The Second Life of Mirielle West

by Amanda Skenandore

  Mirielle recorded everything, glancing up from the page every so often to gauge Sister Verena’s expression. Of the dozens of volunteers, they were accepting only twelve. Mirielle hoped a slight scowl or smile or twitch of the eye might betray the criteria the doctors were looking for. But Sister Verena’s face may as well have been carved of stone.

  When they finished, Mirielle herself undressed for inspection.

  “May I rely on you to faithfully transcribe for yourself?” Sister Verena asked.

  “Of course.”

  But it was strange to see herself reduced on paper to a number and description of her disease. When Sister Verena got to the spot—or “red, nodular patch”—on her neck, Mirielle’s pen wavered.

  “Is there a problem?” Sister Verena said.

  Mirielle ran a finger over the hideous spot that mocked her each time she looked into the mirror. The other women, whose disease was far more marked than hers, had endured this scrutiny in the hopes of being selected for the trial. So could she. A shake of her pen to convince Sister Verena that the ink had merely clogged, and she wrote down the words.

  At the end, Sister Verena asked her the same questions she’d asked the other women. “Are you afraid of small, enclosed places?”

  Mirielle shook her head.

  “Do you suffer from hysteria or other ailments of the nerves or mind?”

  Mirielle fingered her bracelet. Her doctor had asked the same thing after the accident.

  “No,” she said.

  * * *

  Mirielle waited three days without report about who had been selected for the trial. During her shift in the infirmary, she stared longingly at the fever machine as she was passing out medicine or counting patients’ pulses. Every time Sister Verena called her name, her heart jumped into her throat, as she anticipated news about the trial. It plummeted back into her chest when she was asked to sharpen needles or strip the sheets from a dirty bed.

  Finally, before supper on Friday, a list appeared on the bulletin board. Not names, but patient numbers. Mirielle pressed through the small crowd that had gathered around the list like a flock of hens, all but blocking the main door and the hungry supper-goers trying to enter. At first glance, she didn’t see her number. In desperation, she scanned the list again. Then it appeared. Second from bottom. Patient 367 was included in the trial.

  * * *

  Apprehension gnawed at Mirielle the first day she reported for fever therapy. She approached the horizontal cabinet in the corner of the infirmary with careful, soft-footed steps.

  “No need to be afraid, Mrs. Marvin,” Doc Jack said, waving her over.

  It wasn’t fear, precisely, but a sort of weighty anticipation.

  “You’re feeling well this morning?” he asked as Sister Loretta slipped a thermometer under Mirielle’s tongue.

  She nodded.

  “No stomachache or cough or unusual tiredness?”

  She shook her head. Her insides cramped and gurgled a bit, but that was just nerves. And the chaulmoogra oil she’d taken with breakfast.

  “Great.” Doc Jack made a few notes in the record book, while Sister Loretta took her pulse and blood pressure. Both were slightly higher than usual, but still within normal range. Her temperature, also normal, was recorded along with her other vitals.

  “We call it a hypertherm,” Doc Jack said, gesturing to the machine. You’ll lie inside for five hours as the temperature and humidity are raised. That, in turn, will raise your core temperature, hopefully destroying some of the bacteria in your body. Sister Loretta will be with you throughout the procedure, keeping you hydrated and monitoring your vital signs. Do you have any questions?”

  Even without the thermometer in her mouth, Mirielle found she couldn’t speak, and only nodded again in reply.

  Sister Loretta handed her a hospital gown. “Everything off, dearie. Even your corset.”

  It had been years since Mirielle had worn a corset, but she didn’t bother saying so, and undressed behind the privacy screen. The hospital gown had been hemmed so it fell just above her knees. Undoubtedly there was some medical necessity for this, but she couldn’t help smiling. Necessity or not, Sister Verena couldn’t be pleased.

  When she stepped around the screen, she saw that the lid of the cabinet was raised, leaving only the bottom in place. Her smile fled. Now, instead of a coffin, it looked like a wide, gaping mouth. Doc Jack patted the mattress. “Climb up, and we’ll begin.”

  Mirielle hesitated, the greater part of her wanting to slink back behind the screen. This was for her daughters, she reminded herself. She took a deep breath and walked to the machine. The mattress was little more than a stiff mat, but she clambered up and stretched out her legs. She lay back, then scooted upward until her head rested on a pillow at the far end.

  Doc Jack lowered the lid, latching the sides closed with a click. Only her head remained outside of the cabinet, jutting through the small hole at the top. A hole that quickly shrank as Sister Loretta wedged a towel around her neck to seal the opening.

  She wasn’t claustrophobic, she’d told Sister Verena in truth, and reminded herself again. But when the machine whirred to life, her heart fought to break free of her rib cage. A warm mist prickled her exposed skin.

  “It’s all right, dearie,” Sister Loretta said, stroking Mirielle’s temples with her soft fingers. “Just breathe nice and slow.”

  Sister Loretta wasn’t the most skilled of nurses. Even with her thick glasses, Mirielle wasn’t sure she could see beyond her nose. Her quickest gait was a shuffle, and she napped as much as she worked. But of all the nurses Mirielle worked with, Sister Loretta was the kindest, and Mirielle was glad she was here.

  Steadily, the moist air circling through the cabinet grew hotter. Sweat dripped down the sides of Mirielle’s face. Sister Loretta switched on a fan mounted at the head of the cabinet. The cool breeze about her face was a pleasant but fleeting reprieve from the heat building inside.

  “How hot is the machine set to get?” she asked.

  “Around a hundred and fifty degrees.”

  “Are we there yet?” The air inside the cabinet felt hotter than it had all summer. And summer in Louisiana was hotter than any she’d known in Los Angeles.

  “Oh, no, not nearly,” Sister Loretta said, standing on her tiptoes and craning her neck to read the gauge on top of the cabinet. “Another forty or so degrees to go.”

  Mirielle closed her eyes and tried to breathe slowly as Sister Loretta had instructed. The fan hummed. The machine whirred. The temperature rose.

  Every few minutes, Sister Loretta wiped Mirielle’s brow with a cloth dipped in ice water. She held a straw to her lips, and Mirielle choked down a salty, lukewarm liquid meant to keep her hydrated.

  After several hours, Sister Loretta took her temperature again. “One hundred and five degrees. Just what we’d hoped.” She felt along Mirielle’s neck to count her pulse. “A little fast, but that’s to be expected.”

  “You’ll check again at the end?” Mirielle asked, her voice breathy and low.

  “Once every hour unless you start to feel unwell.”

  So it hadn’t been several hours. Only one. Mirielle felt a twinge of panic. Already it was hotter and longer than she could stand. The mattress felt like a rock beneath her. Beads of water dripped from the roof of the cabinet, singeing her skin.

  She forced her mind to Evie and Helen. A day with them at the beach. Evie chased seagulls and collected shells. Helen tottered in the sand, holding Mirielle’s hand. Charlie lounged beneath an umbrella, smiling and waving at them. They kept far from the water, enjoying only the sound of the waves and the occasional kiss of sea foam at the very edge of the surf. When lunchtime came, she spread a blanket beneath the umbrella’s shade, and they munched on sandwiches and cookies.

  Felix was there too, eating beside her, his upper lip stained red with fruit punch. Mirielle kissed his forehead, and he didn’t make a face or wipe it off as he’d recently gotten into th
e habit of doing. She turned to Helen and tore off a bite of sandwich for her, careful not to make it too big. Her front teeth were in now, and she made easy work of the food.

  When Mirielle turned back, Felix was gone. She whipped her head toward the ocean just as a cry sounded from somewhere near off. “Someone’s drowning.”

  Mirielle leaped to her feet and raced toward the water. Her feet sank in the hot sand. The surf grew farther and farther away even as she ran. Felix’s head bobbed and his arms flailed just above the water. Then a wave came, and he vanished beneath the surface.

  Mirielle opened her eyes with a start. A metal-shaded lamp hung overhead. She choked on a sob.

  “It’s all right, dearie. Only a few more hours to go.”

  * * *

  When the five hours were up, Doc Jack returned and turned off the machine. Mirielle felt languid and nauseous. She rested in the infirmary overnight, though her temperature and other vital signs quickly returned to normal. When Doc Jack asked the next morning how she felt, Mirielle lied and said she felt fine. Physically, she was fine, though still a bit weak. Her mind, however, remained addled.

  “We’ll do another treatment next week then,” Doc Jack said. “Be sure to rest up.”

  Mirielle nodded. One treatment down. Seven to go.

  October 7, 1926

  Dear Mirielle,

  You’re not still mad about that Picture-Play article, are you? Your letters haven’t mentioned it, so I’m hoping I’m forgiven. With Rudolph’s death, everyone’s all but forgotten it anyway.

  Production on the new film is grueling as ever. Sometimes I’m on the lot until midnight and am expected back the very next morning at six sharp. So you must forgive my tardy response. Were it not for Cecil and Gloria—whose work is pure genius—and the other swell folks on set laboring just as hard, I might think twice about this crazy business.

  Evie and Helen are fine. It’s not two months into school and already Evie’s top of the class. Her teacher did mention a tendency toward nervousness. Something about plucking her eyelashes. But I’m sure the teacher is overreacting on account of your supposed illness, madness running in families and all. Gloria says such habits are quite normal in little girls. She herself pulled out a few eyelashes as a child, and look how well she turned out.

  Helen’s saying a whole host of words now—“dada,” “Evie” (though it sounds like Ebie), “cup,” “apple,” “bunny,” and, of course, “no.” The nanny tried to teach her to say “mama” by pointing at your picture on the wall. It doesn’t seem to have worked, though. Now she calls every picture she sees “mama” regardless of who’s in the portrait. Last week, Gloria and a few others from the studio were over for drinks. When the nanny brought the girls into the parlor to say good night, Helen pointed at that stodgy old portrait of your grandfather and said, “mama.” We all had a good chuckle over it.

  I’ll write again when there’s time. The girls send their love.

  Sincerely yours,

  Charlie

  P.S. How is your health? This fever cabinet you’ve described sounds like something out of a Jules Verne novel.

  CHAPTER 38

  “Hurry up, slowpoke,” Jean called from the top of the observation tower.

  Mirielle stopped at the landing halfway up the steep stairs to catch her breath. She’d been fine after her third session of fever therapy four days ago. Headache, cramps, nausea, and fever blisters notwithstanding. That all was expected and gone by the next day. Now she was just tired, more tired than she’d been at the beginning of the trial.

  “I’m coming,” she said, clutching the rail. “Can you see any?”

  “No . . . yes! Just the tip of one. Hurry up or you’ll miss it.”

  Each step took effort, but Mirielle made it to the top just as a large sternwheel towboat chugged up the Mississippi. Jean scampered onto the bench that surrounded the deck and waved her arms.

  “Careful, Jean. Keep one hand on the railing.”

  Jean didn’t listen, so Mirielle grabbed hold of the back of her dress to steady her. Last week, one of the boys had managed to get a passing ship to toot its horn. And ever since, Jean had been crazed with the idea of doing it too.

  “Hey!” she yelled, still waving her arms like automobile wipers.

  The towboat passed from view without a sound.

  “Aw, shucks.” Jean jumped down from the bench, and Mirielle let go of her dress. “What d’ya suppose it’s like on there?”

  “The boat? I don’t know. Smelly.” Mirielle sat down and fanned herself with her hand. It wasn’t as hot as it had been in early October when the muggy air was little better than the fever chamber, and mosquitos seemed to hatch overnight in the stagnant pools of rainwater. But still far hotter than late autumn at home.

  “I think I’ll be a ship’s captain someday,” Jean said, lying down on the deck and staring up at the sky. “Or maybe own my own shrimping boat. Mon père got a brother down in Cote Blanche Bay who owns his own boat. Says he don’t do nothin’ but cruise around all day, eatin’ shrimp straight from the net. The shrimp and the sea don’t care none about the gazeek.”

  “That does sound nice,” Mirielle said. Not shrimping—that sounded especially smelly—but being somewhere the disease didn’t matter. “Can I come aboard someday?”

  “Yeah, I guess. But you’ll gotta do your share. Haulin’ nets and the like.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  Jean smiled, her gaze still upon the sky. She pointed up at a bulbous cloud. “Look, a crawdad.”

  Evie liked to stare at clouds too. She’d find seahorses and castles and ice cream cones where Mirielle only saw smudges of white. Most days, Mirielle could keep them separate, Jean and Evie. They were unalike in almost every way—age, disposition, looks. But then something would strike her. A gesture, an expression, an innocuous habit like staring up at the sky. And Mirielle’s breath would catch. Her heart beat a little more insistent.

  She lowered herself from the bench and lay beside her. Never mind the dirt and twigs and speckles of moss covering the planks. Never mind her delicate chiffon dress. Never mind the bitter taste of missed chances with her own daughter hundreds of miles away. “Which one?”

  Jean pointed again, and Mirielle saw it—the wispy antennae and bulging eyes. She gestured to another cloud. “And what about that one?”

  “That’s a snail wearing a top hat.”

  “And that one?”

  “A chocolate chip cookie with a bite taken out of it.”

  Mirielle laughed and pointed at another, a long wispy cloud that bent upward at the end. Jean thought a moment, then frowned. “That’s the leg Mr. Macaroni just had cut off.”

  Mirielle flinched. They watched in silence as the cloud drifted across the sky, stretching and fading.

  Jean rolled onto her side to face Mirielle. “What happened to his leg?”

  “It got infected.”

  “No, I mean after. Where did they put it?”

  Mirielle didn’t know, but she suspected the incinerator. “I think they burned it.”

  “With the other trash?”

  What could she answer to this?

  Jean rolled onto her back again. “If I lose a leg or arm, I wanna bury it and mark the spot with a tombstone.”

  “You’re not going to lose anything,” Mirielle said. But it was an empty promise. Already, Jean had lost so much. Her family. Her childhood. Her home. Who was to say she wouldn’t lose an arm or leg too before the disease was through with her?

  “Because of the fever cure they got y’all doin’?” Jean asked.

  “I hope so, yes.” The smile returned to Jean’s face before Mirielle could temper what she’d said with, “Or we’ll find some other cure.”

  Footfalls sounded on the steps, and the deck planks trembled. Mirielle sat up—too quickly. The sky and surrounding treetops rippled as if underwater. Frank and two of the colony’s young boys bounded onto the deck. Mirielle didn’t know the older boy�
��s name. But the younger one, Toby, she recognized. Not yet six years old, he was the youngest child in the colony. The boys leaped onto the bench and scanned the river.

  “You seen any boats?” Toby asked.

  Jean scrambled up and joined them on the bench. “Yeah, a huge towboat.”

  “How come you didn’t get it to toot its whistle?” the older boy said.

  “You think I didn’t try, stupid?” She punched his shoulder. He was smaller than Jean, but near enough her age that if the punch hurt, he wasn’t about to show it.

  “Maybe they don’t like girls.”

  Toby nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Enough of that,” Frank said.

  They all seemed to be swaying along with the treetops. Mirielle closed her eyes.

  “Ya okay?”

  She recognized Frank’s voice and felt his curled fingers on her shoulder. She opened her eyes. The world was still again.

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “Need help up?”

  She shook her head and rolled onto her knees, taking a steadying breath before standing. Her legs didn’t feel up to the task of supporting the rest of her body, so she wobbled to the bench and sat down. Doc Jack had warned she might feel tired and lightheaded. Maybe it was the hateful bacilli dying inside her.

  Another ship passed. All three of the children flailed their arms and hollered. When it drifted out of view without a toot of acknowledgment, their shoulders slumped, and they turned away.

  “I bet Donnie was lying,” the older boy said.

  “Yeah,” Jean said as she picked up a brittle leaf that had fallen on the bench and crushed it in her palm. “There’s no way he got a ship to whistle.”

  Toby swung his legs and looked down. “Think it’s ’cause they know about our disease?”

  “That ain’t it,” Frank said. “There’s lots to worry about on a boat. Ya got your boilers and your engine and your tow. Not to mention the river tataille.”