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Authors: Gregg Olsen
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sister in such a condition.”
Mrs. Keck shook her head in sympathy.
“Cannot you give them something to eat? Something to keep them up when Dr. Hazzard is not there?”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Keck, they would not take a glass of water unless Dr. Hazzard said so. You would think she had hypnotized them.”
“Oh dear.”
Nellie went on to tell the woman that the sisters had wasted away to the point where neither could walk anymore. They had to be carried.
“The only good of it is that they are as light as children by now,” she said.
The grocer didn’t know what to say.
Nellie Sherman looked weary as she turned to leave, offering a comment that would stick with Dorothea Keck for the rest of her life.
“If I knew what I was undertaking with the Williamson girls, I would never take another case like it. It’s not worth it.”
I T WAS dark on April 21, 1911, when Linda Burfield Hazzard arrived at the Buena Vista to help Nellie Sherman pack the Williamson sisters’ belongings. Ambulances would be called and a special launch to Olalla was arranged for the following morning. Mrs. Arthur came up to Apartment D-8 to gather the sisters’ soiled laundry. Dr. Hazzard presided over the packing while Dora and Claire rested in their beds.
At 11 A.M. , a small crowd gathered around the twin ambulances. Clara Corrigan, Mary Fields, and the Arthurs and their children were among the onlookers as the sisters were carried out by stretcher. Dora’s face was completely covered with a white dressing of cotton bandages; it appeared her hands were bound in the manner of an Egyptian mummy.
Claire murmured and tried to speak as she was carried away.
Mr. Arthur called out to the emaciated ladies.
“Good-bye, Miss Claire, Miss Dora.”
Claire didn’t answer, and Dora likely didn’t even hear him.
Dr. Hazzard looked up from her patient as she hovered over Claire’s stretcher.
“Tell Mr. Arthur ‘good-bye,’” she said, her voice warm and pleasant.
“Good-bye,” Claire replied softly. “We will be back soon.”
The man nodded and exchanged forlorn looks with his wife. Neither of the Arthurs expected they’d ever see Claire or Dora Williamson again.
“Poor dears,” Mrs. Arthur said.
Mary Fields shook her head. She was heartsick about the sisters’ condition, but relieved they were leaving the Buena Vista. She took one last look at Dora on the stretcher. Her eyes were closed, her head bandaged. Her appearance was horrifying. She looked like a skull with a bandage wrapped about it, circles cut out of the fabric for her eyes. She fixed Claire’s weight at less than seventy pounds; Dora slightly heavier.
She didn’t expect to see them again, either.
Five
W rapped in scratchy, dark blue wool blankets, the sisters waited in the ambulances. In and out of consciousness they passed. Dr. Hazzard, dressed in her white doctor’s garment with a black coat slung over her back and buttoned at the neck to a capelike affair, soothed them with words that promised every concern would be taken care of once they arrived at the still-unfinished sanitarium.
“Mother Lillie, a kindly old neighbor, will be there to assist Nurse Sherman. You will grow to love her as I do. A very dear old woman indeed.”
Dr. Hazzard spoke in sweet, comforting tones as she pulled the blanket up tightly to cover the length of Claire’s neck.
Claire tried to speak, but the doctor put her fingertips on her patient’s mouth.
“You’ll be fine, dear.”
Claire managed a slight, though ghastly, smile.
“Soon,” the doctor said. “Very soon.”
Passersby peered into the back of the ambulances. Out of kindness during the delay, the driver tried to talk with Dora. And the minutes on the dock passed. One hour, then two. Finally, John Arthur, Dr. Hazzard’s attorney, breezed onto the dock with a carrying case of papers and the red and perspiring face of a man who had hurried to make his arrival.
“Doctor, in
Mrs. Keck shook her head in sympathy.
“Cannot you give them something to eat? Something to keep them up when Dr. Hazzard is not there?”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Keck, they would not take a glass of water unless Dr. Hazzard said so. You would think she had hypnotized them.”
“Oh dear.”
Nellie went on to tell the woman that the sisters had wasted away to the point where neither could walk anymore. They had to be carried.
“The only good of it is that they are as light as children by now,” she said.
The grocer didn’t know what to say.
Nellie Sherman looked weary as she turned to leave, offering a comment that would stick with Dorothea Keck for the rest of her life.
“If I knew what I was undertaking with the Williamson girls, I would never take another case like it. It’s not worth it.”
I T WAS dark on April 21, 1911, when Linda Burfield Hazzard arrived at the Buena Vista to help Nellie Sherman pack the Williamson sisters’ belongings. Ambulances would be called and a special launch to Olalla was arranged for the following morning. Mrs. Arthur came up to Apartment D-8 to gather the sisters’ soiled laundry. Dr. Hazzard presided over the packing while Dora and Claire rested in their beds.
At 11 A.M. , a small crowd gathered around the twin ambulances. Clara Corrigan, Mary Fields, and the Arthurs and their children were among the onlookers as the sisters were carried out by stretcher. Dora’s face was completely covered with a white dressing of cotton bandages; it appeared her hands were bound in the manner of an Egyptian mummy.
Claire murmured and tried to speak as she was carried away.
Mr. Arthur called out to the emaciated ladies.
“Good-bye, Miss Claire, Miss Dora.”
Claire didn’t answer, and Dora likely didn’t even hear him.
Dr. Hazzard looked up from her patient as she hovered over Claire’s stretcher.
“Tell Mr. Arthur ‘good-bye,’” she said, her voice warm and pleasant.
“Good-bye,” Claire replied softly. “We will be back soon.”
The man nodded and exchanged forlorn looks with his wife. Neither of the Arthurs expected they’d ever see Claire or Dora Williamson again.
“Poor dears,” Mrs. Arthur said.
Mary Fields shook her head. She was heartsick about the sisters’ condition, but relieved they were leaving the Buena Vista. She took one last look at Dora on the stretcher. Her eyes were closed, her head bandaged. Her appearance was horrifying. She looked like a skull with a bandage wrapped about it, circles cut out of the fabric for her eyes. She fixed Claire’s weight at less than seventy pounds; Dora slightly heavier.
She didn’t expect to see them again, either.
Five
W rapped in scratchy, dark blue wool blankets, the sisters waited in the ambulances. In and out of consciousness they passed. Dr. Hazzard, dressed in her white doctor’s garment with a black coat slung over her back and buttoned at the neck to a capelike affair, soothed them with words that promised every concern would be taken care of once they arrived at the still-unfinished sanitarium.
“Mother Lillie, a kindly old neighbor, will be there to assist Nurse Sherman. You will grow to love her as I do. A very dear old woman indeed.”
Dr. Hazzard spoke in sweet, comforting tones as she pulled the blanket up tightly to cover the length of Claire’s neck.
Claire tried to speak, but the doctor put her fingertips on her patient’s mouth.
“You’ll be fine, dear.”
Claire managed a slight, though ghastly, smile.
“Soon,” the doctor said. “Very soon.”
Passersby peered into the back of the ambulances. Out of kindness during the delay, the driver tried to talk with Dora. And the minutes on the dock passed. One hour, then two. Finally, John Arthur, Dr. Hazzard’s attorney, breezed onto the dock with a carrying case of papers and the red and perspiring face of a man who had hurried to make his arrival.
“Doctor, in
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