In the Shadow of Blackbirds(91)

During the twenty-four hours before my release, I’d been subjected to oversalted soup, cold fingers and stethoscopes prodding at my skull and chest, eye exams, mental exams, and stiff detectives in dark suits questioning me about Julius and Mr. Darning. The detectives told me Grant and Gracie were being cooperative about their knowledge of Julius’s whereabouts during the night of Stephen’s death. Yet the men warned there’d be trials and potential ugliness.

“We discovered some grisly photographs in our searches through the two men’s studios,” said the older detective with the least compassionate voice. “The road ahead may be rather upsetting for a sixteen-year-old girl. I’m afraid your delicate female eyes and ears will experience some ugliness.”

“Oh, you silly, naive men.” I shook my weary head and genuinely pitied their ignorance. “You’ve clearly never been a sixteen-year-old girl in the fall of 1918.”


WITH MY HEAD SHROUDED IN BANDAGES AND MY LEGS shaking from lack of use, I wandered with my black bag through the shivering, rasping bodies toward the hospital’s exit. The tangy sweet smell of the doctors’ celebratory champagne drifted above the fetid stench of fever surrounding me on the cots, and my heart ached to see people still suffering when one half of the nightmare was ending.

“Get better,” I told them on my way through the white corridors. “Please get better. The war is over. It’s done. Don’t miss this. Keep fighting.”

I reached the last hallway and came to a stop. I recognized the face of a patient sitting on one of the cots on the right-hand side of the corridor.

She was eating a bowl of soup, her legs nestled beneath a patched-up green blanket, and I would have missed her if she had been facing the opposite direction. Her blond hair had turned pure white.

“Aunt Eva?” I ventured closer to make sure the hazel eyes and bottle-cap lenses were truly hers. “Oh, my goodness. Aunt Eva. It is you!” I threw my arms around her bony shoulders and squeezed her as hard as I could without hurting her. “You didn’t die. Your feet weren’t black after all. I could have sworn they were black.”

“Mary Shelley …” She breathed a relieved sigh into my hair and clutched my head against hers. “They told me you were in here, fighting the flu and recovering from a concussion. I’ve been so worried about you.”

“A doctor just released me. Oh, I’m so glad you’re not dead.”

We held each other close for a good minute or more, sniffing back tears, ensuring neither of us was about to disappear.

“I buried you in onions and nearly went crazy with worry.” I dropped to my knees beside her cot. “And I was so certain it had been for nothing. Your face was brown, and some man from down the street helped me get you into an ambulance. He carried you like a hero.”

“Which man?”

“Well … he’s already married.”

“Mary Shelley!” A weak blush rose to her cheeks. “I wasn’t asking to hunt down a husband. I want to know whom to thank.”

“Oh. I’ll show you where he lives when we’re both home.” I grabbed her cold hand. “You are going to be able to come home, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” She steadied her soup on her lap. “The fever’s gone. I just need to regain some strength. I feel like a train ran me over and left me on the tracks to die.”

“I completely understand. I think I must have lost at least ten pounds. Just look at my blouse.” I tugged on the loose fabric gapping above my waistline. “I look like a scarecrow.”

“But your beautiful hair is still brown.” She ran her fingers through my mess of tangled tresses. “Mine’s white … isn’t it?”

I sank my teeth into my bottom lip. “It might be temporary. It’s a striking color, actually.”

“It might fall out, like Gracie’s. I’ve seen some clumps.”

“It might not.”

“And to think I was so worried about my chin-length hair before.” She clamped her hand over her mouth, and her shoulders shook as if she were either laughing or crying—or both.

“Shh.” I helped her stabilize her sloshing bowl. “It doesn’t matter. You’re beautiful because you’re breathing. And you’re not purple—I can’t believe you’re not purple.”

Aunt Eva wiped her eyes behind her glasses. “When I heard you had a head injury, I worried you’d gone to save your ghost. I kept dreaming about Julius shaking you in my living room.”

“I did save Stephen. And he saved me. He’s at peace now.” I swallowed. “We let each other go.”

“Oh.” She gave a small nod. “I’m glad.” She directed her eyes toward her soup with a weighty sigh. “Oh, Mary Shelley. I hope I can be strong enough to take care of you.”

“You will be.” I rubbed the remnants of her mighty shipyard biceps. “Soon enough you’ll be back at home, putting up with me dissecting your telephone and arguing my way through everything again. You’re stronger than you think you are, Aunt Eva. You’re my battleship-building aunt, after all.”

The corners of her mouth lifted in a smile. “Thank you.” She wiped another tear. “Despite everything, I’m glad I’ve had you by my side these past weeks. You may have driven me to the edge at times, but you excel at fighting to save the people you love.”