“My God,” Will said, setting down his fork and turning to me. “Did you know about this?”
I shook my head, took in a deep breath, closed my eyes.
I am Mrs. Monroe. Chairwoman of the fall foliage committee. We are all sitting down to dinner. My husband is beside me. I am going to have a baby in the spring. A healthy baby girl.
I dug my nails into my palms, then opened my eyes, looked down at my untouched food. I picked up my fork, took a bite of chicken pie, the gravy thick and too salty. The biscuit turned to tasteless paste in my mouth. But still, I chewed and swallowed, moving my own body the way one controls a puppet.
“My aunt Irma lives in Brandenburg,” Mrs. Miller said around a bite of cranberry sauce that stained her lips bright red. “People come from all over the country to visit those springs. And something terrible always happens.”
I dropped my fork, and it clanged against my plate. “Something terrible?”
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Miller went on. “The springs help a blind man see again, but two months later all his cows die. Or his brother is struck by lightning. There’s always bad to go with the good.”
Please tell me, my darling friend, did you get your wish?
I felt myself floating away again, drifting up away from my husband, friends, and neighbors.
“Absolute bunk,” Will said, stabbing a fork full of green beans. “It’s terrible.” He shook his head. “Those poor people. It was such a special place. It’s an awful bit of news—both the fire and the death of Mrs. Harding—but bad things happen, and when they do, we have to let them go and move on. No sense in giving in to superstition.”
I wanted to tell him how the springs and hotel and our baby are all connected, how the fire was a kind of sign, a bad omen.
But I said nothing. I just floated up and up until they were all little specks down on the ground, and me… I disappeared right into the clouds.
November 11, 1929
The stock market has collapsed, and banks are closing all over. I fear we’re in for dire times. Will tells me not to worry, that we’ll weather the storm, that everyone always needs a doctor and we’ve got plenty of savings. But still, it worries me to bring a baby into the world when things seem so grim.
I do my best. Try to stay calm and happy and always with a smile on my face.
I am Mrs. Monroe,I tell myself.My husband and I will weather the storm.
Closer to home, Myrtle’s husband, Felix, has taken a turn for theworse. It began with a backache and progressed rapidly. He was soon unable to walk and is now in a wheelchair. Myrtle says he’s in terrible pain.
Other than giving Felix laudanum for the pain, Will wasn’t able to help. He found Felix’s spine and hips profoundly damaged. “I’m amazed he’s been able to walk at all considering the damage,” he told me. “He’s got a bullet still lodged in his spine. He should have been crippled for life.”
Myrtle has confided in me that she is going to go back to the springs to get water for Felix. Her eyes are ringed with dark circles now and her face is thinner, more lined than when last I saw her. Her husband’s illness is taking its toll.
I tried to talk her out of it. “There won’t be anything there,” I said. “Just ruins.”
“The hotel may be gone, but the springs must still flow,” she said.
“It might be dangerous,” I told her, remembering the newspaper photo of the cellar hole, the still-smoking remains of the hotel.
“I have to try,” she said. “It’s the only hope for my poor Felix.”
She left yesterday morning in the auto she barely knows how to drive.
I find myself staring out at the gray sky, the bare trees like angry stick figures trembling in the cold November wind, and worrying over her. Did she find her way to Brandenburg? What did she find there?
Despite being a churchgoing woman, I am not much for praying. Not in the traditional way, at least. Still, I lit a candle for Myrtle. “Please keep her safe,” I whispered. Then I went into the bathroom, took out my pin, and scratched a littleMjust above my ankle.
November 12, 1929
Myrtle arrived on my doorstep bundled up in a heavy coat, a wool hat, and a thick scarf. I was so relieved that I threw my arms around her andkissed her cheek. She stood still as a statue and seemed to stiffen at my touch. I led her inside and we settled in the kitchen with a pot of tea and some fresh apple cake. The kitchen was cozy, but she kept her coat on. “I can’t get warm,” she insisted. She gave me a glass jar of water from the springs. It seemed to glow in the jar—only a trick of light, the way the gas light overhead hit the glass, but still, I felt I was holding a jar of stars. A little “Ooh!” of joy escaped my lips.
I had a thousand questions: Was any part of the hotel left? What about the gardens? The peacocks?
Then Myrtle told her story. “The pool was untouched by the fire. There was a fence around it still standing, and it was left locked, but someone had broken the chain. The front gate was open when I arrived,” she said. She paused. “And there was someone there, in the water.”
