As she watched the ruby-red trail dissipate into the river, he continued rubbing the space between her shoulder blades.
The motion calmed her, and the choking fit subsided. She crumpled into the hull.
Holding the edge of his hood over his mouth, he inspected her abdomen, where blood was flowing in rivulets from her incision site. “Macht Schnell!” he shouted to compel the men to speed up the boat.
“Thank you,” she croaked.
“Bist du verrückt?” (Are you crazy?) The doctor scooted backward. “Or just insanely selfish?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know this would happen.”
“I’ve been warning you about this for years. Good God, Cora, imagine if they’d overpowered your system just one hour later.” He thrust his index finger toward Manhattan.
He didn’t need to chastise her; she was already angry at herself. To avoid his probing glare, she closed her eyes and willed unconsciousness to arrive. Listening to the staccato slap of the oars, she sensed that the boat had accelerated.
“Cora,” the doctor said softly, “once we reach my lab, I will not leave your side until you’ve recovered. You know that God has greater plans for us. These symptoms are a test for us both. And through our perseverance—and sacrifice, my breakthrough, by the will of God, will happen.”
Sick of hearing the creed he’d used to justify every violation of her body, she wilted.
The three men working the oars shouted as they outmaneuvered the currents. The vessel had to be nearing the docks.
Afraid to open her eyes, she imagined the campus with the glow of the sun at its back. Only an hour ago, she’d thought she would never have to face the facility again. Now, most likely, Riverside would be the last place she’d ever see.
The pounding in her head and cramping in her stomach subsided. Her throat was no longer excruciating and the fever had slackened. Only the chills remained. Either her spirit had already separated from her body, or her ability to feel had shut down.
“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,” Mary said in her brogue.
Surprised, Cora peered at her friend.
Alfred was gawking at Cora, too. He crossed himself and joined Mary in her prayer.
I must be dead.
Helmut and O’Toole stopped rowing to gape at her, leaving only Canne in the bow to battle the currents.
The doctor’s face appeared above her. She reached out to swipe her spectral hand through him, and her fingertips grazed the slick surface of his gown.
“Ahh.” He rocked back. “Foolish girl.”
“You felt that?” She’d never noticed her sister’s touch, though surely Button’s spirit had stayed close to her. Her sister could be nearby now. Cora looked around.
“Of course I did.”
“But I’m dead.”
The doctor grabbed her wrist, and she recoiled at the familiar texture of his rubber glove. Her surgical wound throbbed, and she wrested her hand away.
“Cora,” he said in a stern tone, “gib mir dein Hand.”
The saltwater in her stomach churned like she’d swallowed the rapids themselves. She must still be alive, though she wished it weren’t the case. She extended her arm and yelped. The pox had flattened and faded.
Instead of checking her pulse, as she’d anticipated, he probed the sores. She didn’t even wince. Their tenderness had subsided.
“Unmöglich,” he whispered.
He was right: such a fast recovery from Variola was impossible.
She lifted her other hand, and a water droplet from her hair fell onto it and rolled unobstructed off the skin. If it weren’t for the spattering of fresh scars, she would have assumed that she’d imagined the blight. She exhaled, and the air flowed through her throat. All her symptoms had abated, except for the fatigue, which could be attributed to the swim.
As quickly as her immune system had failed her, it had returned and squelched the rebellion within her. Amazing.
Hope thrummed through her veins.
Dr. Gettler lowered his hood and brought her hand closer to his face. “Mein Gott. The pustules have healed further within the last minute. Either the germs have returned to their dormant state, or your immune system has finally defeated them. Either way, this will lead to my first big breakthrough in five years.” He looked up. “Thank you, God.”
“You’ve been here that long?” Mary dropped the lock of hair she’d been refastening. Cora nodded.
“You said you missed your last semester of school.” She tapped a hairpin against her teeth. “That means you were about eighteen at the time. My child, you don’t look a day older.”
Everyone turned to Dr. Gettler, who shrugged. “In the words of Jacob Riis,” he said, plucking at one of his gloves, “North Brother Island is unique. There is nothing like it anywhere in the world.”
“What does that mean?” Mary snapped. “The island’s keeping her young?”
“Don’t be absurd! That’s scientifically impossible.”
He’d said it too quickly.
“Holy Christ,” Mary said, crossing herself, and Helmut swigged from his flask and handed it to Alfred.
“Freak,” the oarsman said in a low, guttural tone and took a long pull from the bottle.
Shrinking away from them, Cora ran her fingers over the skin of her face, now marred by the pox scars. Only a few times, in an empty communal bathroom in the nurses’ residence, had she glimpsed herself in a mirror.
But the doctor had seen her face every time she’d disrobed for another of his medical procedures. She scowled at him. What else about her condition had he been hiding?
The prospect of eternal youth should have thrilled her. Instead, all she could think about was how it must have been feeding the doctor’s obsession. Even if he succeeded in cultivating vaccines from her blood, his experimentation on her would continue until the day he died. Or achieved eternal life.
The boat bumped against the dock, and the rowers collapsed over their oar handles. Alfred scrambled out to tie up the vessel.
From the pocket of his soaked trousers,
