Suling came to with a jolt. The church bells were tolling, but it was a wild uneven jangle of noise. There was a din of crashing timber and a final metallic reverberation. She stood up and immediately fell down again as the ground heaved. You couldn’t be a native of San Francisco without recognizing an earthquake, and this was a big one. There would be aftershocks to come, ones that would do more damage than just rattle china cabinets.
Still on her hands and knees, Suling peered through the dim morning light, straining to make out St. Christina’s, but she couldn’t see through the dust in the air, not all the way across the road. She could only see as far as the streetlamps on the sidewalk. And the streetlamps were swaying, tilting madly. Filbert Street surged and buckled to the sound of shattering glass. The tremors were getting worse. Suling dived under the marble bench. She shut her eyes and pulled the laundry bag over her head. Deafening roars and crashing sounds of falling masonry. Then came the screams. Screams of terror, screams for help. A sickening fear clutched her insides, not for herself but for Reggie, locked in, unable to escape.
When the ground finally stopped shuddering, Suling rolled out from under the bench and saw that the entrance of the portico was blocked by a chest-high pile of timbers and brick. In a panic, she began tossing aside pieces of rubble. The dust was so thick she had to tie a kerchief over her nose and mouth. With strength she never knew she had, Suling dislodged a wooden beam from the wreckage and used it to push away the debris. She finally cleared her way out, kicking aside broken bricks as she ran to the street.
She paused to look back. The church’s bell tower had fallen and so had its walls. Dust still drifted up from the ruins. But squat and solid, the portico that sheltered her still stood intact. She had no idea how much time it had taken for her to break free, but the sun shone brightly overhead in a clear blue sky, revealing a scene of unimaginable destruction. Sections of the street had warped, rising and falling like a broken roller coaster. A strip of cobblestones curled back as though peeled away by a giant hand. Wooden houses tipped at precarious angles, their brick chimneys collapsed. Some had been lifted several feet above their foundations and residents were jumping off and helping one another get out.
Milkmen and delivery boys had been on the streets when the earthquake struck. Now they joined in excavating the debris, with shovels and axes if they had them, with bare hands if they didn’t. Some shouted at passersby for help uncovering people from under the wreckage. Apart from these shouts for help, people were strangely quiet, whether from shock or disbelief. One man soothed a whinnying horse, hitched to a wagon that had fallen down a wide crack in the ground, while two others worked to cut free its harness.
Dreading what she might see, Suling crossed the intersection. The bulky outline of St. Christina’s jutted through a haze of dust and in front of it, an avalanche of bricks and stonework poured across the road. The convent’s entire streetside wall had fallen down, leaving the interior intact, all the rooms and their furniture visible, as though a huge dollhouse had been opened up.
But the people coming out weren’t dolls. Some women were half-dressed, others fully clothed, and they were weirdly calm clambering over the fallen bricks. The ground-floor rooms and connecting hallways were open to the street, yet the women were leaving through the front door. Perhaps they were dazed or perhaps it was out of habit.
“Take it slowly, Sister,” one of them said, “watch out for those iron fence posts poking up through the bricks.”
“I’m all right,” the other nun said. “I can get to the street myself from here. You go help Bridget, I saw her in the cloister. She looked confused.”
Nuns, novices, and workers were picking their way through the rubble. But what about the patients? Suling scanned the second story of the convent. Outside walls and arched windows gone, a row of doors was visible, spaced along the corridor that stretched across the width of the building. Doors to patients’ rooms. Even from where she stood, she could hear cries, but she couldn’t see anyone opening those doors, couldn’t see anyone getting the patients out of a building that could fall apart any minute.
Suling scrambled over the wreckage toward the hospital. She had to get Reggie out of there before the next aftershock. It was coming and when it did, it would be bad.
“Stay back!” a man shouted from the street. “Stay away from the building!”
She ignored the warning cries. Climbing over a pile of bricks and stonework, she clambered into a room simply furnished with a narrow bed, a chest of drawers, and a wooden chair. A crucifix hung on the wall above a calendar. She opened the bedroom door and stepped into a long hallway steeped in darkness and looked to the right, where a well of light shone dimly through dust. It was the stairwell, open to the second floor.
A door close to the staircase opened and a nun stepped out, holding a long key chain.
“Hello?” Suling called. The nun swung around. She was a young woman, cheeks plump and face unlined.
“Are you hurt? Do you need help?” she said, hurrying toward Suling. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for my friend,” Suling said. “Please, Sister, I don’t know what name she was admitted under, perhaps Regina Reynolds or Nellie Doyle, but she’s tall with curly dark hair and green eyes. She’s an artist.”
The nun looked at her more carefully. “You’re the boy who was here last night. But you’re not a boy, are you?” A pause, then, “Well, what does it matter now. I think your friend is here, she’s on the third floor. I’m going to get all the patients out. Come with me.”
The nun cautioned Suling, “Stay near the wall when you climb the stairs.” They reached the second floor and heard cries for help from behind the doors, sounds of pounding fists.
“It’s all right,” the young nun called. “There’s been an earthquake. I’m unlocking all the doors.”
In the first room a woman with cropped gray hair sat in a chair, back to the door. She faced what had been a wall, now open to the courtyard below.
“She’s looking at the courtyard garden,” the nun said. She spoke very calmly, as though giving a tour of the facilities. “The building is a quadrangle and all the patients’ rooms have windows looking onto the garden. We have rooms on the north and south sides, staircases at either end.” As conversationally as though it were just an ordinary day.
She shook the woman by the shoulder. “Genevieve, please go down the stairs then out to the street. You’ll see Sister Margaret there.”
The woman looked up, her face blank. “Yes, Sister Anne,” she said, but made no move to get up.
Sister Anne sighed. “We must release as many as we can. Either they’ll leave or they won’t.”
Suling paused when the nun turned to look at San Francisco, their view unobstructed by walls or window frames. She had known this was a bad earthquake, the severest she’d ever experienced. And now she realized it was infinitely worse than she ever imagined. A shattered city stretched as far as Suling could see, plumes of smoke in the distance. Her ears caught the faraway jangling of alarm bells.
Suling followed the nun, who now moved swiftly along the corridor unlocking doors as she went. Some of the patients needed coaxing, others refused, but most burst out and ran as fast as they could down the staircase.
Sister Anne turned to Suling. “At first, I thought it was the Apocalypse, but it’s only an earthquake. We can save our patients from an earthquake.” It occurred to Suling that the young woman must be in shock, her calmness unnatural and unnerving.
“We can save them faster if both of us do it,” Suling said. “Sister, give me your keys to the third floor. I’ll run upstairs and start unlocking. Which room is my friend in?”
The nun slipped a ring of keys off the long chain dangling from the crook of her arm and handed it over. She gave Suling a stern look. “All the doors, do you promise? Not just hers. The door numbers are on the keys. Just tell them to get out. It’s not safe.” As if to emphasize her words, a remaining section of window arch crashed down to join the wreckage below.
Suling sprinted up the stairs. It was a good thing Sister Anne hadn’t told her Reggie’s room number because she would’ve gone straight there and ignored all the others, the ones pounding and crying to be let out, the ones who were silent. She unlocked doors as fast as the keys could turn, hoping this one, this time, would open to show a familiar, beloved face. She shouted into each room, “Get out, get out! Earthquake! Down to the street!” then ran to the next, working her way along the corridor.
And then, with only two rooms left, she found Reggie.
Suling couldn’t believe the woman sitting on the narrow bed was her beloved. The black curls were gone, her hair clipped close to the skull. And she was so thin, so pale, her lips dry and cracked. She opened her eyes and that was the worst of all. Flat, dull green, like stagnant water. There was no sparkle, no spirit. The woman turned away from Suling and closed her eyes.
Suling fought the urge to run to Reggie’s side, to stroke the poor, shaven head, to pull her close. Because she knew that if she did, she would never get to the two remaining rooms and two women might die trapped in their cells. She wrenched herself away and unlocked the last two doors, shouted at the women to leave, not bothering to see whether they did or not.
Then she returned and knelt in front of Reggie, kissed her hands, trying not to weep over the broken nails, the scarred wrists. And then Reggie’s grip tightened.
“Suling?” she said. “Are you really here? Is this real?” Her voice was hesitant and it made Suling want to cry even more, the absence of all that breezy confidence.
“Yes, Reggie, it’s me,” Suling said, stifling her sobs. She had to be strong for Reggie, strong enough for them both. “I’m here. Oh, I’ve been so afraid for you. It’s all right now, but we must get out of here. There’s been an earthquake. Let’s get you dressed.”
“Suling,” Reggie said, clutching at her hands. “I’ve seen you so often but it’s never been real.”
“I’m real, I’m real,” Suling said, “only we can’t stay here. We must get out of the building.” But Reggie just smiled the tiniest of smiles and slumped on the bed as though exhausted.
Suling took a flannel dress from the small chest of drawers by the door and slipped it over Reggie’s nightgown. She found socks and shoes, an ill-fitting coat. She prayed Reggie was cognizant enough to understand the urgency of their situation. The timid, slow movements, the uncertain voice. What had they done to her?
Taking Reggie’s hand, Suling led her out of the room, murmuring reassurances. At first, Reggie didn’t even seem to notice the entire side of the building was missing. Then she whispered, “Suling, what’s happened?”
“Earthquake,” Suling replied, guiding her toward the stairwell. At the top of the stairs, she saw Sister Anne coming up.
“Oh good, you’ve found her,” the nun said, from the landing below. “I think all the patients are safely on the ground floor now. We’re getting them out onto the street.” She turned to go back down.
Suling coaxed Reggie to follow, then stumbled back as an aftershock shuddered through the building. She fell forward, hands clutching the edge of the top step. She saw the wooden landing under Sister Anne’s feet detach from the wall. The young nun didn’t make a sound as she fell backward, just looked up as she dropped, bricks and timbers raining around her, her mouth a round “O” of surprise and disappointment.
Suling screamed and rolled away from the staircase, clutching Reggie’s arm.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” Reggie moaned, crumpled on the floor, hands covering her face. Bits of wood and plaster showered down on them. Suling didn’t know what frightened her more, the prospect of dying under a wall of bricks or seeing Reggie like this. She crouched down and hugged Reggie.
Finally, the building gave a sigh and settled. “Dearest love,” Suling whispered. “We must somehow climb down and get away from this building.”
“I want to sleep,” Reggie announced, closing her eyes.
What kind of drugs had they given Reggie? All she could do for now was leave Reggie curled up against a door. Walking quickly to the other end of the corridor, Suling paused at the other staircase. But after what had happened to Sister Anne, could she trust it to stay up? Heart thumping, she turned her gaze down to the street where brick and stone lay in heaps below, none of the piles high enough to reach the third floor. But perhaps there was a way to get down from the second floor. The main thing was to get there.
One floor at a time.
Reggie stumbled but didn’t complain. Suling could barely shoulder her weight as they shuffled along the corridor to the remaining staircase. She prayed it would hold until they got down to the second floor. She made Reggie clasp the handrail beside the wall. The journey was agonizingly slow; the wooden risers under their feet creaked ominously. She moved as gently as she could. Hardly daring to breathe she coaxed Reggie onto the safety of the second-floor corridor. There Suling leaned against the wall to rest, panting. Reggie gave her a dreamy smile and closed her eyes, sinking down to the cool tiles.
Did she dare continue down the staircase? The wooden planks had groaned and rasped with every step. Sister Anne’s face haunted her, the plump cheeks and look of bewildered disappointment, and Suling couldn’t bring herself to take the stairs. She pulled Reggie up again, arms already aching from the strain.
“Come with me, dearest,” she said. “I think there’s another way, messier but probably safer.”
Again, she half dragged Reggie along the corridor, sparing just a quick glance at Filbert Street, which was busier now, police and ambulance carts moving through obstacles in the road. She pulled Reggie around the corner to another passageway. Here, the outside wall facing Stockton Street had also collapsed, covering the sidewalk all the way to the intersection with Filbert. Stockton was steep, sloping up alongside the convent, and because of this—as Suling had hoped—the drop from the second floor to the sidewalk did not measure two full stories in height. It was more like ten feet. And only six or seven, if they could fall on the pile of rubble below. Without breaking any bones.
But how could they fall and not hurt themselves?
Suling ran back to the open door of the first cell and grabbed the mattress off the bed. It was only a few inches thick, cheap striped cotton ticking stuffed with kapok and straw. But there were plenty of them, she thought with grim humor as she dragged it to the corridor. When she came back hauling two more mattresses, Reggie had fallen asleep on the first one. She went to the cells, again and again, until she had nine more.
Ten mattresses. She dropped them down one after another on the mound of rubble, trying to cover an area large enough to cushion their fall. She considered waking up Reggie, but what if she refused to follow, refused to step off?
“Forgive me, dearest,” she said, kissing the dark brow. She dragged Reggie, mattress and all, to the edge of the building. And pushed. The mattress, Reggie still lying on it, vanished over the side. There was a clatter of tumbling masonry.
And then with eyes closed, Suling rolled off the edge.