A cold chill crossed her skin. Abby dug fingers into her leg. She pushed away from the table as the food settled into her stomach like a stone. “Yes, I suppose I am.” She reached for the basket. “Perhaps we’d better be going. Let’s not keep your best friend waiting.” And then you can be rid of me as well.
38
5:15 p.m.
Robert jostled two jugs of water in one arm, a canvas bag of supplies in the other, and a yellow quilt across his shoulders. The smoke hung heavy in the air, ripping away the peace of the past hour. He tightened his grip on the containers, lifting them a little higher and bracing them against his chest. All he needed was a trunk to drag and he’d look like every other refugee on the street.
Abby cradled the baby in one arm, a basket over her elbow and a second quilt on her shoulder. The glow of the sun through the gray clouds cast a warm light on her face, accenting her cheekbones and the spray of freckles on her nose.
He turned his eyes back to the street. It wouldn’t do to be caught staring. Again. She’d made it clear she wasn’t interested. Now he needed to learn to keep his eyes forward.
Robert lifted one shoulder, trying to shift the rolled-up quilt as a drop of sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades. If they didn’t find Abby’s family by sunset, they might join the rest of the displaced people camping in the open. He glanced at her, walking with her gaze centered on the baby. A man and woman alone—yet, chaperoned by thousands?
His neck burned under the soft quilt. We have to find them. This evening.
The smoke plumes loomed over the houses and the streets were crowded with people fleeing on foot. Discarded belongings littered the streets—cases, boxes, books, and piles of clothes were strewn everywhere. A massive painting leaned against a piano. A woman in a faded blue dress pulled a trunk over to the instrument and began to play “The Maple Leaf Rag.” It brought smiles to a few faces, the bouncy song standing in stark contrast to the somber scene.
As Robert stepped over a twisted section of streetcar rail, a hand gripped his arm, wrenching his attention from the music. A soldier glared at him, a long rifle braced against one shoulder. “We need men to clear streets. My orders are to conscript every available able-bodied man.”
Robert yanked his arm free. “I’d like to help, but I’m certainly not available.” He scanned the ragged group of men shuffling about near a wagon. As if people didn’t have enough to worry about today, now they had to avoid being put on work detail?
The soldier grunted. “It’s what everyone says. I don’t got a choice and neither do you.”
Abby seized Robert’s other arm, her eyes wild. “You can’t just take men off the streets.”
The man glowered at Abby, his soot-stained face lined with exhaustion. “Sorry, ma’am, but I got my orders. Your husband’s got to put in six hours labor and after that you can have him back.”
Robert set down the water jugs. He held his hands out in front of him. “She’s not . . . um . . . I mean . . . we’re . . .” His words hung in the air like the wisps of smoke.
Abby shifted the baby in her arms.
Leaning on his rifle, the soldier raised an eyebrow. “Listen, buddy, I don’t care who she is. I care about you helping me get this street cleared so we can get supplies running. Now, get in line!” He gestured toward the group of men with his thumb.
Robert stepped clear. “I’m a doctor—you can’t conscript me.”
The soldier growled under his breath and spit onto the road. “You got papers?”
“I . . . uh . . .” Robert’s mind raced. His identification was in Gerald’s automobile.
“Just what I thought.” The soldier’s beefy hand shot out and latched onto Robert’s arm, hauling him across the street.
Abby dropped the basket. “I can vouch for him. My cousin is Dr. Gerald Larkspur. Robert is his assistant.”
Robert staggered as the man shoved him into the procession. The expression on Abby’s face hurt more than his bruised arm. “Abby, head for the hospital and tell them what’s happened. Have them send someone for me.”
The soldier stomped to the front of the column. “You!” he pointed at an exhausted looking Chinese man with a long braid dangling down his back. “You’re done. Hand your tools to the doc boy.”
The Chinese man pushed his shovel into Robert’s hands. As soon as Robert closed his grip, the man melted into the crowd.
“No, you can’t do this.” Abby’s voice rose. “You can’t just take him.”
Robert slipped the bag off his shoulder and handed it to her. He grasped her shoulders, staring into her damp eyes. “Find your cousin. I’ll come as soon as I can.” He pulled the ring from his vest pocket and pressed it into her hand. “This should stay with the baby.”
Abby shoulders slumped, the supplies scattered in a heap at her feet. “You said you wouldn’t leave me.”
Heart sinking, Robert pulled her against his chest and pressed his lips to her forehead. Stepping back, he hefted the shovel over his shoulder. “If I had a choice, I’d take your hand and never let go. But I don’t. Gerald can get this waived—I have paperwork in his car and on file at the hospital.”
The men began to move off, but Abby’s concern kept him rooted to the spot. For a brief moment, he considered darting into the crowd. Would the soldier really come after him? He reached out and squeezed her elbow. “Everything will work out. I’ll see you soon.”
With a deep breath, Robert fell in line, casting a glance over his shoulder every few feet.
Abby remained fixed, her gaze following him.
Robert dug his fingernails against the worn wooden handle. Every step took him further from Abby’s side. No matter how he longed to be close to her, something—fate? God?—kept getting in the way. He swiveled his head to the front, focusing on the grimy sweat stains on the man’s shirt in front of him.
He’d haul rocks for the rest of his life if it meant he could keep Abby at his side.
The sun’s rays burned orange through the hazy sky, casting a somber light on the line of men plodding away. Abby dug her fingers into her skirt, squeezing the material into a wrinkled wad and kicking once at the ground. The sudden motion woke the baby and she raised a keening cry. Abby hung her head, tears of her own dripping onto the blanket.
Abby lifted her face to the blood-red sky and the heavens beyond. “Stop it!” She hissed at God through gritted teeth. “Stop this. I know you can.”
People walked by, unmoved by Abby’s outburst. Abby closed her eyes and lowered her head. Apparently, on a bizarre day like today, a hysterical woman talking to the sky wasn’t worth a second glance.
She unhooked her necklace and slid the ring onto the chain next to the golden locket. I vowed never to pray again.
39
6:00 p.m.
Abby stood in front of the hospital ruins, despair settling on her like a chilling frost onto the orchard. Memories swept over her as she stared at the damaged building. At one time it had represented all of her hopes, for Cecelia’ healing and Robert’s attention. Now the building stood empty and broken, shards of glass littering the ground under every window opening.
Searching for signs of life, she walked to the rear of the quiet building. Robert was inside during the quake? She shivered at the thought. A flurry of motion caught her attention. A slender woman dressed in a stained nurse’s uniform clambered out onto a low windowsill, and glanced about before dropping to the ground with a grunt. She clutched the corners of a long apron caught up against her bosom.
Abby hoisted the heavy bag higher on her shoulder, trying to avoid unsettling the rest of her load. “Wait!” She lumbered under the weight, arms aching. The wedding ring clinked beside her locket, bouncing against her chest in rhythm to her steps.
The woman turned, nurse’s cap perched at an awkward angle atop her red curls. Her eyes widened. “I’m not looting—I work here!” She wrapped both arms around the bundle of items, pulling it close to her tiny waist.
Abby stopped a few steps away, catching her breath. “Where is everyone? The doctors?”
“We’ve set up a temporary medical camp down the street.” Dark circles surrounded the woman’s eyes, face tense and drawn.
Abby shifted the load in her arms, careful not to jostle the sleeping infant. “I’m looking for Dr. Gerald Larkspur. He’s my cousin.”
The nurse’s frown lifted. “Dr. Larkspur? I haven’t seen him since this morning. We could sure use him, though. We’re shorthanded, and the soldiers are threatening to relocate us to the Presidio.” She wiped a hand across her brow, dislodging a stray curl tucked under her cap. “I don’t know how they expect us to move the patients again.”
“Oh.” Abby’s heart sank. “Thank you. His partner, Dr. King, thought he might be here.”
“Wait—you’re Cecelia Fischer’s sister, aren’t you? I remember you.” Her eyes traveled across Abby’s face, her green eyes narrowing. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
A breeze scattered some dried leaves, sending them bouncing down the glass covered walkway. Abby swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “Thank you.” She glanced down at the tiny face framed by the yellow blanket. “My name is Abby.”
“I’m Nurse Maguire.” She cocked her head to one side. “Where is Dr. King? We could certainly use his help.”
Abby twisted, dropping the bag from her aching shoulder. “I’m afraid he was conscripted to help clear the road. He was hoping Gerald could intervene.”
The nurse glanced skyward. “People with medical training cleaning up bricks in the street while patients die from their injuries? Has this city gone mad?” She huffed, the gust of air lifting the hair from her forehead. “Where are they? Maybe I can send someone over there; get him released early.”
Abby gave the woman the necessary information as the nurse laid her supplies on the ground and reached for the baby, her features softening. “What a sweet little mite.”
Abby dropped the rest of her load on the steps. The food basket had left a dent on her inner arm. She peeled off the two quilts she had wrapped around her shoulders like heavy shawls, the cool breeze a welcome diversion. Two sparrows picked through the dried leaves under a nearby bush, apparently in search of food. The familiar sound made Abby smile—even in the midst of chaos, life continued.
The nurse followed her gaze. “God watches over the tiniest sparrow, you know. He must have known you’d take good care of this little one.” A dimple formed on Nurse Maguire’s cheek as she returned the baby to Abby’s arms.
Pulling the baby close to her chest, Abby swayed, hoping to rock the infant back to sleep.
Nurse Maguire reached out and touched Abby’s locket. “This is lovely. Your sister’s, wasn’t it?” The wedding band jangled against the chain as the woman bumped it with a long fingernail before withdrawing her hand.
“Yes, it was.” Abby tucked it back under her collar. “Thank you.”
The nurse sighed, the corners of her lips drawing down. “I’ll see if I can find someone to go after Dr. King. With the way people are acting today, I’m not certain they will release him, even with medical papers. Do you want to come with me?”
Abby shook her head. “I need to find my mother. I think she might be at Golden Gate Park. If you see Dr. Larkspur or Dr. King, would you tell them where I went?”
“I’ll do that.” The nurse gathered her supplies. “You take care, now—you and the little sparrow.” She smiled, waved her free hand, and hurried down the street.
Abby rested on the stairs in front of the hospital, laying the baby across her knees. “Shall I call you Sparrow, then? It’s as good a name as any, until we discover who you really are.” Contemplating the walk back to the park made Abby’s feet ache. Bouncing her knees lightly, Abby drew the journal from her pocket.
September 22, 1856
After Lydia spilled my secret, Aunt Joyce was real quiet. This morning, when all the other kids were outside playing, she came up and told me a story. She said three years ago, when they heard my Mama was sick, they all started praying for us. One night God started whispering my name into her heart. Aunt Joyce started writing letters trying to find me. God wouldn’t let her give up. She figured He was letting her know how much I needed them.
Isn’t that strange? Here I wasn’t even talking to God, and yet He was still looking out for me. I still don’t know why He took my Mama. And I’ll never understand why Papa had to go away. Aunt Joyce says I may never know, but whatever happens, I need to remember God is always with me.
So, I suppose I might try praying again. Maybe.
Abby closed the book with a sigh. God was looking out for Great Aunt Mae, and the nurse said He was looking after this baby. If only He were looking out for me.
Robert added three more bricks to his load, lifting them with a grunt. He pushed upright, hefting the bricks against his chest as black spots appeared before his eyes. A quick shake of the head only made them tap dance across his field of vision. Robert closed his eyelids for a brief moment, willing the ache in his temples to cease. So many others were in worse condition than he.
The man across the pile from him had removed a sling from his arm in order to work, certainly Robert could manage with a mild concussion.
He tossed the bricks into the wagon, wiping his palms on his pant legs before turning for another handful. He glanced down the street, hoping to see Abby or Gerald coming to retrieve him. How long had it been? An hour? More? Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. A few weeks ago, he’d complained about working on the X-ray equipment’s electrical wiring, but today the chilly basement laboratory sounded like a blissful retreat.
He grabbed some loose boards and tossed them into the wagon on top of the bricks. Unfortunately, his laboratory lay crushed under several thousand pounds of brick and concrete. And right now, he had about as much of that as he could stand.
Abby trudged down the street, the long walk back to Golden Gate Park passing in a blur, her eyes seldom straying from the path. After two long days of walking, the broken buildings had lost their fascination.
The sun ebbed over the horizon as she stumbled into Golden Gate Park. Locating a small scrap of unoccupied ground, Abby sank down in exhaustion. Digging through the remaining supplies, she pulled out a yellow quilt. Flinging the patchwork wide, she let it settle over the dirt before lowering Sparrow onto it.
Shouldn’t she be crying? Davy was always crying when he was this size. The tiny infant laid perfectly still, her eyes following Abby’s every move.
The evening light shifted from red to purple as the sky made its way to bed. Pulling out some bread and sausage, Abby grasped the sharp knife to cut off a thick slice. The food tasted like ashes, but her jaw worked mechanically.
Digging through the basket, the familiar smell of Great Aunt Mae’s molasses cookies brought tears to her eyes. She pushed the paper-wrapped package aside in favor of a small jar of milk. Abby soaked a piece of bread and tried to feed it to Sparrow, but the baby’s tongue pushed the strange stuff back out. She even turned her head away from the milk-soaked washcloth.
Leaving the food and the knife next to the basket, Abby laid down beside Sparrow, wrapping her body into a half-circle around the tiny form. Sparrow turned her head, keeping Abby’s face in her field of vision. Abby ran a finger over the baby’s cheek as Sparrow yawned, the tiny mouth forming a perfect “O”. Abby drew her close and rubbed circles on her back like she remembered Mama doing for Davy years ago.
With a sigh, she slid Aunt Mae’s journal from her pocket and opened it to where she had left off earlier, the violet sky coloring the pages with a lavender hue.
October 15, 1856
I’m praying again, for real this time. Now I know God loves me and cares about what happens, I feel different about Him, too. I used to think He was like a wishing star. Now when I pray, I can feel His love wrapping around me like Mama’s arms. It doesn’t matter so much if He says no, to what I’m asking, because I understand He knows
best. It still hurts when I think about Mama. But if she’s up there with Him, then maybe she’s whispering in His ear for me, too.
“God is my refuge and my rock. An ever-present source of help in troubled times.” I am learning this full well.
Abby glanced over the top of the journal to see the crimson-colored sun slipping below the skyline, the smoke towers drifting over the city like a thick woolen blanket.
Abby closed her eyes, her hand patting a steady rhythm on Sparrow’s back. After about ten minutes, she reached under her collar and withdrew her chain, sliding the locket away from the ring. Abby rubbed the smooth, warm metal across her cheek, the noise of the milling crowd fading into the background like cricket song on a summer evening.
One more night. Tomorrow I will find them.
Friday, April 20, 1906
12:30 a.m.
Jerking awake, Abby blinked in the darkness. The flames from her dreams receded into the distant sky where the glow of the smoke suggested the true location of the fires. She shuddered, the real scene only slightly less surreal than the nightmare. Closing her eyes, she fought to steady her breathing. Only a dream.
The thought brought a jab of pain along with the peace. Which means Cecelia isn’t out there somewhere.
The missionary’s words floated back through her memory. “She is not wandering frightened through a burning city. She is at peace in a way we cannot fully comprehend.”
If she’s at peace, why do I keep dreaming about her?
A nearby rustling caught Abby’s attention and she rolled to her back. A shadowy figure crouched nearby. A long dark coat hung down over the bent knees, making the man look like a squatting gargoyle—a monster from a nightmare.
Only this one was real.
40
12:30 a.m.
Robert leaned over the groaning figure. In the flickering lantern light, the shadow of the curved hand resembled a raptor’s talons preparing for the kill. “Steady now. Hold it tight.”
Out of the Ruins Page 25
