A Death-Struck Year (20 page)

Neither woman noticed me. I stood in the doorway, unable to remember the last time I’d been this angry.

“I said the candles and the matches! Not the spices. Stupid girl!”

Delilah flinched. She put down the spices and gathered some candles.

I’d had enough. “I beg your pardon,” I said.

The women whirled. Delilah squeaked, dropping the candles. The white tapers dented as they hit the wood and rolled across the floor in every direction. Mrs. Lily’s face turned an unflattering shade of puce. Both pairs of eyes fell on my Red Cross armband.

I’d been taught to respect my elders, to never raise my voice, to never sass, no matter what. Just this once, though, I was sure Lucy would forgive me.

“What are your names?” I asked, trying my best to imitate Hannah, sharp and no-nonsense. I thought of my own names for them.

Looters. Vultures.

Delilah stared at her worn shoes. Mrs. Lily sniffed. I could see she’d disregarded the armband. Had only seen how young I was and judged me no more threatening than the quivering Delilah.

“I’m sure that’s not your concern, miss.” Mrs. Lily drew herself up. “Come along, Delilah.” She lifted the handles of her wheelbarrow, still filled with stolen goods, and pushed it toward the front door.

“Ma’am,” I said quietly. “If you take those, I will follow you to your home. And then I will drive directly to the police station.”

Mrs. Lily halted, her back toward me. There was a moment of tense silence.

Delilah twisted her hands. “Mrs. Lily?” she whimpered.

“Shut up, girl!” Without looking my way, Mrs. Lily tipped the wheelbarrow. Goods toppled to the floor. It was a mess. “Let’s go,” she barked, then hustled out the door. Delilah followed.

The bell tinkled.

I stepped over candles and coffee, and peered out the front window. Two shadows hurried down the street. Turning, I planted my hands on my hips and surveyed the room. Infuriated was too mild a word to describe how I felt. I didn’t know how sick the Ebas were, or if they would return anytime soon. But one thing was certain. I could not let them come back to this.

Lord, I was hungry. I’d only stopped in for some cereal.

I tossed my coat on the counter. Pulled off my hat. I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.

Monday, October 21, 1918

“No fever,” Edmund said.

Tess Cooke lay on her cot, her hair spread against a thin, stingy pillow. She looked from her son, lying half asleep on his own bed, to the thermometer in Edmund’s hand. Her eyes filled with tears.

“He has no fever?” she asked, her voice more rasp than whisper. “You’re sure?”

Edmund smiled. “I’m certain. I checked twice.”

I stood beside Tess’s bed, a sleeping Abigail in my arms. Tess still had a slight fever, but her nosebleeds had stopped, and she was able to keep down more food than she threw up. Finally, some good news.

Edmund reached for Abigail. “Can you spare her, Cleo?”

I handed Abigail to him and turned to Tess. “I could come and help with the children, if you like,” I offered. “Even after you leave here, you won’t be on your feet for some time.”

Tess smiled. “You’ve done so much already. Charlie’s on his way. And my sister will come too.”

A wire had arrived yesterday. Mr. Cooke had been located laying railroad tracks in some godforsaken desert in Arizona. He would be home tomorrow. I smiled back, relieved for her.

Edmund pulled the stethoscope from his ears. “Abby’s temperature is normal. And her lungs are clear. It looks like we just might be over the worst of it.”

I peered over his shoulder, anxious. “Her lungs are fine? How can you be sure? It’s not as if she can tell you how she’s feeling.”

Edmund exchanged a glance with Tess. “I can’t be. But when a patient has influenza, the lungs make a gurgling sound. And the heartbeat slows dramatically. Put this on. Listen.” He pulled the stethoscope from around his neck and handed it to me, still holding Abigail with one arm. I put the stethoscope on, the feel of it strange inside my ears. Edmund pressed the chest piece against Abigail’s heart. I listened to the steady beat. He moved the stethoscope over her lungs. I heard nothing. I pulled the stethoscope from my ears. Tess and Edmund looked at me, expectant.

“I think she’s over the worst of it,” I said.

Tess smiled. I offered Edmund the stethoscope, along with a sheepish glance. Humor glinted in his eyes. He turned toward Tess, and I started down the aisle to give them some privacy.

I smiled at Hannah, who fitted an empty cot with fresh sheets, and wondered when she slept. I passed Dr. McAbee. He peered into a woman’s ear with a needle in his hand, and I shuddered in sympathy for her. At the end of the aisle, a nurse named Callie King hung a toe tag on a body.

I averted my eyes. When they passed on, patients were immediately moved downstairs, to the temporary morgue. It was not good for those in the wards to see a body being prepared for burial. But this woman had already been wrapped tight in a white binding sheet. Only her head was left exposed. And one slim foot, for the tag.

I started to walk past. Stopped. My heart stuttered. I approached the bed and wondered if I was seeing things. Callie looked up. I saw now that the body belonged not to a woman, but to a girl, fourteen or fifteen. Without saying a word, I reached down and placed two fingers on the side of her neck. As I did, her eyes blinked open, wide as an owl’s.

I fell back with a muffled shriek. The little girl in the neighboring cot shifted but did not wake. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Edmund’s head snap up. I stared across the bed at Callie. Disbelieving. She stood frozen, looking back at me with round, guilty eyes.

“She’s still alive,” I whispered.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Callie said, the circles like smudges of charcoal beneath her eyes. “It’s just . . . it saves time. She’ll be gone by morning and it . . . it just saves time.” She yanked off the tag and pulled at the girl’s foot. Trying to undo the binding. She stopped. She began to cry.

Callie looked exhausted. But I was tired too. And outraged. Anger burned within me, a terrible, seething resentment. How dare she give up on her? The girl’s eyes had shut, and her lips and face were tinged the color of blueberries. But she was not dead yet.

Hannah appeared, for once looking unsettled. “Come with me, Callie.” She put one arm around the nurse and guided her toward the door. Hannah threw a look over her shoulder. “Leave her, Cleo,” she said quietly. “I won’t be long.” They disappeared through the doorway, the sound of Callie’s weeping trailing after them.

“Christ.” Edmund stood beside me.

I did not look at him. “How do we know she can’t hear us?” My voice trembled. “How do we know she didn’t feel someone wrapping her up like a mummy? She would have been so scared.” I felt around the girl’s foot, trying to find the edge of the binding.

Edmund touched my arm. I shook him off.

“Don’t,” I said. “I won’t go. I’m not leaving her like this.”

“I’m not asking you to.” Edmund walked around me. He gently lifted the girl’s head and tugged at the binding behind her neck. Holding up the edge of the cloth, he looked at me, as calm and as steady as ever.

“Here,” he said. “Hold her up for me. I’ll pull her free.”

Tuesday, October 22, 1918

As it turned out, the rumors were true. There was a vaccine. The lower-level balcony was crowded—with doctors, nurses, soldiers, even Mr. Malette, the cook. We sat in our red leather opera chairs while Dr. Montee explained that a shipment of influenza vaccine had arrived. There was enough to inoculate twenty thousand people.

A murmur filled the space. I exchanged glances with Kate and Edmund, who sat on either side of me. Twenty thousand? That’s it? Portland had ten times the number of people. More than ten.

Dr. Montee had been responsible for every flu-related decision made in the past month. Closing the schools. Opening the emergency hospitals. Placing police outside the streetcars to prevent overcrowding. He was a small man with a big job.

The doctor waited until the balcony quieted before he resumed speaking. “I understand your concerns.” Though slight, he had a voice that carried. “Twenty thousand is the most we could acquire at this time. I’m hopeful we can obtain more soon. I want to stress that due to the nature of the epidemic, its rapid spread, and the urgency with which this vaccine was devised, the drug has not undergone the rigorous testing that is typical before such widespread dispersal. However, the test results we do have show some success in limiting the influenza’s severity. Let me be very clear—it does not prevent Spanish influenza outright, and it is ineffective when used on a patient who has already contracted the flu.” Dr. Montee’s mask expanded over a frustrated breath. “In other words, my friends, desperate diseases require desperate remedies. This is all we have.”

An untested vaccine that was of no use to those already dying. It was not the miracle drug we had hoped for. Far from it.

Hannah stood beside Dr. Montee. I leaned toward Edmund. “Your mask,” I whispered.

Edmund glanced quickly at Hannah. She was staring straight at him with narrowed eyes. He pulled his mask over his nose.

Dr. Montee adjusted his bow tie. “Please know that the vaccine is strictly voluntary, though I cannot recommend it enough given your close and continuous proximity to infected persons. There is no charge for those here. The remaining vaccine will be transferred to physicians’ offices and to public clinics. The cost is one dollar per vaccine. I suggest you bring your families in immediately.” He turned to Hannah. “Mrs. Flynn?”

Hannah stepped forward. “Dr. McAbee will administer the men’s shots in the first-floor smoking room,” she called. “Ladies, please follow me. You’ll receive yours in the exhibit hall on the third floor.”

The noise level rose once again as the crowd made its way to the exits. Kate, Edmund, and I were seated in the back row. In the farthest corner. We stayed put, waiting for the crowd to thin.

“I don’t like needles,” Kate said.

“Neither do I.” I turned to Edmund. “Where do they give the vaccine? In the arm? Or . . .” I trailed off, uneasy, thinking of the other place one could get poked with a needle.

Edmund pulled his mask down. He was smiling. “In the arm,” he confirmed. “It’s a fast shot. You’ll hardly feel it.”

That was little comfort. “It’s barely been tested,” I said. “What if it gives us rickets? Or milk leg?”

Edmund’s smile widened. “I think we’re safe from milk leg.” He nudged my shoulder with his. “And better rickets than this flu.”

“I guess so.” I turned to Kate, who had gone quiet listening to us.

“Kate?” I whispered. I touched her arm.

Kate’s palms were pressed against her temple, her eyes glazed over with pain. And her mask. It was no longer white.

It was red.

Swearing, Edmund scrambled to his feet. He yanked at her gauze. Twin rivers of blood flowed from her nostrils, dripping down her chin and onto her blouse and skirt. As Edmund lifted her in his arms, she looked at me.

“My head hurts,” she said.

Edmund sprinted toward the women’s ward, Kate clutched in his arms. I ran after him. He was pale, Kate even more so. And I remembered Henry Thomas lying on the sidewalk outside the Portland Hotel.

We burst into the room. The nurses—the few left behind while the rest of us received vaccines—barely glanced up. Bleeding patients were common here, and they had their own troubles. In the first aisle, Edmund found an empty cot near the mirrored wall. He set Kate on the bed but wouldn’t let her lie down.

“We have to keep her upright for now,” he explained tersely. “Or she’ll choke.”

Kate was crying, her nose still bleeding. I grabbed a clean towel from a cart and did my best to mop her off. “You’re going to be fine, Kate,” I murmured. “It’s only a little blood. You’ll be fine.” I said it over and over again, trying to keep the panic from my voice.

In the mirror, I caught a glimpse of William Cooke, sitting up for the first time. He held the toy submarine I’d brought him yesterday. A little girl watched us from the next cot. She saw the blood and started to cry. I turned away. Not now, not now.

“Cleo.” Edmund’s voice was urgent.

“What?” I cried. “What do I do?”

“Get Hannah.”

I looked at Kate. Coughing. Her shoulders heaving. I dropped the towel on the bed and ran.

Upstairs in the exhibit hall, a line of women stood with their backs to me. One of the nurses sat in a chair at the front of the queue, her shirtwaist unbuttoned and pushed off one shoulder to expose an arm. Beside her, a frowning Hannah held a long needle up to the light. She tapped the needle with one rigid finger, then smiled with satisfaction when a small stream of liquid emerged. Hannah caught sight of me, and her mouth formed a small O. The other women turned in unison. And I saw the alarm on their faces.

I looked down. At the blood soaking my sweater, my skirt. I reached up and felt the sticky wetness on my cheek.

Hannah was not God. Neither was Edmund. Or Dr. McAbee. Or any of the other medical staff who could do nothing as Kate shivered and cried beneath her blanket. In fact, I thought, rage and fear simmering within me, it was clear God was nowhere near this building.

Around me, the day continued. Edmund was called downstairs to help transport bodies to the morgue. Two soldiers had collapsed right after Kate. We were even more short-handed. Hannah sent Mrs. Howard upstairs to finish the inoculations. She stayed in the ward herself, never too far away. I gathered the extra set of clothes Kate had left in the downstairs comfort station. Hannah and I peeled off her bloody clothing. Threw them in the trash.

“Should we fetch her mother?” I asked. Hannah hated having visitors inside the hospital, allowed them in only to say goodbye. It was not safe. But who was safe? Not the people inside the hospital. Not the people outside. None of us.

Hannah glared at Kate’s thermometer. She didn’t respond.

“What is it?” I asked.