I glance at Marguerite. Her face is placid, her skin soft and ruddy with life. Her chest rises and falls steadily, as if she’s only asleep. “She looks fine. Are you sure there’s nothing you can do for her?”
“No. She may look healthy, but her brain has sustained irreparable trauma. All of her reflexes are gone, apart from basic autonomicfunctions. The best we can do is keep her comfortable until her body gives way.” He shakes his head. “It’s so strange. These things are usually brought on by exceptionally high blood pressures. Marguerite’s pressures have always been normal. The seizures I witnessed when I first arrived are more in line with what I’ve seen with eclamptic mothers.”
“What does that mean, ‘eclamptic’?”
“Before labor, it’s called ‘pre-eclampsia.’ It can cause headaches and swollen legs but is often symptomless. It creates severe distress during labor and delivery. Women can die from it if their labors go on too long.”
A memory washes over me of the scenes I witnessed in the sanatorium. Marguerite’s swollen ankles. My mother’s birth. Marguerite was in severe distress during labor—the doctor had used a similar word. ‘Eclampsia.’
“Mrs. Hill, I’d like to examine you, if you wouldn’t mind. You’re not looking well, yourself, I must say.”
“Of course.”
He comes to my side, listens to my heart and lungs, takes my pulse, and examines my eyes, then asks to look at my gums. “Have you been having shortness of breath? Spells of weakness? Fainting?”
“Yes. I just had one yesterday.”
“Do you remember when you started your last menstrual cycle?”
“I . . . I don’t recall.”
“You’re severely anemic. It’s very likely you’re pregnant. I want you to take two full spoonfuls of blackstrap molasses every day and eat as much red meat as possible. If you keep having fainting spells, I’ll need to admit you to the hospital for observation.”
“Pregnant?” My head spins, on par with the pain.
“Is that a surprise to you?” He smiles. “Many women find themselves in the family way before their first anniversaries, Mrs. Hill. You wouldn’t be the only one.”
I almost laugh for joy, but then I think of Marguerite, and my mood grows somber. My hand goes to my belly. If I’m expecting, she’llnever know this baby. Never meet him or her. Her great-grandchild will grow up never knowing the sound of her laughter. Her stories. Her smile.
I take her hand in mine, tracing the raised network of veins on its back. She’s been many things in her lifetime. A daughter. A sister. A lover. I’m not ready to let her go. She’s family. My mother’s mother. Blood of my blood.
“I’ll leave you alone with her,” Dr. Gallagher says, his hand resting on my back. “I’ll stop by at the end of my rounds to give her more morphia for the night. Make sure she stays warm, comfortable. And talk to her. Sometimes it helps to hear a familiar voice.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
He nods and leaves us, shutting the door behind him.
I curl up next to Marguerite, cradling her childlike form, and cry.
Sadie, wake up. You have to wake up. Wake up, Sadie,Wake Up!
The voice startles me awake, sometime in the middle of the night. Marguerite lies motionless next to me, her breathing shallow. But she’s still here. Still alive.
I lie still, my heart hammering, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. And that’s when I see Iris, silhouetted in the window. The moonlight shines through her form. She’s crying, her sobs soft and muted.
“Iris?” I whisper. “What’s wrong?”
We don’t have long.
Her voice is a soft rush of wind inside my head.Hours now. Once she’s gone, it will be too late. You must think of the baby.
“The baby?”
Yes. Come now. Hurry.
She trails past the foot of the bed, her eyes resting on Marguerite.I must betray you, my love. Only this once.
I follow Iris’s spirit through the hall, down the stairs, past Beckett’s sleeping form, his head resting on the dining room table. Iris leads me to the library. I follow her up to the tower. My eyes land on a new painting, perched on an easel between Iris’s image and Marguerite’s self-portrait. It’s me. She’s paintedmeover Weston’s former portrait, seated in my favorite chair in the library, my head turned toward the window. The paint is still wet. She must have finished it recently, in the past few days.
