Cecelia’s eyes closed. “Not so bad.” Her voice rattled. “Weary.”
Abby grasped at her sister’s words. “Maybe it’s not as severe as they say. Perhaps if you rested awhile . . .”
Cecelia parted her lips, a long breath crackling in her chest. She opened her eyes. “Can we go home now?”
The hole inside Abby’s heart broke open. Tears dampened her cheeks. “Of course.” She nodded, swallowing past the lump growing in her throat. “Let’s go home.”
Mama reached over and took one of Cecelia’s hands.
Cecelia lifted the corners of her mouth in a faint smile. “Good.” She sighed. “I’ll see you there.”
Abby listened to her sister’s ragged breaths gurgling as they grew more sporadic. After a time, the room fell silent except for Mama’s quiet sobs.
Gerald stood behind her mother, his hands resting on her shoulders. “It’s over, Clara. She’s gone.”
Abby pushed to her feet and hurried out to the hall.
Robert, standing at the nurses’ station, turned and met her gaze, dark shadows collecting around his eyes.
She brushed past, rushing down the hall. For a heartbeat, she considered hiding in the prayer chapel, but veered away and proceeded to the end of the corridor where a smudged window looked out on a tiny courtyard.
Flattening her palms against the windowpane, Abby tipped her chin upward, gazing toward the sky, flaws in the thick glass creating ripples in the clouds. “We had an agreement, remember?” She narrowed her eyes, glaring at the heavens. “I said if You took her away, I’d never speak to You again.” She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. “You didn’t honor your end of the bargain.” Lowering her chin, Abby rested her forehead against the cool glass. “I’m bound and determined to keep mine.”
14
A bby clambered up the steep wooden stairs, ducking her head as she entered the murky attic of Maple Manor. Dust swirled in the dim shadows as she wove through the cluttered space, the noise of the city fading into the distance. She pulled herself into a ball between an old trunk and a stack of forgotten paintings, laying her head on a pile of moth-eaten quilts.
Chest aching, she drew her arms around her middle and squeezed. Home. Abby forced her lids to close over gritty eyes and conjured up an image of the orchard, the overladen limbs bending low, the fragrance of overripe fruit clinging to the breeze. The stream gurgled through the pasture, birds singing as they winged their way about the orchard and meadows. Abby moaned, burying her face in the soft quilts, the sour taste of longing clinging to her tongue.
“I’ll see you there.”
But Cecelia wouldn’t come home. She would never run with abandon across the wildflower-strewn meadow, arms outstretched in greeting.
Abby pushed upright, sitting cross-legged on the floor. She unbuttoned her shoes, yanked them off, and threw them toward the doorway. Folding her knees up to her chest, Abby rocked in place, stifling the whimper growing in her throat. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t really want to be home. She didn’t want to be anywhere.
God let her die. Gerald did nothing. Robert . . .
The words faded, the image of Robert’s face rising in her thoughts, the sensation of his lips against hers, the touch of his hand on her skin. Her stomach rolled.
Too late for that. Too late for anything.
Papers lined every inch of Robert’s desk—X-ray reports, blood tests, charts, notes, and records. He leaned forward in his chair and let his face fall against his hands. The gaping chasm in his stomach grew. No amount of paperwork would bring Cecelia back. Or Abby.
He reached for the pen. And no amount of procrastination would make it all go away.
“For the sake of the next patient.” His professor’s voice resounded in his head. “Always be thinking about your next case.”
Robert clenched his fingers into a white-knuckled fist around the writing implement. In one swift motion, he sent the papers cascading to the floor, a cry bursting from his raw throat.
How could he consider experimenting further when he had already sacrificed one patient on the altar of personal glory?
15
Sunday, October 1, 1905
Colma? Where is that?” Abby pulled out a chair and sat across from her father, the rich scent of roasting ham flavoring the overheated kitchen air.
He gazed at her through world-weary eyes, running a hand over his unshaven chin. “South of the city.”
Gerald wandered the edges of the room, avoiding the large central table. “No one has been interred in the city limits for years. The rail line provides funeral service to the Colma cemeteries.”
Abby adjusted a hairpin scraping against her scalp. “Why can’t we take her home to San Jose?”
No one spoke. Silence hovered in the room.
Gerald paced to the back door. “I think I’ll go join Davy.” The curtains fluttered as the door closed behind him.
Papa frowned at the table, tracing the grain of the wood with a dirt-crusted fingernail.
Abby slid forward on her chair. “What’s going on? Why aren’t we taking Cecelia home?”
Pushing to his feet, Papa walked the length of the kitchen and stopped in the entrance to the dining room. “I’m selling the farm, Abby. We’ll be staying in San Francisco.”
The room revolved slowly, as if being sucked into a whirlpool. “What?” Abby’s voice faded to a whisper. “What do you mean?”
Her father rubbed a hand across his neck. “We’re drowning in debt. I’d already mortgaged the house and the orchard. Now with medical bills, there’s no money to pay.”
A buzzing settled in Abby’s ears. She gave her head a quick shake. “You never said anything about this before.”
He leaned against the doorframe. “No. Your mother and I didn’t want to worry you.” His accent thickened. He took a deep breath and exhaled, the air escaping in pulsating spurts. “Even with Gerald donating his services, we must pay the hospital.”
For the first time, Abby noticed the puffy bags sprawling under his red-rimmed eyes, his shoulders limp as if his arms hung by nothing but a few frayed threads. The sight gnawed at her heart. “I thought we had a record harvest last year.”
Papa rubbed a thumb across bushy eyebrow. “Ja. But it was not enough—and too late. Prices were down. Way down.”
Abby swallowed, pushing down the sob threatening to escape her throat. “We can’t sell the farm. I promised Cecelia we would take her home.” She dug her fingernails against the wood of the table. “It was her last request.” And those trees are mine. I played under them, worked them since I was a child. How can someone else own them?
“We have no choice.”
Abby remained seated as Papa left to check on her mother. An eerie stillness descended, as if the air had come alive and pressed down upon her, gluing her to the chair. The odor of the cooking meat turned her stomach. Outside, the sounds of automobile engines, horse hooves, and voices melded together. Life continued.
Abby pressed knuckles against her mouth to smother the whimpering moan building in her chest.
Robert leaned against the gate, staring in at the small patch of yard behind Maple Manor, stomach churning. Did he belong here? Would anyone welcome him?
Wisps of smoke sprouted from Gerald’s pipe as he rested against the massive maple tree. The pungent odor drifted on the breeze. His friend only smoked when upset—often, lately.
Taking a deep breath and praying for strength, Robert unlatched the gate and waved to Davy busy maneuvering a toy train down the garden path. Gerald glanced up, not bothering to lower the pipe or call a greeting.
Robert ambled over to his friend’s side. “How is everyone?”
Smoke seeped from Gerald’s mouth as he exhaled, tipping his head back to gaze at the upper-story windows. “I don’t think it’s sunk in yet. Not really.” A pinched line appeared between his brows. “Clara’s taken to her bed. I brought some laudanum, but she seems dreadfully calm already. Maybe
later.” He touched his vest pocket as if checking the medicine’s location.
A small bird flitted from the tree, alighting on the edge of the rooftop. Robert followed the bird’s movement, watching until it disappeared back into the foliage. “What about Abby?”
Gerald gestured to the steps with a hand. “In the kitchen. Her father is breaking the news about their farm. I decided now was a good time to be scarce.”
“The farm?”
He met Robert’s eye. “Herman is selling.”
A hole seemed to open in Robert’s stomach. Abby’s orchard? “Too many memories in the old place?”
His friend huffed. “Too many bills, I believe.”
“What will they do?”
“I’m not certain. Herman mentioned looking for factory work.” Gerald frowned. “But it seems harsh for such a man. He’s always been forward thinking and hard-working. I can’t imagine him wasting away in a factory.”
How much of this is my fault? If I hadn’t raised their hopes, would they be in this predicament? Robert pulled off his hat and pressed it against his chest. “Can’t we help?”
Gerald clamped the pipe stem between his teeth and took a long puff. “I’m working on some ideas. I’ve intercepted several of the bills and paid them myself. But the farm has been struggling and Herman still owes their local doctor in addition to the hospital. I told him the family is welcome to this home as long as they need it.”
Robert lowered his head, pushing a hand against his temple. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Why should you?” Gerald eyed him, brows raised. “It’s not your family. You can’t get consumed with the financial problems of every patient or you won’t last long in this business.”
A veil of blue smoke floated between them. “They’re your family and you’re my friend.”
“There’s more. Am I right?”
A weight settled in Robert’s chest as he tried not to think about the stolen moment in the park. “I’m not sure what you mean. I’m just concerned for them.”
Gerald leaned back against the gnarled trunk of the old tree. “Concerned for them? Or for Abby?”
The accusation hit Robert like a blow to the chest. “She’s my friend, too. Isn’t it right for me to be concerned?”
Gerald crossed his arms. “You can quit lying to yourself, Robert. And quit lying to me. I’ve known you too long not to see the signs.”
Robert lowered his gaze, staring at the round brim of his hat, clasped in his fist. “I—I don’t know what I feel.”
“Oh, yes, you do.” Gerald tapped the pipe against his palm. He chuckled and slowly shook his head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The rueful smile faded. “But, I’ve got one thing to say to you, Robert.”
Robert met his friend’s gaze. “Yes?”
“Your timing is wretched.”
A sigh rose from deep in Robert’s chest. “Don’t I know it?”
16
Thursday, October 5, 1905
Abby wandered through Gerald’s house with a cheese-laden platter, surrounded by an assembly of well-meaning strangers. Who are all these people?
She returned to the kitchen where two elderly aunts helped Aunt Mae scoop food from steaming casseroles onto serving trays, the room filled with pungent odors of over-cooked fare. Abby dropped the platter into the only open spot on the table and picked up a fresh one filled with stuffed mushrooms. She popped one of the warm morsels into her mouth and chewed, the earthy flavor doing little to ground her in the moment. Her mind insisted on straying home to her orchard, abandoning her body to familial duties.
At least serving kept her hands busy and prevented anyone from cornering her with condolences and platitudes.
Pasting a nonchalant expression on her face, Abby skirted through the crowd of relatives and friends—most of whom she’d never met. Or if she had, she hadn’t bothered to remember. She left those details to Cecelia.
A red-haired woman with an expansive coiffure caught her elbow, jarring the tray and sending mushrooms rolling about the plate. “Excuse me, dear. But I just wanted to tell you how devastated I was to learn about your precious sister. Our Ladies Circle has been praying for the sweet girl for weeks. I know how hopeful you all must have been for Dr. Larkspur and Dr. King to work some sort of miracle.” She clicked her tongue. “God has another flower for his garden, I suppose. Shame she had to be so young. I saw her portrait—a lovely girl.” Her gaze skittered across Abby’s frame. “Yes, very tragic.”
Abby extricated her arm. “Thank you.” The words of gratitude caught in her dry throat. She wandered to the sitting room, where more people gathered, huddled in groups of three or four with just enough room for her to maneuver between them without stepping on anyone’s skirt hems. Abby kept her gaze down, not wishing to see the black silk dresses and dark suits. Instead she focused on the men’s shoes, the gloss and polish making the footwear shine against the patterned rug.
An elbow collided with her arm scattering the mushrooms around the platter for a second time and sending several diving off the edge. Abby lifted her eyes in time to see Robert’s hand reach out to steady the tray. She jerked back, her sudden movement flinging the remaining appetizers airborne.
Stifled gasps and shrieks filled the room as mushrooms rained down on mourner’s laps and onto the rug.
Abby’s face burned as she clutched the tray to her chest and fled the room. Elbowing her way through the hall, she burst into the kitchen and thrust the tray into another woman’s hands. She pushed through the door to the backyard, only to find the garden equally occupied. A stifled sob rose up in her clenched throat.
Robert appeared at her arm. “Come with me.” He grasped her hand and ducked to the right, steering Abby into the dark gap between the houses. Dead leaves crunched underfoot as they scurried into the shady passage.
Ragged breaths squeaked in Abby’s chest and she pressed her hand against her throat to stop the plaintive sound.
Robert placed a hand on her back. “Deep breaths, slowly now.”
She shook, her chest heaving. “You—you startled me.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
Calm down. Abby drew a long breath and concentrated on exhaling slowly. As she did so, the trembling eased. She glanced up at Robert’s face, the sight bringing a fresh surge of pain. “Why are you here?”
He took a step back, about all he could manage in the confined space between the houses. “I was invited.”
She glanced down at the decaying leaves. Nothing could grow in this dark space, not even weeds. “Of course. How silly of me.”
He blew a long breath out between his lips. “Abby, I don’t know what to say.” His eyes held an unspoken invitation.
Abby stepped forward, his magnetic draw tugging at her body. How simple it would be to lay her head on his chest, allow his strong arms to support her. She turned her shoulders away, brushing a hand across the crumbs on her apron. “My sister is dead. There’s nothing left to say.”
His brows drew low. He reached a hand toward her.
Abby backed, angling toward the yard. “I don’t think this is appropriate, Dr. King.”
Robert yanked his fingers away like a schoolboy who’d had his knuckles rapped. “I—I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what, exactly?” Abby’s throat ached. “Sorry you reached for my hand? Sorry you kissed me?” She choked as the words spewed forth. “Or sorry you didn’t save my sister?”
His jaw clenched, cheek twitching. “I’m sorry . . .” his voice dropped to a whisper, “for all of it. I’m sorry I hurt you.”
Eyes stinging, Abby grabbed a handful of her gown, twining the glossy fabric around her fingers—the almond-green forever obscured by black dye. “Yes, well, I’m sorry I ever met you.” She hurried back into the crowded house, where she could hide in the crowd of well-wishers, cascading tears a welcomed and expected behavior as the sister of the deceased.
Robert’s stomach twisted as Abby dashed back
to the gathering, the black gown whispering around her ankles. He remained in the quiet crevice between the houses, away from the prying eyes and whispered words. His heart had drawn him to the funeral even as his stomach churned with shame. Everyone knew the part he’d played. People smiled and nodded, but few spoke to him. What would they say? “Oh, yes, you’re the one . . .”
He rested against the house, his head falling back against the boards. A long-legged spider scuttled across the wall opposite, dragging a silken thread behind. Robert closed his eyes, trying not to think of the threads he had used to pull Gerald into this debacle.
“Leukemia? Really?” Robert’s own voice echoed in his mind. “She could be a candidate for our study. Have you examined her?” How the blood had pulsed through his veins, shivers of excitement crossing his skin. The opportunity for research, for glory, all within his grasp.
Robert sank down along the wall, crouching on his heels and leaning against the house for strength. Had he really brought them here, to this moment? Abby’s accusing eyes left a scorched hole in his heart. He lowered his face into his hands, burying himself in the grief.
In the dark bedroom, Abby slipped off the dress, letting it puddle in a black pool on the floor, the sight of her white petticoat a welcome relief. Reaching down, she lifted the gown and clutched it to her face. The faint aroma of perspiration and grief had replaced the fragrance of Cecelia’s perfume among the threads. She shook out the fabric and opened the wardrobe, prepared to hide the dress until tomorrow.
The cabinet seemed more spacious than normal. Abby thumbed through the remaining garments, a cry rising in her chest. She flung the gown into the wardrobe and rushed from the room.
“Mama?” She hurried down the hall and knocked on the door to her mother’s bedchamber before flinging it open. “Where are Cecelia’s things?”
Mama sat in the wooden rocker, her blond hair hanging over her shoulders like a golden curtain, glimmering in the lamplight. A gilt hairbrush rested on her lap. She didn’t bother to turn her gaze, just rocked slowly, staring at a portrait of sunflowers over the bedstead.
Out of the Ruins Page 12
