* * *
The next morning Mirielle walked with Jean to the canteen to drop off the letter for Santa.
“You’re missing a stamp,” Frank said, glancing at the letter Jean had placed on the counter as he rang up a can of baked beans for another resident.
“Mrs. Marvin said I don’t need no stamp if it’s going to the North Pole.”
Frank handed the resident his change, then picked up Jean’s letter. She’d written Mr. Claus, One Main Street, North Pole across the front. Frank’s eyes met Mirielle’s for the first time in weeks. She’d forgotten how strikingly blue and penetrating they were. He turned to Jean. “She’s right. Santa takes all his letters COD. I’ll be sure that this gets to the sterilizer right away and goes out today.”
Jean smiled so widely, Mirielle could see the hole from the missing molar she’d lost last week.
“Off to school with you now,” Mirielle said. Jean skipped off, and Mirielle hollered after her, “Be sure to apologize to Toby today.”
She slid onto one of the counter stools and said to Frank, “I have a letter too.”
She didn’t know when Charlie and the girls were leaving for Switzerland. They might already be gone. Two weeks back, she’d sent a card and letter for Charlie to bring along on their trip and to read to their daughters on Christmas morning. She might not be there in person, but Mirielle wanted Evie and Helen to know she was thinking of them, that morning and every morning, and sending kisses across the Atlantic.
Her letter today was a few brief sentences long and addressed only to Charlie. She’d described the situation with the children here and asked him to send gifts and treats. Her hopes weren’t high that it would reach him in time. And even if it did, he might disregard her request entirely like he’d done with the fireworks. But Mirielle had to try.
She handed the envelope to Frank, the back of her neck tingling with heat. It was addressed to C.W. at the secret post office box they used in Los Angeles, but Frank must know it was for her husband. He took the letter between his crooked thumb and index finger, tossing it into a box with the rest of the outgoing mail without a second glance.
“Thanks,” Mirielle said. She stood, then sat back down, fingering her necklace as she tried to work out what to say next. She’d kissed a few men before Charlie, and rebuffed many more. It had been easy in those days. A laugh. A light swat on the shoulder. A playful protestation that the gentleman shouldn’t be so fresh. And just like that, the awkward near-kiss was forgotten.
With Frank, it was different. Not even the trusty balm of time and silence had worked.
“Ya want something else?” he said to her.
“No . . . er . . . yes.” She let go of her necklace and folded her fidgety hands atop the counter. “Is it too late to place an order in the catalogs?”
“Depends. Ya looking for it to arrive before Christmas?”
She nodded.
“Too late by nearly a week.” He grabbed an empty glass from farther down the counter and carried it between his palms to the washbasin. He dropped it in the sudsy water, saying nonchalantly over his shoulder, “Better luck next year.”
Mirielle waited a moment, watching him scrub the glass with a dishrag. When she thought he was finished, he held the glass up to the light and started scrubbing again, as if he were cleaning it for President Coolidge himself. She’d ignored enough people in her day to know he’d keep washing until she left. But this wasn’t about them, and damned if she’d leave without getting his help.
She didn’t bother walking around the counter, but shimmied herself up and over it instead. It didn’t go quite as gracefully as she imagined—she wasn’t a gymnast, after all—but the canteen was empty and the gamblers in the adjoining rec hall were too far away to see her girdle straps and ruffly chemise. Frank turned around just as she hopped down and was straightening her skirt.
“Canteen patrons ain’t allowed behind the counter,” he said.
“You didn’t seem to mind last time.”
His jaw tightened, and Mirielle regretted bringing it up.
“Listen, this isn’t about . . . I need your help getting Christmas presents for the kids.”
“The sisters knit them sweaters ever year, and Saint Louis Church in New Orleans sends them prayer books.”
“Is that what you wanted as a boy? A frumpy sweater and a prayer book?”
“I didn’t grow up all rich and fancy like you. We was happy to get anything.” He turned back to the washbasin and picked up another glass. “Besides, the club always wraps up a candy bar for ’em too.”
Mirielle stepped closer. She’d missed the way he smelled—slightly woodsy with notes of aftershave and liniment. “Frank, please, I know you think I’m nothing more than a high-hatted egoist. Hell, maybe I am. But I’m trying to do something good here. I want Jean and the kids to have one nice Christmas. A happy Christmas where they’re just like every other boy and girl and don’t have to think about the disease.”
“Don’t see how I can help.”
She reached out and touched his arm, her fingers lingering on the exposed skin below his rolled-up shirtsleeve until he put down the glass.
“Ya are a high-hatted egoist,” he said. “But it’s a damned nice idea.”
“You’ll help me then?”
He turned around and faced her. The flint he’d carried in his eyes since their last encounter was gone. “It’s three weeks till Christmas. I don’t see what we can do.”
“There’s gotta be some do-good society in New Orleans or Baton Rouge we can write to.”
“We’ve tried that before, chère.”
Chère. Mirielle wished she didn’t like it when he called her that. Wished she hadn’t missed his smell. Wished that some small part of her didn’t regret the missed kiss. This friendship was a dangerous one. Liable to hurt them both. She realized she was still standing right next to him, close enough to hear the soft inhale of his breath and see tiny nicks beneath his chin from the morning’s shave.
She took a step back, reminding herself of the task at hand. “Well, the one thing that can be said of egoists, we’re self-deluded enough to try again.”
CHAPTER 44
Mirielle sent letters to the Leper Aid Society, the Catholic Church Extension Society, the Provident Association, the Child Welfare League, and even the Rockefeller Foundation, asking for whatever toys they could send.
Then she waited. Her letters would take time to arrive, funds would have to be allocated, gifts bought and shipped. If her request sat unopened for a day or two on a crowded desk, or a board squabbled over how much money to spare, the toys would not arrive by Christmas.
Jean asked several times whether Mirielle thought Santa had received her letter. Each time, Mirielle assured her that he had.
With a week and a half to go, she began making daily calls at the canteen after work. She felt light, almost giddy with anticipation. The faces of those around her mirrored that same hope. Residents, some of whom she’d never seen before at mail call, crowded the counter. Some walked away ebullient, clutching a package or a letter. Others, like Mirielle, shuffled out of the canteen empty-handed, telling themselves tomorrow something would come.
As Christmas neared, her anticipation grew heavy. She tarried in the dressing clinic restocking supplies or lingered in the pharmacy double-counting pills so she would miss the crowds at the canteen. She wasn’t the only one whose hope had soured. And it doubled her disappointment to see all the glum faces. Never mind all those residents who didn’t bother to stop by for mail call. Who knew nothing was ever coming for them.
The holiday songs playing over the radio, the evergreen tree dressed in ribbons and bobbles standing in the dining hall, the magazine ads with pictures of a fat, cherry-nosed Santa reminded all of them—not only herself, Mirielle realized—of a home far away.
* * *
Christmas Eve, Mirielle dressed in her dowdy uniform and headed to the pharmacy after breakfast. What had once been
her favorite shift in her work rotation had become dreary and dull since her fight with Irene. They stood side by side for hours mixing ointment or filling capsules or bottling disinfectant, never saying a word to each other.
Mirielle missed Irene’s endless chatter. Her crass sense of humor. Her frank advice. Looking back, their argument seemed so trite. The beautiful flowers in the living room had begun to droop and wither. Instead of a lush perfume, they gave off a lingering smell of rot. She suspected Irene was keeping them now out of pure stubbornness. To remind Mirielle of their argument. To remind her that Irene had someone who cared for her, who remembered her at Christmas while Mirielle had no one.
And it was true. Nothing had come from Charlie since Mirielle’s last letter. Nothing had come from the societies and associations and foundations she’d written to either. Her only hope was that something would arrive today—a parcel of bonbons and trinkets, a package of yo-yos and checkerboards. But she knew the chance was slim.
“You’re both looking very glum for Christmas Eve,” Sister Beatrice said to Mirielle and Irene, leading them to the long workbench in the center of the pharmacy where a hodgepodge of jars and bottles awaited them.
Irene snorted. Mirielle said nothing. Their task for the day was to count, measure, and inventory the pharmacy’s stock of medicine so Sister Beatrice and the doctors could calculate what they’d need to order for the new year. Mirielle started with a huge bottle of aspirin, pouring its contents onto the workbench and dropping the pills back into the bottle one by one.
What did Irene have to be glum about? Her son had sent her flowers, for criminy’s sake. Tomorrow Mirielle would have to tell Jean that Santa didn’t exist. Or make up some lie about how her letter must have been incinerated in the sterilizer on its way to the mailman. Either way, Jean would be heartbroken. Far more disappointed than if Mirielle had told her the truth in the first place.
She chucked pill forty-seven into the jar with such force it split in two. Mirielle scowled and fished out the pieces, readjusting her count. What kind of a mother was she to have bungled Christmas so badly? A good mother would have known not to make promises to a child, even implicit ones, that she couldn’t keep. Maybe her daughters were better off spending the holidays in Switzerland without her.
The plink, plink, plink of pills grated on Mirielle’s nerves. Did Irene have to be so loud? Was she purposely trying to count faster than her? Mirielle quickened her pace. Irene shot her a sidelong glare and sped up too. They worked at this frantic pace for several minutes. Soon, Mirielle was no longer counting at all but merely flinging pills into her jar as quickly as possible. Irene capped her jar, scribbled something onto her ledger, and upended another. Mirielle did the same. Pills bounced and scattered.
“Keep to your end of the bench, will ya?” Irene said.
“You’re taking up your half and then some.”
Irene shook her head. “You always think you’re owed more than your share.”
Mirielle swiped at the pile of pills in front of Irene, sending them skittering across the workbench. Irene retaliated by scattering Mirielle’s pile too. Pills rolled everywhere. Mirielle glared at her, then bent down to pick up the pills that had fallen on the floor.
“My heavens, ladies!” Sister Beatrice said, stalking over. “You must be careful. Mixing up pills could be incredibly dangerous.”
Mirielle stood, wiping off the pills from the floor on her apron. “Yes, Sister.”
Irene nodded. Hundreds of small white pills were strewn across the workbench. Only on close inspection could Mirielle tell hers from Irene’s by the faint groove down the center. They set out sorting the pills in silence.
“A dose of aspirin won’t kill anyone,” Mirielle said under her breath.
“Mine’s calomel. A good bowel purging never hurt no one either.”
Mirielle couldn’t help but laugh imagining someone swallowing a few laxatives in place of aspirin. “It might actually do those old fops in the Rocking Chair Brigade some good.”
Irene snickered. “Or Watchman Doyle.”
“Or Sister Verena.”
Irene’s snickering burst into full-fledged laughter. Mirielle’s too. Her eyes teared. From the laughter? From the sudden release of tension between them? Mirielle didn’t know and didn’t care. She stopped all pretense of squinting at pills and let the laughter come.
“Mrs. Marvin.”
Mirielle’s throat closed the minute she heard Sister Verena’s voice. Her chuckles deflated. Something about the sister didn’t seem quite right. Her posture wasn’t just stiff but tense. She looked right past the mess of pills.
“I require your immediate assistance.”
“What for?”
Sister Verena’s gaze flickered to Irene. “I shall explain on the way.”
Unease settled in her chest. What trouble had Mirielle gotten herself into now? She untied her apron and shot Irene an apologetic look for leaving her hundreds of pills to sort alone.
Out on the walkway, Mirielle had to scurry to keep up with Sister Verena’s clipped pace. She felt a twinge of relief when they turned in the opposite direction of the jail, though Mirielle still couldn’t think what she’d done to unsettle Sister Verena so.
“Where are we going?”
“I need you to assist with a case in the operating room.”
Mirielle stumbled, then hurried to catch up. “But I’ve never helped out with a surgery before.”
“With God’s grace, we won’t need to operate.”
“Then why—”
“It’s a delicate matter, Mrs. Marvin.”
When they arrived a few moments later at the operating room, Mirielle realized what Sister Verena had meant by delicate. Elena, one of the younger women at the colony, sat hunched on the steel table in the center of the room, arms wrapped around a swollen belly. The spotlight and mirrors angled above cast her in a pool of blinding light. She sucked in a sharp breath and grimaced. A sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead. Her discomfort lasted less than a minute, then her scrunched face and tensed muscles relaxed.
“My God, she’s pregnant,” Mirielle said.
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Mrs. Marvin.” Sister Verena handed her a floor-length smock. “Put this on and wash your hands at the scrub sink.”
“But I . . . why me?”
“Sister Juanita usually assists in these cases, but she’s sick with the flu. Sister Loretta will join us presently, but I . . . wanted someone with sharper skills here too. Besides, you have experience.”
Mirielle gaped. Giving birth and assisting with a delivery were two very different things! “What about Doc Jack?”
“We’ll call him at the end. Sooner if the baby doesn’t turn.”
A nudge from Sister Verena and Mirielle stumbled to the sink. She knew nothing about delivering babies. Certainly not ones who were breech. She’d been in a morphine-induced twilight sleep for all three of her children’s births and remembered next to nothing.
Once her hands were washed and smock donned, Mirielle helped Elena change into a hospital gown. Elena gave her a bashful smile and said something in Greek Mirielle took to be thank you. Several minutes passed before her next contraction. When it came, Mirielle held her hand and brushed aside her hair when it fell into her face. Fear, more than pain, showed in her dark eyes.
The contraction passed quickly. Sister Verena asked Elena to lie down and listened to the baby’s heartbeat with a special stethoscope she pressed to Elena’s belly. Next she pressed down as if to feel for the contour of the baby’s head and limbs. Mirielle watched her pursed-lip expression and knew the baby still hadn’t turned.
“She’s only dilated three centimeters,” Sister Verena said after sticking two fingers inside her. “Plenty of time yet to go.”
Mirielle cranked a lever beneath the table to raise the head so Elena could sit upright in a more comfortable position. How had Mirielle not noticed a pregnant woman walking around the colony? How ha
d she not heard whisperings about it when she passed the Rocking Chair Brigade?
She thought back to the last time she’d seen Elena. It was mid-September at a picnic the Mexican Club had hosted. Chili con carne and frijoles, a piñata for the kids, burning pyrethrum powder to keep away the mosquitos. She remembered the day so vividly because of Hector’s absence. In her memory, Elena was seated at a picnic table with her housemates. She didn’t look pregnant. Maybe a bit pudgy, but everyone looked that way in the shapeless dresses the materials office supplied.
After getting Elena a pillow and blanket, Mirielle crossed the room to where Sister Verena was laying out supplies on a tray table. “How long have you known she was pregnant?”
Sister Verena set down a pair of scissors, aligning them carefully alongside a suture needle and thread before replying. “Two and a half months.”
“Where has she been since you found out?”
“House thirty-eight.”
Mirielle frowned. House thirty-eight was where they locked away insane patients.
“We couldn’t very well have her out among the rest of you,” Sister Verena said. “Flaunting her immorality.”
“What about the father?”
“In jail.”
“Maybe they’re in love. If patients were permitted to marry then there wouldn’t be anything immoral about it.”
“I did not bring you here to debate morality, Mrs. Marvin.” Sister Verena laid a pair of forceps on the tray table with such force it rattled the other instruments. “Now, please see to it that Miss Remis conserves her energy. Keep track of her contractions and alert me when they become more regular.”
Mirielle’s frown deepened, but Sister Verena’s voice—sharp and strangely shrill—told her not to press the issue. For several hours, she stayed by Elena’s side, rubbing her swollen feet and coaxing her to rest between contractions. The light peeking between the slats of the window blinds weakened and vanished. The supper bell rang. Elena’s contractions grew steadily longer and closer together.
The Second Life of Mirielle West Page 25