Tears tickled her cheeks. Unsure for whom they’d been shed—his family or hers—she sniffled.
The doctor twitched at the noise. With his back still to her, he tore off his gloves and screamed at the ceiling, “How could you let this happen?”
This time Cora knew he wasn’t addressing her.
Weeping, he shoved the cart, dropped to his knees, and curled forward to bury his face in his hands.
His coldness since the tragedy suddenly forgiven, she fought the urge to embrace him. Lord knows, we both need it, she thought, but her pests would show no respect for his loss.
So instead, she remained on the examining table, his howls echoing in her empty heart.
At last, he quieted, though he didn’t rise.
“Your son,” she said. “You still have him, and he needs you.”
Over the past month, the doctor had spent every night at Riverside while a Kindermädchen looked after Ulrich.
“He’s probably awake right now, crying for his Vati in the dark. Tomorrow, go to him.”
Dr. Gettler slid his hands into a fresh pair of gloves and adjusted his surgical mask. “I can’t.” His eyes, the only part of him exposed, showed no emotion. “He wants his mother to comfort him, not me. I can’t give him that, and he looks so much like her. It’s too much to bear.”
Cora closed her eyes now and pictured the boy’s ash-stained face streaked with tears.
Shortly after the Slocum had stopped smoldering, nurse Puetz had found him wandering on the beach. She’d brought the distressed child to Dr. Gettler’s lab, where he’d been drawing Cora’s blood. Ulrich did have Rolene’s delicate, straight nose, high cheekbones, and curls in the blond hair around his crown.
“Vati!” he’d called, and Otto jumped to his feet in delighted surprise.
Shocked that the boy had survived, Cora had sat up suddenly, and the needle within her arm twisted free, spraying blood onto her and the doctor.
“Ulrich, stay back,” he’d yelled, “I’ll come to you in a moment. Nurse Puetz, don’t let him near me.” He rushed to the far side of the lab and stripped off the contaminated gown.
The relieved look on the toddler’s face had turned to horror at the sight of his father, covered in blood. “Ich will Mutti.” I want Mom.
As he was stepping out of the pile of fabric, Dr. Gettler’s body turned rigid. All that moved was his Adam’s apple as he presumably attempted to swallow the pain of their joint loss.
“I’m here,” he said, shaking himself out of his stupor. “I’ve got you.” He lunged toward his son but pivoted to the sink so he could scrub his hands.
“Nein,” Ulrich whimpered. “Ich will dich nicht (I don’t want you). Mutti.” His desperate gaze swept the room as if Rolene might be hiding beside one of the equipment cabinets.
Trembling, Dr. Gettler leaned against the counter and covered his face with his hands, apparently having forgotten he’d intended to wash them. “Nurse Puetz,” he said without looking up, “take him to a private room and have Dr. Fisher thoroughly examine him.”
Silently, Nurse Puetz ushered the boy out of the room.
“I’m sorry,” Cora whispered to the doctor’s hunched over form even though he couldn’t possibly hear her over the rising sound of his sobs.
Despite everything else Cora had witnessed that day, Ulrich’s reaction to his father had upset her the most. Partially because she felt responsible. If she hadn’t risen so quickly, that needle never would have snapped.
Neither Ulrich’s initial reaction nor his striking resemblance to Rolene was a reason for the doctor to shun him now. She shook her head. “He’s only a little boy, who’s got to be so scared right now. And he does love you, so much.”
Dr. Gettler straightened to his full height. “We both know that your sister’s death happened for a reason: it shed God’s light on the potential within you.”
Appalled by his abrupt shift of topic and utter cruelty, her mouth fell open. Unable to formulate a response, she simply stared at him. The air drying her lips and tongue felt as thick as a hand clamped over her mouth.
The rubber of his gloves made a scritching sound as he interlaced his fingers. “Similarly, Rolene’s and Ingrid’s deaths were also by God’s design. He wants me devoted to pinpointing the source of your immunities, which will benefit all His children. When Ulrich is older, he’ll understand.”
“Pinpointing? What does that mean?”
He cleared his throat in irritation. “Vaccines that can eradicate diseases; that needs to be my focus. Any effort to destroy your pathogens is time not spent finding a way to harvest and replicate your unique Antikörper—antibodies. The lives I’ll save will dwarf those lost from the fire. My Rolene and Ingrid, they’ll achieve immortality when I become one of the greats of microbiology.”
Cora could hardly catch her breath. Her heart pulsing, she squeezed out her words: “No, no, no! I have to get them out of me.”
“You must stop this selfishness,” he said with a hiss.
She flinched. But even if he were right, she doubted he would succeed before the increasingly potent germs overwhelmed her body’s defenses. “Let the Carnegie Lab help you.”
“They would only slow me down. I’ve made so much progress already.”
“What progress?” she huffed.
He rolled his eyes, suggesting she was too simple to understand.
He wants all the glory for himself, she realized and inhaled sharply. The smell of antiseptic fueled her anger.
“I’m not your prisoner,” she said through gritted teeth.
Surely, after reading about the tragedy at North Brother, her mam would open a letter from her. “At first light, I’ll write to my mother and tell her that you faked my death and forced me to wear the shroud. You’ll lose your position.”
“Coraline, you must put this nonsense out of your head. Eleanor has moved on. She thinks you’re deceased.”
“What?” She tried to sit up, and the dressing bloomed bright red. “No. You wrote her. About a chronic cough.”
He sighed
