A Death-Struck Year (21 page)

“One hundred and five.”

Our eyes met, and I saw my own anguish reflected in hers.

I gripped Kate’s hand beneath the covers, trying to hold back the tears.

“Should we fetch her mother?” I asked again, my voice catching. “Her parents? I can go.”

“Not yet.”

Kate drifted in and out of sleep. The bleeding had stopped for now, but her hand burned in mine. I thought back to this morning, wondering if I’d missed something. Some sign. But no. She had been fine. I’d brought cinnamon rolls. Kate climbed into the car, smiling as always. Hannah called us back before I’d had a chance to drive off. One of the city health officers was here, Hannah said. He wanted a word with all of us. We didn’t eat our breakfast, I realized suddenly. The pastries were still in the car. Was that why? I felt the hysteria bubble up inside of me. Would Kate have fallen ill if she’d had her breakfast?

Hours passed. Hannah was standing beside me. We were looking at Kate. At the dark blue spots on her cheekbones.
Cyanosis,
I thought, remembering my first day at the hospital. Cyanosis. A death sentence.

“Simon,” Hannah said quietly.

Sergeant LaBouef was just across the aisle, pulling off soiled sheets. His gaze touched on my still-bloodied clothing before he answered Hannah. “What can I do?” he asked.

“I need you to drive to St. Vincent’s. I need you to find Kate’s sister. Her name is Waverley Bennett.”

The sergeant closed his eyes briefly and nodded. He took the sheets with him as he left.

Hannah touched my shoulder. I covered my face with both hands and wept.

Backstage, in the showers, I bent my head beneath the spray. Not caring that I used a stranger’s bar of soap. A sliver of Ivory I’d found on a shelf, with small bits of hair caked in. A week ago, it would have given me the willies. Today I ignored it. I shampooed. I washed. I watched Kate’s blood drain away at my feet.

Waverley Bennett was on the way. I didn’t doubt Kate’s parents were also being notified. And I didn’t want her family to see me as I was.

I stayed under the spray for so long the water chilled. When I was done, I dressed in a spare set of clothes I’d left behind after my first experience with the Cookes. The women’s shower room was connected to a comfort station, a soft pink room with lit vanities and gold brocade settees. I stopped when I saw Edmund leaning against a wall. We were alone.

I took a deep breath, long and shaky. “Is she . . .”

Edmund straightened. “No. But she’s worse, Cleo. Waverley’s with her. They’ve sent for her parents. We can’t get through on the telephone.” He gestured toward the nearest vanity.

I looked at the tabletop. A single needle rested on a white cloth beside a bottle and some bandaging. My vaccine. Too late for my friend.

I sniffled. Nodded. I sat on a long padded bench in front of the vanity and unbuttoned my shirtwaist halfway down. Enough to pull the cloth off my shoulder. My chemise was exposed, the first time any male other than my doctor had seen my underthings.

Edmund straddled the bench, so close I felt his breath on my skin. He reached for the bottle. It clattered back onto the vanity when I pressed my palm flat against his chest. I needed to feel his heartbeat. To convince myself that he was safe, that he would not fade away right before my eyes. Edmund covered my hand with his. And my name, when he said it, was a sigh. His lips touched mine in a long, slow, sweet kiss. My first. I closed my eyes, feeling his heart beating fast beneath my fingertips.

He lifted his head. “Cleo, wait. I need to do this.”

I watched as he fumbled with the needle, the bottle, finally closing his eyes and waiting for his hands to settle. From the next room came the faint intermittent drip of the showers.

“What if it’s too late?” I asked.

“Don’t.”

I felt a pinch, a sharp sting, as the needle entered my arm.

I heard someone crying in the storage closet. The door was ajar. When I looked in, I saw Hannah weeping in Sergeant LaBouef’s arms. Rocking and weeping. It was an awful thing to watch and hear. Hannah didn’t see me—her face was buried in his shirt—but the sergeant did. He shook his head, once. I nodded, stepped back, and closed the door as quietly as I could.

Kate’s skin had taken on the color of lead. Not just her cheekbones. But her entire face, her ears, her neck. She looked like a statue. Except that statues don’t shake in their beds so hard that they rattle against the floor.

Digitalis didn’t help. Neither did oxygen or codeine. Only morphine helped.

Edmund was called away again. I don’t know where. Waverley was by Kate’s side, dressed in a Red Cross uniform. Not wanting to intrude, I stayed back, with Tess, holding Abigail in my arms.

Hannah appeared. Her eyes were red, her face splotchy. She placed her hand on my forehead. “Open up,” she said, and when I did, she stuck a thermometer beneath my tongue. She glanced at the result and released a pent-up breath. A nurse across the room called for her. Hannah patted my face and was off.

Andrew had gone to fetch Kate’s parents. It would take him a while. The Bennetts lived over the bridge, on the eastern edge of town. I watched the door, willing them to walk in.

They did, eventually. They ran in. Mr. and Mrs. Bennett, along with four more sisters. Etta, Ruby, Amelia, and Celeste.

But they were too late.

Tuesday, October 22, 1918

The rotten car would not start. I tried everything—turning the hand crank, rattling the steering wheel, fiddling with the pedals. Nothing emerged save a series of
pfft-pfft-pfft
s before the automobile fell, once again, into silence.

I opened the door and stepped down. Circling the car—once, twice, three times—I inspected it as if I had the slightest idea of what to look for. Hateful tin can. It would fail me now, when all I wanted in the world was to drive away from this awful place. Drive away and never stop.

I started to climb back into the car. Hesitated. Using both hands, I felt along the edges of the front seat and lifted the upholstery from its frame. For one horrible moment, all I could do was stare at the gasoline tank hidden beneath the seat. Surely not. Surely I could not have forgotten . . . But I
had
forgotten. My telephone conversation with Jack came rushing back to me, along with his reminder to check the gasoline levels. When was the last time I’d been to a filling station?

I reached into the rear seat and retrieved the measuring stick from the floor, then twisted the gasoline cap and set it on the tank. I pushed the stick into the opening, counted to five, and removed it. Just as I feared, the stick came back clean, save a small greasy spot at the tip.

I had run out of gas.

Disgust washed over me. I tossed the stick back onto the rear floor, replaced the cap, and dropped the seat into place. The Auditorium loomed behind me. I would not look at it. I couldn’t go back in there, not even to ask for help.

Not today.

Not ever.

I slammed the door shut.

Tugging my coat closed, I walked. Past a group of nurses with pity on their faces. Past the anxious-looking couple hurrying toward the Auditorium steps. Past a soldier pacing on the corner, inhaling his cigarette as if someone were about to snatch it from him.

I walked on.

Hearing nothing.

Seeing nothing.

But Kate.

The rain came before I’d gone a block. A few drops at first, and then a downpour. I didn’t turn back. I tipped my face to the sky. Welcomed the coolness on my skin. In this world of mine, it was the rain, it was the rain alone, that made sense.

Night had fallen hours before, leaving the streetlamps to chase the shadows. Shivering, I looked around and realized I had walked clear across town. The Lang & Co. Wholesale Grocery stood dark and shuttered for the night, but beside it the Western Union Telegraph Office still bustled. I could see the men and women queued up through the large front window, a reminder that I’d heard nothing from Hood River. I forced the thought from my mind. Not now. Not now.

In front of the telegraph office, the Skidmore Fountain stood quiet and serene. I sat on the stone edge and swung my shoes inside the fountain. The storm had passed, leaving a small amount of rainwater gathered at the bottom of the basin. I skimmed the shallow water with my toe.

Pushing my dripping hair from my eyes, I studied the statues rising from the fountain’s center. Two maidens, their backs aligned, faced opposite directions. Their dresses were gathered in long, draping folds, and their arms were braced high above their heads, holding up a large oval disk. I looked at the one closest to me. The statue’s head was slightly lowered. She stared directly at me with impassive eyes. She did not look cold or confused or scared. I envied her lack of emotion. What I would give right now, to feel nothing.

Pale death, the grand physician, cures all pain.
I’d thought the saying romantic when I’d first read it in school, but now it just sounded stupid. Whoever had written it had never been inside an influenza hospital. Death cured nothing. Did nothing to ease the pain of those left behind. I thought of Kate’s laughter, of her kindness, of her fingers flying across the keys. And I wondered how God could have made such a terrible mistake.

I gasped as a draft whipped through my wet coat. It was a foolish, dangerous thing I had done. I knew it. I needed to go home. And I would have to walk. No conductor would allow me on his streetcar. Not like this. Even if one felt sorry for me, the police officers stationed by the trolleys would override him. I looked toward the west hills. Miles away. Swinging my legs out of the fountain, I tried not to think of the distance.

Headlights flashed through the darkness. I looked away, waiting for the car to pass, but it did not. It came to a sudden, screeching halt in the middle of the street before swinging up onto the sidewalk and stopping within a foot of the fountain steps.

I backed away, nearly tumbling into the horse trough built into the side of the fountain. Catching myself, I threw a hand up to shield my eyes from the lights. The engine was impossibly loud. And scary. I calculated the distance to the telegraph office. The car door swung open, and a tall, dark figure emerged. My shoulders sagged as I realized two things. One, I would not be attacked and left for the dead on the steps of the Skidmore Fountain. And two, I would not have to walk home after all.

Edmund took in my soaked clothing and hair plastered to my head. “You’ve gone crazy!” he yelled. “Have you gone crazy? I’ve been driving around for three hours trying to find you!” He stormed toward me, looking madder than I’d ever seen him. He yanked off his coat. Swung it over my shoulders. Squeezed the water from my hair, felt my forehead, my neck. Tipped my head and peered up my nose. Looked in my ears. Blew warm air on my hands. All the while still shouting. “Your car is at the hospital. I thought you were with Hannah. Then I find out you’d walked off into the freezing rain
in the middle of a flu epidemic!
Have you gone crazy?”

I let him holler. I let him finish. And then I asked, tiredly, “Where is she?”

Just like that, the fight drained out of him. He looked away. He shook his head and didn’t answer.

“Is she still at the hospital?” I persisted. “Did they take her—?”

“Shhh.” He cupped a hand on each side of my face and kissed me. A car sped past, a loud whistle and male laughter trailing behind it. Neither of us looked up.

Edmund rested his forehead against mine before saying, “I took her.” His voice was ragged, reminding me I was not the only person today who’d been forced to see and do things they had never dreamed of. “Sergeant LaBouef and I drove Kate to the mortuary. Her father came with us. She was . . . They’ll take good care of her.”

I stepped back, hand pressed to my mouth, wishing I hadn’t asked. “I’m scared I’m going to wake up tomorrow, and you won’t be here,” I said. “My family. They won’t be here. They won’t be anywhere.”

“I’ll be here.”

I shook my head, blinking back the tears. “How do you know? You can’t.”

He reached out and pulled his coat tighter around me. “I will be here,” he repeated. “And so will you. And if you care anything about me, Cleo, you will let me take you home. Now.”

I nodded. He kept his arm around me, holding me up, and led me to the car.

We were in my kitchen, by the fire, huge mugs of tomato soup in our hands. Canned soup Edmund had heated up while I bathed and put on warm, dry clothing.

“The Cookes will be going home soon,” Edmund said.

“Yes.”

“And the boy, Mateo Bassi?” he asked.

Surprise flickered through the numbness. I had never mentioned Mateo. Not to Edmund. “He’s still at County,” I said. “But he doesn’t have pneumonia. The doctors think he has a chance.”

Edmund nodded as though he already knew. “That first day at the Auditorium, I thought,
I won’t see her again. She’ll wash her hands of this whole sorry mess, stay home, and bolt the doors. Who can blame her?
But I saw you the next day, and the next, when so many others have walked away.”

I looked down at my soup, saying nothing.

He set his mug on a small table. “I know what it’s like to lose a friend and wonder why you’re the one left behind. To think that nothing makes sense. Not one thing. I know it, Cleo.”

Edmund reached out and poked at the fire. I watched the flames dance over his silver watch and his tags, and listened.

“But when you wake up tomorrow and think there’s no reason to keep going, to get out of bed and put one foot in front of the other, I hope you remember that William Cooke and Abigail Cooke and Mateo Bassi will grow up simply because you chose to stay the course. It’s no small thing.”

Outside, the rain came down in torrents.

We sat, warmed by the fire, listening to the distant rumble of thunder.

Wednesday, October 23, 1918

The sound of an engine woke me. I lifted my head, turning a bleary eye toward my bedroom window. The curtains had not been pulled the night before. The sun had yet to make an appearance. In these moments between dawn and daylight, Mount Hood stood in stark relief against a fading purple sky. I dropped face-first into my pillow.