Chapter 20
July 12, 1918
Dearest Walter,
Last week I received an encouraging letter from the Board of Directors. They invited Liza and me to a meeting at their offices in New York, where Liza would be examined by a specialist in occupational disease, and I felt assured by the letter that if any element from the factory was responsible for her illness, it would be identified and addressed posthaste. After the shadowy and unrelenting course of Liza’s illness, there was at last a glimmer of light and hope. We both felt it dancing around our hearts. Liza is not much for smiling these days, not with her smile marred by the black gaps where so many teeth are missing, but she must’ve forgotten because the grin on her face lasted for the remainder of the evening. She may recover yet, Walter. And perhaps we will all awake from this bleak nightmare.
On the appointed day, Liza was more energetic than she had been in weeks, which can be explained only by the healing power of optimism. I was grateful, whatever the cause, for I knew she would need all the energy she could muster for the trip into the city. I had to caution her against exhausting herself on her first excursion outside in such a very long time, but she would not be dissuaded from gaiety, and even hummed on our way to the train!
Was it only five months ago that we took this same train to New York City? It seems like another lifetime, Liza in her velvet gown, glowing jewelry painted on her skin. Every element of her aspect then was beautiful and bright with hope.
Arm in arm, we walked through the finery of Fifth Avenue. There were carts on every corner filled with flowers, and it was something special to stroll about the city with Liza on a summer’s day, as if we had not a care in the world. At the intersection of Fifth Avenue and Twenty-Third Street, we stood in the shadow of the strangest-looking structure I’ve seen in my life. This Flatiron Building is equal parts wondrous and odd, I think, like so much about these times in which we live. I would’ve stood there longer to marvel more at its peculiarity, but it was apparent that Liza was tiring already. I was glad of the elevator—very modern, it deposited us on the fourteenth floor in no time at all.
We were ushered into a fine room, with dark panels on the walls and a long, gleaming table, around which sat all the gentlemen from the board. They were quite solicitous of Liza and me, listening attentively as I told them my concerns. I had been afraid that I would stumble in my speech, perhaps stammer or lose my train of thought. But I did fine, I think. I think you would have been proud.
Then Liza and I were escorted into a small office where her examination was to take place. I helped Liza undress so that the nurse could weigh and measure her. Walter, I had no idea that the leg she broke is now two inches shorter than the other one! As if the bone continues to disintegrate! No wonder she limps. No wonder she walks with such care, as if she is liable to break at any moment.
Some long strands of her hair were cut and sealed in glass vials, and four vials of blood were taken from her arm. I watched with concern, but it appeared normal—red blood with no glow at all.
Of course, the room was rather bright.
Then the nurse turned to me. “Did you bring the item?” she asked.
I nodded as I produced a ring box from my bag. The nurse snapped it open to confirm that one of Liza’s lost teeth was nestled inside. Then she slipped the ring box into the pocket of her uniform and left us.
Liza and I sat by the window so we could stare at the street below. From such a distance, the people seemed small and insignificant, like miniature playthings. In the bright light from the window, Liza appeared so thin that I could see not only her bones through her flesh but the shadows that they cast. Though we were not left to wait long, she fell asleep, and I couldn’t bear to wake her. I just held her cold hand in mine, grateful to share the warmth of my skin.
Dr. Francis soon arrived, and he seemed a kindhearted fellow, full of reassurances that Liza was too young and too pretty to be so ill, and they’d soon find out what was wrong so that they could make it right. The exam was methodical and precise. He took great pains to listen to her heart and her lungs, to peer into her eyes and her mouth. Though his touch was light and sure as he palpated her flesh, she flinched so often that I wondered how he did not lose patience.
When the exam was over, he called for the nurse and requested that she draw my blood and take a sample of my hair as well. I spoke up at once: “But I am not ill.”
“Oh no, of course not, the very picture of health, my dear,” he said, smooth as pudding. “This is just for comparative purposes.”
Once Liza was dressed, we were returned to the larger room. Dr. Francis stood behind Liza with his hands on her chair.
“Gentlemen, I appreciate the opportunity to examine Miss Liza Grayson, who I understand to be a dial painter at the Orange, New Jersey, factory. Recently the patient and her sister, Miss Lydia Grayson, have contacted you with concerns regarding the patient’s various illnesses. I have conducted a thorough physical examination, and while we will of course have to wait for analysis of the biological samples, I feel confident that I have arrived at a diagnosis that will hopefully enable the patient to receive proper treatment so that she may enjoy improved health.”
Liza grabbed my hand and squeezed it. I wanted to celebrate with her, but something tripped me even then—the phrase “improved health” was not as reassuring as I had hoped.
“The patient is suffering from an advanced case of syphilis,” Dr. Francis continued. “There is no indication that her work as a dial painter has affected her health in any way.”
Syphilis, Walter. Syphilis is what he said. Such an ugly word, slithering over the tongue like a venomous snake. I had never heard it spoken out loud before, just in whisper-hisses hidden behind hands when an uncharitable rumor spreads from girl to girl. Liza’s head fell forward, and I was afraid that she would faint, but then I realized that she was simply trying to hide her shame.
But no. I did not believe it because I know Liza. She is not without her faults, but there is no way—no way, no way—that she could have contracted syphilis. Not my Liza, Walter. Not my sister. I was about to protest when Dr. Francis continued.
“There are chancres in her mouth, for example. These pus-filled sores are found in the nose as well, which may be indicated in the patient’s recurrent nosebleeds. The patient also suffers from chronic weight loss and weakness. She is clearly anemic—the pale translucent skin, bluish undertones like watered-down milk—”
“But what about my leg?”
Brave Liza. Speaking even before I found an opportunity to do so.
Dr. Francis, for the first time, looked inconvenienced. “That is merely a gumma in the femur.”
“Excuse me?” asked one of the board.
“It is like a tumor filled with bacteria,” Dr. Francis explained. “It eats away the bone. Terribly painful, gummas. So you see, all of the patient’s symptoms indicate a late-stage infection with syphilis.”
“No,” I argued. “I don’t think that they do. Because Liza does not…She is not…She has never—”
The doctor and the chairman exchanged a glance dripping with meaning. There was much clearing of his throat before Dr. Francis spoke again. “We must also take into consideration an important mitigating factor,” he said delicately, as if he could soften his words to such extent that they would cause less offense. As if there were a way to imply such a thing without utterly humiliating Liza in this fine room, in front of these important men.
Liza probably should have grabbed my arm or nudged my foot or done anything to signal me to stop. But she did nothing.
“What could possibly be this mitigating factor of which you speak?” I asked. My voice trembled, but not from fear or embarrassment.
Before Dr. Francis could reply, Mr. Chandler—the president of the company—spoke for him.
“Miss Grayson,” Mr. Chandler began. “Perhaps you are unaware of your sister’s…dalliance with her supervisor. Naturally, we contacted Mr. Mill
s as soon as we received your letter, for we were gravely concerned by your speculations. We wanted to hear from him about any illnesses he may have observed in the girls under his supervision. We were relieved, of course, that he has noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Then Mr. Mills wisely chose to confide in us about his misjudgment in pursuing a most inappropriate relationship with your sister. It is highly likely that Mr. Mills transmitted this infection to her in the course of their…relations. We also understand that your sister is known for dangling her favors before a great many men, which—please correct me if I am wrong, Dr. Francis—is a common characteristic of patients suffering from this disease.”
“No,” I croaked, but of course there was no need for Mr. Chandler to pay any attention to me.
“Mr. Mills understands his error in judgment and has assured us that it will not happen again. And, you see, even though we had a likely cause for your sister’s illness, we still showed her—both of you, I should say—the favor of an audience and a consultation with a physician to confirm our suspicions. No one could say that we did not treat this situation with the utmost consideration. Of course, given the nature of your sister’s illness, there can be no expectation that ARC would be responsible for compensation of any sort. But Mr. Mills assured me that she is a fine worker—that you both are—so when Liza has recovered, she is of course welcome to apply for employment again.”
As if on some unseen cue, the men began chatting quietly among themselves, and I realized that Liza and I were dismissed. The meeting was over. As the secretary escorted us out, Liza spoke not a word. She did not even look up from the floor, studying the ornate rug as if the secret answers to her troubles were woven alongside the many multicolored threads.
Midway down the hall, I stopped and laid my hand upon a doorframe to steady myself. Our exit was so rushed that I needed to clear my mind. To come to a decision. I had only a moment so there was no time to give this course adequate thought, to be certain that my decision was the right one.
I squeezed Liza’s hand so that she knew I would return, then rushed back to that grand room, even as the secretary called, “Miss Grayson! Miss Grayson!” as loud as she dared.
Most of the men were gone when I burst in, flinging open the door so hard it banged against the wall. The two who remained—Dr. Francis and a young man who was the spitting image of Mr. Chandler; he must have been his son—gave quite a start to see me returned, and with such a lack of decorum in my bearing. But I felt the time for propriety had passed.
I willed my heart to calm. And I told them my secret.
“My tooth,” I said. “It is loose. At first I thought it my imagination, but—”
Neither of them looked at me.
“It—wobbles—in the socket—”
I took a deep breath.
“How can you explain—”
The younger Mr. Chandler’s eyes met mine then, and I felt like I could drown in the pity of his gaze. “The best advice for you, Miss Grayson, is to make note of everything your sister has done and do the opposite.”
This, Walter, this was too much. After the assassination of Liza’s character, and the way she’d sat in her chair, so helpless, so defeated, well, whatever it took, I would not allow these men, in their fine suits, to say the same about me. One of the Grayson girls would speak up for herself, no matter how impolitely.
“How dare you,” I said, my voice sharp as a razor, as if it could slice through the air between us and draw blood from his face. “How dare you—”
“What I mean to say,” he spoke over me, “is you should reflect on where and how she has spent her days, and what sort of pastimes have occupied her hours, and then you must do the opposite.”
“But you know where she has spent her days,” I said. “We told you. She spent them at the factory until she became too ill to work.”
“Then you already have your answer,” he said, scooping the papers into his arms and escorting the doctor away, leaving me alone and gasping like a fish that has been ripped from the water, snagged on a hook that it never saw coming.
I turned around to leave and saw Liza standing in the doorway.
It was clear that she had heard every word.
Her eyes were watery with tears on the brink of falling, and yet so much more—unspoken apologies and unforgettable defiance and, ultimately, a terrible realization that seemed to sink into us both at the same time. There was no need to speak of it. We linked arms, like we have so many times before, and each helped the other down that hall, into that elevator, onto that street. That the sun keeps shining and the birds keep singing and the people keep living when our world is crumbling is a marvel to me.
We stopped to rest on a park bench on our way to the train station. Liza closed her eyes and let the sun fall across her face. She did not smile, but I could tell that its warmth pleased her. There was something that I desperately wanted to ask her. Though the better part of me knew that I should refrain, I was unable to do so.
“Liza?” I asked. “Did you ever…with Mr. Mills…”
“It doesn’t matter if I did or I didn’t.”
“But if you didn’t, we must tell them,” I said. “We must go back and tell them. It’s not fair that his word should hold more sway than your own. Did you know…that he was…”
She opened her eyes, and I saw, just once or twice, those familiar sparks flash through them.
“Of course I knew,” she said. “Why do you think he doses himself with Lumi-Nite?”
“If you knew,” I asked, feeling ill, “then why did you—”
“I didn’t,” she interrupted me. “Of course I didn’t. I’m not stupid, Lyddie. I saw the sore on his—”
“Stop.”
“What does it matter now?” she asked, closing her eyes again. “I’m going to die either way.”
“No,” I said firmly, squeezing her hand so hard that she flinched and tried to pull away. “You mustn’t talk like that, Liza. Even the doctor said that you would get well again—”
Still she didn’t open her eyes, but a resigned smile flickered across her lips. “Yes, of course,” she said. “Of course you’re right. The sun feels so good on my face, Lyddie. Tilt your head up to the sky. Do you feel it? I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything so warm or good in all my life. I’m so glad to feel it…”
“We have to hurry,” I said. “We don’t want to miss the train.”
“Of course,” she said again, slipping her arm into mine. Her bones were sharp even through her dress.
I have exhausted myself in the writing of this letter, Walter. Forgive its abrupt conclusion. There is not much left to tell of this tale anyway, besides the meekness that settled over Liza on our train ride, so that by the time we reached Orange she was gentle like a lamb, allowing me to shepherd her this way and that. It is hard to think that in some secret part of her heart, Liza hasn’t given up. That her spirit hasn’t melted away like the muscle from her bones.
I will write more as soon as I am able. I miss you most tonight and pray that you are cloaked in safety. I cannot bear to imagine anything else.
I love you.
Lydia
Chapter 21
“Hey,” Luke said, standing as I entered the lab, cradling a canvas in my arms. “What’s that? Did you paint it?”
I shook my head. “This has been my summer project. I’ve been collecting these old paintings…Just wait till you see…They’re amazing…”
Luke stood directly behind me. I thought I could feel his breath on my neck, but it was probably just my imagination. Together, we stared at the painting. In the light, it seemed pretty ordinary, almost unremarkable, but it was one of my favorites. After all, I’d been there; I’d walked through that room. I’d recognized that long table and those large windows the moment I saw them. In the painting, a row of young women sat side by side at the table. Each one held a slender paintbrush—I recognized those too—and a tiny pot of paint.
There were watch
faces scattered on the table in front of them, with needle-thin numbers marking the time in miniature. It was something I had never thought of, that actual people had once painted those tiny numbers that circled the face of a watch. The girls at the table looked so familiar, especially the one whose hair was swept back with a cluster of roses. I was pretty sure they were the same girls from the dance-hall painting, but it was hard to know for certain.
“It’s…nice,” Luke said. He smiled wryly at me. “Sorry. I’m not much for art appreciation. Am I missing the amazing part?”
“You bet,” I said. “Is there someplace…dark…we could go?”
He raised an eyebrow at me, and I blushed.
“Or here is fine,” I said quickly. “If I can turn out the lights?”
I ducked out from under his gaze and walked across the lab, my sandals slap-slap-slapping on the tile floor. My toes were cold.
After the lights were out, I had to get back to Luke by touch. My steps were tentative until I reached the counter. Then, with one hand holding on, I made my way to the painting. It cast a green glow over his face. The lab was so dark that I could’ve stared at him and he never would have known.
But I didn’t. My gaze dropped to the painting instead. It wasn’t as gruesome as some of the others I’d found, but it was definitely weird. In the dark, the paint and paintbrushes glowed, and the glow seemed to seep into the girls’ hands and arms, illuminating their bones like an X-ray. Spindly finger bones, knobby knuckles, plated wrist bones linked like puzzle pieces. The glow crept up their arm bones, inching toward their hearts.
The only other part of the painting that glowed was the girls’ faces, but not how you’d expect. They lacked lips and noses and eyes, their faces wiped clean of expressions and emotion. Instead, a parade of numbers marched around their featureless faces, one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve, glowing watch faces painting glowing watch faces.
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