take time to make the simplest changes with them.
Rose smiled. “Now, I’ll leave you ladies to get acquainted while I tend to Marie.”
Rose felt her way up the staircase into the bedroom at the top of the landing. She didn’t think it was possible for a set of steps to be skinnier and more treacherous than her own, but in homes like this—where additions were cobbled together with nails the homeowner stole from the mill and wood that was rummaged out of garbage heaps she was reminded self-pity wasn’t allowed.
Rose crossed the threshold into Marie’s room, passing through cobwebs. She batted them away from her face and cleared her throat. In the shoebox-shaped room a narrow bed and a coal stove stood by a closed window; an arthritic table perched at the end of the bed.
Marie lay still as a corpse. Rose bent over her and waited for warm breath to hit her cheek before she began her work. She moved toward the magazine-sized table and checked over the things she’d prepared for the family to care for Marie—everything was exactly as she’d left it. They had ignored her instructions.
Rose readjusted the items: green soap, brush, tea, and spittoon that would ensure Marie had a place to spit her mucus, but not to be promiscuous about it, to keep the spread of disease to a minimum. Rose placed the thermometer and stethoscope on the table.
The girl was too still, prompting Rose to hurry. “Little Marie?” Rose, sandwiched between the mattress and the coal stove, inched toward the two-year-old. She pressed the skirt of her uniform against the back of her legs so it wouldn’t catch fire.
Marie stirred. Rose’s shoulders dropped, releasing tension she didn’t realize she was holding. She lifted Marie’s hand and turned it wrist up. She ran her finger over the pale, soft skin, the one section of the girl that seemed clean. She settled her fingers into the center of the clammy wrist and counted the beats for ten seconds. Eighty beats per minute. Rose liked to see a child’s resting pulse around sixty, but eighty was greatly reduced from the one hundred-five it was the day before.
Rose put the back of her hand on the girl’s cheeks then forehead. Her fever broke as Rose predicted it would. But her face was sticky. Rose touched her again with her fingertips. Sticky. She ran her hands over the scratchy blanket. Sticky. What the hell is this shit?
Rose knelt beside the girl and sniffed. Sweet. Not sugar. “Marie? What is this?”
“Juicy Juice.” Rose wondered if the girl’s slurred speech was the mark of the emerging language of a two-year-old, but the lolling of her head made her appear more like a drunk than a two year-old on the mend.
What the hell was juicy juice?
Rose sniffed the girl’s face and blanket again. The wet wool odor masked the scent of the sticky stuff. Rose didn’t want to do it, but decided to since a little girl’s health was at stake. She licked her fingers then looked at them, turned toward the fire and peered closer at her fingers. Purple. What? Rose shook her head. How could a sick girl be sugared in wine?
A drop of liquid hit Rose’s scalp. She looked up at the dark ceiling and squinted. Something was definitely leaking. Rose bent over the bed just above Marie’s face and turned her face upward, waiting for a drip.
Plop.
Wine. Definitely. Rose growled. Marie was drunk from a steady drip of homemade wine. Elderberry, of course, was du rigor in Donora in October. Rose struggled to stand and her skirt licked the stove just enough to catch a flame.
She yelped and Marie giggled at the sight of Rose’s uniform blazing. Rose ripped the wool blanket from the bed and smacked at the flames, putting them out. But, not before the flames had seared the hem of her uniform.
Oh, this was not good, Rose thought. “Okay, little Marie. Out of bed, now.” Marie reached up but didn’t, or couldn’t, move. Rose scooped her up and flung her over her shoulder, taking her downstairs. In the
Rose smiled. “Now, I’ll leave you ladies to get acquainted while I tend to Marie.”
Rose felt her way up the staircase into the bedroom at the top of the landing. She didn’t think it was possible for a set of steps to be skinnier and more treacherous than her own, but in homes like this—where additions were cobbled together with nails the homeowner stole from the mill and wood that was rummaged out of garbage heaps she was reminded self-pity wasn’t allowed.
Rose crossed the threshold into Marie’s room, passing through cobwebs. She batted them away from her face and cleared her throat. In the shoebox-shaped room a narrow bed and a coal stove stood by a closed window; an arthritic table perched at the end of the bed.
Marie lay still as a corpse. Rose bent over her and waited for warm breath to hit her cheek before she began her work. She moved toward the magazine-sized table and checked over the things she’d prepared for the family to care for Marie—everything was exactly as she’d left it. They had ignored her instructions.
Rose readjusted the items: green soap, brush, tea, and spittoon that would ensure Marie had a place to spit her mucus, but not to be promiscuous about it, to keep the spread of disease to a minimum. Rose placed the thermometer and stethoscope on the table.
The girl was too still, prompting Rose to hurry. “Little Marie?” Rose, sandwiched between the mattress and the coal stove, inched toward the two-year-old. She pressed the skirt of her uniform against the back of her legs so it wouldn’t catch fire.
Marie stirred. Rose’s shoulders dropped, releasing tension she didn’t realize she was holding. She lifted Marie’s hand and turned it wrist up. She ran her finger over the pale, soft skin, the one section of the girl that seemed clean. She settled her fingers into the center of the clammy wrist and counted the beats for ten seconds. Eighty beats per minute. Rose liked to see a child’s resting pulse around sixty, but eighty was greatly reduced from the one hundred-five it was the day before.
Rose put the back of her hand on the girl’s cheeks then forehead. Her fever broke as Rose predicted it would. But her face was sticky. Rose touched her again with her fingertips. Sticky. She ran her hands over the scratchy blanket. Sticky. What the hell is this shit?
Rose knelt beside the girl and sniffed. Sweet. Not sugar. “Marie? What is this?”
“Juicy Juice.” Rose wondered if the girl’s slurred speech was the mark of the emerging language of a two-year-old, but the lolling of her head made her appear more like a drunk than a two year-old on the mend.
What the hell was juicy juice?
Rose sniffed the girl’s face and blanket again. The wet wool odor masked the scent of the sticky stuff. Rose didn’t want to do it, but decided to since a little girl’s health was at stake. She licked her fingers then looked at them, turned toward the fire and peered closer at her fingers. Purple. What? Rose shook her head. How could a sick girl be sugared in wine?
A drop of liquid hit Rose’s scalp. She looked up at the dark ceiling and squinted. Something was definitely leaking. Rose bent over the bed just above Marie’s face and turned her face upward, waiting for a drip.
Plop.
Wine. Definitely. Rose growled. Marie was drunk from a steady drip of homemade wine. Elderberry, of course, was du rigor in Donora in October. Rose struggled to stand and her skirt licked the stove just enough to catch a flame.
She yelped and Marie giggled at the sight of Rose’s uniform blazing. Rose ripped the wool blanket from the bed and smacked at the flames, putting them out. But, not before the flames had seared the hem of her uniform.
Oh, this was not good, Rose thought. “Okay, little Marie. Out of bed, now.” Marie reached up but didn’t, or couldn’t, move. Rose scooped her up and flung her over her shoulder, taking her downstairs. In the
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