Dennis shook his head. “Two died, two survived.”
“That’s better odds than the doctor gave my mother,” Patrick said. “How can I get it to her?”
That was the problem. The laboratory with the serum was in Queens, and the ferries would stop running soon. It would take hours to get the serum here, but she would try.
“I’ll get you the serum,” she began, and Mr. O’Neill let out a mighty breath and sagged against the kitchen wall. This was no easy cure, and she needed to be sure he understood. She grabbed both his shoulders and forced him to meet her gaze. “Mr. O’Neill, please understand, this is a long shot. The serum may not save your mother’s life, and it might even make things worse. We simply don’t know enough yet.”
He looked like he wanted to weep. “I understand, ma’am. I know you can’t work miracles, but there’s nothing worse than having no hope.”
She nodded, but it would take a herculean feat to gather all the people necessary to administer the treatment, and she didn’t know if they had enough time to make it happen. The treatment was new and risky. They failed as often as they succeeded, but they would try.
“Go back to your mother,” she said, “and start praying, because the next few hours are going to be harder than you can imagine.”
12
By the time Patrick arrived home, the apartment was crowded with a priest, a pair of nuns, and the O’Shea family waiting in the front room.
“Any change?” he asked Mrs. O’Shea.
“She’s asleep,” the older woman said. “Have you got the medicine?”
He shook his head. “The doctor and his assistants are on their way, but the serum is in Queens. I was told if we can get it to her before sunrise, she’ll have a fighting chance.”
But no guarantee. He slumped on the couch and listened to the O’Sheas gab with the priest, but he couldn’t join in. It was hard not to watch the clock, but every few minutes his eyes strayed over to it. Ten o’clock. Then eleven. Soon it was midnight, and still no sign of Mrs. Kellerman and her serum. Was it only snake oil? Had he been getting his hopes up over a pipe dream?
A little before one o’clock, the clomping of hooves sounded in the lane below. He stuck his head out the window and spotted a carriage with four horses galloping through the deserted streets towards their building. Mrs. Kellerman sat beside the driver on the front buckboard.
“Up here!” he hollered from the open window, heedless of the late hour. Who cared about sleep when his mother’s life was on the line?
A few minutes later Mrs. Kellerman and a stocky man with a graying mustache and a bald pate came bustling into the apartment. Two younger men edged inside as well.
“I am Dr. Haas,” the old man said in a thick German accent. “I’ve brought a pair of research students who are helping me with the study. This is Hiram Schuller from Brooklyn and Jake Gold from Oklahoma.”
Patrick nodded to the men. “Good. My mother is in the back room.”
“Not so fast,” Dr. Haas said. “I need you to understand that this serum is experimental. It may help your mother, but it is just as likely to cause her symptoms to worsen. We must monitor the entire process.”
“I understand,” he said, gesturing toward the bedroom, but Mrs. Kellerman laid a hand on his arm.
“What Dr. Haas is saying is that your mother will become a test subject. He will measure and document her symptoms. He will need to take photographs too. I know it seems like a terrible invasion of her privacy, but it’s necessary to help us develop the serum.”
One of the young men held a bulky camera, and Patrick cringed at the idea of photographs. Birdie wouldn’t like being seen by strangers the way she looked. The muscles in her face had seized to draw her mouth into a grotesque smile she couldn’t move.
“I’ll be sure she understands,” Patrick said.
“The procedure is painful,” Dr. Haas said. “We will need to inject the serum directly into her spinal column.”
A wave of dizziness overcame Patrick, and he nearly fainted. “Lord above, is there nowhere else you can give it to her?”
“The other alternative is a direct injection into the brain, which would involve drilling a hole in the patient’s skull, and that adds to the risk.”
“Let’s go for the spine,” Patrick said, praying this wasn’t all a terrible mistake that would cause his mother even more suffering on her way to the other side.
He led Dr. Haas into the bedroom, then knelt beside the bed, wincing at Birdie’s hideous grin that starkly contrasted the fear in her eyes. She lay on her side because her twisted spine made lying any other way impossible.
“These are the specialists I told you about, Ma. They’ll need to examine you before they can use that special medicine. Maybe take a couple of photographs. Don’t be embarrassed. They know more about this disease than anyone in the world, and someday this is going to help a lot of people. Will that be okay?”
She couldn’t speak, only nod.
