I told Henrietta she didn’t know what she was talking about and I didn’t speak to her for a month. But in the end, Henrietta was right.
Daniel did finally send me a letter telling me he was sorry for treating me so abysmally and that he expected no forgiveness from me. He hadn’t known how to tell me that he had met a young woman at a concert. He hadn’t expected to fall in love with her, because he already loved me. He kept waiting for this startling attraction for this other woman to dissipate, but it only grew stronger. He confessed that he had asked her to marry him and she had said yes.
He was very sorry.
He never meant to hurt me.
He wished me all the best.
My parents, bless them, could tell without asking what Daniel had said in his letter. Henrietta figured it out, too, but begged for the details so that she could properly commiserate. I let her read the letter. Henrietta told me I deserved better, and that I should go away for a while to somewhere fabulous so that I could occupy my mind with thoughts wholly unrelated to Daniel Borden. She knew, as everyone close to me did, that before I had longed for Daniel Borden, I had longed for the colors of the big city.
I waited a few months for the wound to scab over, and decided Henrietta was right.
But I didn’t want to go away just for a while. I wanted to get away permanently. I wanted to go to New York. Leaving as an unmarried woman meant I had to have a job.
There was really only one reason I chose nursing school.
The truth is I am good at fixing things. I like fixing things. Sick people are broken people and I like to make them whole again.
Nursing school was easy. My father had already taught me nearly everything I needed to know, and what he hadn’t, I was able to learn quickly. School gave me wings to leave rural Pennsylvania for Philadelphia, and my diploma gave me wings to Manhattan.
Where I fell in love for the third time.
• • •
I awoke the morning after showing Dolly the letter, amazed and relieved that I hadn’t dreamed of the fire. When I had finally crawled into bed the night before, it seemed the very room smelled like burned things and sleep seemed a very unsafe place to retreat to. I lay awake a long time thinking about what Dolly had said about my being unwilling to leave the island because I was afraid of finding out Edward didn’t love me in return.
She had just about accused me of loving a dream.
Reality was a ferryboat ride away on the streets of New York and I was on the island, in an in-between place where dreams lived instead.
Dreams were all that was good on Ellis. Dreams kept the immigrants hopeful when complications loomed like a dark shadow and held them here with a heavy hand.
Sleep finally found me, and my dream makers were merciful. I slept soundly. Dolly had to shake me awake at sunrise.
I lay there for a few moments in the gray light of dawn, orienting myself to the day at hand. We ended our shift early on Saturday. Most of the staff would be on the ferry to the mainland before sunset. The only ones who stayed were the ones who had shifts to work on Sunday. I wasn’t scheduled to work tomorrow. Nothing prevented me from accepting Dolly’s invitation except that I had no desire to go. Stepping foot on Manhattan would be the beginning of something and the end of something else. I didn’t want anything to end and I didn’t want anything to begin. I turned over in my bed. The poetry book and its folded contents lay on my bedside table. I rose from bed, pulled up the blankets, and tucked the book under my pillow.
After I dressed, we walked to the staff dining hall for breakfast and then made our way to the reception area for Saturday’s arrivals to the hospital.
“Did you decide?” Dolly asked quietly as we went down the corridor with the other nurses.
I honestly wasn’t sure what she meant. I assumed she meant was I going to go to New York with her tonight.
“I’m not ready yet, Dolly.”
“I mean the letter. It was as plain as day you weren’t going to say yes to dancing with me tonight.”
I frowned at her. “I thought about it. I’m just not ready for dancing.”
“Suit yourself. What about the letter?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Haven’t decided.”
“Want me to give it to him?”
I wheeled on her. “Why on earth would I want you to do that? I don’t want you breathing a word of this to him. Or to anyone!”
“Oh, shush. I am not going to say anything to him. I offered so that I could be the one to bring him the terrible news, not you. You can still be his lovely Florence Nightingale and I will just be the hated messenger.”
My face felt rosy warm. “What do you mean, ‘his lovely Florence Nightingale’?”
“I mean you don’t have to be the one he will remember as having snooped in his dead wife’s things, found out something terrible about her, and then had to tell him about it.”
“I didn’t snoop. I found it by accident.”
“If you change your mind, let me know.”
I was poised to defend myself but Dolly was clearly ready to change the subject. She saw other nurses ahead of us—the young women she usually went ashore with—and stepped up to talk with them. As we neared the reception area and the other nurses peeled off to report to the wards, one of them, named Ivy, turned to me. “Hope you change your mind and come tonight, Clara!”
I smiled and said nothing.
At the reception area, a queue of immigrants who’d failed their health inspections was waiting for us. And so the day began.
• • •
I did not go ashore.
I spent Saturday evening writing long letters to my parents and Henrietta, reading a book, and contemplating what the week ahead would be like when I rotated to the isolation wards.
I went to bed, alone in my room, before midnight and did not awaken when Dolly returned. In the morning, I left Dolly asleep in our room. I read from the psalms while I ate my breakfast, took a long walk across Ellis, sat and watched the New York skyline shining in the Sunday noon sun. I read stories to the sick little tots in the children’s wards, and waited for Dolly to emerge from our quarters.
She and the four girls she’d gone ashore with found me in the staff lounge. In their hands they held small boxes of chocolates.
I imagined I could still smell the city on them, could nearly hear its heartbeat.
That night, after Dolly and I had gone to bed, I knew the lingering aroma of the city would embolden my dream makers.
I dreamed I was in the elevator with Edward and the elevator was on fire. He smiled at me and reached for my hand. I gave it to him.
I had flowers in my hair and I was not afraid.
Nine
AS Dolly and I reported to island three’s nurses’ station early Monday morning, I secretly hoped I would be assigned to Andrew Gwynn’s room so that I could watch him without being noticed that I watched him. As it turned out, I was assigned the children’s measles ward and Dolly was to take Ward K, where the male scarlet fever patients were. Dolly piped up immediately and asked the matron whether we could switch. The matron in the contagious wards, a birdlike woman named Mrs. Nesbitt, wanted to know why. Dolly said she liked being with the little ones and besides, she had the scarlet fever ward the last rotation. Mrs. Nesbitt frowned, her storklike features looking even more pointed as she pouted, but she made the change on her schedule.
“See you at noon,” Dolly said cheerfully when she and I and the other nurses began to disperse for our posts. With my eyes I thanked her.
I made my way to Ward K, donning a high-necked cloak over my uniform to keep any stray particles of infection off my clothes. Inside the ward, the beds were now filled, mostly with immigrants who’d been in steerage on the Seville. Some lay abed, clearly with fever; some sat and ate their breakfasts; some stared off into space as the
y sat or lay on their cots, unable to summon any joy for the new day. At the far end of the room, I could see Andrew Gwynn still in his bed. A breakfast tray next to his bed appeared untouched.
The nurse who had been on duty during the night met me at the entrance, rattling off the conditions of the men who were now in my care.
“These three here”—and she pointed to a trio of black-haired men who lay shivering in their beds—“they came down with the fever Saturday night. Doctor saw them yesterday afternoon. You’ll want to wear your mask when you care for them. Those on that wall say they are still feeling fine, no fever, no swollen glands. Those four down there”—and she pointed to the back of the room, including Andrew Gwynn’s bed—“all seem to have come down with it since yesterday. I suggest a mask. The others will be released tomorrow if there’s no other sign of disease. Doctor is due to make his rounds around ten. That one on the end”—she pointed to Andrew’s bed—“he’s not eaten anything yet and I’ve not been able to get down there to help him.”
I nodded as I made my notes. The other nurse left and I slowly walked the length of the room, wishing those sitting on the edges of their beds a good morning and stopping at the bedsides of those who lay with fever to see who was awake and in need of something. I purposely saved Andrew Gwynn for last.
I approached his bedside while placing a gauze covering over my nose and mouth. “Mr. Gwynn,” I said softly. “It’s me. Nurse Wood. Would you like some breakfast?”
Andrew slowly turned in his bed to look at me. His face was flushed with the beginnings of fever and he raised a hand to his throat, grimacing as he swallowed.
I knew without the doctor having been by yet that the fever had Andrew firmly in its grasp. If this was his second day with it, then I could expect to have two weeks, closer to three, to decide what I would do with Lily’s letter. Andrew’s languid stare alarmed me a little. Grief would play a part in his battle with the disease; grief always played a part in whatever followed it.
I leaned over him and placed my hand on his brow to gauge his temperature. His skin was warm. He reached up to grab my wrist.
“Don’t,” he whispered.
I lifted my hand, surprised that my touch had hurt him. “You have the headache already, Mr. Gwynn?” The headache didn’t usually show up until the third or fourth day.
“Don’t get close. Sick. I’m sick.”
He was worried my touching him would send me to my bed. He’d probably held his hand to Lily’s brow just like I had held mine to his. And now he lay riddled with contagion.
“We are very careful here, Mr. Gwynn. I wash my hands a dozen times a day when I’m on the ward. They are beet red by the end of the day.” I laughed lightly, but he only winced as he attempted to swallow again.
“How about a little breakfast, Mr. Gwynn?” I continued. “You will need your strength. And the doctor will ask why I was unable to get you to eat. You don’t want him to be cross with me, do you?”
He turned his head to the breakfast tray. “Can’t. Swallow,” he murmured. His Welsh intonations accentuated the clipped words.
I surveyed the contents of his tray. The scrambled eggs and toast would be impossible. I reached behind him and pulled on his pillow to raise his head. “Let’s try a little of the vegetable broth, shall we? Can you sit up a bit?”
Andrew slowly adjusted his body to a sitting position. I pulled the tray closer to him and handed him his spoon.
“It’s actually pretty good,” I said brightly. “Not too salty, not too bland.”
He grasped the spoon and raised his arm. But when his hand began to tremble he lowered it.
“Did you eat anything yesterday?” I asked.
“Wasn’t hungry.”
“When was the last time you ate, Mr. Gwynn?”
He closed his eyes. “Don’t remember.”
I thought back to what his last few days had been like. If Lily’s final hours were also the last of the voyage, and if he’d stayed at her bedside, it was possible he hadn’t eaten in four or five days. I moved the tray and pulled up a chair to the side of his bed. I reached for the bowl of vegetable broth and the spoon that Andrew held loosely in his hand.
“Let me help you.”
“No,” he whispered.
“Yes.” I placed a cloth napkin under his chin and dipped the spoon. He hesitated before opening his mouth and allowing me to feed him.
He took his time swallowing, screwing his eyes shut. “Can’t eat,” he whispered when he’d finished.
“Yes, you can.” I ladled another serving. He obeyed.
The warmth of the broth massaged the inflammation in his throat bit by bit. As he took more from the spoon he began to wince less. His eyes were still glassy but he kept them open and trained on me. I found myself looking back at him. I fumbled for something to talk about.
“I would ask you what it’s like to be a tailor, except I’m sure it hurts to talk and you need to eat anyway,” I said nervously. “I’m sure it’s very intricate work, being a tailor. You must enjoy it very much.”
Andrew blinked and shrugged. “It’s what I do.”
I held the spoon aloft over the bowl. I could hear in his voice the same stoic resignation that I had in my voice when a person asked me what it was like to be a nurse.
“I know just what you mean,” I said. “I’m a nurse because it’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. My father’s a doctor in Pennsylvania. I’ve helped him in his practice since I was ten.”
“I started sewing buttons when I was eight.”
I smiled at this, this new little thing we had in common. While I continued to spoon more broth I told him about my parents, my easy-to-please sister, and before I knew it, my childhood longing for the bright lights and colors of the city, and that nursing had gotten me there.
“New York,” he whispered, and again I sensed that underneath his words was an emotion I could keenly identify with. He had wanted New York, too. Tailoring would get him there.
“Yes, New York,” I murmured.
He lay back on the pillow and I made no move to encourage him to stay upright. For a moment we were both lost in the wonder of what we’d wanted and were willing to do to have it.
“May I be finished?” he finally said.
I looked at the bowl. He had eaten more than half. I placed it back on the tray. “I’ll have the kitchen send up a more sensible lunch for you, Mr. Gwynn. No more toast for a while.”
“How long?”
“How long before you can have toast?”
Andrew shook his head slowly. “How long will . . . Lily was gone in four days.”
“We’re going to take good care of you, Mr. Gwynn.” I stood and reached for the small basin of water at his bedside, where a cloth lay folded on the rim. I gently plunged the cloth into the water and wrung out the excess. I placed the cloth on Andrew’s brow, drawing out the heat with the coolness of the damp fabric.
He closed his eyes. “If she’d become sick later in the voyage she’d be here getting well. Yes?” He opened his eyes and looked at me, clearly expecting me to answer his question.
“Scarlet fever affects people in different ways, Mr. Gwynn. Many people do survive.”
“But not all.”
“No. Not all.”
“I don’t even know if there is someone I should write to,” he said. “I don’t know if there are cousins or aunts or uncles. She told me her parents are dead and she has no brothers or sisters. But surely there is someone I need to tell.”
“Uh, perhaps. Perhaps not.”
“How can she have no one in the world? There must be someone I should tell.”
His voice was becoming raspy. The warmth of the broth on his vocal cords was dissipating.
“Shhh, Mr. Gwynn. Time to rest now.” I held the cloth with one hand and adjusted the pil
low with the other so that he could recline. “Comfortable?”
Andrew nodded.
“I need to see to the other patients in the ward now. Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No, thank you, Nurse. And thank you for . . . everything else.”
I colored a bit. I felt the rosy shade warm my cheeks. “You are welcome.”
“You’ll keep the pattern book safe for me?”
“Of course.”
He closed his eyes with another whispered word of gratitude.
As I walked away it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen the scarf near his bed. I hoped it was tucked away inside the cabinet of his bedside table.
• • •
AT midmorning Dr. Treaver arrived to make his rounds.
Dr. Treaver, who had arrived on the island the same month I had, reminded me of my father in many ways, not only because he was about the same age and was a doctor like my father was. He had a soft voice like my father’s, smoked the same pipe tobacco—I could smell the distinctive fruity blend on his clothes—and had the same neat, precise script. I never had any trouble reading Dr. Treaver’s orders. I couldn’t say the same about some of the other doctors on the island.
He arrived a few minutes after ten with another doctor trailing behind him. I was helping a young man get back into his cot after using the toilet. I washed my hands quickly and met them at the nurses’ desk.
“Ah, Nurse Wood, nice to have you back on the ward,” Dr. Treaver said, in his cotton-soft voice. He motioned to the doctor behind him, who looked to be a little older than me, with reddish-brown hair, shiny gold spectacles, and a ruddy pencil mustache. “This is Dr. Randall. He’s a new intern and is just learning his way around the island. Dr. Randall, Nurse Wood.”
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