Prologue

September 3, 1937

Evelyn rolled over in bed to watch the sunrise through her open window. Her first night at the Wildwood Sanitarium, and already she could feel the stress in her muscles give way to relaxation. Freedom from the stale air in her cramped St. Louis apartment would surely cure this dreadful disease. A fit of coughing interrupted her view of the sunshine as she closed her eyes against the pain spreading through her chest and shoulders. Finally, the lung spasms subsided.

“Consumption,” she muttered under her breath. The word said it all. Deep, hacking coughs consumed her physically and emotionally, every few minutes, exhausting her ability to do anything. She had high hopes for her stay at Wildwood.

Sliding her feet into the fuzzy slippers, and shrugging into the fluffy white robe provided, Evelyn trudged down the hall to the women’s dining room for breakfast. Picking up a bowl of hot paste resembling oatmeal and a weak cup of tea from the counter, she selected a seat away from the other patients. Or residents, she wasn’t sure what term to use for the others like her, here to improve their health. All of them clutched a handkerchief in one hand while wielding a spoon with the other.

How have so many people come down with this same dreaded illness? More importantly, how is this food going to heal us?

At that exact moment, the sight of Dr. Bisson entering the dining room interrupted her internal discussion of disease and treatment. He crossed the room, touched the elbow of a young woman in the food line and leaned over to speak quietly to her. The patient nodded once, set down her tray, and without looking back shuffled behind him. Craning her neck to see around the door as it swung closed, Evelyn watched as the woman walked down the hall and the doctor showed her into one of the exam rooms. Abandoning her curiosity about the treatment plan for a fellow resident, Evelyn took the rest of her tea to a chair on the veranda. Opening a book to read and pass the time during the morning, she found herself unable to concentrate between spells of deep, wracking cough. As she leaned back and closed her eyes, she returned to her thoughts about treatment and the woman pulled from the serving line.

If anything beyond rest and fresh air exists, I want it too.

Her mind went blank as she struggled through another round of hacking. Since neither rest nor reading could overcome the urge to cough, she stared out at the mature oaks and hickories. Scattered among the lower canopy, she could pick out sassafras leaves hinting at fall reds and oranges. Through closed eyelids, she tried to  imagine the earthy scent of rich leaf mold littering the forest floor. It was no good sniffing the air. The coughing kept her sinuses busy and blocked all but the strongest aromas. For the remainder of the morning, she watched squirrels skittering from tree to ground, selecting the best soil to dig and bury their winter stores. 

At lunch, Evelyn sought the woman the doctor had taken to examine earlier and approached her table.

“Hi, I’m Evelyn. Mind if I sit with you?”

The young woman, whom Evelyn judged to be in her early twenties, nodded her assent.

“I noticed you went into a treatment room during breakfast. What kind of medicine did you get?” Evelyn spooned another bite of rich broth into her mouth, hoping her question sounded conversational. 

Lifting her shoulders, the woman said, “I’m Irene. I’d shake your hand but…” She let the statement hang in the air between them, both understanding no one touched the other in this place because phlegm was everywhere. “It’s odd, now you ask about it, I don’t know what Dr. Bisson gives me.”

Shock registered on Evelyn’s face. “Didn’t he say what it was? Is it a pill? A shot? Something else?” Questions tumbled out as Evelyn tried to process that Irene did not know what she was taking.

“Show me,” she instructed, shoving her chair back.

The women padded down the hall to the treatment room, Irene pointing out the door. Checking up and down the corridor to ensure no one followed or spotted them, Evelyn tried the knob and found it unlocked. Inside, glass-front cabinets lined the walls, displaying amber-colored bottles and vials. Inspecting each of the cabinet doors, Evelyn noticed everything was labeled with Latin names she did not recognize.

Tinctura Valerianae

Syrupus Althaeae

Tinctura Thymi

Extractum Liquiritae

Oleum Terebinthianae   

“Show me which ones the Doctor uses.” They both stared at the bottles, and Irene turned up her palms in resignation. “You don’t even know which ones?” Evelyn’s tone was incredulous.

“He has a dose sitting on the counter when I come in.”

“A pill, injection, what?”

Irene’s eyes were glassy, and Evelyn could tell the young woman had no answer for her questions.

Pulling open random drawers, she found syringes, measuring vials, and caplets for encasing ground-up powders. Or whatever he’s using. Evelyn was aghast at the idea this woman did not know what treatment she was being given. While they were still standing in the exam room, the sound of footsteps in the hall became louder as the person neared the door. Motioning with a finger to her lips, Evelyn pulled Irene behind her. They stepped into a closet holding the doctor’s lab coats on one end and a filthy mop in a bucket on the other. She was sure her heartbeat was loud enough to give them away, but she kept one eye focused on the crack where she had left the door ajar.

Dr. Bisson entered the room, followed by another young female patient whom Evelyn had not yet met. This woman sat meekly on the examination table while Dr. Bisson listened to her heart and lungs. Pulling out a drawer, the doctor removed a black book and flipped to a page, made a notation, then proceeded to the third cabinet from the south wall. Choosing one of the small brown bottles, the doctor poured a generous portion into a cup and gave it to the woman to drink. Without a question or comment, the young woman downed the concoction, choking and grimacing, leaving the room while the doctor made additional notes in the black book.

Evelyn craved a look at what the doctor was writing. The rush of her own pulse pounding in her ears and rising bile in her throat reminded her she was on shaky ground second-guessing a physician. But something wasn’t adding up. What exactly is in those bottles? Why doesn’t he tell people what medicine he’s using? It also did not escape her notice that most of the residents here were young women. Waiting for the doctor to leave, she paused for another minute to ensure he was gone before guiding Irene out of the closet. Posting her new accomplice in the hall, Evelyn whispered, “I’m going to get that book and bottle. Clear your throat if you see anyone coming.” She returned and slid the items into her dress pocket. Back in the hall beside her new friend, Evelyn instructed, “Don’t take anything else from the doctor without asking what he is giving you, then find me and tell me.” Irene nodded, and they each went to their afternoon activities. Evelyn wasn’t sure what she would do with the information, but she had a sense something was terribly wrong.

After hours of fitful dreaming in the night, Evelyn awoke to a lazy white cloud drifting through the patch of blue sky visible through her window. Maybe today she could find out more about what Dr. Bisson’s scribbled notes meant. Hushed voices in the hall outside her room caught her attention and she tip-toed to her door, pressing her ear against it. “I don’t know. She was dead when I checked on my midnight round,” the voice Evelyn recognized as nurse Madge, was saying. Whomever she was talking to responded,“Irene’s missing, too.”