The Stolen Marriage

by Diane Chamberlain

  I was a little bit in love with Carol Ann by the end of that day. She was a very sick girl, but not so sick that she couldn’t respond to the funny stories I told her as I wrapped her legs in the hot wool packs and exercised her stiff limbs, trying to keep her mind off her pain and fear. But her giggling could give way to tears in an instant. How was I going to leave her at the end of the day when she’d finally gotten attached to me?

  The night nurse who came in to take over for me scared her. I doubted the little girl had ever met a colored person before and she screamed and clung to me as I tried to leave. So the nurse, Betty, and I sat together with her, singing songs from behind our masks for nearly an hour while Carol Ann grew more comfortable with Betty, and I knew the emotional component was going to be as important, as critical, as the physical in our patients’ recovery.

  * * *

  A volunteer drove me home that evening. Ruth was already in bed—or at least in her room—by the time I arrived, and Henry was still working, either at the hospital or the factory. I didn’t know where he was. I’d lost track of him sometime during the day.

  A letter from Gina was propped up on the small table in the foyer and I carried it upstairs. I was a sweaty, grimy mess and more tired than I could ever remember being, so I took a much needed bath before settling into bed to read the letter. It was short, full of how much she missed Mac. She was worried about him. In his last letter, she told me, he’d written that he would never be the same after all he’d seen and done.

  And I found the doll you asked for, she wrote. It’s very cute and I’ve already mailed it, so you should have it soon.

  I smiled to myself. It would be a while before I’d be able to take the doll to Jilly. My life was too full right now. My life was too full. I could barely believe it.

  By Sunday evening, the Hickory Emergency Infantile Paralysis Hospital had sixteen very sick and frightened young patients, two doctors, twelve nurses, one epidemiologist, two physiotherapists, and dozens of meals provided by women in the community. When I left that Sunday night, as Betty and the other colored—and a few white—nurses came in for their night shift, I was exhausted to the point of tears and I had not felt so happy, so simply in love with my life, in a very long time.

  63

  July 1, 1944

  Dear Gina,

  I’m amazed that news of our fledgling hospital has reached Baltimore! I guess Hickory is really on the map now. Down here, the papers are saying that the building and staffing of the hospital in fifty-four hours was “miraculous.” We’re still getting donations of money and goods every day from the people in town and from business owners. Henry donated countless tables and chairs from his factory. The hospital kitchen is finally functional and filled with cooks from the area (along with some female prisoners), to the relief of the all the ladies in the community who’ve been making meals in their homes day and night for the patients. We need more wards, and military hospital tents are on their way to serve that purpose. Yesterday, the men, including Henry and Zeke, the custodian at the factory, built walls and floors to support them. And the patients keep coming. And coming and coming.

  You said you feel dumb, but please don’t. Unless someone’s had personal experience with polio, they’re not going to know much about it. Most cases are minor and seem a bit like influenza, with nausea, sore throat, fever, and pain. Those children usually get better in a week or two. But the children with polio you often hear about are the more dramatic—and fortunately rarer—cases with central nervous system involvement. That’s where the paralysis comes in and it usually takes many months for those patients to recover. Some of them never do. We have quite a few of those cases at the hospital.

  I love my work, Gina! I spend the mornings taking care of this darling little girl, Carol Ann, and a second patient I was just assigned, a thirteen-year-old boy named Barry. They both have paralyzed legs, so I spend a lot of time applying hot wool to their useless limbs. My hands will be red and raw for the rest of my life! In the afternoons, I work in the admissions tent, and I’m also being trained to work with the iron lung. That machine terrifies me, and between you and me, having the responsibility for a patient who needs the respirator (iron lung) frightens me. Why they selected me for that training, I have no idea, but I think it’s good for me to learn something new and challenging.

  You asked how the iron lung works. Have you ever seen a picture of one? It’s a long steel airtight tube. Only the patient’s head sticks out, and a rubber diaphragm prevents air from leaking out of the machine around his neck. A pump changes the pressure inside the tube so that the patient’s lungs are forced to expand or contract. In other words, it makes the patient breathe. Yesterday, a twenty-seven-year-old man, by far our oldest patient, was brought in with chest paralysis and he is now in the iron lung. The thought of being locked in that airtight tube makes me feel panicky, but our patient is frankly too ill to care. The sound of the lung, the rhythmic whooshing, has quickly become the background noise of the ward.

  I’m proud of my husband, Gina. He’s working so hard, at both the factory and the hospital. When I see him working on one of the buildings—not for money, but out of dedication to his town—I’m touched. He’s exhausted and so am I. But right now, I can honestly say I’m happy and I believe he is too.

  I must get to the hospital. I hope this dreaded disease is nowhere near you in Baltimore!

  Love,

  Tess

  64

  I was working in the admissions tent that Thursday when I looked up to see Honor yank open the screen door and Zeke rush inside, Jilly limp in his arms. I’d been cleaning our thermometers and I got immediately to my feet, thinking, This is impossible. It had been weeks since Butchie died. Could the virus still be in their house?

  I rushed over to them. I wasn’t sure they knew it was me, since I was covered in a long protective gown, surgical cap, and mask. I pulled the mask down so they could recognize me. “What are her symptoms?” I asked, slipping the mask back in place.

  “She woke up this morning burning up and hurting all over,” Honor said. Her hair was tucked under a yellow kerchief and the skin around her jade-colored eyes was swollen. I could tell it was a struggle for her to get the words out. “It’s like it was with Butchie,” she said, her voice breaking.

  “Put her on this cot, Zeke,” I said, stepping over to one of the cots we used for intake. “Dr. Matthews is behind that curtain with another patient”—I pointed to the small curtained area in the rear of the tent—“but he’ll be out very soon.”

  Zeke laid Jilly down on the cot. Her eyes were closed but she whimpered, her little face contorted in pain.

  “It’s not exactly like it was with Butchie,” he said. “Butchie couldn’t breathe. She’s breathing all right, at least so far.”

  “I can’t lose another baby,” Honor said, more to the air than to either Zeke or myself. She stood at the end of the cot in a brown and gold dress, rubbing her hands together, her gaze on her daughter. Zeke went to her side and put his arm around her.

  “She’s gonna be all right,” he promised her, as though he could somehow make that a reality.

  I pulled a chair across the room for Honor. She looked like she needed to get off her feet and indeed she sank into the chair almost before I had it behind her. I began a preliminary examination of Jilly, taking her temperature, which was very high, and checking her reflexes, which were normal, at least so far. I knew how quickly polio could worsen. I’d seen too much of it in the past few days. I jotted my findings down on a chart.

  A few minutes later, Dr. Matthews came out of the curtained area and walked immediately over to us.

  “This is Honor Johnson and her brother, Zeke, and Honor’s little girl, Jilly,” I said. “Honor’s son, Butchie, passed away from polio four weeks ago.”

  “Five weeks,” Honor corrected me.

  “Unlikely it was the same virus after all this time,” Dr. Matthews said gruffly as he checked my preliminar
y findings on Jilly’s chart. “Just bad luck.”

  I’d come to think Dr. Matthews was a good doctor who dealt well with his young patients, but he didn’t have the best bedside manner when it came to the parents. He was also very tired. We all were.

  He examined Jilly, whose eyes were now open and who submitted to his poking and prodding with little more than a whimper, while I jotted his findings down on her chart.

  “I believe it’s polio,” he said after a few minutes, “but her reflexes are very good. It appears to be a minor case.”

  “Minor?” Honor asked. “She’ll get better?”

  “It’s encouraging, Honor,” I said. “Hopefully it will be very mild.”

  Dr. Matthews looked at me. “We’ll admit her,” he said. “Call someone to take her to the ward.”

  “Can I go with her?” Honor asked. There was so much hope in her eyes, but I could tell she knew better, having been through this once before.

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “She’s just a baby.” Honor choked on the word, and I rested my hand on her shoulder. I ached for every parent who had to leave his or her child with us, a group of strangers, but knowing what Honor had gone through with Butchie made her pain even more palpable to me.

  “I’ll get assigned to her,” I promised. “I’ll be the one to take care of her.”

  She turned her face away from me to look at her brother as though he might be able to change what was happening.

  “I’m working here,” he said to her. “I can go into the ward. I’ll watch her.”

  I nodded. “That’s right. That’s good,” I said. Zeke was doing much of the maintenance in the hospital, and there was plenty to do. “You can carry her into the ward, if you like, Zeke,” I said.

  * * *

  I settled Jilly in the ward. It saddened me to see her so lethargic, too tired even to cry when her uncle Zeke had to leave her alone in that crowded ward filled with bustling nurses, sleeping—and often weeping—children, and the ever-present whooshing of the iron lung. Once she had fallen asleep, I carried my egg salad sandwich outside to eat it on one of the rudimentary benches that had been constructed in the shade. Through the trees, I could see men, my husband included, working on the military tents that would become our new wards.

  I spotted Honor sitting alone on a nearby bench. I had no idea she was still on the hospital grounds. I walked over and sat down next to her.

  “Are you waiting for a ride home?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I’m not going home,” she said, wearing a determined expression. “I’m staying right here. As close to Jilly as they’ll let me.”

  “You need some rest, Honor,” I said. “It won’t do Jilly any good if you get sick too.” How many times had I said those words to how many mothers in the past few days?

  “I’m fine,” she said, but then she began to cry, her head buried in her hands.

  I rested my palm on her shoulder. “Dr. Matthews doesn’t think it will be like it was with Butchie,” I said. “Most cases of polio don’t result in paralysis. Most children recover completely.” I prayed he was right. I didn’t want to give her false hope.

  She finally lifted her head, tears dangling like jewels from those long black eyelashes. “We got rid of all Butchie’s things,” she said. “We did everything we were told to do. How could she get it? How? It’s just not fair.”

  “You’re right, it’s not,” I said. “I guess there’s still a lot we don’t know about polio, but I do know she’s in the right place. The doctors here are good and we have plenty of nurses now. We have people doing research to try to figure out what causes the disease and…” I stopped myself. She didn’t need to hear all of that. She was only thinking about her little baby girl.

  “Jilly’s father,” I said. “Del, right? I know you couldn’t reach him after Butchie … passed away, but I wonder if there’s a way to get him home now? They have compassionate leave in the service. I know it’s hard to get, but maybe under these circumstances—”

  “I don’t want him to know,” she said. “He’ll be worried. He doesn’t need more to worry about.”

  “I understand,” I said. I thought of getting her mind off Jilly. “How did you two meet?” I asked.

  She looked into the distance, toward the woods. “I’ve known him all my life,” she said. “We came up in the same church. Our mamas were friends.” A small smile played on her lips at the thought of him. I wished I could tell her about Vincent. I wished I could tell her that I understood how it felt to love someone you’d known all your life.

  “I’m sorry he’s so far away,” I said instead, and her look darkened again.

  “All my baby girl’s toys and dolls have to be destroyed,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said, thinking of the doll Jilly loved so much. “And I’m so sorry you and your mother will be under quarantine again. It must be—”

  “No,” she said with a shake of her head. “The public health man came out to talk to me and said we don’t need to be quarantined this time. We’re most likely immune, he said. But he still said I can’t go in the ward. I don’t understand why not.”

  I didn’t really understand either. I thought the rules were being applied haphazardly these days. Why could Zeke come and go in the hospital but Honor could not? Why, for that matter, could I come and go as I pleased? But the rules were the rules and none of us seemed to have the time or energy to buck them.

  “I know it doesn’t seem to make sense,” I said, “but—”

  “I’m not going home,” she said. “I have to stay close to Jilly.” She looked at me. “I let them take Butchie away and I never saw him again. He died without me there. At least out here I feel like I’m closer, even if I can’t see her.”

  “Honor,” I said softly, “you can’t just stay out here on this bench. You can’t sleep here.”

  “I’ll stay at the factory with Zeke,” she said. “I can sleep on his couch and ride with him when he comes here to work in the mornings.” She looked at me. “Maybe there’s some work I can do here?” she asked. “Something useful I could do?”

  “They might need help in the kitchen,” I said hesitantly. Everyone I knew who was working in the kitchen was white. I wasn’t sure what they’d say to Honor if she offered to help.

  “I could do that,” she said. “I’ll do anything to stay close.”

  I looked toward the ward. The screened windows were a bit high off the ground, but there was a wooden crate nearby and I had a sudden idea. “Come with me,” I said, getting to my feet. I picked up the bag with my sandwich in it. I would have no time to eat it now, but I wasn’t going to leave it for the ants either. We walked over to the side of the building. I reached for the crate and shoved it beneath one of the windows. I tested its stability with my foot, then climbed on top of it. I had a perfect view of Jilly, asleep in her bed.

  Smiling, I stepped down and motioned to Honor to climb onto the box. She held my arm for balance and peered in the window.

  “Over on the right,” I told her. “Third bed down.”

  I saw her smile. Bite her lower lip. “My baby,” she said, almost in a whisper. She rested one hand against the screen. “I love you, baby.” Then she looked down at me. “A nurse just did this to me.” She whisked her hand through the air in a “scat” motion.

  I laughed. “Ignore her,” I said, helping her down from the box. “You’re not doing any harm.” I would have a word with the other nurses. I could see no problem with allowing parents to see their children through the windows.

  “Thank you,” she said, looking directly into my eyes, and I thought it was the first time she’d truly made eye contact with me. She was always so chilly when I was around. I knew why, of course.

  “Honor,” I said, needing to clear the air, “I know you were Lucy’s friend. I wish there was something I could do to bring her back.”

  A shadow passed over her eyes again. “You just take care of m
y Jilly for me, all right?” she asked.

  “I will,” I said. “I promise.”

  65

  Henry drove me home from the hospital that evening. I couldn’t have said which of us was more grimy and tired. In the car, I told him about Jilly’s admission, but he’d already heard about it from Zeke. He just shook his head wordlessly as I described her condition.

  “Hard to believe in God sometimes,” he muttered finally.

  “I know,” I agreed. This past year, I sometimes felt as though God had fallen asleep on the job.

  When we arrived home, Ruth was in the kitchen making herself a cup of tea.

  “Hattie’s chicken and dumplings is in the refrigerator for you,” she said to us, “but first, you both get upstairs and wash that blasted hospital off yourselves before you sit at my table.”

  “Nice to see you too, Mama,” Henry said sarcastically, clearly annoyed as he walked past his mother toward the hallway. “Do you want the tub first, Tess, or can I take a quick shower?” Neither of us seemed inclined to use Lucy’s old bathroom yet.

  “Go ahead,” I said, following close behind him.

  “There’s a box for you in the foyer, Tess,” Ruth called after me.

  The doll! What perfect timing.

  The box was on the table by the front door. I sat down on the stairs and tore off the brown paper wrapping and then lifted the lid of the white box. There she was, an adorable doll a bit over a foot tall dressed in a ruffly blue gingham dress, white anklets, and black Mary Janes. She looked exactly like Jilly’s beloved doll—obviously made by the same manufacturer—with the exception of her cocoa-colored skin. Her features were decidedly Caucasian. Even the molded hair had a golden glow to it, but it was as close as we were going to get to a Negro doll.

  I carried the box upstairs, wondering if I should hide the doll from Henry. He’d been adamant that I stay out of Adora’s family’s lives, but having Jilly as my patient changed everything, at least in my opinion. Of course, I’d asked Gina to get the doll long before Jilly had been diagnosed with polio. I set the open box on the dresser in full view, and when Henry walked into the room, his hair wet and his navy blue robe tied around his waist, he stopped short.