick alley, looked over her shoulder at me with sharp eyes. "Mary is not here. She is gone," she admonished. A shiver ran over my shoulders.

Mom patted my arm. "Here, take my cardigan. You look cold." She draped the wool sweater over my shoulders and steered me to the long table where our papers were strewn about. I looked back at the mural, but instead of seeing reproachful faces, I saw it shift as the painted portion on the door moved. I was surprised to see Ken come through the door from the bowels of the storage area, pushing a dolly stacked with dusty books of all sizes, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.

"This is everything I could think of," he said. "Looks like you'll be here a while. I'm off to see to our next patron, but will check on you in a little bit. Good luck." With that, he walked back to the reception area.

Mom looked at the large pile of books with determination. She instructed me to lay them across the large yellow table. Once the books—about two dozen or so—were laid out, she said, with alacrity, "Well, let's dig in!"

Two hours later, with dust-covered hands and a dry mouth—drinks are forbidden in the archive viewing room—I uncovered a large ledger book. On the spine were the words "Blockley Almshouse." Carefully, I turned the old book over to see the front. "Register of Females, 1895 – 1897," was printed in large letters across the decaying fabric covering. Huh, this is our timeframe. I wondered if this ancient tome had anything to do with Mary.

"Hey Mom," I whispered, "Can you look up the Blockley Almshouse online real quick? I want to know what kind of place it was."

"Oh, I don't need to look it up, honey. When I was in school at Philadelphia General Hospital, we students knew that we were walking in the haunted halls of what was once called Blockley. It was a looney bin back at the turn of the century. Why do you ask?" Mom came over to stand beside me. She looked over my shoulder.

Paging through slowly, the paper razor-thin, I realized someone had organized the book by admission date. Pulse quickening, I carefully turned the pages until I came to August 3, 1897, the tragic night by the river. There was nothing there—not one entry. Crestfallen, I almost closed the book, but something told me to turn one more page. Not quite believing my eyes, I found an entry on the next sheet dated August 5th that referenced the admission of an M. Lichtenbaum.

"Well, I'll be damned," I slammed my hand down on the table. "They sent her to a freaking insane asylum!"

"What?!" Mom asked, craning her neck to get a better look. "You've got to be kidding me? Mary ended up at Blockley?!"

I was dumbfounded. How was it possible that I just happened upon this register and just happened to find my great-great-grandmother's name written in ink? Of all the ledgers and registers and journals and whatnot in this archive, we had found her! It was as if Mary herself had directed me to this book—to this page. She was leading us on our journey. To unlock the past. To give her a voice. To give her peace. I turned to the ghostly woman in the mural and gave her an insolent smile. "Evidently, you were wrong," I said.