At this early hour, the kerosene lamp in the McSorleys’ apartment would be dark. But if she were to attempt—and survive—the river crossing, and the microbiologists at Carnegie Laboratory were able to cure her, within weeks she could be eating a hot bowl of her mother’s potato and leek soup beside its familiar glow.
If instead Cora remained here, her future as Dr. Gettler’s property would be unavoidable. While he’d been floundering through various methods to isolate her antibodies, the bacteria counts in her specimens and the death rates of the lab mice had continued to increase. With each day she became more lethal.
And more despondent.
Three years ago, she’d pleaded with Dr. Gettler to allow her to fill her days with a purpose. Stumbling over her words, she’d pointed out that he’d devoted himself to his research as a means of blunting the pain from his loss. She needed a similar analgesic. Also, others would be less inclined to object to a leper who’d become a permanent resident if she earned her room and board.
He’d worked out an arrangement with the head gardener, John Canne, whom Dr. Gettler described as “the only man on this island as trustworthy as O’Toole,” and secured her a small wage and a room in the nurses’ residence.
At the end of each day, she threw off her shroud and collapsed onto her cot. The labor itself, she relished; the constant fear exhausted her. Anytime she raised her gaze from the dirt, she might meet the doctor’s expectant stare, summoning her to his laboratory.
Once a week, she had to lie upon his examining table, at the mercy of his latest hypothesis. Only the rodents, in cages stacked against one wall, had it worse than she did. Even now, she could almost hear their squeaking and smell their foul odor.
She tried not to think about what he’d last done to her there, but the two-inch-long, sutured incision on her abdomen throbbed, refused to be forgotten.
If she stayed here, at least she would remain alive—until the microbial monsters prevailed. And she did believe in the doctor’s work; if he found the source of her immunities, there would be no need for contagion hospitals such as this one.
Conversely, if she risked the choppy waters, she’d likely drown. A chill seeped through her and settled in her chest. She blew onto her palm and concentrated on the sensation of air, not water. When the nightmares had first begun, Cora would be so out of breath when she woke that she thought she was actually submerged. As a result, she believed she knew exactly how that death would feel.
When Cora’s new friend Mary Mallon had mentioned her beau’s plan to rescue her, Cora had called them both crazy. To which Mary had responded, “That crackpot doctor treats you like a lab rat. Personally, I’d rather drown a free woman than live here a caged animal.”
It had been an easy claim for Mary to make. An asymptomatic carrier from New York City, who’d been vilified by the dailies for purportedly causing multiple typhoid fever outbreaks, she’d been banished to Hospital Island only seven months earlier.
Cora didn’t like to talk about that hellish day in 1904. No one who’d been there did. So, she’d left Mary’s comment unanswered.
As hard as she tried to recall the eleven she’d saved, those she hadn’t were the ones who floated through her memories, their limp bodies suspended around her like a school of jellyfish.
No way could she die like that. Not once since then had she stepped into the East River.
On the beach below, Mary paced, her tall silhouette visible in the glow of the crescent moon. With its reflection, the strait looked like obsidian, though Cora wasn’t deceived by its elegance. Beneath its shiny surface were riptides; she could hear them breaking against the two piers.
The wind, particularly sharp today, slapped her cheeks. The waves had to be equally fierce—either bad luck or a sign from God.
“He’s late,” Mary muttered, and a gust brought her voice to Cora.
An early riser, Cora’s boss, John Canne, would be roving the grounds soon. He, or a physical plant worker who’d stepped out for a smoke, would alert the staff to the escape of the “Germ Woman,” as the papers had nicknamed Mary. If either spotted Cora, no one would believe that she hadn’t intended to flee as well. Undoubtedly, Canne would head straight to the doctor’s cottage and wake Dr. Gettler.
Cora willed the boat to appear, though its arrival was far from certain. Alfred Briehof might have gone on a bash last night, or perhaps the savage waters had already claimed the vessel, which had to be small given his meager wages as a coalman. At this very moment, it might be settling in the muck at the bottom, somewhere near the Hussar. If a British frigate laden with gold and eighty shackled Revolutionary soldiers couldn’t navigate these waters, what chance had a little rowboat?
Eventually she’d shown O’Toole the golden coin she’d found in the sand. After identifying it as a guinea, he’d speculated that it had come from the Hussar. To keep herself from impulsively deciding to risk the crossing, she’d intentionally left her satchel in her room that morning.
A gust buffeted Mary’s blouse and full skirt. She tucked a loose strand of hair into her coif, raised a covered lantern, and lifted its sheath three times to signal her location.
Cora scanned the water for Alfred. Although Mary couldn’t possibly hear her, she tried to be as still as one of the corpses waiting to be transferred by ferry. The dead had an easier way off this atoll than she did.
Her breathing too loud, she slowed its pace.
Last spring, the day “Typhoid Mary” had been assigned to the hut they’d built for her, Cora had asked Canne to leave a bouquet of primroses on the small porch.
Amid a stream of
