The lunch bell rang while she dressed after her exam. She decided to wait out her results in the dining hall rather than the infirmary. Chef was serving chicken salad sandwiches with applesauce and greens. She grabbed a plate and sat at an empty table across the hall. A cool breeze rolled in through the open windows, carrying with it the faintest promise of spring. Birdsong mixed with the residents’ chatter. Soon her housemates were seated around her. Their conversation foundered, lapsing into long silences until Jean teased her about being a slug-a-bed for having missed breakfast. They all laughed, though it was impossible not to notice the absence of Irene’s snorting chuckles.
When Mirielle arrived back at the infirmary, she could hear Doc Jack behind the examination screen with another patient. She returned to the table where Sister Loretta was still rolling bandages and took up another long strip of gauze. This time, the old woman stayed silent as they worked, not meeting Mirielle’s eye.
A few minutes later, Doc Jack and Sister Verena emerged from behind the screen. His ready smile faltered when he saw her. He muttered something to Sister Verena before heading to the sink to wash his hands.
Sister Verena walked over, her expression devoid of its usual self-importance. Mirielle’s stomach tightened.
“Have a seat over there, Mrs. Marvin,” Sister Verena said, gesturing to an empty hospital bed spaced far apart from the others.
“Is something wrong? Why can’t Doc Jack talk to me here?”
Sister Loretta eased the partially rolled bandage from Mirielle’s grasp. “Go on, dearie. I’ll finish up.”
Mirielle crossed to the bed but didn’t sit down. She watched Doc Jack dry his hands. He joined Sister Verena by the desk in the far corner of the room, and together they walked to Mirielle, a manila chart tucked under the sister’s arm. Patient 367, the chart’s label read. It reminded Mirielle of Irene’s gravestone, how in the end they were all reduced to a number.
“Please sit down, Mrs. Marvin,” Doc Jack said, his voice unusually somber.
“I don’t want to sit.”
His gaze dropped to the ground, and he wiped his palms on his lab coat. When he looked at her again, his gray eyes had regained the steadiness she’d seen in them that morning, but none of the cheer. “We identified several bacilli in your skin scrapings today.”
Mirielle’s legs felt suddenly hollow. “What do you mean?”
“Your test was positive.”
Positive? That wasn’t possible. She reached back, finding the thin mattress just as her knees gave out. “But you said yourself how healthy I’m looking.”
“It’s not always possible to predict when and why the disease will flare.”
“But I . . .”
“It’s nothing to be too concerned over. Only two of the slides showed the disease. I’m confident if you keep taking chaulmoogra oil and minding your health, you’ll be running negative again in no time.”
“But I’m meant to go home in a few months.”
Doc Jack glanced sideways at Sister Verena. “No, I’m afraid not.”
Mirielle thrust out her lesion-marked hand. “You’ve made a mistake. Retest me.”
“We don’t retest, Mrs. Marvin,” Sister Verena said.
“Shut up,” she said loudly enough to elicit murmurs from the bed-bound patients across the room. “You’re glad for this. You’ve always hated me.”
“I don’t wish this disease on anyone.”
Mirielle turned back to Doc Jack, tears building in her eyes. “Please, this can’t be right.”
“It is. I had Sister Katherine in the laboratory verify the slides.”
“I want to see.” She stood, a building rage giving strength to her legs.
“We don’t usually allow patients in the laboratory. It’s—”
Mirielle brushed past him and out of the infirmary. Footsteps sounded behind her. His? Sister Verena’s? Mirielle didn’t care. When she reached the laboratory, she flung the door wide and stomped in.
“Show me my slides,” she demanded of Sister Katherine.
The woman looked up from her pipette and beaker. “I’m afraid you can’t be—”
“It’s all right, Nurse Katherine,” Doc Jack said, coming up behind Mirielle somewhat out of breath. “Do you still have Patient 367’s slides?”
Sister Katherine fetched a set of six slides and turned on the microscope. Doc Jack sorted through the slides before placing one labeled 367 - R hand beneath the lens. He looked into the eyepiece and adjusted the focus.
When he stepped aside, Mirielle took his place, peering into the eyepiece. A blur of pink and blue showed through the lens. “What am I looking for?”
“Mycobacterium leprae is an acid-fast organism,” Doc Jack said. “That means it turns reddish-pink when we put dye on the slide. The dye washes away from your regular cells when we add acid, but the bacteria hold on to the dye. We counterstain your cells with methylene blue, but interspersed you should see several rod-shaped specks of pink. That’s the disease.”
Mirielle looked again. Slowly, the blur of color took shape, and the rods Doc Jack spoke of appeared. Mirielle backed away from the microscope, shaking her head. She bumped into the wall behind her and groped for what she hoped was the door. Instead, her hand struck a shelf. The clank of toppling equipment and shattering glass sounded through the small room.
“Mrs. Marvin, are you all right? Please let’s return to the—”
Mirielle found the door and fled from the laboratory before Doc Jack could finish. She ran along the walkway, exiting down the first flight of stairs she found. The steps spilled her out onto the vast oak-studded lawn between the southeast buildings and the fence. Mirielle hid behind a wide, gnarled tree trunk in case Doc Jack or one of the sisters came looking for her. She couldn’t bear to return to the infirmary and listen to their falsely positive prognostications. Nothing they said could obscure the fact she was damned to remain here another year longer. A year of missed birthdays and holidays and Sunday picnics on the beach. A year without holding her daughters and watching them grow.
She slid down the trunk and sat on the moss-covered roots that bulged from the ground. Her hand was already wet when she swiped it over her tear-streaked cheeks. Looking down, she saw blood smeared across her palm. She must have cut herself back in the laboratory. Blood beaded along the edges of the laceration and pooled in the center of her hand. The sight of it transfixed her the way it had in the bathroom the night of her accident, when it dripped from her wrist in a steady stream, staining the bathwater red.
Would it have been better if she’d died that night? She remembered Charlie’s frantic, wide-eyed expression when he found her. He’d clutched his hand to her wrist and begged her not to leave him. Would he say the same thing now? A year from now? She thought of Irene’s son and wasn’t sure.
“Polly!”
Frank’s voice startled her. She wiped her bloodied palm on the skirt of her dress and stood. Overhead leaves blotted out the weak afternoon light. Tendrils of moss drooped from the branches. She heard his voice, closer, and held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t find her.
“Polly, my God, what’s happened to ya?” He reached for her, but she pushed him away, leaving a smear of blood on his shirt.
“Don’t touch me.”
“You’re bleeding. Are you—”
“You did this to me.”
“What?”
She closed her eyes and yelled, “You did this to me!”
“What are ya talking about? I ran into Sister Verena on my way to the canteen. She and Doc Jack are looking for ya. Said ya were upset and—”
“I tested positive.”
He stared blankly at her a moment, then shook his head. “Your skin scraping? My God, chère, I’m sorry.” He reached for her again, and this time she let him wrap her up in his arms. His warmth lolled her, his sturdy frame, his soap and liniment scent. She found herself beginning to melt against him and struggled free.
“You did this. I
would never have tested positive if we didn’t . . . I should never have let you touch me.”
He winced as if she had slapped him and took a step back. “This disease don’t spread like fleas or lice. Ya know that. It takes years to develop. Ya had it long before ya met me.”
Mirielle did know that. She’d heard Doc Jack say so countless times. But she didn’t care. “I hate you. You’re disgusting. How could I ever have—”
“Ya don’t mean that.”
“I do!”
“You’re a leper too, Mirielle.” He held up his ruined hands inches from her face. “The same bacteria that did this to me is festering inside you. Has been for years. And no matter when ya get your parole, it will still be inside ya. A stupid slip of paper from the health service ain’t going to change that. And trust me, the people out there”—he gestured to the vacant road and sloping levee beyond the fence—“your family, your husband, they think you’re just as disgusting as me.”
He stomped away. Mirielle crumpled to the ground and wept.
March 6, 1927
Dear Mirielle,
An invitation was waiting for me when we returned from the Alps from Mr. Mayer. A little party at the Ambassador for a new club he’s created: the International Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. Douglas and Mr. Niblo are members, and I’m thinking of joining myself. Postproduction is almost wrapped up on the film. It should be showing in theaters in May. Shame you won’t be able to see it. I have to say, it’s one of my finest works.
What’s all this business you were saying in your most recent letter about Mardi Gras? Did I understand right that there will be a parade at the facility? I can’t imagine how it could possibly come off. Sometimes it seems like you’re writing from a college clubhouse, not a hospital. I don’t see how such exertions could be good for your health. I suppose as long as the doctors are game, but don’t do anything they haven’t approved. You know you do tend to overdo things, especially when a party’s concerned.
Your husband,
Charlie
March 21, 1927
Dear Mirielle,
It’s been some weeks since we’ve had a letter from you. Perhaps your latest correspondence was destroyed in the sterilizer. How was the Mardi Gras play? Or was it a parade?
Have you had another one of those tests? I forget whether they’re done at the beginning of the month or the end. It is every month, isn’t it?
Any chance you can get to a telephone again? I know the girls would love to hear from you. I’d like the chance for a word too.
Write or ’phone soon.
Your husband,
Charlie
April 26, 1927
Dear Mirielle,
Whatever has happened to make you stop writing? Without word from you, I’ve been left to imagine the worst—some terrible turn in your disease whereby you’ve gone blind or lost use of your hands. What did you say they call it? Claw-hands? Or worse still, that you’ve had another accident.
It’s damned selfish, if you ask me. Leaving us to wonder like this. You might at least make an effort for the girls. I don’t know why I’m surprised. You never did care for anyone but yourself.
Charlie
CHAPTER 53
Mirielle moved from one day to the next like a phantom. She slept through breakfast and suppered in her room. At work, she shuffled languidly through her duties. No more haircuts and manicures. No more smiles and conversation. She avoided the rec hall and tennis court and canteen. When her housemates asked if she wanted to play cards or dye Easter eggs or watch whatever old picture the What Cheer Club had rustled up for movie night, Mirielle’s answer was always no. Eventually they stopped asking.
On half a dozen occasions, she pulled out her stationery set to write Charlie and share her bitter news about the test. But every attempt ended in a torn-up heap on the floor. Eventually she stopped trying.
And Frank. He hadn’t come around to apologize. She certainly wasn’t going to be the first to eat crow. Avoiding him was easy. Not thinking about him proved far harder. But eventually she managed to push him from her mind.
Days passed into weeks. Mirielle could feel herself slipping back into the cloud of numbness she’d lived in after Felix’s death. She arrived later and later to work, indifferent to Sister Verena’s surly gaze and pointed ahems. One day she stopped going at all. What was the point? They’d never find a cure.
* * *
One evening soon after, Jean barged into her room. She switched on the light, squeezed into bed beside Mirielle, and thrust something into her hand. Mirielle blinked, her eyes adjusting to the light. What time was it? With her curtains drawn, Mirielle wasn’t sure. She squinted at the object in her hand. A magazine. Picture-Play. The handsome young actor on the cover wasn’t anyone she knew.
Mirielle tossed the magazine onto the floor and buried her head in her pillow. She used to know everyone in Hollywood, at least by reputation. The world outside the colony was moving on—her children growing older, her husband more distant—while she was stuck here. A filthy leper. Never to get better. Never to go home.
Jean got up, stomped around the bed, and picked up the magazine. She held it out to Mirielle. “Read.”
Mirielle batted the magazine. “Not tonight, I’m tired.”
“You said the same thing last night and the night before.” She rolled up the magazine and poked Mirielle in the chest. “Read!”
“Go ask Irene—” Mirielle stopped and winced. Irene was dead. Felix was dead. Soon enough, they’d all be dead. She rolled away from Jean and closed her eyes.
After a welcome moment of silence, Mirielle heard a ripping sound. A wad of paper struck her back. And another. Rip. Wad. Rip. Wad. Mirielle didn’t turn around or even open her eyes until a thud sounded against the wall. The torn-up magazine ricocheted to the ground.
“Please don’t be so loud,” Mirielle said.
Jean thundered from the room.
“The light,” Mirielle called after her.
But either Jean didn’t hear or didn’t care because the pesky overhead bulb stayed on. Mirielle didn’t have the energy to get up and turn it off, so she pulled the sheet over her head. She’d fallen back into the hazy numbness of sleep when the shrill notes of a harmonica sounded.
“Stop it,” Mirielle mumbled, but Jean only played louder. She climbed on the bed and jumped up and down on the mattress, blowing away into her harmonica.
“Stop it!”
“Then get up!” Jean quit jumping and tugged on Mirielle’s arm. “Get up, damn it. Get up!” Tears choked her voice. Her fingers dug into Mirielle’s skin.
“Mind your language,” Mirielle said, but the words sounded like someone else’s. Hoarse, flat, empty.
Jean gave up tugging on Mirielle’s arm and jumped off the mattress. She yanked the quilt and top sheet from the bed, hurling them across the room. “Get up!”
Mirielle curled up and turned away. “Go find someone else to pester.”
“I hate you!” Jean kicked the foot of the bed. The frame whined and springs trembled. But though she had a vague sense that Jean’s heart was breaking and that her heart should break in return, Mirielle felt nothing.
“Please get up,” Jean sobbed. “I promise not to be bad anymore.”
“I don’t care what you do. Just leave me alone to sleep.”
A door slammed in response. The crying stopped. Mirielle didn’t hear Jean’s harmonica again.
CHAPTER 54
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it smells in here.”
Irene?
No, she was dead.
Madge? One of the orderlies? Hadn’t Mirielle told everyone to go away? Let her sleep. Leave her alone.
An onslaught of light blinded her. “I don’t want the lamp on.”
“A little sunlight will do you good.”
“Turn it off.”
Her window rattled. Birdsong assaulted her ears. Mirielle burrowed beneath her blankets. Her intruder was right.
Something did smell. Egg salad? Breaded catfish? Chef’s chicken alfresco? “Like I told the last orderly who came by, I’m not hungry.”
“I’ve not come to bring you food, Mrs. Marvin.”
Mirielle peeked from beneath the blankets. “Sister Verena?”
“You’ve wallowed here in self-pity long enough.” Her eyes shifted around Mirielle’s room, and the wrinkles around her nose deepened, drawing her upper lip into a snarl. “Far longer than I should have countenanced, I see.”
“I’m not wallowing. I’m . . . resting.”
Sister Verena laughed. “Resting? You haven’t left your room in a week.” She brushed off a heap of dirty clothes and clutter from the seat of a nearby chair, pulled it close to Mirielle’s bedside, and sat down. The thump of the chair legs and rustling of her over-starched skirt hurt Mirielle’s ears as much as the birds’ chatter.
Sister Verena pinched the corner of Mirielle’s bedding and raised it a few inches from the mattress. “When was the last time you disjoined yourself from these moldering sheets and got up?”
“I used the bathroom only a few hours ago.” That had been just a few hours ago, hadn’t it?
“And when did you last shower or bring your clothes out for the laundry?”
Mirielle peeled the collar of her nightgown from her skin and sniffed. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Go away.”
“Mrs. Marvin, you’re not fine. The orderlies tell me you don’t eat. Your housemates never see you up anymore and complain about the smell.”
Mirielle cocooned herself more tightly within her blankets. “I don’t care.”
“I know the news of your positive test was hard to bear, especially coming on the heels of Mrs. Hardee’s death, but you’ll never get better and make it home to your family if you don’t start taking care of yourself.”
Mirielle’s chest tightened, a strange sensation after feeling so little for so long. She rolled onto her side, away from Sister Verena. The faces in the photograph on her nightstand stared at her accusingly until she closed her eyes.
The Second Life of Mirielle West Page 30