When, a few days later, he called Rachel into his study, he decided to keep his knowledge to himself. It would only wound the girl more, he thought, if she knew how needlessly she’d been disfigured. Let her continue to believe her baldness was the unfortunate consequence of some life-saving treatment, while he took it on himself to make it up to her, as far as he was able. Telephone calls had been placed, letters written on her behalf, money withdrawn from his own account. Dr. Abrams had only to present the fait accompli.
Rachel began to say, once more, how sorry she was for having lied to him and Mrs. Abrams. He stopped her, placing his hand on her knee, the touch brief and comforting. “Don’t apologize, Rachel. I believe in judging people by their actions more than their words. You have proven yourself to be helpful and hardworking. The nurses at the hospital all speak well of you, you’ve been of great assistance to Jenny, and my grandchildren adore you. So, you want to return to New York and go to nursing school, correct?”
Once again, Rachel had boxed herself into a corner by not telling the truth. She’d realized he was right—if her goal was to earn back Naomi’s money, working for Althea for a year would be the best choice. It made sense to earn the tuition money that way, too, though her urge to return to New York was as insistent as a ringing bell. She intended to tell Dr. Abrams that she’d decided on Chicago, knowing it would please him, but he interrupted her.
“Did you know the Hospital for Consumptive Hebrews funds a nursing scholarship at Mount Sinai? The condition is that, after completing the course, the recipient will work here, but you’ve already done that, haven’t you? So, I put you up for the scholarship, and I’m pleased to tell you I was notified this morning that you have been selected. The scholarship will cover your tuition and housing, with a small stipend for books and expenses. When you arrive, the dean will test you to see how much you’ve learned on your own and place you in the appropriate classes. I wouldn’t be surprised if you finished in a year. You’d be welcome to return, but as I said, that won’t be a condition.”
Rachel couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. “But why?”
“Why what, Rachel?”
“Why are you and Mrs. Abrams so good to me? What did I do to deserve it?”
He looked amused. “If good only came to those who deserved it, the world would be a bleak place. In your case, though, our kindness has been amply rewarded, and at such little effort on our part. It’s our pleasure to know you’ll be a productive citizen, caring for others, able to take care of yourself. You know the Hebrew phrase tikkun olam?” Rachel shook her head. “I’m sure it’s the principle behind the orphanage that cared for you. It’s the belief behind the Hospital for Consumptive Hebrews as well. It means it is everyone’s responsibility to help someone else, for the good of us all. You’ve made it easy for us to live up to that belief, Rachel.”
Rachel expressed every iteration of gratitude she could think of until Dr. Abrams made her stop. They spoke a few minutes longer about nursing school and the courses she would be taking. Rachel finally got up to say good night, thinking Dr. Abrams must have other things to do. As she was leaving his study, she turned in the doorway. “I’m sorry, but I was wondering about my last pay. Since Mrs. Cohen plans to travel on the thirtieth, would it be possible, do you know, for me to collect my wages before then?”
“Of course, Rachel, just let the accounting office know the twenty-ninth will be your last day.”
“Would you mind very much if my last day was the twenty-eighth?”
Dr. Abrams waved her off. “Just tell the accounting office. Oh, and I’ll make sure Dr. Cohen pays your train fare on to New York.”
Rachel left his study and went up to the Ivy Room, her mind jumping with plans. She’d make her final payment to Mrs. Hong the day after collecting her last pay, then depart for Chicago with Mrs. Cohen and the children. She’d arrive in New York practically penniless, but it would just be one night before school started—maybe she could spend it on a bench in the lobby of Penn Station. Tuition and housing with a stipend—she could hardly believe it. It was even better than if Nurse Dreyer had gone in front of the Scholarship Committee. She was grateful, truly, though more confounded than ever about how she could earn back Naomi’s money. Rachel wondered how long it would be, if she was very frugal with her stipend, before she could afford Naomi’s forgiveness.
August galloped to a close, spurred on by Althea’s preparations for departure. Before she knew it, Rachel was being handed her pay for the month. The next day, their last in Denver, she exasperated Althea, who already took Rachel’s time with the children for granted, when she told the family she could not help with their packing. “I have something I need to do before we leave,” she said, excitement and anticipation showing in her face. After Rachel rushed out of the house, Mrs. Abrams said to her daughter, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was running off to say good-bye to some young man.”
When Rachel arrived in Hop Alley earlier than expected, Mrs. Hong held back her frustration. She had been planning to show the wig that evening to a new client, a final opportunity to use the remarkable hair as an advertisement of her skill. Still, she didn’t begrudge the girl the successful fulfillment of their contract. Mrs. Hong called in the calligrapher as a witness and made a show of setting fire to the scroll with their signatures on it, the three of them crowded on the fire escape, the burning paper fluttering down to the narrow lane of bricks.
To mark the occasion, Rachel had worn one of Mary’s prettiest summer dresses, linen that felt cool against the backs of her thighs. Mrs. Hong sat Rachel in front of a mirror and snugged the wig over her scalp. It framed her pale face, bringing out touches of pink in her cheeks and gold flecks in her dark eyes. Amelia’s hair seemed glad to have been liberated from the arrogant girl’s head and delivered to this more appreciative recipient.
“Miss Rachel is so beautiful,” Jade whispered. Sparrow clapped her hands.
“One more thing,” Mrs. Hong said, lifting Rachel’s chin. She sketched in eyebrows with an auburn wax pencil. “There.”
Rachel turned back to her reflection. For the first time in her life, she saw beauty. Mrs. Hong’s hand rested on her shoulder. Rachel turned and dropped a kiss on the fingers. In return, she felt a secret squeeze, then Mrs. Hong stepped back.
“Why aren’t you girls working?” she snapped. Sparrow and Jade jumped.
“Wait.” Rachel stopped them. “For you,” she said, placing in each little hand, fingertips already calloused, a shimmering length of satin ribbon. The girls closed their fists over the simple treasures, then glanced at Mrs. Hong.
“Fine, fine, just get back to work,” she said. The girls skittered away, the bamboo rustling from their passing.
“I’ll wear it home.” Rachel stood. As Mrs. Hong placed the form into a cylindrical box and topped it with a round lid, she instructed Rachel to always put the wig away properly, to brush and care for it. Lifting the box’s braided handles, Rachel said good-bye and clattered down the fire escape. The cloche hat lay forgotten on the worktable.
Mrs. Abrams and Althea were amazed to see Rachel come up the walk wearing the wig. Without admitting she’d cut the hair herself, she finally explained how she’d spent so many of her days off, as well as all her earnings. Little Mae tried to touch it, but for once Althea stepped in and pulled back her daughter’s sticky hand.
“You look like a real lady,” Simon said, though Rachel couldn’t tell if this was a compliment or a complaint.
“You look lovely, dear,” Mrs. Abrams said. “But then, you always did.”
That night in the Ivy Room, Rachel placed the wig on its form inside the box and draped Mary’s dress over the trunk to keep it from wrinkling. Various labels glued to the trunk’s lid made it seem as if Rachel had taken a steamship across the Atlantic and trains around Europe. At least she could add her own tag from Denver to New York. It was a long time before she slept. Her head bare on the pillow, she felt her scalp wantin
g the wig.
In the morning, Rachel hovered as Henry helped Dr. Abrams muscle the steamer trunk downstairs. She was unreasonably nervous of it falling open, the drawers tipping forward, certain letters spilling out. But the straps and catches held, and the trunk was sent off to the station with the rest of Althea’s luggage. Rachel left her old cardboard suitcase under the bed and emerged from the Ivy Room carrying the hatbox instead. From head to toe, not a stitch or a strand was original to her.
“You are your own person now, Rachel,” Mrs. Abrams reminded her as she left the house on Colfax, her strong arms pulling Rachel close for an embrace. Rachel thought she understood what that meant and nodded. Dr. Abrams saw the family off at the station. Simon had outgrown the little boy who just last year had put his hand in Rachel’s. He walked ahead while little Mae hung from her arm and Althea struggled with her wriggling little boy, a baby no longer.
At Chicago’s Union Station, Dr. Cohen approached his wife and children, hat in one hand and flowers in the other. Althea tried to hold herself stiff, but the way she sank into his arms showed how much she needed him to love her. As promised, Dr. Cohen presented Rachel with a train ticket. Simon warned her about traveling alone. “Don’t trust anyone, Rachel, especially men with black masks.”
“You’ve been listening to too much radio, Simon.” Knowing he wanted a kiss but considered himself too old for one, Rachel extended her hand. They parted friends with a vigorous shake and promises to keep up their correspondence.
On the train to New York, Rachel practiced being her new self. For the first time, people saw her without guessing at the smooth nothingness hidden under her wig. She noticed people’s eyes finding her face and hair, saw their faces soften, their mouths lift into smiles. She smiled back, pleased to be perceived as pretty. A strange excitement sparked in her, keeping her from sleep. Though she had a year of school and then who knows how many months of work to get through before she might be able to repay Naomi, she felt with each passing mile that she was getting closer to where she belonged.
Chapter Twenty
TIME TO WAKE UP, DR. SOLOMON.”
In the harsh illumination of the overhead light, Mildred Solomon’s withered skin looked gray. She blinked and twisted, pain pricking at her bones. On the nightstand, I placed the syringe for her midnight dose beside the full vial. She was a doctor—seeing the amount of morphine I’d collected, she’d understand its lethal potential. That’s what I wanted to see—the look Sam had seen in that Nazi’s eyes: fear, recognition, surrender. I remembered how Dr. Solomon used to bend over my crib, the way she’d look down at me as she plotted her experiments. How I’d gaze up at her, hungry for attention, pleased and proud she’d chosen me. I placed my hand on my breast, recalling Dr. Feldman’s yellowed fingers, knowing it was Mildred Solomon who had reached across time to plant this cancer in me. She’d set the clock on my whole life, ticking down the years, months, minutes. How many did I have left? Too few, because of her. She’d robbed me of my portion, decades lopped off that should have been mine. What life she had left could be measured in hours. Small recompense though they were, they belonged to me now. I had only to claim them.
“Water,” she croaked, the point of her tongue circling her cracked lips. “I’m thirsty.”
I propped her up, held a cup to her mouth, tilted it so she could drink. “Better?”
She shrugged. It was wearing on her, I could see, this uneven cycle of morphine—too much, enough, too little. The pulse in her neck vibrated, her bony chest fluttered. Her eyes lolled around the room, confused, questioning.
“Do you know where you are, Dr. Solomon?”
“Of course I do. I’m not senile. It’s that damn doctor, he prescribes too much.” She focused on me. “You’re Number Eight, aren’t you? I remember you. Did you get my pudding?”
“I did. That’s over now. Look at me, Dr. Solomon. Do you remember what I showed you?” I lifted her hand to my breast, pressed the fingers against its swell.
“Your tumor, yes. I remember. I’m not senile. You think it’s my fault, for those X-rays, but you’re wrong. My cancer, that’s from the X-rays I gave. Are you sorry for me? No, you’re not. You might have gotten cancer anyway. You could be hit by a bus on your way home. Would that be my fault, too?” She shivered, clutched at the blanket. “When I was little, I had chicken pox. The only thing I’d eat was chocolate pudding. My mother made it for me every night, put it in the icebox for my breakfast.”
Her eyes drifted, aimless. For a moment, time folded in on itself and she was a girl, small as I had been at the Infant Home, a little girl sick in bed. I imagined myself, for a second, a mother, taking care of my own child. Of its own accord, my hand reached out and stroked her hair. She turned her plaintive gaze on me.
“Can I have my pudding now?”
Just like that, the spell was broken. She was no monster, merely a pathetic, dying woman, shrunk down to the simple desires of a child. I was equally pathetic, also dying, reduced by self-pity to the petulant impulses of a toddler. Smacking down what few days she had remaining would gain me nothing but shame.
A great, gulping sob erupted from my throat. I staggered to the window as every emotion of the last few days converged in sadness. I had never been more lonely than in that moment. If only I could have sent my spirit floating above the stars to Miami, I would have gladly left my body an empty sack on the floor.
Instead I was alone with Mildred Solomon. I felt her eyes on my heaving back. I hadn’t wanted her to witness the pain she’d caused me, had wanted only to visit that pain on her. A week ago, I would have argued that the world was divided between those capable of inflicting pain and those whose fate it was to be hurt, that Mildred Solomon and I were on opposite rims of that canyon. I knew now any one of us could cross over. It wasn’t innate—only the choices we made determined which side we lived on. From whichever point one started, stepping out on that rickety bridge was a risk, planks threaded together with twine, the sway in the middle fearsome. Exhilarating as it had been to be suspended above that chasm, rules of time and space and right and wrong all falling away, one look down had been enough to sober me. I had scurried back to my starting place, unable to finish the crossing.
As I calmed down, I heard Mildred panting. I looked behind me, saw tears distorting her eyes. For a second, still, I imagined she cried for me, but no. From Dr. Solomon would come no soft words tossed across the room.
“The pain, it’s too much. I need the morphine now.”
I came away from the window and picked up Mildred Solomon’s midnight dose, long past due. I stared at the syringe in my hand. It was the full amount the doctor prescribed—more than enough to push back her pain. More than she wanted. I picked up the glass vial, intending to slightly adjust her dose, forgetting it was full.
It was the first time Dr. Solomon had seen it. Her eyes widened. “Why do you have so much?”
“It’s meant for you.” My voice was flat. “Every time I held some back—making you talk, making you suffer—I saved the extra, until I had enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“Enough to kill you,” I whispered. The words sounded like a line delivered by an actress who’d lost her motivation. I doubted she even heard me. Not that I was worried she’d tell anyone. Kept to her prescribed dose, she was unlikely to ever speak coherently again.
I took a breath. I was done meddling. I would follow the doctor’s orders. After this injection, I would leave Mildred Solomon to her painless sleep. I’d go sit by the nurses’ station until my shift ended, then change out of my uniform and walk out of the Old Hebrews Home. I had no desire to see any further into the future than this.
“How much?” Her voice quivered with excitement.
“What?” I didn’t understand her question.
“How much morphine?”
I glanced down, though I already knew the answer. “The vial is for blood draws, it holds two hundred milligrams.”
“And
there’s more in the syringe?”
I showed it to her, liquid up to the line marked fifty. She smiled, her dry lips stretched so wide they cracked.
“What did you say your name was again, Number Eight?”
“Rachel Rabinowitz. You don’t think you’re going to report me, do you?”
“Report you? No, Rachel, no, I don’t want to report you. I want you to give it to me. All of it. I want this to be over. I want it more than anything. Now, while I can still talk to you and tell you what I want. Now, while you can be with me, so I won’t be alone.”
I frowned, tilting my head. Could I be hearing this right?
“Don’t say no, Number Eight. Please. You know I don’t have much longer. I want to decide it for myself. That doctor will never let me decide anything. But you, you’re a good girl, you’ll help me, won’t you?” Mildred Solomon’s words tumbled over each other. “Please, it’s going to happen so soon, you can’t imagine the pain.”
“Why should I care about your pain? Did you care about mine?” I said the words, but they were just hollow sounds.
“We’ve been over that. Never mind. Consider it your revenge if it makes you happy. Just please, give it to me, give it all to me now.”
“Not for revenge, no. I won’t do that. I wanted to, do you know that? I could have. But I didn’t.”
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