Nine

She stayed up most of the night taking care of her plan. But the two hours of sleep she snatched before dawn revived her. That and the two pills from Dr. Hazzard’s bottle. She did look them over before swallowing, remembering Claude’s caution. But these were green. Probably tea or ground-up spinach, not the red or purple ones Claude referred to at all.

The April morning sang to her, and at the dock she greeted Claude, her voice sounding a little louder than intended, but then water heightened the velocity of one’s voice. “Did you sleep well, Dr. Millikan?”

“I did indeed. And you? Did you have sweet dreams?”

How did the man know? “Dreams to add to my slumber.”

Claude helped her into the boat, climbed in after her, and they rode in silence to the music of the oars and the water swishing against the wooden boat. “I wonder if Sam makes this same crossing.” She spoke her thoughts out loud. “He says he has his own boat.”

“There’s a crossing farther up, miss.” William pointed with his chin. “On Finney Creek. Keeps it as a private dock for staff to come and go. Can pick up the Seattle ferry from there too.”

Grace looked at Claude. “You’re staff.”

“Apparently not in the same category as the Hazzards or the nurses.”

That news pleased her. He was different than the Hazzards. Even they recognized it.

At the sanatorium, Claude went his separate way up to the laboratory and Grace headed to Dr. Hazzard’s office. The woman waited for her. “Good morning, Miss Hathaway. So pleased to see you.”

“Likewise,” Grace said. She curtsied. Good heavens, she hadn’t done that since she was Caroline’s age.

“Let’s check your valise.”

Grace handed it to her with ease.

“Yes. Everything looks fine. Still hoping to find an occasion for the ukulele, I see.”

“Only if it is deemed to be helpful. Sometimes if people are quite upset or very conscious of pain, music can alter their awareness and move them to a more restful place.”

Dr. Hazzard grunted. “Let’s get your weight then.”

Grace stepped onto the big white scale. Nurse Johnson stood poised to write the number down. “You’ve gained four ounces.” Dr. Hazzard clucked her tongue. “Did you have dinner last evening?”

“Only cornmeal and tea. That’s allowed, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But four ounces . . . that’s not a good sign. You should be losing four ounces, not gaining. Did you take the pills?”

Grace nodded.

“Well, what are we to do then?”

“I think, if you had room, I would do better as a patient here, where you could monitor what I’m doing.”

“I was trying to save you money by having you stay in the village.”

“I know. You’re so kind.”

“I don’t have a nurse available to be off site . . .”

“Perhaps, if I might be so bold. My friend, Mrs. Holmes, is in a large room now. There would be room for a single bed there and I could possibly assist in having her feel better about signing the codicil to her will that Mr. Hazzard mentioned to me. Have you ever put more than one patient into a room?”

“Sometimes. Sisters. Until one’s healing lags so far behind the other that the lack of progress might affect the other’s health.”

“That’s why Claire is in a room alone?”

Dr. Hazzard narrowed her eyes. “That’s no longer an issue. Claire Williamson passed on last night.”

“She . . . she died?” Grace swooned, caught herself on the scale. “Her sister must be beside herself with grief. Perhaps I could sit with her, play music for her. How very terrible.”

“It is terrible. She would not allow herself to heal.”

Of course it would be the Hazzards’ view that it was the patient’s fault when they didn’t improve. Poor Dora! She would have to find her, tell her that the letter went out. If she was able to get food to Rebecca, maybe she could get some to Dora as well.

“Let us return to your health, Miss Hathaway. I do believe it necessary for you to stay here now, to have better oversight of your care.” She tugged at another face hair. “And I think it might be well to have you room with Mrs. Holmes. You have the same resistant parasite. Your weight gain attests to that. This could be well.”

“I didn’t bring a change of clothes with me.”

“Not necessary. We can have your trunk brought here from the hotel.”

“Or I could go back with William today at noon and pick up the trunk.”

“That would be fine. But meanwhile, we have a sanatorium wrapper that is suitable and won’t be a problem with the clyster treatments.”

“Oh. Those.”

“Should you show yet another weight gain tomorrow, we will begin those treatments. Today there’ll be the massage. But first, we will admit you to Mrs. Holmes’s room and arrange things so you can return at noon and then be back to officially become a patient here.”

Her plan was taking shape.

“Rebecca? It’s me, Grace.” The two were alone at last. Grace had changed into the wrapper given her by the nurse, who had left when she thought that Grace had fallen asleep.

Rebecca opened her eyes with recognition this time. A frail smile formed at her lips. Her whole face looked as though the skin was but vellum stretched to cover cheekbones and chin, sunken eye sockets, a narrowing nose, her face as white as a piano key. “Who would have thought it would come to this?” Rebecca said. She looked right into Grace’s eyes.

“It doesn’t have to.” She patted Rebecca’s hand. “Here, I brought you some rice. Your body can’t take much in, but rice will be comforting.”

“I . . . can’t. Dr. Hazzard will be upset. I mustn’t upset her. She’s done so much for me.”

“She’s put me in the room with you, to be your assistant. I’m sure she won’t mind.”

Rebecca blinked. A crust had formed at the corner of her eyes that Grace brushed away with her fingertips, careful not to scratch. She could see roads of blue veins at her temples.

“Are you sure she won’t be upset with me?”

“I’m certain. Here.” Grace took rice and pieces of bread from little cloth bags made from strips of her petticoat. She’d sewed them into the hem of her dress. They likely accounted for her extra weight, but it didn’t matter now. This would work out perfectly. She’d stay a few days, feeding Rebecca, and when she looked strong enough, she would sneak her out.

She’d made the noon trip to the hotel, checking out and bringing her trunk back with her. William scowled the entire time.

“Don’t worry,” she told him. “I’m not staying long.”

“That’s what they all say, miss. But we don’t call the place Starvation Heights for no reason.”

“I’m in good hands. The Lord knows I’m here doing good things for my friend. And hopefully once we help her, we can help others too.”

“You and the doctor doing this thing together, then?”

“No! Oh, no, and please don’t tell him. I’ll be fine.”

“What do I say when he wonders why you’re not making the evening crossing, miss? He’s become attached to you, I’d say.”

“He’s very nice, I agree. Just tell him . . . I was called . . . away . . . and not to worry.”

William grunted, docked the boat, and carried her trunk up to the sanatorium where Sam Hazzard met them.

“I’ll check this for food,” he said.

Grace gave William coins and smiled. She whispered to him, “I’ll be fine.”

Now, here she was with Rebecca with a sliver of cooked rice on her fingertips. She pushed it into the cheek pocket of her friend’s mouth, closed the lips over it. She nearly cried with the feebleness of her friend’s chew. With gentle fingers at Rebecca’s jaw, Grace helped her keep her mouth closed so the rice wouldn’t dribble out.

“Bless you, my friend,” Grace whispered. “May you soon be well. May your appetite be satisfied with life, with your daughter and the memories of Bertrand. May you feel held in God’s hands.”

The effort tired Rebecca, but she swallowed three of the fingertips of rice before falling asleep. Grace finished the little bit of rice from the opened bag, then tucked the dress and remaining bags of rice and bread onto the hook with the hem showing not a trace of deception. The bread was of little value, given that it would take too much energy to chew it. She’d save it for herself. Still, she couldn’t afford to gain weight. That would only increase the good doctor’s interest in her care.

When the nurse did not return, Grace donned a simple dress. She didn’t want anyone stopping her as she meandered around. Patients who could still walk were permitted to sit in the gardens and they didn’t all wear wrappers. She could always say if asked that she sought her assistant. Or pretend to be one. The person she looked for was Dora. She wanted to comfort her over the loss of her sister and to tell her that the letter to her nanny had gone out. Her prayers were answered when she opened a door to one of the rooms. A nurse sat at the foot of the bed reading, but Grace recognized the formerly elegant nightdress now faded nearly as pale as Dora Williamson’s face.

“I’m a new assistant,” she said. “I was told you might wish a break. How is she handling the death of her sister?”

“We have not told her. Dr. Hazzard fears it will distress her and set her own progress back.”

“I see. I can sit here if you’d like.”

The nurse nodded and took her book with her. Once again, Grace was without a musical instrument except for the one she was born with, and she began to sing softly, this time a hymn that was also a prayer as most were. “Be thou my vision,” Grace sang, the words bringing comfort to her own soul. She looked to see if Dora’s eyes fluttered or if her fingers scratched at the sheets, any sign that she was still alive and might be hearing this prayer sung by a stranger. When she heard a small sound, she stood and, leaning over Dora’s bed, she put new words to the tune she’d been singing. “You sent a letter, seeking kind help. I heard your cry and the letter went out. Now we await the most caring of souls; we pray for your healing, thanking heaven who knows.”

Dora’s eyes did not open but they fluttered. Grace touched her hand, then jerked as Dr. Hazzard barked, “What are you doing in here!”

“Dr. Hazzard. Just comforting Dora. The nurse—”

“Took a break. Yes, she told me you told her I’d sent you.”

“I never assumed that.” Grace pressed her hand to her heart. “I just said she might wish a break. I’m only trying to be helpful.”

“Helpful is when you do as you are told. She’ll return momentarily. Meanwhile, come with me. It’s time for your massage.”

Grace looked back to see if Dora moved, gave any indication she might have heard what Grace sang. All she saw was a tear that had leaked from Dora’s eye, still closed to the dark sadness of this world the Hazzards now caged her in.

“Ow! Ouch! Must you pound so hard?”

Dr. Hazzard was using Grace’s body like a mass of bread dough, pummeling it from shoulder to calves, then back up again, shouting, “Eliminate! Eliminate!” Each time she struck Grace with the side of her palms.

“Ouch! You must be bruising me.”

“You won’t bruise, if you’ve been taking the pills I gave you.”

“I have. Ouch! Please. That’s so painful.”

“The parasite is resistant. It must be beaten from your body. Eliminate!” Dr. Hazzard kneaded her back now and shoulders, giving Grace slight relief before once again pummeling her like a pillow of old feathers needing harsh fluffing. “Finished!”

Grace eased into sitting, her body tingling at every cell, screaming for calm. However did Rebecca or any of the others so wizened ever survive this?

“It’s time for Rebecca’s massage. I’ll be down shortly.”

“Wait.”

“What? Are you challenging me, Miss Hathaway?”

“I mean could we wait? She may be more likely to discuss the codicil if she’s not aching from—oh, I know you only do this to eliminate the poisons in our bodies.” Grace responded to the frown on Dr. Hazzard’s face. “Perhaps put off the clyster syringe treatment for a few days as well?” She was sure that if Claude had been feeding Rebecca for a week or more and she was now adding rice that Dr. Hazzard might become suspicious about the . . . output of a clyster treatment.

“She already had her clyster treatment this morning.” Dr. Hazzard hesitated. “We will delay the massage until tomorrow so you can assure her the codicil is exactly what she asked for.”

Grace worked her way back to Rebecca’s room and was rewarded by seeing her friend sitting up. “Grace.” Her hand wave was like a descending leaf dropped onto her lap. “I dreamed you were here. That you fed me rice. I often dream of food.”

“Do you dream of other things? Home? Caroline?”

She blinked back tears. “I do.”

“Look, I brought you something from Caroline. We can’t hang it up because the Hazzards thought it would upset you, bring bad memories.” Grace unrolled the paper that Dr. Hazzard had overlooked as she sought only contraband food.

“It’s the Columbia River. Oh Grace—” Her voice faltered. “I do want to go home, but I don’t know that I’m ever going to be well enough. Dr. Hazzard says I’m not getting any better.”

“You just need to eat more.”

“But Dr. Hazzard—”

Grace put her fingers to Rebecca’s lips. “Sh-h-h.” She walked to the dress and removed a stitch, taking out another packet of rice. “It wasn’t a dream, Rebecca. It’s time we got you strong enough so you can leave.”