“Here.” Louise passes me the sample. “Dieu soit avec toi. God be with you.”
I run. The nearest hospital is just a mile away, and I can get there faster on foot than I could in a cab forced to sift through Coney Island traffic. I tear my hat from atop my head as I run and stuff it into the bosom of my dress. Even without the boning of decades past, my corselet makes it difficult to run without growing short of breath, and I count my steps to center me. At step 897, I feel the fabric at the heel of my right foot give way; at 905, the left. Both heels are bleeding by 1,000, and I doubt I am even halfway to the hospital. I bend quickly and remove my calfskin shoes. They dangle from their straps on my left fingers as I resume running. The sample is clutched in my right hand, and Louise’s note is folded into my brassiere.
I make it to Ocean Parkway. Businessmen and young couples shoot me bewildered looks as I pass; surely, I am a sight to behold. Barefoot, bleeding, and with my hair slipping from its coiffure, I could be an escapee from an asylum. With this image in mind, I stop just before the hospital doors and slip my feet back into my shoes. I uncoil the mess of my hair, braid the length of it, and fold it back up. It will do.
After presenting my own credentials and Louise’s note, and proving my expertise through an arduous description of Margaret’s symptoms and sputum sample, the nurses at Coney Island Hospital take the container from me. “It will take at least six hours to get the results,” they warn.
I cannot stay away from Margaret that long. Not when today—God forbid—may be the last time I see her. “I will be back in four, then,” I promise. “I must go be with the girl.”
Margaret’s welfare no longer depends on my speed, but I run back to Luna Park regardless. I could not bear to arrive back too late to see her. I burst through the doors with uncharacteristic conspicuousness and dash straight to Margaret’s station. Am I imagining the blue pallor snaking beneath her pale skin? I dig my nails into my palms to keep from reaching for her. I cannot risk transmitting anything more to her weak little system. “I’m here, Margaret. I’m here.”
Arms wrapped around my torso, I sway before Margaret’s incubator for hours. Though her eyes are closed, her tired body cannot find sleep. Coughing and fever make it impossible. I sing her quietly every lullaby I can muster, and my voice is sore and out of tune by the time five and a half hours have crept slowly by.
I place my palm on the glass door of Margaret’s incubator. “I will be back, Marg. I will be back with something to save you.”
I have half an hour to get to the hospital, and I walk briskly this time rather than run. I pray the whole journey, my lips moving silently. Please, please, please, please, please.
God hears my prayers. The nurse who greets me is not the same one I met just hours ago, but she too is brisk and confident. “The good news is that the infant’s pneumonia is pneumococcal,” she says, “so it can be treated with serum therapy. Since today is the first day with recognizable symptoms, the treatment will decrease her mortality risk from about half to just five percent.” I sag in relief, but she continues. “The bad news is that the antiserum is typically administered intravenously. I assume Luna Park does not have the necessary technology for such a treatment?”
“No.”
“I thought as much.” She turns to walk down the corridor, indicating that I should follow. “Fortunately, your baby may respond to subcutaneous injection. She is young enough and small enough that the antibody buildup should still be enough. It may be better, actually.” She turns to face me. “Injection this way will stave off chills and anaphylaxis.”
Unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of this sort of conversation, I am grateful I have the training to understand everything the nurse is saying.
“I can provide you the serum, but you will have to administer it yourself,” she finishes.
I nod.
“I also must tell you it is exceedingly expensive.”
I shrug helplessly. “It’s our only hope.” I’ll find a second job if I have to, work as a secretary somewhere or clean houses. I don’t sleep as it is.
The nurse’s smile is tinged with sadness. “I thought you’d say that.” She stops walking and tells me to wait. She disappears through a door and returns a moment later with a capsule of liquid. “She’ll need two thousand units a day.” About 0.05 milligrams. “Start today, immediately, and continue as long as seems necessary.”
“Thank you.” I clasp my hands in prayer, the capsule between them. “Thank you.”
“Of course. Nurse Recht’s note said to send the bill to Dr. Couney.”
My eyes widen, but only momentarily. Even such shocking kindness cannot captivate my interest for long with Margaret so ill. “Yes, please. And thank you. Thank you, so much.”
* * *
—
I usually sleep part of the day, but I cannot succumb to my exhaustion with Margaret fighting to breathe. I remain in Luna Park with my gaze fixated on Margaret in her incubator. Already, her skin is losing its blue sheen. Her fever is lowering. Miraculously, the antiserum is working. And fast.
I leave at five p.m. for my shift at Bellevue, which I spend in dizzy distraction, adrenaline keeping me on my feet. I return to Luna Park the next morning, going on thirty hours without sleep. Margaret is better still, her cough no longer drowning in fluid. Louise has already given her today’s dose of serum, and I wrap my arms around the woman in an uncharacteristic show of affection. “Thank you, Louise. You’ve saved her.” You’ve saved me, too, I don’t say aloud.
“I couldn’t have done it on my own.” Louise smiles at me. “I don’t know if the mother herself could have been more devoted than you’ve been.”
“Well.” My real smile is replaced by a fake one. “Just part of being a nurse. You know.”
Soon, I will go back to just being a nurse. Margaret is approaching her release, and I will take her back to Michael and Hattie and forget all about the whole affair.
Well. I could never forget. I’ll always remember Margaret’s bright green eyes and mussed hair and demanding wail. I’ll never forget the sweat and the fear of that day in the carriage, the desperation of this bout of pneumonia, the exquisite pain of gazing upon her perfect little face. But I will be able to put my time with her aside. I will be able to live my life again, rather than hers. I will work at the hospital without fear of discovery, spend my few daily hours of freedom reading books and taking walks rather than shuttling to and from Coney Island.
But the thought does not fill me with joy. Instead, as I gaze upon Margaret’s fitfully sleeping form, I cry all the tears I had held inside as we desperately battled her pneumonia. I wasn’t ready for her to leave us. Will I be ready to leave her?
CHAPTER TEN
Stella Wright, January 1951
I stand before our old apartment building in Central Park West with my suitcase in my hand, feeling as if I could be back from college for Christmas break. I count the windows and find our place: third floor, fourth from the left. The windows to either side are brightly lit, but ours are dim. A grim reminder that I’m not in college anymore, that Mom isn’t upstairs whipping together my favorite soup or standing ready to greet me at the door.
I’ve only been in the apartment once since she passed, and it was for the reception after the funeral. I was so busy feeding everyone and forcing myself to laugh at all their favorite stories about my mom that I didn’t have time to notice how wrong the space felt without her. I’ve avoided my old home since then. Now, I’m almost afraid to go in.
Shifting my suitcase to my left hand, I pull open the door and climb the stairs slowly to the third floor. I fish the keys from the pocket of my coat, sweating in the stairway, and push open our door.
I don’t know what I expected, but the nothingness hits me like a foghorn. The quiet in the apartment is unnatural; my mom should be here to take my coat and pull me in for a hug, t
o cluck over my appearance and offer me a glass of water.
Instead, I keep my coat on in the freezing apartment, frustrated with myself for not anticipating that the heat would be off. I don’t even bother trying to turn on the lights. No one’s paid electricity since the funeral.
I drop my purse and suitcase off in my old room and decide to start in the kitchen, where the natural light is strongest. I begin by sorting through the china and the silverware, the metal’s cold seeping through the fingers of my deerskin gloves as if into my bones. I separate things into piles to give away and piles for Jack and me to keep. My coat starts to itch as I think about Jack. Our good-bye had been rushed, Jack leaving for work at the same time I was running out to catch the train. Not that either of us had anything we wanted to say. Not without starting another fight.
The damage had been done, anyway. I know that my leaving hurt him, but his inability to even consider coming along is hurting me. Pancakes and jokes are fine, but they aren’t enough to keep me afloat here.
I push away my thoughts and try to focus on my task. I’d pictured hard, physical work wringing the sadness and shame from my body like sweat. Instead, I’m sorting through dusty flatware that was more ostentatious than my mother ever wanted in the first place. Were they wedding gifts, I wondered, or hand-me-downs? I let out a sob as I realize that now I’ll never know.
Though I’ve not even been here an hour, the cold and the silence are more than I can bear. I refuse to think about whether that means Jack was right—that I shouldn’t have come.
I lock up the apartment and stride quickly to the end of the street, head bowed to keep my eyes from the sting of the cold. I don’t need to look up; the path from home to café is one my parents and I walked with comforting regularity my whole childhood. I smile to think of it now, my father’s determined gait like we would topple off the sidewalk without him there to guide us. From girlhood, I was aware of the thin bubble of his pride that I knew never to pop; it hung shimmering and translucent till the day he died. Hard to believe it’s been over five years since he did.
But that death was so much easier to take. My father died at sixty-three, and his passing coincided with the close of the Second World War. All around us were grieving widows, mothers without sons, infants without fathers. My dad’s death was a tragedy, but it was a natural one. And Mom and I had each other to lean on. After his funeral, she was free to visit me at school as often as she liked; it was how she and Jack got to know each other so well despite his aversion to the city.
But now that Mom’s gone, I don’t know who to turn to.
I try to transport myself to an easier time as I step into the café. The warmth of the heated room seeps beneath my skin like the comfort of Mom’s hand on my forehead, and the familiar hostess stands to greet me like nothing has changed since I came here last.
“Chicken soup,” I order, solid and simple.
When the soup bowl arrives, I sit with it cupped in my hands and watch as customers stumble into the café and drift back out. One young girl with wild red hair bursts into tears as her mother drags her out the door. Her high emotions, shared with abandon, remind me so much of my students in Poughkeepsie. I press the heels of my palms into my eyes to stem my tears. I wish Jack were here to put his warm arm around me—but no.
Stella, I admonish, reminding myself that I was the one to leave. That I didn’t ask him to come—just expected him to know I wanted it.
I scald my throat as I gulp down my soup, but the pain is a welcome distraction. Maybe I’ll burn my throat too badly to keep hurling out words I’ll regret next time I see my husband. Fine, I’d told him. I’ll go.
The café is warm, and I don’t want to go. But I do want the scene replaying in my head—Jack’s expression as I left, our standoffish good-bye—to stop. I stand abruptly.
The wind howls around my ankles as I step outside, my swing coat flapping. I practically run to the corner store, where I stop to pick up snacks, a couple of flashlights, and candles.
I exhale in relief as I step into the apartment building and linger in the stairwell. I don’t want to reenter the freezing unit, but I don’t really have a choice. I try to convince myself that now is the best time, with the soup in my belly warming me from the inside.
You can’t complain, I remind myself. You wanted to be here. And I did. I do. Yes, Jack had worried it would make me think of my mother and bring my spirits down—but what he doesn’t understand is I don’t think of her any less in Poughkeepsie. Especially now that I’m not working. Here, at least, I can think of her and feel just a little bit less far away.
Mom, I pray. Was coming here the right thing to do?
It’s hard to know what her answer would have been. She never would’ve raised her voice to my dad; she obeyed him in all things. But she raised me to speak out despite her own complacency. “Use your voice,” she would remind me as I went off to school each morning, a faint note of urgency in her voice. “Silence is dangerous, Stella.”
The first time she said it had been after I told her about a girl at school who’d been mocked for her accent. The girl was German, and I didn’t realize until years later that the hatred the other students felt for her was copied from the attitudes their parents had adopted after the First World War.
“What did you say?” Mom had asked me after I complained about the kids’ jeers.
“I didn’t say anything!” I’d been shocked, even wounded, that she’d asked. Surely she knew better than to think I would have joined in with such cruelty.
But she hadn’t touched my cheek the way she did when she was proud of me. She’d shaken her head sadly. “Oh, Stella. Don’t you know that staying silent means saying it’s okay?”
The next day, I got in trouble for stomping one of the bullies on the toes when he called the girl a cabbage eater. My father was outraged, but I think Mom was secretly proud.
I wish I had her advice now, her wisdom. If she promised that my marriage would survive, I’d believe her.
Mom? I lift my eyes to the ceiling. What would you have me do?
Mom wouldn’t have approved of the way I walked out. She adored Jack. “A comedian,” she’d claimed after first meeting him.
“More like a goof,” I’d laughed. But she wasn’t wrong. Jack’s silliness has always made me laugh. I’m lucky to have him, and I wonder sometimes—doubled over the kitchen table in hysterics—why my mom didn’t marry someone who could make her laugh the same way, even if my dad was a good man. But who knows how my parents ended up together? It was a different time.
I sigh. Jack’s humor is what I miss most of all when he retreats into anxiety and fear. Damn war. A wife shouldn’t miss her own husband, not when she’s sleeping right beside him every night.
I turn back to the task at hand. I’ve moved into my mother’s closet, wanting to feel surrounded by her. The candles and flashlight are necessary in here, tucked away from the windows. They light upon mementos I remember and ones I don’t, but even those I don’t recognize carry the touch of my mother’s hand. I warm my own hands in the folds of the clothes I wore as an infant, surprised my mother saved them.
I laugh to find an old checkered headband. I used to tuck my blond hair beneath it and pose in front of the mirror, proclaiming myself Nancy Drew. “Do you see the resemblance?” I’d ask, and Dad would always scrunch up his face like he was trying to decide. One bad winter when we hardly left the house, my mother left clues around the apartment so I could solve the “mystery of the missing cookbook.” When I found it, triumphant and bouncing with glee, she let me pick a recipe to make alongside her for supper.
Only now with the benefit of hindsight can I see how different she was from other mothers. She was quiet and conservative, not one to wear trousers or sport a youthful bob. But she did let me explore in a way that other mothers didn’t. She urged me from the time I started kindergarten to g
o to university. And my father, however traditional, was magnanimous to a fault. So to Vassar I went.
Now, I wish I’d coaxed my mother to answer the questions she used to brush off: Why didn’t you go to school? Didn’t you ever want a job?
I’ll never know, I suppose. But I know she fought for me to have those things. To her, that was what mattered.
Thanks, Mom, I send up to the sky. With love, from Stella Star.
* * *
—
I’ve saved my mother’s charm box for last. I shouldn’t be afraid; I know exactly what’s in the treasure box. But I don’t know how I’ll react. Will I feel closer to my mother as I hold her life in my hands, or will the loss seem all the more real?
I force myself to think of the good, and I smile as I remember how my mother rechristened the box the “treasure box” at my insistence. I had just read Treasure Island, and Mom’s keepsakes felt as valuable as gold: the pressed flower, the silky ribbon.
But around age sixteen I decided my mother’s life was irrelevant. She was barely even born in this century, I scoffed. She grew up in the midst of Prohibition and most definitely followed every law. She adhered to every expectation: no college, marriage before twenty-five, daughter soon after.
My mother was predictable and rule-following: the teenager’s definition of boring. Now I wonder if “mature” would be more accurate. Mom didn’t have my sharp tongue or impulsiveness; she wouldn’t have threatened to quit without weighing pros and cons. She didn’t just plan in broad strokes—she wrote lists. Grocery lists, to-do lists, idea lists. Lists of colleges I could apply to, lists of test scores I’d gotten, lists of tuition and columns of calculations. Lists of books she wanted to read, quotes she liked, and restaurants she wanted to try.
She never tried most of them. My dad liked our corner café, which he said was convenient after a long day of work. Mom never argued.
The Light of Luna Park Page 9
