Fannie threw back her blankets and got out of bed. For a moment, she felt light-headed—how many hours had it been since she’d stood up or moved around? She steadied herself, placing the palm of her hand flat against the mattress. When the spinning feeling stopped, she moved slowly across the room to the dressing table, where Dorothy had unpacked her belongings earlier that morning. She found her stationery and fountain pen in the top drawer and made her way back to the bed.
Fannie chewed on the lid of the pen for several minutes before she began.
Dear Flossie,
It seems odd to write a letter when you’re not away at school, but already back in Atlantic City. I thought about wandering down the hall and asking to use the telephone but I’m not sure I trust myself to get this out properly.
Your wanting to swim the Channel and my wanting to deliver a healthy baby are not the same thing, and it hurt me tremendously when you compared the two the other day. I know that they’re both things we want very much, but you must understand that if you fail to accomplish your goal, you hop in a boat and come home. If I fail, I will find myself holding another lifeless child in my arms.
Fannie replayed their fight in her head. She had practically demanded, like a petulant child, that Florence remain at home until after the baby was born, and when that hadn’t worked, she’d made the mistake of reminding Florence that, by the age of twenty, she’d been a married woman—somebody’s wife.
“And look how well that’s turned out,” Florence said in a biting voice. “Your marriage isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement of the institution.”
Fannie’s pen hovered over the page. Should she try to defend her marriage? Fannie’s family had never warmed to Isaac, even in their very early days together when he had tried harder to impress her parents and sister. Fannie weighed her words, then decided that, maybe where Isaac was concerned, it was best to say nothing at all.
If swimming the Channel is what you want, then I want that for you, too. I’m sorry I wasn’t more generous when you visited. Punish me if you must but don’t stay away too long. There’s something about being tucked away inside this hospital that wears on me—it’s as if I’m trapped in another world. I can see the ocean out my window but I can’t hear or smell it.
Your Loving Sister,
Fannie
When she was finished writing the letter, Fannie read it through twice, then she folded the pages and stuffed them in an envelope. Just as she did, Dorothy came in with her dinner tray, so she addressed the envelope in a flash—Florence Adler, Northeast Corner of Atlantic and Virginia Avenues, A.C.
“Dorothy, I wonder if you might be able to help me find a stamp?”
By half-past ten, Fannie had given up on Dorothy. Nurses who worked the day shift clocked out at seven o’clock, and she had likely gone home for the night. Knowing her, she had put Fannie’s request out of her mind the moment she’d left the room.
Fannie was awake, and a stamp was as solid an excuse as any to take a little stroll. The nurses tsked when she got out of bed, so she didn’t try to make a habit of it, but it did feel good, every now and then, to stretch her legs. Fannie retrieved her slippers and robe and made her way out of the room and down the hall. She’d try the nurses’ lounge, see if anyone had a stamp, and maybe take the newspaper if the women were finished reading it.
The obstetrics ward was quiet, save for the occasional sound of a baby’s cry, and dark. The only source of light came from the end of the hallway, where the nursery and the nurses’ lounge sat opposite each other.
Tonight she heard several hushed voices coming from the lounge. Was it a bad time to ask for something so immaterial as a stamp? Fannie hated to interrupt if there was important hospital business that had stolen the women’s attention. She started to turn to go back to her room, but then she heard one of the nurses say, “It’s just about the most tragic thing I’ve ever heard.” Fannie stopped cold and listened harder, “Can you even imagine being the one to have to tell her?”
The quintuplets. Fannie hurried to the door of the lounge and peeked her head around the corner. “Is there any news?” she asked in a panic. Three nurses sat huddled together on a mohair sofa, smoking cigarettes. Fannie knew the names of two of them—Bette and Mary—and she’d seen the other one walk quickly past her room from time to time, always with what Fannie imagined to be great purpose. Perhaps she worked in the delivery room or the operating theater. All three women looked startled to see her. Bette balanced her cigarette in the ashtray the women shared, and jumped up to take Fannie’s arm, “Are you all right? Why are you out of bed?”
Fannie thought she noticed the purposeful nurse dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her fingertips. “I thought I might borrow a stamp. Is there any news—”
The women looked at each other, stricken.
“—about the Dionne babies?”
Fannie watched as the women’s faces rearranged themselves right in front of her.
“Yes! Yes!” said Mary, “The babies are all still alive! It’s
