Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(87)
If I were the sort to look on the bright side, I might smile piously and thank God for the time we’ve had together thus far, and the care with which she’s provided me. I’m fortunate for that, and also for the inheritance that would keep me convalescing in relative comfort even if she were to decide she’s done with me, and have me sent away.
But it bites. It feels like betrayal, every time she walks past my room and I call her name, and she pauses only to reply over her shoulder that she’ll check on me in a minute. I don’t always want to be checked on. Sometimes I’d only like a word, or someone with whom to confer about the matters at hand. The Problem.
I’m not helpless. Not like she thinks. But I do need help, and I need a friend. I need my sister, and she feels more greatly needed by some tart she pulled off a stage and into her lap. They carried on like fools together, and now Lizzie carries on like a fool alone, while the girl languishes, transforms, and dies.
I hope she dies quickly.
Oh, that looks awful on paper! But it’s not the first time I’ve said it, and it’s still true. I hope she goes sooner rather than later, not entirely for selfish reasons—though I have those reasons in plentiful measure. I must also hope she passes in peace, and with speed. While there’s any dignity left.
That’s another conversation I must have with Lizzie, then. As soon as I can get her attention for five minutes. If the Problem comes for me, I want her to finish me with her axe before it ever comes to this. That’s what I want. I will write it down more formally, on some official-looking paper and present it to her, in case she needs the reminder.
Should the time come.
I hope it does not. But if it does, I don’t want to be the burden Nance is . . . not to Lizzie, and not to myself. I’m heavy enough on my sister’s life as it is. As she reminds me, daily, even without words.
? ? ?
And now Doctor Phillip Zollicoffer is coming here, for me.
That’s its own kind of burden, isn’t it? If I’m the lure that draws him, and he homes in on me like a pigeon, then the responsibility for this Problem is mine. It’s my burden, the only one I’m fit to bear, even if it proves to be the greatest yet . . . all because of that stupid sample. All because of our address, or at least our town—scrawled loosely on a package and sent upstate.
I wonder if Lizzie’s thought about it like that. I wonder if she blames me, and this neglect is how she penalizes me for bringing this down upon our heads. Who knows? She’s folded so tightly into her own box of sorrow that these things may well not have occurred to her.
I hope it hasn’t. I hope she’s only preoccupied, and not hateful. I don’t want her to hate me, like I hate her lover—as if I’m some interloper in need of constant care, and unable to contribute anything except chaos, by accident if not design. I want her to love me and comb my hair, and read the newspaper to me at night beside my bed, like she once did.
I want my sister back. Or maybe I only want Nance gone.
Either way, I’m a horrible person. I deserve whatever becomes of me.
? ? ?
On second thought, to hell with it. I’ve only been devoted, only been her supporter and companion when she had no one else, either. Let us spiral down together, then, because neither one of us can go it alone. I’ve been her captive audience and her character witness all this time, and if she wants to blame me for things beyond my control, then she deserves whatever becomes of her, too.
We all do, I guess.
? ? ?
I hear the door downstairs. The doctor’s here, I think. If it isn’t him, then God only knows. Tonight I haven’t the strength to go find out.
Owen Seabury, M.D.
MAY 5, 1894
The Maplecroft laboratory is a strange place, if clean, well stocked, and well lit. Any university or hospital would be proud to have such a variety of tools and equipment, and indeed, I’m inordinately fortunate that she trusts me enough to leave me here, to my own devices. Especially considering what has become of Nance after her foray downstairs.
I wonder why it changed her so, and yet it leaves my mind more or less intact.
I wonder if I’m wrong about the latter.
Well, I’m not completely wrong. That much is obvious, for I have the willpower and acumen and clarity of thought to follow Christoff’s notes and sort the samples he has provided me. I’ve also begun to incubate the live bacteria, for I’ll need more of it down the road. I’m developing my theory, fleshing it out by degrees. It might be a bad one; it might lead nowhere at all, but it’s more than I had a week ago, so I will pursue it all the same.
Lizzie has been helping some, for she’s intrigued by my speculation and sees at least enough merit to show an interest. She’s such a sharp woman; it’s such a pity what’s become of her life, and her sister. Speaking of the sister, I do wish Emma would join us; but between her health and her general aversion to me these days, she remains upstairs. I do not know if she’s capable of descending the basement steps.
But I shouldn’t underestimate her.
In truth, I have no idea what she is or isn’t capable of. I thought I did, at one time. I thought I knew a lot of things, but I’ve been proven wrong about so much . . . now I’d rather steer clear of assumptions. I think Wolf would be pleased to hear me say it. He doesn’t like assumptions, either.