“How could that possibly be your fault?” Cora asked, still agitated that she hadn’t been there to support her friend.
Mary exhaled and turned away from her reflection. “About four, five years ago, just before Christmas, he was burned something terrible when a lantern exploded in his hands. When the doctor refused to give him more morphine, I started buying him heroin—it was cheaper. To get the money, I sold pies to the other tenants in our . . .” She hiccupped loudly and put her hand to her mouth.
Cora longed to cross the room and hug her friend.
“They wouldn’t even let me attend his burial,” Mary said, sobbing. “And I can never cook again. I’ve got nothing left.”
Cora’s insides twisted at the statement. She reached into her satchel for the envelope she’d kept safe throughout Mary’s absence. “It’s not much, but—”
“Miss McSorley,” Dr. Gettler called through the open window, and her shoulders stiffened. “I need you in the lab, disrobed and ready for surgery. Now.”
The scars from her past incisions seared with the dread of whatever he had planned.
“They still want to remove my gallbladder. I won’t let them . . .” Mary pursed her lips.
Although Mary had stopped herself, Cora knew the rest of the refrain: “. . . split me open like a pig on the butcher’s block.” During her first stay at Riverside, Mary had said it more than once. Often Cora had recalled the line as she lay beneath the doctor’s scalpel.
Maybe someday Cora would explain why she wished she could have her gallbladder removed, and why she could never go through with it. But not today. Not with Dr. Gettler standing impatiently outside and Mary still so chafed by her mistakes.
“I’m coming!” she hollered.
Mary groaned. “If you’re not gointa stand up for yourself, I’ll have to find a way to do it for you.”
Cora bit her lip. She didn’t want to argue with her friend, not on their first day together again. From the envelope in her gloved hand, she shook out two dozen flecks.
“Whatcha got there?”
“The makings of your next crop.”
Mary inhaled sharply.
After their failed escape, Alfred had sent her a packet of tomato seeds, and each summer Mary had tended the resulting plants with the care of a nursemaid. At Cora’s request, Canne had preserved the seeds from the tomatoes that had ripened after Mary’s departure. Often, Cora had recalled the sweet tang of the succulent vegetable, fresh off the vine, but she’d never felt tempted to plant the seeds herself. They wouldn’t have tasted as good without Mary beside her. “I kept them, not in the hope that you’d ever be back, but as a remin—”
“Miss McSorley!” Dr. Gettler barked from the lawn.
Cora glanced out the window. Beyond the doctor stood John Canne. He’d put on a fresh collared shirt and was holding a bouquet of gardenias.
“I’d better go. Should I tell Canne you’re resting?”
Mary groaned. “Please do.” In their old custom she opened the door for Cora and stepped aside.
Cora paused. “I’m sorry. About everything.”
“Liar.” Mary flashed a weak yet toothy grin.
“You’re right. Isolation Island wasn’t the same without you.” Cora adjusted her cloak and headed toward the doctor, his arms crossed impatiently.
“This renewed female companionship is a fantastic development,” he said as he began walking. “I’ll see that she’s treated well.”
Surprised, Cora squinted at his back. Maybe his old self hadn’t been entirely lost. “How kind of you,” she said, following him.
“I’d hoped—expected—to have made a breakthrough by now,” he said, glancing back at her. “I’m disappointed in myself. I hate putting you through so much pain. But every day that I fail to replicate your antibodies is another day that thousands of people die from disease. For the sake of those who fall ill tomorrow, and the day after, we have no choice but to double our efforts. The recovery time between procedures, it’s been delaying my progress.”
Goose bumps shot down her arms. “What does that mean?”
“It means you won’t be able to fully heal from one surgery before the next. I’ll do everything I can to eliminate your discomfort, but your dedication will be tested. You’ll need the support of a friend now more than ever.”
They reached the morgue, and her feet refused to carry her over the threshold.
O’Toole’s words, after her admission about the sharks, jimmied their way into her consciousness.
Fighting her body’s rising cry, she straightened her spine and lifted her chin.
“For Maeve,” she whispered and lifted one foot, then the other.
August 2007
August 8
he door’s open,” Cora called from behind Finn as he approached the morgue and pathology building. “Don’t touch anything. The place is a hot zone.”
The notion of a deadly virus, lying in wait, made his skin tingle. Though her claim couldn’t be true: Riverside hadn’t housed patients with communicable diseases since the 1930s.
“There’s a sealed N-Ninety-Five mask at your feet. Put it on, and—”
Thunder rumbled; she waited for the sky to quiet.
“Leave your bag. Then go left, down the hall, and take the stairwell to the roof.”
Challenging her claim would only exacerbate her ire, so Finn set down his pack and put on the mask. Almost immediately, the air trapped against his face felt steamy. Adjusting his grip on his flashlight, he stepped inside.
The smell of rot aggressively invaded his nostrils. Pushing the mask against the bridge of his nose, he took in the decomposing, cavernous hallway.
As he passed the nearest room, his flashlight beam landed on a rusted examining table at its center. Vines nearly covered its articulated panels and wheel crank for raising the footrest.
“Keep moving!” Cora shouted from the entrance. “You’re at risk!”
He could almost see bacteria crawling on the corrugated tiles and virus particles suspended in the dank air. Her paranoia was getting to him.
Her concern could mean that she intended to let him leave, Finn reasoned. Unless she simply wanted to maintain her leverage.
Watching for debris that could send him flying, he made his way down the hall.
