Abby nodded, holding the door open for him.
He stepped into the bedroom. “Miss Fischer? Can I assist you down the stairs?”
Cecelia’s eyes closed and she went limp in her mother’s arms.
Dr. King rushed to her side, lifting Cecelia back to the bed.
Her eyes fluttered open. “Wh—what?”
The doctor straightened, his face shadowed. “I think perhaps Dr. Larkspur was correct. Maybe this isn’t wise.”
Cecelia touched his sleeve. “No, I . . . I’m fine. I just felt a little dizzy.” She struggled to sit up. “I’m ready now.”
Abby held her breath.
Dr. King nodded and bent down, sliding his arms under Cecelia’s shoulders and knees and lifting her like one would a sleeping child, her head falling against his shoulder.
Abby’s stomach churned as her gaze drifted across Cecelia’s body, taking in her sunken cheeks and birdlike legs barely obscured by Mama’s pale pink dressing gown. Her sister’s abdomen bulged, in stark contrast—an enlarged spleen, Dr. Greene had explained.
The weight of Gerald’s warnings warred with Abby’s resolve, the tension in her chest making it difficult to draw a breath. Cecelia might not survive the journey. She gulped back a sudden wash of emotion and leaned against the doorframe for strength.
Dr. King turned toward the door, her sister’s body firm in his grip.
“I . . . I . . .” Abby’s heart throbbed. I’ve changed my mind. The words refused to leave her mouth.
He glanced toward her, waiting.
Cecelia opened her eyes and lifted her head—a slow, pained motion. “Abby,” her voice rasped. “I’ll see you . . . there.”
Abby nodded, swallowing hard. Is this really the answer to my prayer? She stepped aside to let him pass.
Mama followed close behind, clutching several quilts to the bosom of her green dress.
Abby pressed back against the door, the sound of her own breathing loud in her ears.
Yes. I’ll see you there.
4
Robert wrenched the steering wheel back in line with the road ahead, gritting his teeth as the automobile bucked a second time. After having learned to drive on the cobblestone streets of San Francisco, this road—if one could even call it that—reminded him of a smallpox photo from his textbook of infectious diseases.
Gerald’s voice rose from the back seat. “Steady, Robert. Slow down. Let’s see if we can’t even the ride out a touch.”
Gripping the wheel with his gloved hands, Robert nodded. “Sorry. I’ll try not to let it—” The words had barely escaped his mouth when the tires bounced over a small crater in the road. Robert gritted his teeth, easing back on the throttle until the vehicle edged along slower than a gimpy mule slogging off to the glue factory. The delays made his skin crawl. Time was running short for their patient, but every jounce and bump produced a cry of pain from the backseat.
He shoved his hat lower over his eyes, the glare of the late afternoon sun cutting through the trees lining the roadway. Two months ago, he’d taken his first drive behind the wheel of Gerald’s automobile, giddy with the vehicle’s power and speed. He drove straight into a ditch. Horses had the sense not to gallop off the road and generally corrected for their driver’s oversight. Motorcars, on the other hand, took finesse. It took a bit of effort, but he mastered the art of precise steering.
Robert cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Gerald’s gaze remained locked on his cousin, his fingers gripping her wrist, as if assuring himself of a steady pulse. Cecelia, her pallid face framed by a rose-colored quilt, stared vacantly ahead.
Robert turned his eyes forward, his mouth growing as dry as the dust swirling up from beneath their wheels. He reached for the throttle, his hand closing on the lever.
We need to hurry.
He pulled his arm back. And yet we can’t.
The engine spluttered, and several loud cracks cut through the evening air. Robert’s stomach lurched with the slowing motion of the vehicle. “No, no, no.” He leaned forward, fiddling with the controls, but the engine heaved a final hacking cough before hissing into silence.
He smacked the wheel with the heel of his hand. “No! Not now.”
“What’s the matter?” Mrs. Fischer’s voice quavered.
Gerald cleared his throat. “Don’t worry, Clara. Robert’s become quite the crackerjack mechanic over the past months. I’m sure he’ll have us back on the road in no time.”
Robert stripped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “Sure.” He sighed. “No time.”
Abby swung her arms as she chased Davy down the wooded path. “When did you get so fast?” She panted in mock exhaustion, allowing the little boy’s legs time to pull far ahead, her laughter mingling with the scolding cries of the birds flitting into the trees. The pair burst out of the woods and into the yard as the sun began to dip low in the western sky, emblazoning the horizon above the peach orchard with wide stripes of crimson and plum-colored light. The cooling air tasted sweet and she breathed deeply, gulping in the fresh evening breeze.
Rushing forward, Abby swept her brother up into her arms, twirling him about in the fading light.
He screamed and kicked in protest. “No, I won! I won!”
“Of course you did, you little racehorse. You’re even faster than Cousin Gerald’s automobile. Now you better get washed up for bed.” She set Davy down on the top step of the porch and followed him inside.
She left the door standing open, the evening birdsong bringing life into the quiet house. “Papa?” She walked down the hall, following the lingering scent of her father’s pipe.
He glanced up from the newspaper, his lanky legs crossed at the knees as he reclined in the chair by the fireplace.
She hurried to his side, the news spilling from her mouth before he had a chance to inquire. “Mrs. Franklin says Mama telephoned an hour ago. They made good time—only one breakdown, which she said Dr. King put to rights quickly enough. Cecelia is all settled at the hospital.”
He lowered the paper, the lines around his brown eyes deepening. “How is she?”
“She did fine on the journey. Some pain, but it’s to be expected.” Abby sat in her mother’s chair. “Gerald is going to give her morphine, to help her rest.”
“When will they begin the treatments?”
“First thing in the morning—if she has a good night.” Abby let her mind drift, imagining her sister bathed in the healing lights of a humming machine. “Isn’t it extraordinary? A light that can kill cancer—like the sun’s rays chasing away the morning dew.”
A gleam appeared in her father’s eyes. “It’s what makes this country great. Folks aren’t afraid of embracing progress. This century has already seen many advances.”
Abby ran her hands down the arms of the chair. “And progress is what’s going to save Cecelia.”
“God willing.” Her father mumbled the words around the stem of his pipe as he lifted the paper.
“Of course.” Abby rose from the chair. God willing.
San Francisco, California
Wednesday, August 30, 1905
The street squeezed in, the tall homes looming over Abby’s head. She clutched at the edge of the buggy seat with one hand and kept Davy locked tight on her lap with the other.
A trickle of sweat wandered down her father’s face, his knuckles whitening on the reins as he urged the horses up the steep hill. A shiny black automobile careened around them, cutting back just in time to avoid colliding with the cable car. The growl of the motor blended with the clatter of hooves against the hard cobblestones.
Abby pulled Davy close, her brother’s mouth silenced by the wealth of activity surrounding them. She took a deep breath to clear her head, wrinkling her nose at the mingled scents of exhaust and horse manure.
The elegant homes on O’Farrell Street stood shoulder-to-shoulder with only a sliver of space separating one building from another. Abby leaned forward in her seat, willing the horses
to hurry. Her back ached from the vibrations, her ears buzzing with unfamiliar sounds. By the time Papa steered into the alley snaking behind Aunt Mae’s house, Maple Manor, Abby’s arms trembled with exhaustion. A gangly maple tree seemed to beckon them as it shielded the tiny yard from the patch of sky visible between the houses.
Papa pulled the horses to a stop, set the brake, and jumped down from the buggy.
Abby handed Davy over to her father and clambered to the ground, relieved to feel her shoes against the solid earth. Adjusting her hat, she glanced up at the stately house—tall and narrow—wedged into a row of identical homes. How could people even breathe here?
Mama hurried down the steps to meet them, her bright smile not enough to hide the lines around her mouth.
“How is Cecelia?” Abby flung the question at Mama before her mother could draw her into an embrace.
“She’s resting. They’ve already done two of the X-ray treatments, but we haven’t seen any change yet. It’s hard to leave her there, but I wanted to help you two settle in.”
Abby stretched her cramped muscles. “We could have done it on our own.”
Her mother reached for Davy, squeezing his small body against her side. “She was asleep and the nurses seem to take care of everything. I feel rather useless sitting there and watching.”
Davy yanked at her collar. “Mama, I saw autos and trains and all sorts of things.” His chatter drowned out any remaining conversation.
Abby gathered her carpetbag and the additional one she had brought for Cecelia and followed her mother into the house.
“Where is everyone?” Abby set the luggage at the bottom of the rear stairs.
Mama gripped Davy’s hand. “Aunt Mae moved in with Gerald last month. You know he’s been trying to talk his mother into doing it for years. She hasn’t had the heart to sell Maple Manor, so Gerald says we are welcome to use it during our stay. We’ll join them for supper tomorrow.”
Davy tugged their mother toward the kitchen as Abby climbed the creaky stairs, bags banging against her shins with each step. The familiar house seemed cold and empty without Aunt Mae’s effervescent personality filling its halls. Her influence remained with paintings, vases, and knickknacks from her world travels lining every wall, shelf, and tabletop.
Abby pushed open the door of the narrow back bedroom—the room she and Cecelia shared during visits. Two single beds stood at the far end, a tiny nightstand wedged between. A tall bookshelf leaned against one long wall, shelves sagging under a load of treasures. Across the room stood an ornate teak wardrobe and a washstand topped by a round gold-framed mirror. The dormer window let in a ribbon of late afternoon light.
The scent of dust and mildew clung to the stagnant air. Abby dropped the bags onto the bed and paced to the window. It took several tugs to open the sash, but she was rewarded by a warm afternoon breeze, perfumed by a climbing rosebush in full bloom. Abby stretched both arms upward and arched her back, her muscles knotted with the awkward combination of exhaustion and nervous energy. The heavy doors of the wardrobe creaked as she pulled them open and began unpacking, shaking the wrinkles out of skirts and shirtwaists.
When she had finished with the first bag, Abby turned and stared for a long moment at the second. She opened the clasp and sighed, Cecelia’s pretty clothes mocking her as she drew them out, one by one. Her sister would need more garments when—not if—she improved.
She caressed Cecelia’s favorite blouse, a beautiful robin’s-egg blue silk embroidered with delicate ivory roses along the neckline. A lump rose into Abby’s throat and she sank down onto the mattress, bedsprings squeaking in protest, the garment pressed to her chest. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine her sister strolling down Market Street in the blue blouse and ivory lace skirt, her matching blue parasol tipped over one shoulder. Yet all she could see was Cecelia hanging limp in Dr. King’s arms, her limbs as slack as a sleeping kitten.
Abby loosened her grip on the delicate material and returned to the task at hand. She paused once again as she drew out the final article of clothing. What a useless item—a pistachio-green taffeta gown Cecelia had worn last Easter. Abby had added it to the case at the last moment, knowing how much her sister loved the stylish ensemble. Abby exhaled, holding the elegant dress at arm’s length. What had she been thinking to bring it? Cecelia came to San Francisco to convalesce, not to attend fancy dinners. Abby smoothed the silky fabric and hung it beside her own dark skirts.
There’s nothing wrong with hoping for the best.
Robert, fighting a yawn, drummed his fingers against his leg.The basement room offered little distraction other than stacks of medical equipment, and he’d already been over every inch of each machine—twice.
Gerald continued to dither, as usual, exercising undue caution. He adjusted the equipment for the tenth time, lifting the apparatus another two inches and fiddling with its angle. He rolled up the cuff of his shirt and placed his arm on the wooden stand. “Okay, flip the switch.” Gerald motioned with his free hand.
Robert frowned. “You’re checking it on yourself? Again?”
Gerald’s eyes widened. “Are you suggesting I test it on my cousin?”
“Of course not.” Robert ran his fingers along the edge of the control panel. “But I set it to the same levels we used last time.”
“Have you seen the burns on Dr. Bryant’s fracture patient? I will not let it happen to Cecelia.” Gerald repositioned his arm. “I can’t reach the switch from here. Will you please do the honors?”
Robert nodded. “Of course.” He scooted closer to the controls. “Are you ready?”
His mentor nodded.
Robert switched on the current. The machinery hummed as the Crookes tube began to glow, casting an unearthly blue light across the room. The hair on the back of his neck rose as a grin spread across his face. The invisible X-ray radiation swept through the room like a wind of change replacing ancient superstitions with cutting-edge science.
Gerald met his gaze, his eyes beaming. “It’s brilliant, Robert, brilliant! The march of progress.” He glanced down at his arm, his lip twitching. “And I think this is enough. My skin is tingling a bit.”
Robert cut the electricity, plunging the room into silence. “It didn’t burn, did it?” After securing the switch, he hurried to his friend’s side.
Wincing, Gerald lifted his hand, rubbing his fingers over the skin. “No, I don’t think so. It is a touch pink, though. Maybe we’d better lower the table another half-inch.”
Robert nodded and reached for the lever. “We want to attack the cancer, not her skin.” He adjusted the machine and shot Gerald a wink. “Of course, I hear, in Chicago, folks are lining up to use X-rays to get rid of wrinkles.”
His friend shook his head with a rueful laugh. “I saw it in the newspaper. Wrinkles, dermatitis, acne, psoriasis . . . ” He ran his fingers over his arm. “If it’s true, I’m going to have lovely arms—and my cousin will be the most beautiful girl in California.”
“I don’t know about your arms, but I’ve seen the photograph hanging in your study—the one of our patient and her sister. I believe your cousins already own the title, X-rays or no.”
Gerald checked the adjustments. “Let’s see if we can keep it that way, shall we?”
Abby’s heart pounded as she climbed the imposing granite steps into Lane Hospital and she regretted not waiting for her parents to accompany her. Her heels clicked against the gray and brown marble mosaic floor, the polished mahogany walls closing in on her soul like the boards of a casket.
A sour-faced nurse guided her to the cancer ward, informing Abby that Cecelia would be back in her room shortly. Abby sank into a wooden chair set next to the empty bed, a thin curtain separating the narrow place from eleven more beds in a long row. She covered her nose, trying to block out the mingled smells of medicine and misery as she swallowed the lump rising in her throat.
Her mother and father would be coming later, but Abby couldn’t wait. Two weeks h
ad already been too long. She’d slipped out of the house and boarded the cable car as it rattled its way up the hill to the hospital.
“Look who’s here!” Dr. King grinned as he propelled Cecelia into the room in a wheeled chair.
Abby jumped to her feet when she spotted the fresh bit of color gracing Cecelia’s skin.
“You made it.” Cecelia’s voice quavered, a weak smile lifting the corners of her lips.
Abby searched her sister’s face, hungry for any sign of improvement. She rushed to her side. “Let me help you.”
Cecelia raised her hand. “Don’t worry, Dr. King and I have done this many times. We’ve got it set to memory.”
Dr. King stepped forward. “I am your humble servant, Miss Fischer.” He chuckled as he lifted her from the chair and placed her on the bed as gently as an autumn leaf alighting on the grass.
Abby adjusted the covers. “Cecelia, you look . . .” she paused, suddenly conscious of Dr. King close at her side.
“Ghastly. I know. The nurse brought me a looking glass.” Cecelia leaned back against the pillow.
“No. You seem stronger. Your color is much improved.” Abby looked to Dr. King. “Does this mean the X-rays are working?”
Dr. King brushed something from the sleeve of his long white coat. “It’s too early to say.” The light frolicking in his brown eyes belied his cautious words.
Fighting the urge to throw her arms around him, Abby turned her gaze to Cecelia’s rosy cheeks. “It is working. It must be.” She perched on the edge of the chair and reached for her sister’s hand. “Just look at you.”
Cecelia smiled. “I do feel a little stronger, I think.”
Abby met Dr. King’s gaze, the rush of joy swelling her chest until it ached. God may not have galloped in on a white horse to heal Cecelia—but evidently He had sent the doctor who would.
5
Robert rubbed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, the dull ache in his temples blurring his concentration. The electric lamp cast a harsh glare across the desk littered with stacks of papers and books. He stretched his arms upward, not surprised to hear a faint popping in his shoulders.
Out of the Ruins Page 3
