The Cure for Dreaming(64)

His sister called something from inside in a voice too soft for me to hear.

“It’s Olivia and a friend,” said Henry. “They’ve brought food.” He shifted back to us. “A doctor was just here. She’s still running a fever. He’s still not sure if it’s a cold . . . or if . . .” He grimaced. “He’s not a cancer expert by any means, but he thinks . . . the tumor . . .”

He rubbed his hand across his forehead, and a vision attacked without warning.

Buckling knees.

Listless arms.

Sickly pallor.

Henry—not Genevieve.

I closed my eyes and kept my voice steady. “Is there anything else we can do?”

I opened them again to see Henry—normal Henry— shaking his head and swallowing.

“I don’t think so,” he said. And he dropped his voice to a whisper to add, “She’s been crying. She always gets upset after doctor visits. I was just about to go down to the lobby so she can sleep and recuperate.”

“I should have brought you some books,” said Frannie.

“No need for that.” He managed a small smile for her. “I’m sure you probably hate me a bit, if we’re being honest. But I appreciate your help with my sister.”

“I’d like to see Olivia,” called Genevieve, loud enough for us to hear.

Henry turned toward her, one hand on the door, the other on the picnic basket. “Are you sure about that?”

“Her friend, too. I want to thank them.”

“All right.” Henry stepped back and maneuvered the basket out of our way. “Come inside, ladies.”

We entered, and I immediately saw her. A weak blue light on the bed. The lowest flame of a gas lamp. Hope seemed to be vacating her body.

Frannie and I walked toward her, and even Frannie, who didn’t see what I did, stiffened.

“I’m so sorry you’re not feeling well.” I cupped my hand around Genevieve’s arm, which felt solid, despite its unsubstantial appearance. “This is my friend Frannie.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” Genevieve gave a polite smile, but she remained a low blue glow. “Thank you for the food. I’m sorry I’m such a mess. The doctor was just here . . . and . . .” She turned her face away. Silent tears rushed down her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.” I squeezed her arm. “It’s all right to cry. Don’t be sorry.”

“I don’t want to worry Henry . . .”

“Neither of you need to worry,” I said. “You’ll soon be with a physician who knows how to help you. Just get some rest for now. That’s all you need to do. Please don’t lose hope. Don’t be afraid.”

I heard sniffling beside me and caught Frannie—who always managed to cry whenever someone else was crying— rubbing the back of her sleeve across her face. She lowered her arm when she noticed me looking at her.

“He’s not eating,” said Genevieve under her breath.

“What?” I leaned closer to the bed.

Genevieve licked her chapped lips. “Henry’s not taking care of himself. I know he’s not.”

I glanced back at her brother.

“Please tell him to eat and sleep,” she said. “I think he’d listen to you.”

“Are you not eating, Henry?” I asked.

“I haven’t been hungry. But”—he lifted Frannie’s basket— “we have good food now.”

“Then eat it.” I turned back to Genevieve. “And please make sure you try to eat, too. We’re almost there.”

“I know.”

“Get some good sleep.” I tucked her blankets over her shoulders. “You’ll be on your way to San Francisco soon.”

“Thank you. I’m glad you came.”

Frannie and I headed back to the door, where Henry still lingered with the basket.

I reached for his hand but remembered we had an audience, so my fingers fumbled and latched on to the cuff of his shirtsleeve instead.

“Please take care of yourself,” I said.

“Don’t worry.” He grinned, but his eyes lacked their persuasiveness. “Everything will be perfect tomorrow night.” He tugged on my own sleeve, and his finger brushed across the side of my thumb.

We parted ways. The door closed behind us with a low thud that traveled through my bones.

Frannie and I journeyed down the hotel stairwell, side by side, our feet slow and plodding in the echoing quarters.

By the time we reached the bottom, she was holding tightly to my hand.





NOVEMBER 6, 1900


uesday morning, an hour and a half after Father left for work in his operatory, I lugged the canvas Gladstone to its next hiding spot, across the city.

Every neighbor’s house I passed filled me with pangs of nostalgia for my life in the city. Each familiar street sign disappearing over my shoulder jabbed at my conscience and chipped away tiny flakes of my heart.

Yet I kept walking.

I passed a brick firehouse with a ballot-box table set up next to a black and red steam pumper engine in the garage. Out front, a line of men—a hodgepodge of hats and caps, coveralls, dungarees, and smart black suits—waited to exercise their democratic right and paid no attention to me strolling behind them with my overstuffed bag.