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“That’s an exaggeration, and you know it. Tell me the truth, Louise. Would you miss this group if it was gone?”
She thought of the laughter over clinking teacups, the lingering conversations after the last discussion had ended, the people who now had stories and opinions attached to them instead of being merely names. “Yes, I suppose so.”
The satisfied nod Delphie gave was sharper than the tomato-spattered paring knife lying on the board. “Then you should think long and hard about what you’ll lose in destroying another place your father loved. And whether it’s worth it.”
How, after all these years, could Delphie still be bitter about the garden? “It doesn’t do any good to be sentimental. We all have to move on at some point.”
“Maybe that’s so.” Delphie rolled a tomato in her hands before facing Louise squarely. “But the older I get, the more Iknow that story is spot on. The past won’t stay buried. That’s the plain, awful truth of it, Louise. It’s only a matter of who’s going to do the digging.”
———
NOVEMBER 1918
The doctor had departed from his monthly visit, having driven from one of the larger cities up the coast. As he left, he merely nodded to her from under his gauze mask, a common sight on medical providers since early fall, his expression giving no indication of how the meeting had gone.
Louise didn’t need to hear a medical report from him. It was apparent enough to anyone who looked at her father that his health was failing, as most patients did after enduring nearly two years of tuberculosis.
Louise’s concern was with another disease entirely: influenza.
In the U.S., it had started in Fort Devens outside of Boston, where in September, over a fifth of the returning soldiers from the Great War had contracted a new, deadly strain of the flu, brought back from their time abroad. Some claimed the Germans had sent the plague as a final war offensive, though the Red Cross nurses who tended the sick and dying knew better.
In Maine, it was expected that the epidemic would spread to Portland ... but it also found its way to Bath, only a short distance away, and then to the small coastal towns like Derby. By October, county fairs and war-bond drives were canceled, schools, theaters, and finally churches closed—except for a few, like nearby St. Patrick’s, which refused to do so, claiming that “Praise of God upon a Sunday is more essential than any other work in all the world.” They and a few other Catholic churches held Mass in the open air of the bitter autumn cold, praying for divine relief that seemed slow in coming.
In Derby, two of the churches remained open as well—ashospitals. And it was there that Louise had begged her father for weeks to serve.
Not because she, a grown adult, needed his permission. Even though she’d agreed to act as his nurse, such a promise could certainly be broken for emergencies like this.
No, it was the fact that her decision would greatly impact his life as well that made her agree to wait for Dr. Hoffman’s professional opinion. Because if she brought back the disease from the makeshift sick wards to her tuberculosis-weakened father, he would almost certainly die.
Her knock at the sickroom door was more timid than usual, and when Father rasped out permission to enter, she waited.
“Ring for Benson” was all he said, in a voice made strong with effort. “I’d like to visit Pemaquid Point one last time before winter sets in.”
It was already too cold for a stroll to Father’s favorite nearby lookout, but he had that set of his eyebrows that told her he would brook no argument. She’d long since given up restricting him to Windward Hall, as long as he avoided close contact with others. If he wanted to take his time to share his decision, she would play along.
Benson, who served as both driver and butler, helped wheel Father’s chair to the overlook once they reached Bristol. Though Father was buried under layers of blankets and scarves and the temperature hadn’t yet fallen below freezing, Louise knew she ought to insist they keep the visit brief.
There was something striking about the lighthouse, a tall white beacon against the blue sky, dwarfing the keeper’s lodging tucked beside it. It supervised an embankment of striped rock, broken up here and there with yellowed grass, bent over and dying, like so many other growing things as winter moved irrevocably forward.
For a moment, Father simply watched the ocean crash against the rocks. “The doctor tells me,” he finally said, “youwant to establish and serve in a ward specifically for local children.”
“Yes, they ought to be separated as much as possible, given whatever resources we can spare, since they’re at higher risk.” Though even the young and strong were at risk, as demonstrated by the soldiers dying in droves. Even worse off were pregnant women.
The elderly.
Those suffering from tuberculosis.
A fit of coughing interrupted them, muffled with a blood-spotted handkerchief, and when Father spoke again, his voice was weak. “You won’t be able to save them all.”
“I can save some.”
“A good answer. A brave one.” His words surprised her enough that she looked down and noted his thin, pale hand clutching the chair’s wooden armrest. “But, Louise ... it’s not your child you’ll be treating.”
Louise pinched her eyes shut, trying to ward off the headache sure to come. She knew what Father always thought when the subject of children arose. Her campaigns for stricter underage labor laws. Her desire to rehabilitate the starving children of Europe after the war. Now the juvenile ward for influenza patients.
As if, in each child she helped, she was trying to atone for the one she’d given away.
Only he’d never said it outright until today, always remaining distant and averse to conflict.He must really be dying.
