Frustrated tears wet her cheeks. “Then do it to prove you’re a better person than I am. So what if I met Marie Curie, if she shook my hand? I was wrong, is that what you want to hear? I’m sorry. There, I said it. I’ll say anything you want me to, Number Eight, but please, just do this for me.” Her words were coming too fast for me to process their shifting meaning. “If you won’t, then let me. I’ll do it to myself.”
Dr. Solomon grabbed at the vial and the syringe. My hands went slack. I didn’t even have to be involved. I could let it happen without being responsible. But she was fumbling with the syringe, her hands too shaky to maneuver the needle. Even if she managed to draw up more morphine, she wouldn’t be able to reach the valve on the IV. I wondered what she would do in her desperation. Plunge the needle through her thin skin? I imagined the puncture deflating her.
I took back the syringe and the vial. She didn’t have the strength to resist. Hands empty again, the old woman wept like a baby.
“No one listens to me. No one does what I say.”
“Are you certain this is what you want?”
She quieted herself. “Yes, yes it is.”
I knew in my bones she was speaking the truth. This was her choice now, not mine. What a mockery was being made of my intentions. Without another word, I pushed the needle through the rubber stopper of the vial, filling the syringe completely, and squeezed the morphine into her IV.
“All of it, Number Eight. All of it.”
I refilled the syringe, pushed the plunger. I watched my hands inject the fatal dose as if someone else controlled their actions, then I sat on the edge of the bed. Mildred Solomon grabbed my hand.
“You’ll stay with me, won’t you?”
“I will.”
“Good girl,” she said, patting my knuckles. “Good girl.” Her words seemed to come from far away.
I observed her breathing become shallow and ragged. Soon the diaphragm would be too numb to pull in breath, the heart too starved for oxygen to keep up its rhythm. The end would be quiet. I didn’t have to stay to know what would happen.
But I did stay. Until the carotid artery stopped pulsing. Until the face became slack, eyes sinking into the skull. Until dawn lifted the darkness.
Only then did I leave Mildred Solomon’s body, closing the door behind me. I told Lucia that the patient had gotten her medication and was resting quietly. As I heard myself say the words, I was surprised at how true they sounded. I marked the chart and put the syringes in the autoclave. Later, when I went into the nurses’ lounge to change, I placed the empty vial, wrapped in my handkerchief, on the floor. Like the groom at a wedding, with a stomp of my foot I shattered the glass.
THE BRIGHT MORNING outside the Old Hebrews Home blinded me. I waited on the building’s steps for the sunspots to fade from my vision. Walking to the subway, my legs felt liquid. I thought I would look different to the people I passed, branded by what I’d done. But no one fixed me with an accusing stare. The streets carried the same traffic, the sidewalks the same pedestrians as they had yesterday and would tomorrow. I looked around at the crowd waiting on the platform, wondering if anyone else among us had taken a life. Apparently, it didn’t show.
Underground I didn’t have long to wait for a train. I tried resting my eyes as it rocked along, but I was afraid of giving in too soon to sleep. At the Times Square transfer, I was glad to be distracted by a family that sat across from me. The husband was struggling with a clumsy assortment of wicker baskets and beach bags. The mother’s straw hat was knocked off by the squirming toddler she lifted onto her lap. The hat rolled toward me as the train lurched forward. I picked it up and handed it to the son, a little boy with a ball cap on. It looked like his mother had stitched the Yankees insignia on it for him.
“What do you say to the nice lady?” his father said.
“Thank you, ma’am,” the boy said in a pretty voice. Tufts of kinky hair escaped the confines of his cap. He seemed to be four or five years old. The same age I was at the Infant Home. The same age my nephew was by now.
“You’re welcome,” I said, resisting the urge to wrap him up in my arms.
They settled in, the family with their baskets and bags packed around their feet, toddler wedged between parents, boy beside them. He twisted to look out the window, even though there was nothing to see but streaking darkness as we moved under the city. His neck was so slender its fragility alarmed me. Below his little legs with their dimpled knees, an untied shoelace dangled. I wanted with all my heart to kneel before him and tie it in a bow.
As the subway rocked along its tracks, I couldn’t keep the drowsiness at bay any longer. When the train emerged to cross the river, the brightness forced my eyes closed. I turned my face to catch some breeze from the open window, my head resting against the vibrating glass.
“Lady.” I felt a nudge. “Lady, wake up, it’s the end of the line.”
I pulled my sticky eyelids apart. The boy was tugging at my sleeve.
“Everyone has to get off now, lady.”
“All right, thank you, I’m awake.” My head was throbbing, my vision blurry. Through the open doors of the train car, I saw his father with the beach bags, his mother holding the toddler’s hand. They beckoned to the boy.
“Gotta go now, lady.”
“Okay, have fun,” I said, because that’s why people came out to Coney Island on a summer morning. I stood unsteadily and made my way onto the platform, squinting against the sun. I practically sleepwalked down Mermaid Avenue, bumping into people as I shuffled along, heading away from the boardwalk and the crowded beach. The modern apartment blocks that had replaced the old warehouses and workshops rose up ahead of me, our building among them.
I checked for a letter or postcard, but our box was empty. If it wasn’t for her name on the card I might have begun to believe I’d invented her. I’d call, I promised myself, and this time she’d answer. I’d call as soon as I got some rest. I was afraid I would have a breakdown if I heard her voice now in my raw exhaustion.
I pushed the button for the elevator and let my eyes shut for just a moment. Listening for the elevator bell, I heard the lobby door open, footsteps across the terrazzo floor. I looked and saw Molly Lippman carrying a grocery bag. Stepping back, I feigned impatience, readying a comment about deciding to take the stairs. But it was too late to avoid her. The elevator arrived as Molly came up beside me. We entered together. I hoped she’d see how tired I was and not talk to me today.
“Rachel, darling, you look asleep on your feet. Did you do a double shift? The elderly must be so demanding.”
I muttered something, watching the elevator light blink past each floor. I willed it to move faster.
“My mother, blessed woman, was so good it was like a sickness, but in her last days, oh, what a handful she was. So, what’s new with you?”
The elevator jerked to a stop and the door slid open, but the ordeal wasn’t over yet. I mumbled some words about work and the weather as we walked side by side to our adjacent apartment doors. I fished my key out of my pocketbook and held it ready.
“Tell me,” she said, putting her hand on my arm, “have you had that dream again? I haven’t stopped thinking about it, it was so interesting.” Molly set her bag on the floor, making herself comfortable for an extended conversation. I pushed my key into the lock. The notched metal clicked into the tumbler, the sound of my escape.
“I have to run, Molly,” I said, turning the handle. “Take care.”
“But, Rachel, dear, I meant to tell you who I saw at the grocer’s. . . .”
I shut the door, snuffing out my neighbor’s words. I was relieved to have escaped Molly but reluctant to face the empty apartment. When I last went through this door, I’d been on my way to see Dr. Feldman and hope was still a straw I could clutch. I could hardly believe it was only yesterday morning. Where did all the hours go? My last birthday and this one would soon match up like the corners of a folded sheet, the months in between ironed away.
I wanted them back now, those unnoticed days.
As for the future, I couldn’t see any further into it than the couch across the room. In the steps it took me to reach it, I pulled off my dress, stepped out of my sandals, rolled down my stockings. In my slip, I stretched across the upholstery, the nubby fabric rubbing at my skin. It should have been uncomfortable, but somehow it wasn’t, like scratching an itch. I watched the sunlight slanting into the room, chopped into slices by the window blinds. In each lit slice, specks and threads swirled.
I closed my eyes, observing the pink latticework inside my lids. I wanted nothing more than the oblivion of sleep. Instead I pictured the woman on Dr. Feldman’s wall, her face impassive to the dashed lines that crossed her chest. He’d said I was lucky that my tumor was still operable, but I didn’t feel at all grateful. My mind reviewed a lifetime of ways I was unlucky. I might as well have been counting sheep.
I was nearly asleep when the sound of a key in the lock startled me into alertness. It had to be Molly using the extra key we’d once exchanged with her. I cursed myself for never having gotten it back.
Chapter Twenty-one
PENNSYLVANIA STATION WAS A HOTHOUSE, THE SUN BEATING down on the glass ceiling of the train shed. Rachel felt perspiration beading on her scalp and worried for the wig. She left the trunk and her hatbox at the luggage check and walked out to the street unencumbered. There was the thrill of emerging onto Eighth Avenue, the noise and energy of New York made new again by her time out west. Rachel had the day to kill and a night to get through before she could report to nursing school. She’d decided the station was the safest place to spend the night but didn’t want to draw attention to herself by settling on a bench too early. With no particular destination in mind, she began walking uptown. In Mary’s clothes and Amelia’s hair, she sought out her reflection in shop windows, surprised each time that the pretty girl she saw was really her.
The squealing trumpets and rat-a-tat drums of a marching band drew Rachel toward Times Square. Crowds lined the sidewalks, blocking her view. Shouldering through, she saw the Labor Day parade coming down Broadway. Leaning against a light pole, she decided that watching the parade would be a fine way to pass the time. Her stomach protested as a food cart rolled by. She spent the last pennies in her pocket on a pretzel, the hard squares of salt crunching between her teeth, and an Italian ice, the frozen sweetness a relief for her thirst as labor unions and school groups and politicians paraded past.
It was when she saw the color guard carrying a banner ahead of the Orphaned Hebrews Home marching band that Rachel stood up straight and swiveled her head, looking for a place to hide—the impulse of a runaway. Then she relaxed, reminding herself no one from the Home was looking for her anymore. As she watched the marching band approach, nostalgia overwhelmed her. After a year away, the injustices and rigors of the Home were temporarily forgotten as Rachel remembered the familiar companionship of a thousand siblings, the reassuring knowledge that a bell would always ring to tell her what to do. What a comfort it had been—never having to worry where her next meal would come from or where she would sleep that night.
The parade halted for a performance. The Orphaned Hebrews Home band was arrayed in front of her, the leader who’d presided over the Purim Dance stepping in front of the children to lift his baton. The spectators around her cooed at the adorable orphans in their humble outfits and remarked on the precision of their playing. Rachel thought of the long hours of practice in the yard, dust kicked up as they marched across the gravel. They had no choice but to be perfect.
Across the street, standing apart from the crowd, she saw Vic, arms folded across his chest, watching over the band as they played. Of course, Rachel thought, he was a counselor now. It was his job to march alongside and keep an eye on the children, then shepherd them back up Broadway at the conclusion of the parade. Rachel’s eyes darted around, seeking out Naomi. But no. The band was only boys, and the F1 girls were too young for the color guard. Naomi’s girls would have watched the parade farther up Broadway and then retreated to the Castle. Relief was quickly followed by yearning as Rachel felt how keen she was to spot her friend.
For the thousandth time, Rachel ran it through in her mind, hoping somehow, this time, she’d figure a faster way to save up enough to repair their friendship. Again, the calculation yielded a span of a year at least, more likely two, before Rachel could accumulate the price of forgiveness. She feared Naomi would have found by then, among the young women at the Teachers College, a new friend, a particular friend, Rachel demoted in Naomi’s memory to an adolescent crush that had ended in betrayal.
The Orphaned Hebrews Home band sounded its final flourish. For a moment, the parade was quiet, waiting for the momentum of the marchers ahead to start its movement up again. Rachel noticed a few people taking advantage of the stillness to dart across the street. Impulsively she, too, stepped off the curb and crossed the wide pavement, ducking behind the band director and skirting the color guard’s banner. Just as the band stood at attention, ready to resume marching, Rachel came up to Vic. He was the one person in New York who felt like family, and his familiarity suggested to Rachel a possibility. She could explain to him about taking Naomi’s money, that it was only to follow Sam, tell him how sorry she was, that she intended to pay it back. She could ask him if Naomi hated her. Maybe he could mediate between them, convince Naomi to accept Rachel’s apology. They could be friends again, Rachel working to repay her even as they spent their days together. Rachel knew, now, the kind of friendship they were capable of. With a thrill of hope, she approached Vic, blocking his path as he walked the parade route, his blue eyes scanning ahead.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said, stepping around her.
“Wait.” She grabbed his sleeve, turning him back.
Vic looked directly at Rachel. She remembered their first meeting, how she’d assumed from his friendly smile that he was her brother, not the scowling boy beside him. So few people in the world had known her as long as Vic had. His gaze felt like coming home. She smiled up at him.
“You shouldn’t be out in the street, miss.” He pulled his arm away, turned his face downtown, hurried to catch up with the band. Rachel, shocked, stood apart from the curb until a mounted policeman clopped up, the horse’s tossing head chasing her back into the crowd.
HE HADN’T RECOGNIZED her. Of course, Rachel told herself. It was because of the wig and her new clothes. She should have said something before it was too late. Still, his blank stare had shaken her, as if she’d become a ghost. Even if he had known her, what chance was there that Vic could heal the rift between herself and Naomi? Whether or not she ever paid Naomi back, it was a fantasy for Rachel to think she could reverse the damage she’d done.
She felt the crowds pressing in on her. Someone bumped her shoulder, spinning her around. Rachel heard a mumbled apology but couldn’t see clearly enough to distinguish the speaker. The pressure of people, the heat of the sun, the noise of the parade, all became too much. Rachel sensed the emptiness of a subway entrance and descended. Underground, she stood by the turnstile, intending only to regain her composure, when she spotted a dropped token on the filthy floor. Bending to pick it up, she thought she might as well spend the coming hours moving back and forth under the city. At least there would be the illusion of progress. When a train whooshed up to the platform, she trudged through its open doors without looking to see if it was going uptown or down. Inside the carriage, she was held up through the sway and jerk by the people packed tightly around her. By the time the passengers thinned enough for someone to offer her a seat, she sank into it, the sleepless night from Chicago catching up with her. When the train emerged from underground, sunlight flickered over Rachel’s closed eyes. She watched the liquid spots floating across her corneas. If she had any desire left, it was that the train would never stop moving.
“End of the line, miss, all passengers exit at Surf Avenue.”
A hand on Rachel’s shoulder shook her awak
e. A uniformed conductor was leaning over her, the brim of his hat casting his face in shadow. She stood and swayed for a moment, catching at a hanging strap. Cautiously, she wobbled onto the platform. As she was herded through the turnstile, she realized her mistake. She should have switched trains at a free transfer station, kept her pointless journey going, stretching the value of her found token across as many empty hours as possible until finally making her way back to Penn Station. Her bleary eyes searched the ground, but there were no more tokens to be found.
Emerging from the station, Rachel had no idea where she was until she saw the distinctive circle of the Wonder Wheel, the undulating tracks of the Cyclone. Coney Island, of all places. She must have slept longer than she realized to have reached the end of the Beach line. A fresh pang of regret stabbed her. The happiness promised in that picture of Mary and Sheila by the sea would never be hers. She seemed destined to remain alone in the world, always an orphan.
A light turned green and she crossed the street, carried by the momentum of the people around her toward the boardwalk. Music spilled from the open doors of ramshackle establishments. Hawkers shouted their wares as parents yelled at their children. The burned-sugar smell of cotton candy mixed with the meaty scent of hot dogs and the vinegar sting of sauerkraut, taunting Rachel’s stomach and reminding her of her poverty. She kept her eyes cast down, scanning the wooden planks for the gleam of a dropped coin, but she spotted nothing.
Rachel decided to go down to the beach. There she could shed her shoes, spend a melancholy afternoon staring at the waves or dozing on the sand, sheltered from scrutiny by the holiday crowds. On her way, she passed the carousel. She recognized the carved horses from the workshop of Naomi’s Uncle Jacob, the bright painted colors as Estelle’s handiwork. Everything she saw seemed designed to prick her with regret, display for her again the happiness she might have had. The operator saw her standing there and opened the gate, his hand held out, but Rachel pulled at her pockets and showed her empty hands, indicating she couldn’t afford the ride. She watched his eyes take in her dress, her face, her beautiful hair. With a jerk of his chin, he drew her in. Apparently pretty girls rode for free, an economy of beauty to which Rachel had never been privy. It occurred to her that this was how she’d get back to Penn Station: a pretty girl by the turnstile with a story about dropping her coin purse on the sand would inspire someone to press a token into her hand. Her mood lightened for a moment as Rachel grabbed a pole and was swept up onto the rotating platform. She hoisted herself onto a horse’s saddle, lifting and sinking, turning and turning.
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