The Vines

by Shelley Nolden

  The light faded.

  Soon it would brighten, and she would be with Maeve again.

  The creature bumped her thigh, then her other, thrusting her upward. Her face reached the air, and she gulped it in.

  That same rough skin. How could it have simultaneously hit her from both sides? Unless there were two.

  Oh no! Panic seized her like a pair of jaws. They would fight over her like dogs with rotted meat.

  As her mouth filled with water, she began to sink.

  One, and then the other beast, prodded her. Too tired, she didn’t fight back.

  Suddenly light hit her closed eyelids.

  This was the end—not the one she’d envisioned, but equal in suffering to her little sister’s and those she herself had infected.

  Maeve’s face appeared, with its pinched nose and playful, big brown eyes.

  Acute pain shot through Cora’s bicep.

  She thrashed, but whatever had grabbed her wouldn’t let go.

  Her body rose, and bitter wind blasted her wet skin. Her chest hit something hard, forcing out the remaining air.

  She fell into the hull of a boat and realized that she’d been dragged over its gunwale.

  A blanket landed on her lower half as she collapsed.

  The back of her head met the wooden bottom.

  Once again, her ears were submerged in water. This time the rushing sounded gentler. Sunlight prickled her eyes, so she kept them shut. The craft seemed to be rocking less than before, though anything would feel steadier than that undertow.

  This peace, was it another delusion?

  She blew into her pocked palm, the crystalline vapor assuring her she was still alive.

  Had that voice urging her to stay strong belonged to Mary? They shouldn’t have returned for her. Cora wanted to admonish her friend, but her head felt too heavy to lift.

  The rhythmic smack of oars penetrated the whirring in her ears.

  As much as her body welcomed the respite, she couldn’t allow it to last. The boat couldn’t reach Gotham with her still in it. As soon as she caught her breath and stopped shaking, she would have to dive back overboard.

  Blinking away the droplets that clung to her lashes, Cora raised her head.

  “She’s breathing!” a familiar voice yelled. “Praise Gott!”

  Cora’s remaining scraps of strength disintegrated at that sound. Shivering, she pulled the blanket around her.

  A face, enshrined in the hood of a Mother Hubbard gown, blocked the sky. Dr. Gettler’s eyes widened, and his lips parted just far enough to reveal the tips of his impossibly white teeth. His attention fixed on her, he dropped his oar handles and fumbled for his spectacles. “Mein Gott. Variola.”

  “They’ve finally won,” she said with a sob, pressing herself into the stern. “Stay back.”

  He leaned away, and Cora noticed Mary, Alfred, and Helmut huddled in the middle of what appeared to be a vessel twice the size of their original. A hulking form in hospital garb, whom Cora knew to be O’Toole, was sitting on the bench behind them, grunting as he labored. It must have been he who’d pulled her over the gunwale. In the bow, the much smaller Canne was rowing in sync with O’Toole. Cora wasn’t sure if his face and arms, exposed below the rolled sleeves of his soaked shirt, were red from exertion or anger. Most likely both.

  They were taking her—all of them—back to Hospital Island.

  The pulsating in Cora’s skull intensified, and the germs seemed to be tearing her innards apart. Out of the frigid water, the poxes, now whitened with pus, once again felt like they were searing her skin. To resist the urge to gouge them, she shoved her hands beneath her.

  “What happened?!” she shouted to Mary. “We were taking on too much water.” Mary shuddered and covered her eyes, and Alfred pulled her closer. “They came up alongside, and we climbed aboard. Alfred almost fell in. If he’d died because of me . . .”

  Cora’s legs slumped, and her knee banged against an oar in the bottom of the boat. Today her mother wouldn’t learn the truth, or that Cora loved and missed her.

  A sob lodged in her swollen throat, and she began coughing.

  “Take my oars and start rowing!” Dr. Gettler shouted to Helmut. “We need to get her to my lab.” He motioned for her to lean over the gunwale, then whacked her on the back, forcing the water, tinged with bloody sputum, from her lungs.

  As she watched the ruby-red trail dissipate into the river, he continued rubbing the space between her shoulder blades.

  The motion calmed her, and the choking fit subsided. She crumpled into the hull.

  Holding the edge of his hood over his mouth, he inspected her abdomen, where blood was flowing in rivulets from her incision site. “Macht Schnell!” he shouted to compel the men to speed up the boat.

  “Thank you,” she croaked.

  “Bist du verrückt?” (Are you crazy?) The doctor scooted backward. “Or just insanely selfish?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know this would happen.”

  “I’ve been warning you about this for years. Good God, Cora, imagine if they’d overpowered your system just one hour later.” He thrust his index finger toward Manhattan.

  He didn’t need to chastise her; she was already angry at herself. To avoid his probing glare, she closed her eyes and willed unconsciousness to arrive. Listening to the staccato slap of the oars, she sensed that the boat had accelerated.

  “Cora,” the doctor said softly, “once we reach my lab, I will not leave your side until you’ve recovered. You know that God has greater plans for us. These symptoms are a test for us both. And through our perseverance—and sacrifice, my breakthrough, by the will of God, will happen.”

  Sick of hearing the creed he’d used to justify every violation of her body, she wilted.

  The three men working the oars shouted as they outmaneuvered the currents. The vessel had to be nearing the docks.

  Afraid to open her eyes, she imagined the campus with the glow of the sun at its back. Only an hour ago, she’d thought she would never have to face the facility again. Now, most likely, Riverside would be the last place she’d ever see.

  The pounding in her head and cramping in her stomach subsided. Her throat was no longer excruciating and the fever had slackened. Only the chills remained. Either her spirit had already separated from her body, or her ability to feel had shut down.

  “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,” Mary said in her brogue.

  Surprised, Cora peered at her friend.

  Alfred was gawking at Cora, too. He crossed himself and joined Mary in her prayer.

  I must be dead.

  Helmut and O’Toole stopped rowing to gape at her, leaving only Canne in the bow to battle the currents.

  The doctor’s face appeared above her. She reached out to swipe her spectral hand through him, and her fingertips grazed the slick surface of his gown.

  “Ahh.” He rocked back. “Foolish girl.”

  “You felt that?” She’d never noticed her sister’s touch, though surely Button’s spirit had stayed close to her. Her sister could be nearby now. Cora looked around.

  “Of course I did.”

  “But I’m dead.”

  The doctor grabbed her wrist, and she recoiled at the familiar texture of his rubber glove. Her surgical wound throbbed, and she wrested her hand away.

  “Cora,” he said in a stern tone, “gib mir dein Hand.”

  The saltwater in her stomach churned like she’d swallowed the rapids themselves. She must still be alive, though she wished it weren’t the case. She extended her arm and yelped. The pox had flattened and faded.

  Instead of checking her pulse, as she’d anticipated, he probed the sores. She didn’t even wince. Their tenderness had subsided.

  “Unmöglich,” he whispered.

  H
e was right: such a fast recovery from Variola was impossible.

  She lifted her other hand, and a water droplet from her hair fell onto it and rolled unobstructed off the skin. If it weren’t for the spattering of fresh scars, she would have assumed that she’d imagined the blight. She exhaled, and the air flowed through her throat. All her symptoms had abated, except for the fatigue, which could be attributed to the swim.

  As quickly as her immune system had failed her, it had returned and squelched the rebellion within her. Amazing.

  Hope thrummed through her veins.

  Dr. Gettler lowered his hood and brought her hand closer to his face. “Mein Gott. The pustules have healed further within the last minute. Either the germs have returned to their dormant state, or your immune system has finally defeated them. Either way, this will lead to my first big breakthrough in five years.” He looked up. “Thank you, God.”

  “You’ve been here that long?” Mary dropped the lock of hair she’d been refastening. Cora nodded.

  “You said you missed your last semester of school.” She tapped a hairpin against her teeth. “That means you were about eighteen at the time. My child, you don’t look a day older.”

  Everyone turned to Dr. Gettler, who shrugged. “In the words of Jacob Riis,” he said, plucking at one of his gloves, “North Brother Island is unique. There is nothing like it anywhere in the world.”

  “What does that mean?” Mary snapped. “The island’s keeping her young?”

  “Don’t be absurd! That’s scientifically impossible.”

  He’d said it too quickly.

  “Holy Christ,” Mary said, crossing herself, and Helmut swigged from his flask and handed it to Alfred.

  “Freak,” the oarsman said in a low, guttural tone and took a long pull from the bottle.

  Shrinking away from them, Cora ran her fingers over the skin of her face, now marred by the pox scars. Only a few times, in an empty communal bathroom in the nurses’ residence, had she glimpsed herself in a mirror.

  But the doctor had seen her face every time she’d disrobed for another of his medical procedures. She scowled at him. What else about her condition had he been hiding?

  The prospect of eternal youth should have thrilled her. Instead, all she could think about was how it must have been feeding the doctor’s obsession. Even if he succeeded in cultivating vaccines from her blood, his experimentation on her would continue until the day he died. Or achieved eternal life.

  The boat bumped against the dock, and the rowers collapsed over their oar handles. Alfred scrambled out to tie up the vessel.

  From the pocket of his soaked trousers, Canne removed a pouch of tobacco, examined it, and tossed it overboard.

  Alfred helped Mary onto the pier and they hurried toward the shore.

  O’Toole nudged the doctor.

  “Miss Mallon,” Dr. Gettler called out, “return to your cottage at once. Your guests can wait for me at the staff house. If you cooperate, I’ll consider keeping this out of your file. But if there’s any more trouble, I’ll have the dispatcher connect me to Dr. Soper’s office immediately.”

  “You can’t keep me here,” Mary said with a snarl. “I’m not sick, and I’ve never infected a soul. That eejit wants to cut out my gallbladder. I’m not some cow to be butchered.”

  Shushing her, Alfred linked his arm through hers and led her to the path.

  Seated on the pier, Helmut dangled his legs into high tide. “I’m not setting foot in that pesthouse. Or near that freak again,” he said with a growl. “When’s the next ferry?”

  “In two hours.” Dr. Gettler said, not bothering to hide a smug smile. He turned to O’Toole. “Please help Miss McSorley. Quickly now, to my lab, before someone sees her.”

  O’Toole offered a gloved hand to Cora. “Let’s get you dry.”

  Even though she’d accepted the adage that nothing could kill an O’Toole, she still feared being the one to prove it wrong. Holding the sopping blanket around her waist, she shunned his outstretched hand and climbed onto the pier. “I’m sorry I put you in harm’s way.”

  “You know that’s not possible.” O’Toole removed his gloves to emphasize his point. “You’re safe now. That’s all that matters,” he said, rubbing an arrowhead that hung from a piece of twine around his neck.

  It reminded her of the grayish-green slate bird stone tucked within her satchel. In 1905, O’Toole had found it at the excavation site for the nurses’ residence and had given it to her on her twenty-first birthday.

  Could that talisman be the source of her oddities? Or the golden guinea? She’d left both behind when she’d boarded the boat. If either item were enchanted, it very well could mean that the germs still lurked within her.

  The locked crucifix box from Emmett; could her strength have come from it? Or the cross pendant from the pastor? One of them seemed far more likely to possess a miracle power than relics related to ancient spirits or Revolutionary War ghosts. But, unlike the bird stone and coin, both the tin and the necklace had arrived on the island after her immune system had silenced the typhus and measles germs. Those Christian trinkets, however, could be keeping her from aging.

  She hated not knowing what was happening within her body. The conflict beneath her own skin was no more visible to her than the current unrest in Russia.

  But at least her blood samples and their impact on the mice would reveal the status of her monsters.

  With the blanket wrapped around her, she let O’Toole escort her down the dock.

  They reached the gravel path, and Dr. Gettler stepped in their way. “As soon as you reach the lab, draw four vials of blood, and collect a stool sample if possible. I want to study her white blood cell count before it’s had a chance to normalize.”

  O’Toole nodded and steered her toward the lab.

  “Once she’s rested and fed,” the doctor said, following them, “I’ll conduct another interview. Her extraordinary immune system may be dependent on this island; I need to reevaluate all environmental influences.”

  Another interrogation, during which the doctor would demand that she “think harder!” Cora longed for a soak in a tub, both for its heat and the privacy it would provide.

  Yet she had no choice but to cooperate. Unless Dr. Gettler completely deconstructed the mysterious workings of her cells, she would never hug her mother again. Her days, stretching into eternity, would be spent reading about the world rather than experiencing it firsthand. She would never ride the IRT, see a silent picture, or go to Coney Island.

  The doctor darted ahead to open a side door for them.

  O’Toole stooped to enter. His hulking figure receded, and Cora felt utterly alone.

  “You’ve a brilliant mind, for a woman.” Dr. Gettler eyed her. “But perhaps I’ve overestimated your ability to act in the best interests of the common good.”

  He must have assumed that she’d been bound for her tenement. Although her plan to head straight to Carnegie would make her seem far more responsible, he would never forgive that betrayal.

  Rather than defending herself, she apologized by stepping over the threshold.

  “You’ve sacrificed a lot, I know,” he said, reaching out but not touching her. “Just as Leeuwenhoek toiled all those years, studying the microscopic world through lenses he ground himself, just as Spallanzani refused to accept the notion of a vegetative force, I will find the cause of your abilities. That is my vow to you. In exchange, I expect you to follow my orders.”

  Goose bumps formed on her damp neck, and she yearned to run from him, not stopping until her legs gave out.

  Instead, she stalked toward his laboratory, where she would lose yet another piece of herself.

  Summer 2007

  August 7

  ily finished another lap around the rooftop deck of the walk-up in Brooklyn Heights and peered north. A million ci
ty lights, and not one of them shining from North Brother. Even while there’d been daylight, she hadn’t been able to make out the small island that far up the strait.

  Although Finn had told her not to contact Kristian unless he hadn’t returned by morning, she didn’t know if she could wait any longer. To keep herself from caving, she punched the speed dial button for Finn—the hundredth time that day.

  On the fourth ring, the call connected.

  Lily’s heart pounded.

  “Hello,” said a raspy female voice.

  Shocked, Lily hiccupped.

  “Who is this?” the woman asked sharply.

  “Who are you?” Lily fired back.

  Husky breathing assaulted her eardrum. Filled with dread, she strained to hear Finn in the background.

  “Coraline. McSorley,” the woman answered at last.

  “Well, I’m Finn’s girlfriend,” Lily stated hostilely. “Why do you have his phone?”

  “Do you plan to marry him?” Coraline asked softly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’ll regret it. Every woman that marries a Gettler does.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are? Where is he?” The wind from the approaching storm whipped her hair, and she gathered it away from her face. “Put him on.”

  “He needs to rest. I know it won’t seem this way, but what I’m about to do to him: it’s to save you, too.” The call disconnected.

  Screaming, Lily flung her phone and it ricocheted off the brick wall.

  Afraid she’d broken it, she rushed over and flipped open the glowing screen.

  Instead of feeling relieved, a sudden heaviness pulled her to the ground, and she began sobbing.

  Almost every night since Sylvia’s birthday party a week ago, Finn had stayed late at his office. Apologizing for needing the time alone, he’d repeatedly reassured her that he would explain everything once he knew more, after this second visit to the island. She’d assumed he’d been researching how those bats and syringes related to his family’s work. Secretly, Lily had done the same.