Enza

by Kristy K. James

  If he had inadvertently brought this illness home to her, he truly was sorry. He would never intentionally harm another human being. Not even the wife who, it seemed, despised him. And had almost from the moment the marriage ceremony had concluded, if her ramblings were anything to go by at any rate.

  “I’m going to get you some broth,” he said softly, replacing the cloth in the bowl. “You need nourishment, Anna.”

  “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” she shrieked, her eyes filled with hatred. “I don’t know why I thought you would make my life better. All you’ve done is make me miserable, and now you’re killing me!”

  “I’m only trying to help you, Anna. I’ll be right back,” was all he said, leaving the room as quickly as he could. On the way to the kitchen he prayed, “God, give me strength.”

  He also prayed for compassion but didn’t feel it well up within him as he hoped it might. In all the homes he’d been in these past days, no ‘patient’ had been as bitter and hateful as his wife. Most seemed to spend the majority of their time resting or sleeping. Anna would have to be the exception. The one who seemed to gain some kind of energy from weakness.

  Colby carefully took a china bowl from the cupboard, one of the ones with the rose pattern Anna so loved. Personally, he thought it was a little gaudy but it might cheer her.

  After filling it with one ladleful of the chicken broth that had been simmering on the stove all day, he sat it on the counter and sank into a chair. Just a few moments peace and quiet wouldn’t hurt. It might even do Anna a world of good. Without him in the room to complain about, she might get some much needed rest. Maybe the good Lord would have mercy on him and actually let her fall asleep for an hour or so.

  “Please, Lord,” he whispered, folding his arms on the tabletop and resting his head. He was so tired he wished he could sleep for a little while. Just a short nap. And maybe when he awoke, this nightmare would be over.

  “Colby Thornton!” Like fingernails being dragged across a chalkboard, her voice cut through the silence, broken only by the harsh coughing he’d heard too often. “Help me, you good for nothing fool!”

  He shot to his feet and dashed back into the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed she’d so seldom allowed him to share. As carefully as he could, he helped her to sit up, supporting her until the spasm ended.

  Anna finally collapsed against his chest in a heap, her thin cotton gown soaked with perspiration. He laid her back against the pillow and, quickly as he could, retrieved a clean gown from her armoire in hopes she’d be more comfortable. He wished he could change the damp sheets but, even had he not been exhausted, he would need the help of at least one other person to move her enough to do so. Instead, he hurried back to the kitchen to get the broth.

  “Open up, Anna. It’s warm. “It’ll help sooth your throat,” he encouraged, holding the spoon to her mouth. She stubbornly refused, turning her head away like a petulant child. “Anna, please.”

  “Go away,” she snapped. “Let me die in peace.”

  “You’re not going to die.”

  “Everyone else dies, why shouldn’t I?”

  “Not everyone else,” he assured her. “Most people survive.”

  “I won’t. Because you want me to die!”

  “That’s not true. You’re just feeling bad because you’re so ill.”

  “You want me to die because you hate me!”

  “I do not hate you, Anna.” Colby sighed deeply, sitting the bowl on the bedside table, and then reached to wring the cloth out again.

  “Tell me you love me then. Tell me you want me to get well.”

  “Of course I want you to get well,” he said, wiping her brow, reaching deep within himself to find even the smallest measure of love for her because it wasn’t in him to lie. But lie he would have to do because it was no longer there. She’d killed it long ago. “And I do love you.”

  “You’re a liar! You don’t love me. You haven’t for a long time.”

  “Anna, you need to rest now. Rest and get better.” He wanted to reassure her that he did, in fact, love her, but the first lie was one too many. The first one tasted bitter enough without adding to it.

  When it appeared that she finally slept, Colby sank into the arm chair he’d placed near the bed, wishing he could rest. Wishing he could turn the clock back to find the sweet tempered, lovely woman he’d married. Where had she gone, he wondered, tears filling his eyes.

  ~~~

  Jonathon thought his eyes felt funny. They were sure seeing funny because everything looked very odd. Like things were moving back and forth, maybe like they were swaying in the wind. He wondered if it was because it was so hot. Which was odd because summer was over. Wasn’t it? He tried to push the covers away but felt them being tucked snugly around him almost instantly.

  “You don’t want to catch a chill,” he heard his father saying gently. “Maybe this will help.”

  Jonathon felt a damp, cool cloth being wiped across his face and thought it was one of the nicest things he’d ever felt. It made him wish he were sitting on the dam because the water there was always nice and cold.

  “Elliot, lift him up a bit so I can give him a drink,” his mother said from somewhere to his right. Ah, cool water. In a glass, not at the dam, but that was fine with him. He hadn’t realized it until he swallowed but his mouth felt funny, too.

  “More,” he whispered, wondering why his voice didn’t want to work.

  “Not too fast,” Pop cautioned as he drank greedily. “You don’t want to choke.”

  Choke? And then Jonathon remembered. The influenza. Elizabeth had died. He and Charles were sick with it, too. They’d both coughed so much and so hard. No wonder his voice didn’t work. His throat, now that he thought about it, hurt really bad.

  “Am I going to die?” he croaked painfully. Boy he sure didn’t want to!

  “No!” his parents gasped in unison.

  “You’re not going to die,” Elliot assured him firmly.

  “But-”

  “You’re not going to die,” his mother told him, sounding just like she did when she meant business. “We won’t let you.”

  “But if – I do, you have to watch Mr. Mertz.”

  “If you do, we’ll watch him,” his father said roughly. “But you’re going to get well and can do it yourself.”

  “Okay. Can I have another drink? My throat is sore.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  Oh but that felt good. He thought he might drink every drop of water there was in the world and never get enough.

  “Is Charles better? I don’t hear him crying anymore.”

  ~~~

  It felt as though someone had twisted a knife in his heart, Elliot thought as he fought against the tears his wife had lost the battle with. She could only shake her head when Jonathon asked about his brother before rushing out of the room. He didn’t know if she meant for him to ignore the question, or to lie and tell him that his brother was fine. It wouldn’t actually be a lie to tell him the latter because Charles was in heaven now, no longer sick.

  “Pop- Is Charles okay?” Jonathon asked again in a whisper that sounded as painful as it must feel.

  “Charles is just fine,” he said. “Don’t you worry about him. Just worry about getting better. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir. Everything looks – funny.”

  “That’s because you have a fever.” A very high fever. They hadn’t been able to bring it down more than a degree or so, even with the aspirin powder and wet cloths.

  But, after three days, Jonathon was still here. Both Elizabeth and Charles had died within twenty-four hours of coming down with it. Surely that had to be a good sign. Please, God, let it be a good sign, he prayed, wringing the rag out again.

  It seemed like that’s all he’d been doing for four days now. Four days that felt like forty. He didn’t think his hands would ever be the same again, but that was okay. As long as Jonathon got well. That’s all he wanted now
. That and to have Richard and Kathleen stay healthy. He didn’t know what they’d do if those two got sick. He doubted that he’d gotten a full eight hours of sleep since Thursday night, and he knew Meg hadn’t slept much more than that.

  He worried about her, too. Constantly. With the baby due in less than seven weeks, this wasn’t good for either of them. Not the fear, the grief, or the never-ending care she’d been giving to their children. He kept reminding her that expectant mothers were especially susceptible to the influenza, and fought against the fear that came with it nearly every second of every day.

  So he kept praying, fervently, that Jonathon would get well and the rest of them would stay that way. Surely God would allow him that much.

  ~~~

  Whump!

  Marcus didn’t need to look at the clock atop his dresser to know the time. Six a.m. And this paper would join the growing pile on the porch. The papers that had been delivered yesterday, the day before, and the day before that.

  He couldn’t read it anymore. Couldn’t bear to see in print the names of the newest victims. Or those who would soon become victims.

  Charles Owens and his homemade casket had been the final straw. He couldn’t make arrangements for anyone else. There had been too many already.

  Even now he could see Elliot Owens again standing there alone, staring at the graves of two of his children. Pain, disbelief, and shock distorting his face. And the fear. That awful fear.

  A father who should be holding his babies, not burying them. Fear that the three that were left might be snatched from him as cruelly and quickly as these ones had been. Fear for the wife who should have been at his side but was at home caring for a third child, and carrying another.

  Something in Marcus died as he stood there watching. He’d always known death was horrible. He just hadn’t known how bad until the influenza had come to town.

  Walking home that day – could it have only been three days ago? – his steps had been slow, labored. And it was then that all feeling within him had ceased to exist. He’d walked into the house, locked the door and drawn all the drapes before walking up to his bedroom.

  And there he’d stayed, but for trips to the outhouse, or to the kitchen for a simple meal. Persistent knocking at the door had been ignored. The telephone, which seemed to ring incessantly, had gone unanswered. No light, other than the few rays that managed to sneak in from behind the curtains lit the darkened rooms.

  Marcus now lived in his nightshirt and dressing gown, spending nearly every waking minute in the leather arm chair beside his bed staring off into space. Trying to clear his mind of every thought that entered. Because when they did, it hurt too much.

  ~~~

  “Today would have been our wedding day,” Daniel murmured, sitting beside the bed, the wet rag in his hand too warm once again. He dipped it into the basin of water that would need to be changed very soon. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to wear your pretty dress, or have your cake and flowers.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Nina said weakly, struggling to keep her eyes focused on him. He smiled down at her, tears stinging his eyes.

  “No, I don’t suppose it does.”

  “I got the husband and that’s the most important part.” Daniel tried to smile again but his lips started to tremble. He bit the bottom one until he knew he could control it.

  “Well, when you’re better, I’ll buy you all the flowers you want. Anything you want.”

  “I only want you,” she whispered. He could see she was losing the battle to keep her eyes open.

  “Rest, darling. I’ll be right here.”

  She smiled again as her eyes closed. And he sat there. For hours. Cooling her often with the cloth. Praying for mercy. Listening to her struggle for each breath. Willing the sickness from her. If love could work a miracle, she would be well in that instant.

  “So beautiful.” Her voice was so low he barely heard it. Her eyes were open and she was staring at something beside the bed. “So white, so clean. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Like what?” Daniel asked, his eyes going to where she looked – and seeing nothing.

  “The light. Don’t you see it?” she asked earnestly. “Such peace and beauty. And love, Daniel. It feels so good.”

  “Nina?” A chill ran up his spine and Daniel shivered.

  “Shh.” She smiled at him. “Would you hold me for a while?”

  After the merest hesitation, Daniel carefully laid down beside her, drawing her against him, so that she rested in the circle of his arms, her head safe against his shoulder. Gently he stroked her hair.

  “I’ve always believed,” she whispered, “but I never realized-”

  “Realized what?” She sounded more lucid than she had since the fever had gotten bad.

  “That there was a heaven. And angels. Do you see them?”

  The chill squeezed his heart and the pain of it radiated throughout his body, throbbing in its intensity.

  “Don’t say things like that,” he pleaded, pressing his lips against her hair. “I need you, Nina. I love you!”

  “I love you so much, Daniel. You’ll never know how much. Being with you has been the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ve never been happier.” Her voice was growing faint.

  “Neither have I,” he said thickly. “And we’re going to have the rest of our lives to be happy. Do you hear me?”

  “I do love you.” She sighed deeply.

  “I love you. So much-”

  “Hold me, Daniel.”

  “I’ve got you.” He held her closer, as close as he dared, as she sighed again. He waited for the next raspy breath to come. When it didn’t he whispered, “Nina-”

  A soft sob sounded deep in his throat as the tears that had been threatening to spill over, trickled down his face. “I’ve got you.”

  ~~~

  “Too hot,” Anna moaned, rolling her head back and forth.

  Colby continued to wipe her down with cool cloths, giving her aspirin as often as the nurse recommended, but nothing seemed to help. The fever continued to rise, and the coughing had gotten to the point where she actually sobbed during an attack. He wasn’t sure if it was because she’d always had a low threshold for pain or because it was actually bad enough to make her weep.

  He wished he could muster more sympathy for her plight. Truly he did. But it was hard as she’d been a complaining, vicious patient from the first hour. He’d been around dozens of people, in far worse condition that hadn’t been nearly as contrary.

  It hadn’t helped when he’d received the telephone call about Charles Owens. Anna hadn’t been sick when Elizabeth had died. That, alone, had almost broken his heart. But precious little Charles. And Jonathon was still sick. He’d never felt as useless as he had when he had to tell Elliot that his wife was sick and he would have to postpone the service for his son.

  He truly wanted to be able to comfort him. And Margaret and the three remaining children. But even if he had been free to go to them, he didn’t know what he could have said or done that might help. Actually he knew there was nothing he could say or do. Nothing would help. The loss was so great he wasn’t sure if even time would.

  “I hate you,” Anna growled as another fit of coughing gripped her. Rather than allowing him to help her sit, which sometimes made it easier, she curled into as tight a ball as her large belly would allow, her back to him.

  He didn’t bother to respond. She’d been saying that particular phrase often over the course of the past few hours. That and she hoped he would come down with the influenza, suffer and die. All he could do now was rub her back during the attacks, offer her sips of water and try to keep her as comfortable as possible. She refused to forgive him for making her sick, refused to listen to reason, that she could have caught it when she visited the grocers on several occasions. In her opinion, it was his fault and no other explanation was acceptable.

  When she lay back against the pillow, Colby saw something t
hat made his blood run cold. As discreetly as he could, he ran the cloth over her lips and chin. There it was. The telltale pink froth. He didn’t know anyone at this stage of the illness who had survived. Still he prayed for God to heal her. He couldn’t do anything less. Even though if He did, Colby’s future would be nothing but miserable. Anna would never forgive him. And yet he wanted her to get well.

  But she didn’t. Throughout the evening, not twenty-four hours since her symptoms first appeared, she continued to get worse. The coughing spasms came more frequently. The fever inched up ever higher. The froth grew darker. And the hateful words spewed from her mouth without ceasing.

  “I should have married a real man,” she mumbled. “Someone who loved me and took care of me.”

  “I tried, Anna,” Colby whispered, but she didn’t hear him.

  “But I married you. You have never made me happy. I just want you to know that.”

  The coughing started yet again. Worse than before. So bad she could hardly catch her breath. This time, however, instead of curling up, she leaned up, grasped the front of Colby’s shirt and hissed,

  “This is your fault! You did this to me!” And then she fell back and simply died, a snarl frozen on her face. Colby knew that his wife hadn’t found any peace at all in death. Just as surely as she wouldn’t find any in the afterlife.

  Numb, he slowly pulled the sheet over her face and waited for grief to wash over him. A measure of loss, or even a hint of sadness.

  But the only thing Colby felt was an overwhelming sense of relief. As though a millstone had been removed from his neck. Like he’d been given a second chance. A gift.