The Cure for Dreaming (31 page)

I KNOCKED ON THE DOOR OF ROOM TWENTY-FIVE AND
tried not to breathe too much of the stale cigar smoke filling up the hall.

“I hope I'm not waking her,” I whispered to Frannie. “She's had a fever, and Hen—”

The door opened a crack. Henry's blue eyes peeked out. “Olivia. Hello. I thought you might have been the doctor again.”

“No, it's just me. I'm sorry if we're disturbing Genevieve's sleep, but this is my good friend Frannie, and she's brought some food.”

Henry opened the door a foot wider. “That's awfully nice. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Frannie handed him the basket, which dipped toward the ground during the transfer, for it was heavy—I'd helped her carry it down the street. “There's chicken,” she said, “fresh vegetables, bread, and two slices of cake. You can keep the basket until Olivia next sees you.”

“That's far too kind.”

“Olivia told me what she's doing to help, so I thought . . .” Frannie pulled her coat tighter around herself. “I wanted to do something, too.”

“How is Genevieve?” I asked.

“Um . . .” Henry scratched at his ear. “She's, uh . . .” He peeked over his shoulder. “What did you say, Genevieve?”

His sister called something from inside in a voice too soft for me to hear.

“It's Olivia and a friend,” said Henry. “They've brought food.” He shifted back to us. “A doctor was just here. She's still running a fever. He's still not sure if it's a cold . . . or if . . .” He grimaced. “He's not a cancer expert by any means, but he thinks . . . the tumor . . .”

He rubbed his hand across his forehead, and a vision attacked without warning.

Buckling knees.

Listless arms.

Sickly pallor.

Henry—not Genevieve.

I closed my eyes and kept my voice steady. “Is there anything else we can do?”

I opened them again to see Henry—normal Henry— shaking his head and swallowing.

“I don't think so,” he said. And he dropped his voice to a whisper to add, “She's been crying. She always gets upset after doctor visits. I was just about to go down to the lobby so she can sleep and recuperate.”

“I should have brought you some books,” said Frannie.

“No need for that.” He managed a small smile for her. “I'm sure you probably hate me a bit, if we're being honest. But I appreciate your help with my sister.”

“I'd like to see Olivia,” called Genevieve, loud enough for us to hear.

Henry turned toward her, one hand on the door, the other on the picnic basket. “Are you sure about that?”

“Her friend, too. I want to thank them.”

“All right.” Henry stepped back and maneuvered the basket out of our way. “Come inside, ladies.”

We entered, and I immediately saw her. A weak blue light on the bed. The lowest flame of a gas lamp. Hope seemed to be vacating her body.

Frannie and I walked toward her, and even Frannie, who didn't see what I did, stiffened.

“I'm so sorry you're not feeling well.” I cupped my hand around Genevieve's arm, which felt solid, despite its unsubstantial appearance. “This is my friend Frannie.”

“It's nice to meet you.” Genevieve gave a polite smile, but she remained a low blue glow. “Thank you for the food. I'm sorry I'm such a mess. The doctor was just here . . . and . . .” She turned her face away. Silent tears rushed down her cheeks. “I'm sorry.”

“It's all right.” I squeezed her arm. “It's all right to cry. Don't be sorry.”

“I don't want to worry Henry . . .”

“Neither of you need to worry,” I said. “You'll soon be with a physician who knows how to help you. Just get some rest for now. That's all you need to do. Please don't lose hope. Don't be afraid.”

I heard sniffling beside me and caught Frannie—who always managed to cry whenever someone else was crying— rubbing the back of her sleeve across her face. She lowered her arm when she noticed me looking at her.

“He's not eating,” said Genevieve under her breath.

“What?” I leaned closer to the bed.

Genevieve licked her chapped lips. “Henry's not taking care of himself. I know he's not.”

I glanced back at her brother.

“Please tell him to eat and sleep,” she said. “I think he'd listen to you.”

“Are you not eating, Henry?” I asked.

“I haven't been hungry. But”—he lifted Frannie's basket— “we have good food now.”

“Then eat it.” I turned back to Genevieve. “And please make sure you try to eat, too. We're almost there.”

“I know.”

“Get some good sleep.” I tucked her blankets over her shoulders. “You'll be on your way to San Francisco soon.”

“Thank you. I'm glad you came.”

Frannie and I headed back to the door, where Henry still lingered with the basket.

I reached for his hand but remembered we had an audience, so my fingers fumbled and latched on to the cuff of his shirtsleeve instead.

“Please take care of yourself,” I said.

“Don't worry.” He grinned, but his eyes lacked their persuasiveness.
“Everything will be perfect tomorrow night.” He tugged on my own sleeve, and his finger brushed across the side of my thumb.

We parted ways. The door closed behind us with a low thud that traveled through my bones.

Frannie and I journeyed down the hotel stairwell, side by side, our feet slow and plodding in the echoing quarters.

By the time we reached the bottom, she was holding tightly to my hand.

NOVEMBER 6, 1900

uesday morning, an hour and a half after Father left for work in his operatory, I lugged the canvas Gladstone to its next hiding spot, across the city.

Every neighbor's house I passed filled me with pangs of nostalgia for my life in the city. Each familiar street sign disappearing over my shoulder jabbed at my conscience and chipped away tiny flakes of my heart.

Yet I kept walking.

I passed a brick firehouse with a ballot-box table set up
next to a black and red steam pumper engine in the garage. Out front, a line of men—a hodgepodge of hats and caps, coveralls, dungarees, and smart black suits—waited to exercise their democratic right and paid no attention to me strolling behind them with my overstuffed bag.

Two blocks later, a wagon led by a handsome pair of chestnut horses rolled past me with flags waving and cornets and trombones blaring “Yankee Doodle.” Banners hung off the wooden slats in the back, shouting, W
ILLIAM
J
ENNINGS
B
RYAN
! and A
NTI
-I
MPERIALISM!

“Tell your father to vote for Bryan, little lady,” called out a man around Father's age in red-striped suspenders that looked more like Henry's peppermint candies than the American flag.

“I'm not supposed to have any say in politics,” I called back, but then I squeezed my lips shut and eyed the nearby pedestrians. My heart jumped around in my chest until I assured myself Father hadn't just witnessed me sassing a political campaigner while wandering the streets with my worldly possessions. I kept my head down and my mouth closed until I reached the front desk at the Hotel Vernon.

“I'd like a room, please,” I said to the hotel clerk with the devilish Vandyke beard—the same terrible little man who had belittled the Negro customers and yelled at Henry and me to take our lovers' quarrel outside.

“A room for one?” he asked.

“Yes, a place of my own.” Oh, how I loved the sound of
that! “And I'd like to pay in advance to ensure there will be no trouble finding you if I need to check out early.”

Even if the clerk did remember me as the screeching lunatic from three days before, he made no complaint about my presence once I plunked a dollar bill onto his desk.

“Room eight,” he said with a smile above his pointy umber beard, and he slid a golden key across the polished mahogany.

I left my suitcase in the first-floor room with a quilt-covered bed that appeared to be collapsing on one side. Another whiff of the establishment's mold met my nose, but I had no plans to stay. I shut the door behind me, locked up my possessions, and exited the hotel without checking on Henry and Genevieve upstairs.

The night before, I had awoken in a panicked sweat from a dream in which I smashed a sledgehammer over a gravestone marked R
HODES
.

Instead of confronting that fear, I preferred to walk back home and cling to the illusion that everything would unfold as planned.

WITHOUT GERDA'S HELP, I SOMEHOW MANAGED TO BUTTON
myself up in the same eggplant-purple dress I'd worn to Sadie's party, the only gown in my wardrobe suitable for an election-night soiree. Gerda must have scrubbed the mud off the hem Saturday morning, for the fabric betrayed no signs of Percy chasing me down in his buggy.

I descended the staircase toward Father, who was reading
the mail in his best wool suit and a crisp black bow tie. The air was rich with the scent of Macassar hair oil.

He peeked up at me. “You're finally ready. Why are you wearing that lace scarf?”

I left the bottom step. “It's the latest fashion.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“How would you know what young ladies are wearing?”

“I know what does and doesn't look garish.” He set down the mail on the hall table. “Please take that off.”

I pressed the lace against my neck. “I can't.”

“You can't?”

“It's covering a blemish.”

“There's no such thing as a neck blemish, Olivia. Now, take that thing off”—he reached for the scarf—“before the ladies at the party see you.”

He gave a firm tug, and the lace unspooled.

My neck fell bare.

“The marks are from Percy,” I said before he could match words to his open-mouthed stare. “He tried forcing himself upon me the night of Sadie Eiderling's party, but all I could say was ‘All is well.'” I yanked the scarf free of Father's hands and wound the lace back around my neck. “I worried you'd ask Mr. Reverie to do something more to me if I told you what had happened.”