Father leaves a note on the breakfast tray the morning Mother passes away.
Dear children,
Burn this note and wash your hands after you read it.
Mother has died. Have mercy on her soul.
Do not come upstairs!
There will be no burial. She must stay where she is.
It is too dangerous for anyone to come into the apartment.
Children, I have the sickness now.
I have the same symptoms as Mother: fever, buboes on my neck, and muscle cramps. I will make a plan to keep you safe.
Mother had you in her thoughts until the end.
She wanted you to know you are loved.
— Father
Lem reads the note aloud. Then, he lights a match and burns Father’s note.
“No!” I exclaim and reach for the burning paper. I want to keep that note. It is my last thread tying me to my mother.
Lem holds the burning paper higher than I can reach.
“We have to burn it, Rose. Father says.”
When it is almost totally burned, he drops it onto the metal scale on Father’s desk.
I drop to my knees and sob. I am so full of grief.
Lem washes his hands.
Then, he slides to the floor and sits stunned with his back against the leg of Father’s desk.
I shudder every time I try to catch my breath. I grieve for Mother. For Father having the sickness. My sadness feels like a bag of rocks on my chest.
The following days are a blur to me. I don’t bother to brush my hair or put on fresh clothes. I cannot sleep. Nothing changes, yet it seems everything is so very different.
Lem mourns in a unique manner. He is sparked with energy. He devours his meals, and, because I have no appetite, he finishes mine as well. He cleans his boots so well he could eat off of them. He moves the spice bags here and there despite the fact the shop is closed for business. He uses his pocketknife to carve a stick.
I cannot move and Lem cannot sit still.
Every morning there is a new note with a new request for spices.
Burn this note and wash your hands after you read it.
1 tablespoon clove
1 teaspoon lemon
1 tablespoon cinnamon
There is something missing in this recipe but my fever overtakes me. What is missing?
“He writes the notes to you,” Lem says as he burns the note after reading it aloud.
“Would you like to help?” I ask.
Lem doesn’t answer. He goes back to his knife and piece of stick. I wonder if he is making something specific. Or maybe he just doesn’t know what to do with himself.
Having a job. A purpose. A need to help Father. These things wake me from my grief. I look forward to nothing else but getting the next morning’s note. I read the ingredients. Memorize them. Wash my hands. And then I take down the respective spice oils and measure out the requested quantities. Sometimes, I write notes back to Father with suggestions.
Should we add eucalyptus oil?
It is beneficial for aches and pains, is it not?
I miss you, Father.
Love,
Rose
I place the note and oils on the tray for Lem to leave at the top of the stairs.
We work together, Father and me, sorting out a medicinal oil that would cure him.
One morning, our breakfast tray contains a note and there are two of Father’s good cotton handkerchiefs.
The note reads:
Dear children,
I have worked out what was missing from the recipe. Unfortunately, it is too late for me to use it. The oil is not a cure for the Plague. Once you have the sickness, it will take you. However, I think this oil might protect you from catching the illness.
1 tablespoon clove
1 teaspoon lemon
1 tablespoon cinnamon
1 tablespoon eucalyptus
And 1 tablespoon of my favorite spice. You know the one, Rose.
Directions to use the oil:
Put a few drops of this oil on a cloth. Hold the cloth over your mouth and nose as if it were a mask. It should act as a barrier to the illness. You can also use it on the skin to treat pain and infections. Or use it as a cleaner.
Do NOT tell anyone that you have this oil.
People are scared to death of this illness and will do anything for protection against it.
They will lie, cheat, steal, and kill for it.
Keep it secret. Trust no one.
I wish for many things.
I wish I had more time with your darling mother. I wish we had moved to the country like she always wanted. I wish you, children, could have had more education.
Too many wishes and not enough time.
My children. You are loved. Deeply and eternally loved.
Now burn this note and wash your hands.
I will summon you soon. To say goodbye.
— Father.
I read the note twice before Lem burns it. I cannot believe my eyes. He used the word he forbade Lem to say out loud. The Plague. Father wrote the name of the sickness. The Plague.
Lem stares out the window.
I make Father’s oil recipe. I take the necessary bottles of oil down starting with the lemon oil. I measure, pour, and blend these oils into glass containers. I make three bottles of Father’s oil.
Not long after, Father summons us by ringing a bell.
We see him at the top of the stairs. He is much thinner, much whiter, and much frailer than before. Lem and I begin to walk up the stairs side by side, and immediately Father holds a handkerchief up to his mouth.
“Stop there!” he says strictly. “Your masks! You need your masks for protection! Go sprinkle the oil extract on the handkerchiefs and put them up to your faces at once!”
Lem and I turn and run back down the stairs. Lem takes one of the bottles and sprinkles the two cloths with the oil.
He hands one cloth to me and keeps the other for himself.
“Over your mouth and nose,” I remind Lem.
We hurry back to the stairs and slowly walk up to Father.
“Stop there!” he says when we are halfway up the staircase.
“Children, the time has come. You must leave.”
It is then I notice the scarlet drops of blood on Father’s own handkerchief. “Here,” says Father. “Here is all the money we have. I washed it with wine. And Mother’s silver spoons. Clean as well!” Father throws a bag that clanks down the stairs.
“Sell or trade the spoons for what you can. Food. Shelter,” Father tells Lem.
Lem picks up the bag and holds it in his hand.
“When that is gone, you must steal what you must to survive,” he chokes out in between coughing fits.
Father’s order to steal goes against everything he has taught us to be right and reasonable. I feel both hot and cold at the same time.
“Leave this place,” Father hacks as he looks from me to Lem.
“Do not come back.” His tone is low and serious “Steal. Trade. Survive.”
“Take care of Rose,” he says directly to Lem. “Do you hear me? Take care of her!”
“No. No. No,” I protest as tears flow down my cheeks. “I can take care of you, Father …” Panic rises inside of me again. I cannot swallow it down.
“Lem, do not let her come back! Do you hear me?” Father demands. “I shall set fire to the shop after you leave. I can’t go to my death knowing someone else will catch the Plague from this house. I must burn it.”
I am hit by a wave of shock at this idea. Burning our home? Burning the shop? Unbelievable.
“No!” I yell.
“We must do what we can to stop this,” Father says. “Go! Now!” Father strains to shout. He is a man who does not raise his voice. Ever. “Go!” His voice booms in the night.
Lem picks up the bag of money and silver spoons. Then, he turns and runs. I follow him. Down the stairs. Out the front door of the shop. There is a drizzle of rain falling on the dirt road outside, as if angels are sending tears from the heavens. Suddenly, I remember Father’s medicinal oil!
“Lem … we need to get the oil. Wait for me,” I call. I run back. I grab the bottles and quickly put them in a canvas sack I find nearby.
I feel like I’m drowning. There is a darkness surrounding me. I desperately try to breathe, but there’s no air. I am flooded with waves of panic. Time stops. I am sinking.
Suddenly, there is a flash of lightning. The drizzle of rain has become a storm. A thunderclap brings me a moment of perfect clarity. I breathe. I smell fire from the apartment upstairs.
“Wait, Lem! Wait for me,” I scream. I clutch the canvas sack in my right hand and run for the door.
Lem is far ahead. I see the outline of his body through the rain. He waits at the end of the street. I run after him. Panicked. Homeless. Alone in a world that has quickly turned upside down.