The Vines

by Shelley Nolden

  She would hear it all; for the past week, sleep had been illusory. Those relying on willpower and prayer to stave off their last breaths wouldn’t benefit from her despondent restlessness. She edged away from the huddle.

  Beyond the camp, she trudged past piles of construction material for the final five single-story, wood-framed pavilions, their progress halted by the harsh winter. She sunk to her knees and burrowed her arms and face into the snow. Like a coffin, it muffled the distant commotion as well as her sobs. The tears that had refused to surface before now sprung free and froze on her lashes. The darkness felt as heavy as dirt piled on a corpse. She might as well be lifeless. Then, at least, she would no longer be burdened by the stench and specter of death that was so pervasive on North Brother Island. And she would be reunited with her sister, Maeve.

  Icy water pricked her exposed skin, and her hospital gown gripped her in a frigid, wet embrace. She rubbed her eyes to break the icicles clinging to her lashes and sat up. Squinting, she noted that she’d fallen to her knees near the edge of the island.

  If she stepped off the partially constructed seawall, during her final moments she would be numb. No! She wanted to suffer. For letting her sister accept that tin toy train from the boy who’d wandered from the typhus ward over to the measles pavilion.

  Ten weeks earlier, as she and her sister were being forced into a Health Department carriage, bound for the reception hospital on Sixteenth Street, Cora had promised their mother that she would watch over Maeve. Born from a different father, Maeve didn’t possess the hardiness that Cora had inherited from hers, whoever he might be.

  After two days on Hospital Island, Cora had fully recovered from the measles, but the disease had hit her sister much harder. Three intense weeks later, she turned the corner. With both girls anxious to go home, Maeve’s recovery progressed agonizingly slowly. Finally, a month ago, the small red spots covering her body had disappeared and her energy for play had returned.

  Cora had been too busy envisioning her mam’s joyful tears to recognize the new threat hiding in plain sight. Despite Riverside’s isolation rules, she hadn’t rebuffed the boy’s gift.

  As Maeve’s body, still weak from her bout with the measles, had succumbed to this second, deadlier disease, she’d been in too much pain to manage more than a whimper. Cora’s death should be no easier.

  Soon, the blazing tent near the center of the island would collapse into a smoldering heap.

  “I’m sorry I failed you, Mamaí.” Cora stood up and walked toward the flames.

  The heat increased; her skin felt like it was blistering.

  She didn’t even turn her cheek. The air became dense with acrid smoke, her dress began to steam, and the intensity of the light forced her eyes shut. She let the hissing and popping of the wooden timbers and the escalating temperature guide her.

  The bone-dry air became unbearable, yet she reached for that fiery gateway.

  Her lungs gave out; she collapsed.

  But instead of descending to hell, her soul seemed to be rising.

  The heat diminished and she became aware of a pair of muscular arms crushing her torso, carrying her away from the fire. Opening her eyes, she recognized Richard O’Toole’s red hair, thick with ash.

  “Put me down,” she demanded, struggling to free herself.

  The orderly maintained his hold until they’d reached a safe distance from the inferno and set her on her feet. A nurse wrapped a coarse blanket around Cora’s shoulders.

  She wiped at the sting in her eyes. “How dare you grab me like that?”

  O’Toole flinched, and she shrank away from him. Her mother, Eleanor, would be ashamed of her for being so forthright with a man, even though she routinely ignored the decorum she preached. Long after the murmurs of the head physician bringing “the black bottle” to quicken Maeve’s departure, O’Toole had tended to her.

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  He raised his hand to silence her, softening the gesture with a smile. “I know how hard this is for you, but think of your mum. If she lost you too—”

  “Vielen Danken, Mr. O’Toole,” Dr. Gettler said with a cough, likely to clear smoke from his lungs. “We work so hard to return them to their Familien, and now we’ve lost four already tonight.” He rubbed his spectacles with the corner of his ash-stained dress shirt.

  “Mr. O’Toole, please see this young lady to Pavilion Five. I’ll meet you there shortly.” He touched the stethoscope hanging from his neck. It looked out of place without the standard gown, gloves, and rubber overshoes worn by the staff. When the fire began, he must have been on his way to the ferry.

  She’d never been treated by this doctor but had overheard the nurses talking about him. They fancied him for more than his resemblance to a Norse god: he knew the names of all the indigent ill he treated, and he always asked who they planned to see first once recovered. Before Maeve had passed, Cora’s answer would have been her mother. Now she dreaded even the thought of that visit.

  Tonight, the doctor’s skill would be better devoted to patients who wanted to survive. “Dr. Gettler, sir, I’m well. Others need your attention more.”

  He raised his glasses to rub his reddened blue eyes and peered at her. “Miss . . . deine Name?”

  “Coraline McSorley.”

  “Doch.” He dropped his spectacles onto the bridge of his elegantly straight nose. “Miss McSorley, your samples were brought to my attention earlier today. The results are sehr interessant. I was planning to review your health history tomorrow. And take a trip to the microscopes in Carnegie Laboratory. For that I’ll need additional specimens.”

  Why would he go to all that effort? she wondered.

  There must be something wrong with me. In my blood.

  That morning she’d gritted her teeth during the jab from a needle, as thick as a crochet hook, to fight off the wooziness while her blood had surged into four vials. Now she felt equally lightheaded. White spots crowded out the flurries that spun through the gray sky, and she felt herself fading.

  A joyful shrieking rang in her ears.

  Maeve.

  I must be in heaven, Cora thought. Whiteness enveloped her, and she felt as light as a wisp of wind.

  The scolding voice of a nurse interrupted the laughter.

  Cora turned her head to the side.

  A child, covered in smallpox, stomped in the slush one last time and ducked inside the nearest wood-framed pavilion.

  Dr. Gettler’s face, his mouth and nose now covered by a mask, appeared close to hers, and a brightness momentarily blinded her. She blinked as he lowered a lantern and held up his hand. “How many fingers?”

  “Three.”

  “Sehr gut.”

  She met his gaze. The tendrils of darker blue within his irises reminded her of the spokes on the snowflake in her natural history textbook. She’d never been this close to such a handsome man. Her cheeks burning, she looked away.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Well. I’ve always had a strong constitution.”

  He nodded to O’Toole, who lifted her from the muck and fixed her blanket around her.

  The doctor sized him up. “I’ve heard the saying, ‘Nothing can kill an O’Toole.’ I hope it’s true; I need your assistance. Even though she’s symptom-free, I’ve reason to believe that Miss McSorley’s highly contagious.”

  Cora gasped. “That can’t be. I’m not sick.”

  His expression softened to a sympathetic smile. “I wish that were the case.” He turned to O’Toole. “We must take every precaution. You and I shall be the only staff permitted to treat Miss McSorley. Please escort her, and keep her segregated from the others.”

  O’Toole held out his massive hands. “I think it would be best if I carry you, if that’s all right, miss. We don’t want your feet gittin’ frostbit.”

 
Cora backed away. Aside from the chill that had gripped her core, she felt perfectly fine. “He’s wrong. Leave me alone, please.”

  She wanted to run, away from the disease and death that permeated this callous rock. But if the doctor were right, and a pest was living in her now, that wouldn’t do her or society any good. Raking her nails along her arms, she again thought of the river and the end it could bring.

  The ferry’s horn sounded, signaling its departure without Dr. Gettler. As the families of those under quarantine surely did every night, his would likely spend this one worrying.

  “Come now, Miss McSorley,” O’Toole said. “Let’s get you out of the elements.”

  She knew he would stop her before she reached the crust of ice at the water’s edge.

  “If you won’t walk, I’ll have ta carry ya.”

  Shaking from fear, anger, and the cold, she followed him to the fifth structure in the line.

  O’Toole eased open the door, and a rush of stale air and murmurings of discontent greeted them. An electric lightbulb hanging from the ceiling blinked out intermittently. He pulled back a curtain and she entered a small, secluded area. At least here she would be alone.

  She sat on the examining table, and O’Toole wrapped a fresh blanket around her.

  “You gave us a real scare, Miss McSorley.”

  “Us?”

  “Me and the doctor. He saw you first but was busy helping Mr. Orlov.”

  Her teeth chattered, but she’d warmed up enough to realize how frigid she was beneath the wet hospital garb.

  “I’ll get you some hot tea.” O’Toole left, yanking the curtain shut behind him.

  For two weeks, Maeve’s fevered body had fit snugly against hers on the cot they’d shared. The heat, proof that Maeve was still alive, had kept Cora warm as she’d rubbed her little sister’s back and brushed the sweat-streaked hair from her forehead. In the week since Maeve had turned cold, Cora had been so frigid that her teeth would spontaneously begin knocking against each other. Certainly, her temperature hadn’t risen above normal.

  O’Toole returned with a steaming pewter mug, which Cora grasped with nearly frost-bitten fingers to take a sip. The tangy, bitter liquid scalded her tongue but did nothing to warm the rest of her. She continued to drink anyway.

  When the ferry had delivered Maeve and her to the hospital, O’Toole had been waiting on the dock. Later, Cora had learned that the four blasts of the ship’s horn had signaled the arrival of measles, enabling nurse Holden to send the right orderly to receive them.

  O’Toole’s hulking size and protective cloak had terrified seven-year-old Maeve, who’d been too weak to walk. Just as he’d scooped up Maeve, Cora had spotted a golden coin protruding from the sand beneath the pier. She’d tried to give it to her sister, but not even the unusual prize had piqued her interest.

  The coin! It was now among the rubble of the burned tent. She would have to retrieve the golden guinea first thing tomorrow morning before someone else did.

  As it had turned out, O’Toole had been much more effective at engaging Maeve than any trinket could have been. By the time he’d laid her on a gurney in the lobby of the main building, she was giggling—a sound Cora hadn’t heard in days.

  After they’d been admitted and assigned to beds, and Maeve had fallen asleep, O’Toole had brought Cora a cup of this same tea. Its aggressive taste had surprised her; he’d explained that he’d brewed it from plants grown in a small garden near the kitchen. When he’d whispered his secret recipe, she’d felt like he’d entrusted her with the location of the missing Kruger millions.

  If she hadn’t caught the measles from the Post newsy, who’d let her read the headlines for free, and if she hadn’t passed it to her sister, the man from the Health Department never would have torn Maeve from Eleanor’s embrace. Instead, Maeve would be sitting at the table beside the stove in their single room, practicing her figures for school tomorrow.

  Button. That’s what Cora and her mom had called Maeve when she was a baby, and the nickname had stuck. Because Maeve had been “cute as a button.”

  Now, because of her, Button was gone forever.

  Certain the throbbing in her chest would never lessen, Cora swallowed the scorching tea; a hint of pokeberry lingered on her tongue.

  “Thank you, Mr. O’Toole,” said Dr. Gettler, who was standing at the gap in the curtain in a Mother Hubbard gown, its hood framing his face.

  O’Toole nodded and stepped aside.

  “Pray to God we don’t lose many dieses Nacht. He finished putting on a pair of rubber gloves and paused, his hands folded. “Fire is far too traumatic an experience for those already in an unstable condition.” He turned to O’Toole. “You can leave now. Vielen Danken.”

  The curtain fell shut behind O’Toole, and the doctor motioned for Cora to rotate on the table so he could listen to her lungs. If she did have a pestilence inside her, she wondered, would he be able to hear the individual animalcules? Did they growl and gnash their teeth like rabid dogs? She pictured them tearing at her veins and fought the urge to bolt from the enclave.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. Maeve, correct? She’s in God’s hands now.” He tugged his hood, covering more of his face, and raised his stethoscope.

  Afraid of what that metal disc would reveal, she lowered the blanket from her shoulders.

  Wishing she knew a prayer to recite, Cora inhaled slowly. Despite her mother’s Irish Catholic upbringing, her mam had never taken the two girls to church. From whisperings in the outhouse line following the death of an old maid in their tenement, Cora had learned that God doesn’t allow those who’ve committed suicide into heaven. Maybe this was her punishment for having marginalized her survival, she thought as the doctor repositioned the cold metal beneath her wet nightgown.

  If I make it off this rock, she prayed silently to God, I promise I’ll attend Mass. Please, don’t let there be anything wrong with me.

  “Your lungs sound clear.”

  Cora was overcome with relief. “That means I can go home, right? My mother, she should learn of Maeve’s fate from me.”

  “Soon.” The doctor tugged off his gloves. “Your case is . . . what’s the English? Peculiar.” He washed his hands and flipped open a folder. The fact that he’d taken the time to retrieve her file from the administration cottage meant it must contain something important. Cora felt queasy; maybe she did have typhus fever.

  “On December 17, 1901, you and Miss Maeve arrived here.” As he described the events that had followed, Cora wavered against a fresh swell of nausea.

  He shut the folder. “Miss McSorley, your specimens from this morning were rife with the bacterium that causes typhus.”

  Her attention jerked to his chiseled face, writ with concern, and the examining table beneath her seemed to capsize. Dizzy, she clung to its edge. The mutterings in Russian beyond the curtain echoed in her brain. Delirium was a symptom of the fever. So was nausea. A red rash might be spreading across her body now, like a swarm of flies on a freshly fallen horse. She checked herself.

  Her limbs were as white as ash, and her forehead still felt cool. She was so cold. “I don’t have the fever, sir.”

  He sighed, looking tired for the first time. “I’m afraid your blood proves that you do.”

  “No, sir, I meant I don’t have a fever.”

  “It is strange, although it may simply be due to an unusually long incubation period. What’s odder: three of the patients in your typhus tent have been diagnosed with measles. You’re the only person they’ve had contact with who’s recently battled that illness.”

  “That was two months ago.”

  “Your body should be free of the virus, I agree.”

  “Virus?”

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “A great man, Dmitri Ivanowski, discovered evidence of microbes so small they can pass through cand
le filters. They’re too tiny to be seen even with a microscope, but his research proves they exist. I believe measles is caused by one of these undetectable viruses, and I suspect it’s still lingering within you.”

  Picturing a horde of mangy, feral dogs gnawing on her organs, she shivered and scratched her arms, wishing she could dig them out.

  Dr. Gettler finished adding a note to her file and capped his fountain pen. “I’ll instruct Mr. O’Toole to draw your blood first thing tomorrow, as well as collect stool samples every three days.”

  Every three days? She’d already missed nine weeks at Wadleigh High School for Girls. It was unlikely the principal would allow her to graduate in the spring. What if he wouldn’t reserve her a seat in next year’s senior class until she’d petitioned him in person? With the new building scheduled to open in the fall, girls across the city were clamoring for admission. “When can I go home?”

  His chin dropped. “Not until your specimens are free of the typhus bacteria, and we must rule out the possibility that you’re still harboring the measles virus—how, I’m not sure, but I’ll find a way.” He shut the folder. The case was closed. She had no say in the matter.

  She was a prisoner, no freer than the convicts working the jail farm on Rikers Island, visible from the upper story of the measles ward. Her mother would find out about Maeve from a health official. Estranged from her older brother, Kieran, the only family who’d immigrated with her through Castle Garden, her poor mamaí would be alone in her grief.

  Cora twisted the edge of her damp tunic, but no droplets emerged. “How long will that take?”

  He brought his hand to his heart, as if he could personally feel her sorrow. “I know you’re homesick, but our priority has to be your health, and equally, the well-being of society. I will figure this out. Tomorrow, while at Carnegie, I’ll research if the world’s leading microbiologists have noted any similar cases. An orderly will bring you a cot. Please, sleep well tonight. Your body needs to recuperate.”