London, England.
May, 1665.
The next morning, Mother does not wake at the usual hour. Father checks on her and realizes she has the symptoms of the illness. He wakes me and Lem up with an urgent yell. He tells us to dress and get down to the shop as quickly as we can. There is a panic in his voice.
“Hurry,” Father shouts.
“Father, what is the matter?” I ask.
“Quickly go down to the shop,” he says urgently.
“But what about breakfast?” Lem asks while rubbing his eyes.
“Get. Downstairs. Now,” says Father.
We go downstairs into the shop.
“Your Mother is sick. You must stay here. In the shop,” Father tells us.
“I will make breakfast,” I offer.
“No, Rose. This sickness is very contagious,” says Father. “Do you know what that means? It means it spreads … very quickly and easily. You cannot cook breakfast. You cannot go into the kitchen. You cannot be in the apartment at all. You must stay away from Mother.”
“Come now, Father. It’s not like Mother has the Plague,” Lem snickers. I suppose he thinks Father is overreacting to a simple headache or fatigue.
Suddenly, Father grabs Lem with both hands and clenches Lem’s shirt between his fists. Lem is surprised. So am I. Father is never angry.
“Do not name it!” he growls.
“Father!” I gasp in astonishment.
Father looks at me. Then, he lets go of Lem’s shirt.
“You will ruin any chance of survival if people find out. Not. One. Word!”
“Is it? Is it really the sickness?” Lem says, shocked. “It can’t be. It can’t.”
“How can you tell?” I ask.
Father steps back and puts his hands on his hips. He is thinking. Working things out.
“She has fever. I see painful buboes around her neck.” He looks at me, knowing it needs more explanation. “Buboes are swellings in tissue. It looks like little chicken eggs hiding under the skin. And she has muscle cramps,” he says. “It is the sickness.”
Lem grows pale white like cream. I think he is about to throw up. It is true. Mother has the Plague.
“Lem, help me move these bags. We must clear a space for you both to sleep.”
“We are to sleep in the shop?” asks Lem.
“Yes, you are not to come upstairs. I will take care of the meals. And Mother.”
Father looks Lem in the eyes.
“You stay in the shop. No going out with those friends of yours,” he warns.
I start to panic. It is all so … sudden.
“What about the deliveries? The customers?” Lem asks.
Father looks over to the door and then back to us.
“The shop is closed. Do you hear me? You do not open the door to anyone.”
Father quickly starts moving bags. Lem joins him.
I begin to cry.
“It will be all right, Rose,” Father says. “You just wait and see. Together, you and I will create a medicinal oil that will heal Mother. Do not worry. It will be all right.”
From that day forward, the shop is closed. Sometimes, merchants and ship captains cup their hands around their eyes and look through the windows to see inside. Sometimes, they knock on the door. But the door stays locked.
“Closed,” Lem yells out to the customers as he waves them to go.
Father brings down our clothes. Some blankets from our beds. He puts out a bowl and pitcher filled with wine to wash our hands.
Lem wears the same thing every day. His cotton shirt is the color of milk. His boots are like mine — the color of coffee beans. His breeches are the color of burnt bread.
After a few days, terrible-looking boys bang on the window and whistle for Lem from outside the shop. They are dirty and loud. Lem yells at them through the window.
“Later,” he calls.
I figure those awful boys must be the gang Father and Mother dislike so much.
We stay in the shop morning and night. Listening to Father’s footsteps upstairs in our apartment. During the day, Lem whittles a stick with his pocketknife. I keep myself busy sweeping the floor and counting the spice bags.
Father leaves us notes on our meal trays …
Lem: burn this note and wash your hands after you read it
Rose: please measure out …
1 tablespoon of cumin
1 teaspoon of mint
2 dashes of coriander
1 tablespoon of fennel
Every meal, we have a new note requesting new ingredients. He attempts many versions over the week.
I worry about Mother. And Father.
At night, I change into my nightgown in the darkest corner of the shop while my brother turns his back. Lem goes to bed in his clothes.
I have trouble sleeping. I toss and turn.
“Rose, go to sleep!” Lem says.
“I’m trying,” I whisper. “Lem?”
“What?”
“What is the Plague?”
He rolls over and looks at the ceiling. “It’s a sickness spreading through the city,” he says to me. “The ship captains and customers whisper about it like it’s a secret too scary to say out loud.”
“People who get it get better, don’t they?” I ask, worried.
It takes a long moment for my brother to answer my question. “People die,” he whispers.
“I’m scared,” I say with panic growing again inside my belly. “Aren’t you scared?”
Lem wildly rolls over on his side away from me.
“The only thing that scares me is being stuck in this shop for the rest of my life,” Lem hisses. “Go to sleep or stay awake all night. Your choice. But wake me up again and you’ll be sorry!”
I tear up. I try to keep my sobs silent, but I make gulping sounds when I breathe. After a while, Lem turns to me.
“Rose … stop. I’m sorry. Stop crying.”
“I’m scared.”
“Come here.”
He scooches over to me on the floor, reaches out his hand, and gently rubs my forehead. Like Mother does when I can’t sleep.
“Rose, you need to sleep. We are helping them. You mix the ingredients for Father. I take care of you. It’s time to sleep …”
The weight of his hand on my forehead makes me relax. I breathe in deeply and quiet my anxiety. His touch is soft and gentle. I close my eyes.
“Sleep” he whispers.
He moves his hand away from my head. I open my eyes and look over to him. He takes my hand in his hand. Then, he closes his eyes.
Soon, he falls asleep. He snores so loud I am sure his snores will disturb Father and Mother. But I don’t let go of his hand.
Mother dies on a Sunday. I know it is Sunday because I hear the church bells ringing.
Ding-dong.
Ding-dong.
Ding-dong.
In deep contrast to the grief-stricken beat of my heart.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.