Oh, and the French, of course: On est à court de temps.
We are running out of time.
It was creepy and all, but like I said, she’d painted worse. But I guess Luke didn’t know that. I guess that was why his voice sounded so strained when he said, “Hold on,” and moved away from me. I mean, from the painting.
I sat in the dark for a few minutes. When Luke came back, he flipped the switch, flooding the lab with light. In his hand he held a small gray device, about the size of a remote control. I searched Luke’s face for answers, but it was closed to me.
The device had one glowing green light—a power indicator?—and another light that was dark. As Luke approached the painting, there was a flash of red. Then another, and another, and another, blinking in a rapid and unstable pattern, until the red light stopped flashing and stayed lit. Static hissed from the device; it sounded like it was spitting.
“What is that?” I asked. Luke’s face had darkened; the creases in his forehead were enough to tell me that something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
“My God, Julie. Where did you get this?”
“This? I just…at a consignment store,” I said. “What? What’s wrong? You’re kind of freaking me out. Can you…”
I paused, distracted by the crackling clicks. “Can you turn that thing off?”
“I don’t know what to say,” Luke replied, staring at me. “Julie, this is a Geiger counter. It measures radioactivity.”
“What? No.” I tried to laugh. “You just have one of those lying around? Do you have a lot of experience with mutant superheroes in this lab? Any, uh, radioactive spiders I should look out for?”
Luke didn’t laugh.
“I don’t think you realize how serious this is,” he said. “This painting is radioactive. Radiation is poisonous, Julie. Radiation kills.”
“No. That’s not…that’s not possible—”
“It is. This painting is clearly radioactive,” he repeated. “That’s why it’s glowing. Exposure to radiation makes people radioactive too…you know, by touching it. Or breathing in the off-gases.”
“Off-gases?” I repeated stupidly.
Luke sighed like he was frustrated, but his hands shook ever so slightly, like he was afraid. “The radioactive material. As it breaks down, particles of it get into the air. It turns into radon gas, and if you breathe it in, you can get cancer.”
“Cancer?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Julie! Radiation is no joke. We’re talking, like, atomic bombs here. This is really, really dangerous stuff. I mean highly toxic. It can kill you. How much of it have you been exposed to?”
My mouth opened and closed, opened and closed. I don’t think I even really understood what he was asking. All I could think of were the paintings—all seven of them—and I had touched them with my hands—and I had slept with them near my bed—and carried them around in my arms—and shared them with Lauren—
And Luke—
And oh God, the twins’ car seats. I put the paintings in their car seats…
“If I could figure out how much you’ve been exposed to,” Luke was saying, mostly to himself. “If I could calculate the amount of radiation the paintings are emitting and the time you’ve spent in their presence…There must be some formula for this…”
I didn’t hear anything else because at that point I jumped up so fast I knocked the stool over, and I ran out of the lab, my hands over my mouth, my stomach heaving. I had to get outside, fast, because I was going to throw up—and also because I couldn’t bear to hear another word. I heard Luke calling my name as I careened down the stairs, but nothing could stop me running from the building, across the rough concrete of the quad, over the rolling slopes of the lawn, past the towering lights around the perimeter, to the place where the campus was swallowed up by the dark row of trees leading to the woods. I would throw up—get that over with—and fall into the dirt, under the trees, and maybe, hopefully, die, because I deserved no less.
But I didn’t deserve to die, either, because what I really deserved was punishment—punishment for putting everyone I love at such risk, punishment for being such a thoughtless, careless fool. If I lived a thousand years, I could never, ever apologize enough.
Waiting to throw up was interminably awful, kneeling in the dirt, gagging on stomach acid. And every time I heaved I saw a detail from a painting—the shattered bones, the crumbling teeth, the disappearing jaw, the graves—
Was that my future, foretold a hundred years ago? The bone-deep ache in my jaw, an early symptom? My body, a toxic waste site?
What had I done to myself?
At some point I lay down, hugging my knees under my chin. I don’t know how long I lay there in the dirt, curled up and quivering. It could have been minutes; it could have been hours. I know time didn’t stop—I know that’s not possible; the laws of physics forbid it—but it might as well have. Thunder rumbled in the distance. It was too dark to see the clouds gathering overhead, but I could feel them. I could feel the pressure building outside me, in the air, and inside me, in my heart.
And that’s when I realized that you cannot will your heart to stop, not even when it’s in your best interest. It beats and beats and beats, even as it breaks. The blood pumps out of it—you think, maybe you hope for the last time—but that heart of yours won’t quit. It won’t give up on you, not yet. In the rhythmic pulsing you can hear it saying get up, get up, get up; and there is an even deeper whisper under that, a long-buried secret that you almost forgot to remember. I was so close to wrapping my brain around it when I heard footsteps crunching across the brittle grass.
Luke.
He said nothing but knelt next to me in silence. Then he placed his hand in the center of my back with just enough pressure to tell me that I could still feel something. When he started to talk, I paid more attention to his voice than his words, letting soft notes of reassurance wash over me. There were apologies falling from his lips—too sudden, too harsh, should’ve explained it better, I’m so sorry—
I rolled over, taking him by surprise. I was practically in his arms. I didn’t care. I didn’t analyze. I just leaned up and kissed him. His lips were as soft as I’d imagined they would be.
He closed his eyes but I kept mine open; that’s how I saw the streak of lightning rip through the sky, white-hot power hitting somewhere close. We’d been waiting so long for a really good rainstorm; I could hardly believe that it was here at last.
I wrenched my brain away from the weather so I could focus on more urgent matters here in the dirt, Luke’s body heavy on my own, his mouth tasting of coffee and a faint tingle of peppermint. Had he expected this? Did he follow me down here, sucking on a breath mint, working on a plan?
I didn’t care.
Because oh, his kisses were so good, just what I wanted, just what I needed, tender and eager and strong. My hands cupped around his head, my fingers ran through his hair, and it was so soft, so silky. I couldn’t help pulling his face closer to mine, and I think he liked that. He kissed me harder, deeper, and I couldn’t breathe, and I know I liked that.
The sky lit up again, purple clouds billowing like a bruise. I counted the seconds until the thunder—one—two—three—four—
I couldn’t wait.
My hands fluttered down Luke’s neck, across his broad shoulders, down, down, to the narrowness of his waist. Luke’s T-shirt was thin but not thin enough. I wanted to feel his skin. My fingers plucked at his shirt, fistfuls of cotton in my grip. With my hands pressed against his back, I pulled him to me, and I don’t remember how this happened, but my legs split like a peach, curling around his hips, holding him close.
My face was wet, but not with tears. The first raindrops fell shyly, and I was ready, so ready, to let it all go. My body wanted what it wanted, and why shouldn’t I have it? And Luke—he wanted it too. I could tell from the way he was breathing, from the urgency in his mouth. This was happening. I was making it hap
pen. I tugged at his jeans, fumbled for the button, for the zipper. Luke was poised above me. I was ready. He was ready.
And then—
He pulled away.
My mouth followed him before my mind understood what he’d done.
“It’s okay,” I mumbled through a sloppy kiss, pulling him back to me.
But his shoulders were stiff with resistance.
“It’s okay.”
Luke shook his head. “Julie. This…this isn’t a good idea.”
“Yes.” My mouth on his neck. “Just do it…I don’t care—”
“Well, I care,” he said. “You might not think you’re worth more than this, but I do.”
Something snapped between us, and I fell back, landing on my elbows in the mud. The rain was harder now, stinging my face. My hair was plastered to my skull. Why would he want you? that hateful voice jeered in my head. You’re a toxic waste dump. Forget a condom. He’d need a hazmat suit to be with you.
I couldn’t look at Luke as he pulled me to my feet. He talked the whole way back to the lab, but I could barely understand a word he said.
He didn’t want me to take the painting.
But how could I leave it with him?
He wanted to bring me to the emergency room.
But how could we spend another minute together?
He followed me all the way out to the parking lot. In the headlights, in the rain, I could see his lips moving.
Then I drove away.
Chapter 22
August 31, 1918
Dearest Walter,
I have received your letters, and I apologize for my lack of response. I also apologize, in advance, for the curtness of this letter. I will try as best I can to answer all of your questions in the time that I have.
Shortly after our trip to New York, Liza agreed to the radical surgery that had been proposed. The procedure took the better part of a day, during which I made so many errors in my work that it is a marvel that Mr. Mills did not fire me on the spot. It was decided, of course, that it would be imprudent for me to miss a day of work and the pay that I could earn, especially as Mother and Charlotte would be able to wait at the hospital for word of Liza’s condition as soon as the procedure was over. Charlotte has not been able to secure other employment since her termination from ARC.
I had not anticipated what the scandal would do to her reputation; a thief is quite unwanted in even the lowest sort of positions. If I am honest, I can confess to you and you alone that it has harmed the laundry services. There is not nearly the number of patrons that once there was. So you see, Walter, it is simply impossible that I quit my position, though I assure you that I have given the matter a great deal of thought, and that your impassioned pleas have made a deep impression on me. If I left ARC, how would we pay for our barest living expenses? Not to mention the medical bills that accumulate daily? I learn from Liza’s example that it is very expensive to die.
But shame on me, Walter, for even thinking such a thing. For Liza has had this surgery, and we have placed all our hopes in the surgeon’s capable hands, and God willing the procedure will, at long last, offer the cure that has remained so elusive these past months. If the surgeon has to remove all her jaw, so be it; whatever it takes to rid her body of the insidious infection that consumes her.
The factory is not as pleasant a place to work as once it was. Mr. Mills treats me with great indifference—no more teasing, like when first we met, and no more respect, like after I discovered his feelings for Liza. He offers me no more Lumi-Nite, and I ask for no more. I have not made pudding in a month, and I doubt that I will ever be able to do so again. I think of those glowing crystals, and I worry, Walter. I think of stirring the powder, ethereal like heaven and gritty like earth, into Liza’s nightly bowl of pudding, and I worry. What if Mr. Mills—what if everyone—was wrong? What if it is not so much panacea but poison?
If that is the case—if I have hastened her demise—
I cannot bear to think on it.
Liza has only made requests for Lumi-Nite once or twice since our trip to New York. She must assume Mr. Mills withholds it out of anger. But I have a different suspicion. If he still harbors feelings for Liza, mightn’t he try to protect her? Sometimes I catch him, wearing his protective outerwear and looking at me with remorse, and I wonder if there could ever be a time for me to speak to him. If only there were a way to know if Mr. Mills still ingests the Lumi-Nite himself, or if he has abandoned all the faith in it that he once had.
Liza has not abandoned her faith. Sometimes, late at night, I hear a scratch-scratch-scratch at the walls. It is not a mouse, though. It is Liza. With her brittle nails, she scrapes at the glowing stars on the wall near her bed, and when she manages to peel off a flake of paint, she places it, still glowing, on her tongue, an unholy Communion born of desperation. What more does she have to lose?
As I was saying, the studio is not as friendly a place as once it was. The other girls are still quite chummy, but I am of necessity on the fringe of that circle. Minnie Johnson sits and stares at me, stares with a hard smile of triumph. There is little doubt in my mind that she told Mr. Mills all about Liza’s flirtation with Captain Lawson. Which has ended with an anticlimactic sigh and then silence. One day Liza received a letter from him with no indication that it was to be the last, and yet another one never came.
Oh yes, I was telling you of Minnie Johnson’s mean little smiles, and how pleased she is with herself these days, especially since her sister Eugenie has joined her as a dial painter, taking the position vacated by Charlotte. I look at Minnie and Eugenie, and I remember how Liza and I raced them to the factory that gray September morning, how Liza slammed the metal gate closed to throw an obstacle into their path, how I was able to secure the position through—what? Fortune? Or fate? I look at them and wish that my shoe—and not Eugenie’s—had fallen off as we ran. I look at them and think that it’s not so grand to work here. I look at them and hope that they won’t someday harbor the same regrets that I do.
No one is overtly unkind to me, but I hear the whispers when I pass, and I know what they say—her sister Liza the whore, her sister Charlotte the thief—and the great injustice of it is like a poison in me. It is a cruel thing to condemn my sisters like that, to dismiss all the good in them for the convenience of a label that holds no truth. I tried to tell the other girls, before I understood in what low esteem they held my family, about my fears—specifically the powder in the paint—but all my concerns were ignored. I understand why. Sometimes even now, with all I know—with all I think I know—I find myself gazing on the powder’s quiet luminescence or the stars shining on our walls at night, and still, after all, I find myself drawn to it.
At least I know I told them. I warned them, at least. I remember that thought when I start to imagine what they whisper about me, what they whisper as they paint their nails and their faces, as they paint their buttons and their teeth. Lydia the lunatic.
When at last the long workday was over, I went directly to the hospital. The possibility that Liza had not survived the operation did not occur to me until I stood before the hospital’s doors and felt such dark clouds of dread settle upon me. Like a child, I wanted to run from this hulking brick building of death and disease, but I found some tarnished mettle within me and entered the hospital to make inquiries about my dear sister. To my relief, Liza did survive the operation.
Though perhaps, knowing what I know now, it would have been better if she had not.
I found Liza recovering in a large postsurgical ward, just one of ten patients confined to white iron beds, with Mother and Charlotte by her side. The disease had burrowed deeper into her jaw than expected, Walter, and so more of it is gone than expected—past her chin and nearly to her ear: gone. Gone. There is, I guess, just three-quarters left of her face. I made my best estimate, for much of her head remains wrapped in layer upon layer of fresh linen bandages.
Eventually a thin rust-colored fluid seeps through
the bandages, and with great care, we change them, layering strips of linen as lightly as we can over the gaping hole in her head, where the teeth that remain rattle in their sockets from even the slightest motion. After Liza recovers, when sufficient healing has occurred, the surgeons tell us that she will be fitted for a prosthetic tin mask of sorts, modeled in the image of her face. This mask will cover the scars and empty spaces so that her countenance will not be so fearsome. After she recovers.
Of course, Liza’s jaw is not the only thing she lost. Her lips are gone, and her voice as well, for she cannot speak with her face so bandaged. She should not move what is left of her mouth when there is so much regenerative healing for her body to perform. I had not thought of that, Walter, that she would be struck mute. How could I have known that I would not hear her sweet voice again?
On the third night following the operation, while Mother and Charlotte toiled on the small amount of laundry work at home, I sat by Liza’s bedside in the hospital and held her hand. No one will even look at her anymore, and yet I cannot look away. She is so beautiful, Walter, still so beautiful to me. I wish I had a photograph of her from before because already I fear that my memory ebbs. I could never paint her, never do justice to the gentle hills and valleys of her face that have been ravaged by bacteria and curettes. I look at her with the heavy fear that soon I will no longer be able to do such a thing. How wrong that is. I want to always see her.
She opened her eyes, her yellowing eyes, and looked at me for the first time as if she remembered who I was. She even tried to open her mouth—to speak, I think—before the lightning bolt of pain struck her, searing though what remains of her face. I placed a pen in her hand and held a notebook beneath it.
Please, she wrote.
Take me home, she wrote.
I want to die under the stars, she wrote.
“Don’t be silly,” I whispered. “We knew you would feel worse before you got better. You have to give the operation time, Liza. You have to give your body time.”
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