Page 52

December 11, 1925

“Sadie. Sadie, wake up.” Beckett’s voice floats to me, as if through a tunnel. “You need to wake up. Something’s wrong with Marguerite.”

“What?”

“She’s had a seizure. A fit. I found her in the hall. Doc Gallagher just got here. It’s not looking good.”

“Why didn’t you wake me earlier?”

“I’ve tried, several times.”

I sit up, my head pounding. The room swims before my eyes. I close them as a wave of nausea rolls over me. My tongue feels like a lump of dry clay. “Water.”

Beckett hands me a glass, his hand shaking. I see that he’s been crying, his eyes red around the edges. “Should we phone your aunt? Your brother?”

“No. Not yet. Let’s see what the doctor says first.” I wince as a lance of pain shoots through my temple. “Good God, my head hurts.”

The telephone rings, the shrill sound piercing my already painful head. Beckett rushes to answer it, then comes back a few minutes later. “That was Claire. She’s coming down on the train from Kansas City. She’ll be here tomorrow.”

The walls seem to shrink, closing in around me. “What did you say?”

“Claire. Marguerite’s sister.”

“Claire ... but Aunt Claire’s dead. She died in 1881.”

Beckett gives me a strange look. “She came to our wedding. Are you sure you didn’t hit your head when you fainted, darling?”

“Maybe I did.” I claw through my hair. The pain in my head is almost unbearable. “Could you bring me some aspirin? Please. I have a horrible headache.”

He returns a few moments later with a tin of aspirin. I take two tablets and down them with the rest of the water. I have no recollection of coming to our room. The last thing I remember is having a nosebleed in the powder room. Beckett mentioned that I fainted. I must have hit my head.

But I remember enough to know Aunt Claire is dead. I saw her die, with my own eyes, in the past.

At least ... she was dead.

Was Marguerite truly able to change the past? Did she save Claire? And what about Weston?

I fling off the covers and stumble across the hall to Marguerite’s room. Dr. Gallagher sits at her bedside, taking her pulse. He glances up as I enter, eyes scraping over my disheveled appearance. “Mrs. Hill. Please sit down. I’ve got some news about your aunt, and it isn’t good, I’m afraid.”

I sit heavily at the foot of Marguerite’s bed. “What’s happened?”

“A cerebral hemorrhage. A stroke. A bad one.” He glances at Marguerite. “She’s in a coma now, which is for the best. She may linger for days. But she won’t regain consciousness.”

“She’s . . . she’s dying?”

“Yes. I’m very sorry.”

I glance at Marguerite. Her face is placid, her skin soft and ruddy with life. Her chest rises and falls steadily, as if she’s only asleep. “She looks fine. Are you sure there’s nothing you can do for her?”

“No. She may look healthy, but her brain has sustained irreparable trauma. All of her reflexes are gone, apart from basic autonomic functions. The best we can do is keep her comfortable until her body gives way.” He shakes his head. “It’s so strange. These things are usually brought on by exceptionally high blood pressures. Marguerite’s pressures have always been normal. The seizures I witnessed when I first arrived are more in line with what I’ve seen with eclamptic mothers.”

“What does that mean, ‘eclamptic’?”

“Before labor, it’s called ‘pre-eclampsia.’ It can cause headaches and swollen legs but is often symptomless. It creates severe distress during labor and delivery. Women can die from it if their labors go on too long.”

A memory washes over me of the scenes I witnessed in the sanatorium. Marguerite’s swollen ankles. My mother’s birth. Marguerite was in severe distress during labor—the doctor had used a similar word. ‘Eclampsia.’

“Mrs. Hill, I’d like to examine you, if you wouldn’t mind. You’re not looking well, yourself, I must say.”

“Of course.”

He comes to my side, listens to my heart and lungs, takes my pulse, and examines my eyes, then asks to look at my gums. “Have you been having shortness of breath? Spells of weakness? Fainting?”

“Yes. I just had one yesterday.”

“Do you remember when you started your last menstrual cycle?”

“I . . . I don’t recall.”

“You’re severely anemic. It’s very likely you’re pregnant. I want you to take two full spoonfuls of blackstrap molasses every day and eat as much red meat as possible. If you keep having fainting spells, I’ll need to admit you to the hospital for observation.”

“Pregnant?” My head spins, on par with the pain.

“Is that a surprise to you?” He smiles. “Many women find themselves in the family way before their first anniversaries, Mrs. Hill. You wouldn’t be the only one.”

I almost laugh for joy, but then I think of Marguerite, and my mood grows somber. My hand goes to my belly. If I’m expecting, she’ll never know this baby. Never meet him or her. Her great-grandchild will grow up never knowing the sound of her laughter. Her stories. Her smile.

I take her hand in mine, tracing the raised network of veins on its back. She’s been many things in her lifetime. A daughter. A sister. A lover. I’m not ready to let her go. She’s family. My mother’s mother. Blood of my blood.

“I’ll leave you alone with her,” Dr. Gallagher says, his hand resting on my back. “I’ll stop by at the end of my rounds to give her more morphia for the night. Make sure she stays warm, comfortable. And talk to her. Sometimes it helps to hear a familiar voice.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

He nods and leaves us, shutting the door behind him.

I curl up next to Marguerite, cradling her childlike form, and cry.

Sadie, wake up. You have to wake up. Wake up, Sadie, Wake Up !

The voice startles me awake, sometime in the middle of the night. Marguerite lies motionless next to me, her breathing shallow. But she’s still here. Still alive.

I lie still, my heart hammering, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. And that’s when I see Iris, silhouetted in the window. The moonlight shines through her form. She’s crying, her sobs soft and muted.

“Iris?” I whisper. “What’s wrong?”

We don’t have long.

Her voice is a soft rush of wind inside my head. Hours now. Once she’s gone, it will be too late. You must think of the baby.

“The baby?”

Yes. Come now. Hurry.

She trails past the foot of the bed, her eyes resting on Marguerite. I must betray you, my love. Only this once.

I follow Iris’s spirit through the hall, down the stairs, past Beckett’s sleeping form, his head resting on the dining room table. Iris leads me to the library. I follow her up to the tower. My eyes land on a new painting, perched on an easel between Iris’s image and Marguerite’s self-portrait. It’s me. She’s painted me over Weston’s former portrait, seated in my favorite chair in the library, my head turned toward the window. The paint is still wet. She must have finished it recently, in the past few days.

Iris points to Marguerite’s self-portrait, her eyes frantic with urgency.

“You want me to go through here?”

You must hurry, Sadie. You’re the only one who can save her. She wouldn’t listen to me. Go to Marguerite. Convince her to go back to the sanatorium. Hurry.

Iris’s voice rises in pitch inside my head.

If you don’t, she’ll go into labor tonight, and in her condition, she could die. If that happens, you’ll die when she dies. You’re already fading. That’s what’s happening to you. Why you’re sick.

“All right. All right. I’ll go.” I reach out, my head throbbing, my eyes going in and out of focus. I’m too weak to panic. Too tired to think how ridiculously unbelievable this scenario would be to anyone else. But I know Iris is telling the truth. I know I can trust her. So I reach out. I reach out and touch the surface of the painting, falling into Marguerite’s past.