Madame Curie kept her eyes on the passing floors. She seemed comfortable if impatient. Lucia stood behind her, shoulders rigid, her features set in an attitude of grim helplessness. She stared straight ahead, not daring to look at her former mistress, solemnly counting the floors as they glided by. She was just thinking that she ought to begin when the lift bumped to a stop, and Madame Curie struggled with the heavy gate.
Lucia hadn’t counted on a taxi waiting there at the curb. She thought she would have a little more time. Madame Curie was delighted at her luck. She said she had to get back to the laboratory; there was so much to do. She climbed in promising that she would be back soon. She squeezed Lucia’s hand and thanked her, as she did each time.
Lucia hesitated with her hand on the door. After a moment or two Madame Curie looked at her with uncertainty. The driver turned to see what was causing the delay.
The shoe did not have to be important. It could be a misstep, an occasional detour. It didn’t have to be any more of a problem than Cambridge. She managed to put Cambridge in its proper place. It had taken some time, but she was able to do it. However, she wasn’t sure if Madame Curie could do the same, especially in her state. She might lose perspective, overreact. She could lose everything.
Lucia remembered her promise to Monsieur. She smiled down at Madame Curie and leaned in to kiss her on both cheeks. “Take care,” she said. “Do not work too hard. Remember your health.”
Madame touched Lucia’s cheek with her fingertips, shiny and taut, destroyed by the work.
Then Lucia gave the driver the address and shut the door. She stood there in a little patch of sunshine watching the taxi take its place in the street. She shivered, gave a quick smile to a passing neighbor, and turned back to the apartment.
CHAPTER 15
June 1906
It was true Marie had no proof that Pierre was there. She couldn’t measure his presence like she could levels of radioactivity. Yet, she knew when he was with her. The difference between an empty room and one that he filled. The empty room was just a collection of things, heavy and dull, ordinary objects, cluttered, that provided a function. Then the air around them became charged with energy. She felt it on her arms, at the back of her neck. The aether came alive with his presence and so did she, especially at night in the laboratory, after the others had gone home. She thought of it as their time together and stayed late every night hoping that he would come to her, which he often did.
In this way they would continue their work together.
She spent that day working on the effects of gravity on radiation. Pierre had become preoccupied with the subject before he died. She would go home soon, spend what was left of the night writing in her journal. She would tell him about the day’s work, about her desolation. She would remember pieces of their life together, a ramble in the countryside, gathering oysters on the Île d’Oléron, cycling in the Port Royal Valley, the banks of periwinkles and violets, the streams and ponds.
That night she felt his presence as a tingling at the back of her neck. She sat up, tense and still, listening for signs of his presence; alert to every sound; hoping for confirmation, even though she didn’t need it. She already knew he was there.
“Pierre?” She rarely spoke out loud to him. “Pierre?”
A fluttery breath blew across her cheek. She wiped away the tears with the palm of her hand. She heard a faint rustling at the back of the room near the instruments. Was he checking them? Was he checking to see if she had calibrated them correctly?
The hair on her arms stood up. The tingling had spread to her scalp, down her back, her whole body was humming. She wondered if she was matching his wavelength. Was it electrical in nature? She couldn’t imagine the physics of the phenomenon, yet it comforted her to think they were in concert as they were in life, that their connection had somehow survived even death. Relief settled on her like a down counterpane. She felt his love as a physical presence.
“No words, Pierre.”
He was alive again.
Acknowledgments
For Judi, Meredith, and Jeannine, my constant stalwarts. For the women of the Santa Cruz writing community, the Abbeyites, and my other group that has no name, who opened their doors and fed me in all the important ways.
For my sons, Justin and Ryan, my galloping knights. And my intrepid editor, Dan Smetanka, who wades in with unfailing insight and a mighty red pen.
Finally, a very special thanks to my first reader and go-to idea man, Ryan Peckner, creative genius and son extraordinaire.
With gratitude and appreciation to you all.
If You Are There Page 27