Breathing Room

by Marsha Hayles

  For a moment we just looked at each other—tired and excited, worried and relieved, miserable and thankful, but at least together.

  A flicker of excitement lit her marble-dark eyes. “It is Hanukkah! And Christmas too. Merry Christmas, Evvy.”

  “Happy Hannukah to you, Sarah. I brought you something.” I pointed under her pillow. “You can read it later.”

  I had to go. I knew every second away increased my chances of getting caught. Dena would be right to call me foolish—or even worse—if I didn’t leave right now and let Sarah rest.

  “Don’t go, Evvy,” Sarah said, grabbing my arm. “Not yet.”

  I sat down on her bed, slumped like a marionette, waiting for someone to pull my strings one direction or the other.

  “Okay, just a little longer.”

  She gave a nervous smile, then pressed a handkerchief to her lips, muffling her voice as she spoke. “I can’t do this, Evvy—not on my own.”

  “You don’t have to do it on your own forever. Just get well enough to come back to our room.”

  The handkerchief dropped, and worry still showed on her face.

  “They wouldn’t leave your things in our room if they weren’t planning on moving you back. That’s what Dena thinks too.”

  Sarah listened, but didn’t seem convinced.

  “You can’t give up, Sarah. You just can’t.”

  Sarah watched me out of the corner of her eyes, as if from that angle she could reach deeper inside me to find something she could believe.

  “Dena’s got me following the rules these days. She thinks that’s the best thing we can do for each other—take care of ourselves and get well. I’m even drinking all my buttermilk now. Why, I’m almost a Pollyanna!”

  “Almost,” Sarah said, letting a little grin slide across her face. “Except for sneaking out to come see me.”

  “Yep, except for that.”

  Sarah smiled, her eyes brightening. “Well, then, you’d better get going before they find you, Pollyanna.”

  I stood up and hoped Sarah didn’t notice how my legs wobbled. “Just promise me you’ll try to get better, Sarah.”

  “I promise. And you promise too.” She waved me away.

  I willed my feet to move forward and didn’t look back for fear I wouldn’t be able to leave.

  But I did.

  I eased my way out the door and right into Dr. Keith’s white jacket.

  CHAPTER 30

  The Lie

  “EVVY,” DR. KEITH said, looking down into my surprised face, “what are you doing here?”

  My mind went blank. I couldn’t lie, but I couldn’t tell the truth.

  Then he glanced around and saw Sarah’s door.

  “I think I understand,” he said, then placed his hand on my arm and guided me down the corridor. “You should not have done this, Evvy.” His deep voice sounded stern, though he called me Evvy, not Evelyn.

  “I’m sorry” was the best I could mumble as I tried to keep up with his pace. “I just had to see—”

  “Not another word,” he warned me as we turned down a hallway.

  Is he going to send me home? Even if Abe and Father could forgive me, I didn’t think Mother ever would.

  My palms went clammy, and I had to work to keep my feet moving. Dr. Keith must have decided to hand me over to Nurse Marshall.

  We turned down the next corridor, and off in the distance I could hear music. We were heading back toward the dining hall, just by a different way.

  The music got louder and closer. A Christmas carol, “Silent Night.”

  Then a sharp voice called down the corridor; in an instant an arm plucked me from his side.

  “There you are!” Nurse Marshall said with a triumphant stomp of her heel. She yanked me in her direction. “I should have known better, Dr. Keith,” she said. “Even on Christmas I am fully responsible for these girls. I should never have let this one get out of my sight!” Nurse Marshall held on tight to my arm, as if I might bolt again any second.

  My head dropped—I knew what Dr. Keith was about to say.

  Was that a tremble I felt in Nurse Marshall’s fingers as we both waited for Dr. Keith to speak? Could my disappearing act get her in trouble too?

  Dr. Keith gave Nurse Marshall a polite smile. “On the contrary, the responsibility belongs entirely to me.”

  “But Dr. Keith,” I protested, not wanting him to take the blame for my adventure.

  “No need to talk, Evelyn,” he said, calling me by my full name. “I’m the one at fault here. I should have let Nurse Marshall know I needed your assistance briefly with some of the younger children—it being Christmas and all.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Dr. Keith was lying on my behalf.

  “Well, then, merry Christmas to you, Dr. Keith,” she said as she hurried me back into the dining hall.

  I sat down just in time to join the others for a dish of peppermint ice cream.

  Dena harrumphed under her breath to get my attention, but as long as Nurse Marshall hovered nearby, I kept a stunned smile—however forced—on my face. I needed to be the perfect Pollyanna now.

  And I was, until Dena leaned over and whispered, “So, how’s Sarah doing?”

  I dropped my spoon and splattered ice cream all down the front of my robe.

  CHAPTER 31

  Making Sense

  AFTER SEEING SARAH, I felt like I’d inched my way out of our white cocoon of a room only to have to crawl right back in again. In my restlessness, I found myself reading more poems from the book Mother gave me, then starting to write some of my own.

  I’d always thought making up a poem would be easy—just slap a couple of words together, maybe rhyme a few, and be done. But now that I tried, I could see it was much harder than that. Though the words seemed to glide through my head during the Cure Hour, once I sat up to write them, they just clunked along.

  Sometimes I painted myself into a corner, coming up with a line I liked—The cold night blows a lonely dust—but not liking any line that I could think of to follow: Winter wears a frosty crust or My shoulders tremble with each gust. But sometimes the lines seemed to click together like puzzle pieces.

  I still read poems aloud to Dena and tried to pay more attention to how they were put together. Some poems seemed to be built with blocks, each verse shaped like the last but adding another level to the tower of words. Other poems felt woven, with lines of different colors, until the overall design appeared.

  I’d once offered to read stories to Dena instead. “Nah, stick to poems,” she said. “They don’t waste time trying to make sense. They just do. That’s better for around here.”

  So I stuck to poetry, reading and writing it, and adding a little color to our cocoon.

  CHAPTER 32

  A Warning

  “JANELLE’S THE WORST YET!” Dena told me as we headed downstairs for my first Activity. “It’s like living with a bagpipe!”

  I agreed. Janelle was the new girl in our room. She’d arrived with the new year and she had hardly stopped crying since. She sobbed in fits of such force that I worried she might actually inhale the thermometer this morning. But after listening to her, I wished she would.

  I had tried offering her some reassuring words her first night in our room. She’d sat up and screamed that her father would be coming soon to take her back home and we were never, ever to speak to her again. That would be easy.

  “It’s a relief to get out of the room,” I said, letting Dena guide me down one hallway and onto the next.

  Getting to the outdoor pavilion for my first class yesterday had been even trickier. I was bundled up in an oversized coat and forced to wear what Nurse Marshall called a “woolen helmet” on my head. Not only did it itch, it limited my vision. Dena had to grab my arm and set me back on course more than once as we trudged through the biting cold. I did learn that our teacher, Mr. Blandiss, had been a student at Carleton College—which pleased me, since we lived only a few blocks
from the school in Northfield. Unfortunately, I also discovered that, frozen or thawed, I was still lousy at geometry.

  “Go on in,” Dena said, opening the door to the Activity room for me. I stepped inside and paused. After months of staring at white walls from my bed, this room with dozens of people at work seemed a beehive of activity. Groups of girls sat at various tables, each working on a project. Some were knitting, some weaving on wooden looms, some hooking pot holders, and others sewed buttons onto the hospital pajamas while still others worked on the Loon Lake Booster. Everyone was a busy—but quiet—bee. No one laughed or talked—not allowed, I realized from reading posters on the wall.

  Three Activity matrons kept a watchful eye on us all. I tried knitting first. An older girl showed me the basics and got me started. Then she went back to her own knitting. Her needles clicked so fast, her ball of yarn seemed to hop for fear of being turned into a sweater. My yarn, by contrast, appeared to be hibernating and hardly moved at all. After three uneven rows, I lost interest.

  As instructed by the signs on the wall, I took the gray card resting on the table and turned it over to the green side. The Activity matron reluctantly acknowledged me, and I soon sat down in front of an old, battered Underwood typewriter. At first I pecked out one letter after the next, slowly and carefully. Then I lost patience and pounded too fast. The little silver bars that held the letters locked up like miniature swords caught in a duel. So I had to go back to tap, tap, tapping. I could tell from the stares of some of the other girls that my typing was as annoying to them as Janelle’s sobs were to me.

  But that didn’t stop me, especially once I got the idea to write Sarah a note. She needed to be warned about bagpipe Janelle and to know I was an Up Patient now. So I typed a message with as many cross-outs as my math homework usually had. Then Dena figured out a way to get my letter to Sarah. Two days later Dena brought a note back for me.

  I knew the box had to be a coffin, and that meant Nurse Gunderson must be really sick. But just because Sarah thought my visit had helped her didn’t mean I could do anything for Nurse Gunderson.

  Somehow, though, I knew Sarah didn’t see it that way. She believed in me, and that’s all I really needed to know.

  I folded Sarah’s note on the way to class. “Did you read it, Dena?”

  She slowed and nodded her head.

  I stopped alongside her and scrunched up my shoulders from the cold. “I’m going to take Nurse Gunderson the fan from Pearl,” I said all in one breath.

  Dena took hold of my arm and looked me in the eyes. “Then I’m going too.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Finding Her

  OUR PLAN WAS SIMPLE. We’d skip class—Mr. Blandiss never noticed who was there anyway, since one bundled student looked the same as the next—and go to the Olson Building. Dena had managed to find out Nurse Gunderson’s room number from an aide on the children’s ward who’d been partial to Dena’s brother, Mickey. She’d also drawn me a map with the Olson Building and room 205 marked on it.

  But there were loads of ways for this simple plan to go wrong.

  Like getting lost.

  Or getting found.

  Or not getting there at all.

  Or not getting back.

  But we set out anyway. We headed toward the pavilion. Mr. Blandiss was making his way to his chair, a copy of Romeo and Juliet in his gloved hand.

  “Look,” Dena said, pointing to the number of chairs already filled with people bundled up and ready to listen. “Bet the ladies are hoping to hear him read a love scene!”

  I took this as a sign we’d picked the right day. Dena led the way. We stayed outside first, on a short path between buildings. We were counting on blending in with other patients going to class or Activity along the maze of shoveled walkways. With the walls of snow along either side, we wouldn’t be taking any shortcuts out here.

  We ducked into a building, and Dena pointed to a staircase. “Come on,” she said, “let’s head to the basement. Fewer people and not so cold.”

  Big pipes gurgled on the walls alongside us, and the air—too warm and clammy—smelled like the inside of an old woolen mitten.

  Up ahead, we heard voices—men’s voices. Dena leaned her ear against a closed door and gave the handle a try. With the tilt of her head she signaled me to follow. I scurried into the dark space, trying to sidestep objects. What junk was stored in this room?

  The men, only feet away and too busy with their own debate, didn’t seem to hear us. “Roosevelt won’t be satisfied until we’re in there fighting too,” one man said. The other disagreed. “FDR doesn’t want to go after those blasted Germans again!”

  Once their voices and footsteps got swallowed up by the long basement hallway, Dena cracked the door open and made sure no one else was coming. My eyes blinked at the bright light, and Dena had to pull me along, first around a corner, then up a staircase. “This way,” she said as we reentered the main floor.

  The familiar wheezing and coughing let us know we were back among patients. A nurse headed into one of the rooms; two orderlies pushed wheelchairs down the hall ahead. Dena pointed toward a side door, then with a quick glance to check on me, hurried outside, along a short path and toward a different building.

  I trailed behind, struggling to move my slogging feet forward. Did my legs feel this way because of the TB? Was I about to have a hemorrhage? Or was I just tired from walking so much and so fast?

  We managed to get through the door and into another stairwell without being caught. We drooped against the wall to rest. “Olson Building,” she said between fast breaths.

  Moisture trickled down my chest. I hadn’t had a feverish sweat like this in months. I tugged at my coat’s thick collar and undid the top three buttons.

  Then Dena bumped her shoulder against mine and gestured up toward a heavy wooden door with a brass 2 on it to mark the second floor. “There!”

  We shoved off from the wall and started climbing. Just then, someone walked into the stairwell on a floor above us. We stopped moving. The sounds of footsteps clattered and ricocheted off the walls.

  But no one appeared. A door upstairs swished opened, then slammed shut, sucking all noise out of the stairwell.

  We remained still for another moment, then let our bodies soften back to life. I nudged Dena, but she didn’t move. Instead she said, “She could look bad, real bad.”

  I leaned against the railing, uncertain what to do. Then I saw Dena bow her head and press her mittened hands together. She started to pray, and I did too. After we whispered “Amen” together, we climbed the remaining stairs and turned down a hallway. Side by side, we made our way into Nurse Gunderson’s room.

  CHAPTER 34

  Losing Her

  OUR BREATH was taken away by what we saw.

  I blinked, hoping each time my eyes opened to find the Nurse Gunderson I remembered.

  Instead, she looked like a face in the blurry background of an old photograph, someone hard to recognize. Only her soft blond hair seemed familiar.

  She was resting, her skin moonlight pale. Were her eyes still blue? Could the disease wear away their color?

  I pulled out the fan from inside my coat. Attached at the base was a thin gold ring with a little tag. Pearl had written on it the words “From your friend Pearl.” I could tell by the decorative sweep and fancy curlicues that Pearl must have practiced writing her signature countless times, maybe hoping to be famous someday like one of her movie stars.

  On the fan’s thin wooden edge I had added the title to Pearl’s unfinished poem, “Our Spirits, Too, Will Soar.” Dena dug into her pocket to pull out a sheet of stationery on which she’d written, “She would have wanted you to have this.” We’d both agreed it was best not to sign the note.

  I opened up the fan to see Pegasus one last time. The white horse, his wings spread wide across the delicate paper, seemed about to rise up into a starlit sky. A ray of sunlight from the nearby window beamed through the paper and made the fa
n’s wooden ribs stand out.

  Dena gave my arm a gentle tug. I folded the fan closed and wrapped it in the letter. I nestled the slender package under the edge of Nurse Gunderson’s pillow and hoped she would find it there.

  Perhaps I let the paper crackle too much, or jostled the pillow slightly, because Nurse Gunderson opened her eyes and looked at us.

  “Nurse Gunderson,” I said, eager to talk to her even if just for a moment. It didn’t seem fair to have come so far and not have the chance to say hello—or maybe good-bye.

  Her eyes stared up with a new intensity, as if all the color drained from the rest of her body had now been channeled through them. And yet, despite their blazing blueness, they showed no sign of recognizing us or hearing me, and fluttered closed.

  My own eyes blurred with tears. I leaned in toward Nurse Gunderson and spoke in a hurried whisper. “Sarah wishes you well too.”

  “We have to go,” Dena said, turning away.

  I rushed along behind Dena—out into the hallway and onto a landing by a window overlooking the snowy paths outdoors. Dena had a new worry in her eyes. “Look! No other patients are out there. We’ve got to use the tunnels.”

  The basement had been bad enough. The maze of underground tunnels that connected all the buildings would be even worse.

  Dena didn’t wait for me to debate the point. I had no choice but to follow her, my tired legs tottering to keep up.

  We pushed through a heavy door and into an eerie glow, moving through a jumbled mix of muffled and loud sounds, as if lost in a monster’s belly. I caught up to Dena and stayed close.

  We edged our way around a corner and could see up ahead an intersection where several tunnels converged. Was one of these the death chute, where, rumor had it, dead bodies got tossed away? Might we hear the rumble of a box going down the long throat of the tunnel? Fear knocked around inside me.

  Dena spotted a small sign on one door, read it, then turned herself around as she sorted out exactly where we were. “Not far now,” she said just as we heard voices approaching from one of the connecting tunnels.