Disclaimer: I do not own or profit from anything Twilight related Thank you to my betas SusanAshlea and bloodofbeckie.
This chapter starts in 1918, in Edward's POV. La Grippe is another term for Spanish Influenza, used at the time of the pandemic.
Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, vision cleared, ambition inspired, and success achieved.
— Helen Keller, American social activist, public speaker and author (1880-1968)
The measure of a man's character is what he would do if he knew he never would be found out.
— Baron Thomas Babington Macauley, English historian and statesman (1800-1859)
Edward POV
My father, Edward Masen Sr., has fallen ill with the Spanish influenza, a horrendous disease that causes pneumonia and too often death. Chicago has been one of the first cities to be hit with this wave of epidemic. First was Boston, then New York; it has been hitting port cities and spreading from there to surrounding areas. Soldiers home from deployment to the war are bringing it back with them. Surgeon General Rupert Blue has said the medical society does not yet know whether the soldiers took the influenza with them to the war front, or if it actually started in Spain like it has been rumored. Until recently, not much has been said about the first wave, which primarily struck military camps, such as Fort Riley, Kansas.
All of us here have heard many horrific stories about the high number of soldiers dying from the sickness. I can only say I am glad a virus has no allies, and it is killing the enemy in equal numbers. With the decreasing numbers of soldiers, I have more conviction now than ever to join the Army as soon as I am eligible. I have already been to talk with recruiters to see about joining early. They say they will take me as early as the first day of my birth month, of my eighteenth year. I have nine months yet to go. This shall be an unbearable winter and spring; waiting idle while reading of the horrors that my countrymen are enduring.
My mother, Elizabeth, decided as soon as she knew the influenza had hit the area that she wanted to send Grady and myself away to ride out this viral storm in Nebraska with her cousins. I, of course, refused to go. How can she possibly expect me to leave, to run away? If American men only a year or so older than myself were suffering abroad, I would also stand strong and face it from the home front. Most of them will never know of me or the small sacrifice I have made, but pride and character do not come from what others know you do and praise you for. They come from doing the right thing when no one is watching. What good would it do for me to survive this, if I came out with no character? Grady looked up to me, so it was my responsibility to show him what it means to be decent and respectable. It was especially important to show him what a good man is, with the real possibility that our father may not survive this.
Grady was ten years old, I knew he would be able to make the journey on his own. Furthermore, I was sure we knew a friend, or friend of a friend, that would be going that direction and could accompany him at least part of the way. It crushed me to think of him leaving us, but it was the best thing.
After my father got sick, my mother busied herself with nursing him and worrying about all of us. It was time for Grady to go, so I helped him pack his things and took him to the train station.
"Edward, I don't want to go to Nebraska. Especially if you're not going," my heart broke with the look he gave me as he said this. He wasn't being defiant, only worry and anxiety were apparent in his eyes. For once, I wanted to forget about war, pride, and being a damned hero and just go with him. I wanted to do anything to keep him from feeling this sadness.
I did what I could to comfort him. I gave him a hug, and told him, "I know you don't, Grady, but this is what's best for you. We do not want you getting sick. I am sure you will have a great time. Our cousins have a farm, and you will be so busy exploring and making friends, you won't even have time to wish you were back home." He seemed to be taking this in, though it didn't relieve the worry that was evident on his brow. Instead, it only made his expression look more complicated than any ten-year-old child's should.
I went on, "Look what I've brought, a gift to help pass the time." I gave him the drawing pad and a set of colored pencils I had tucked under my arm. Grady is an excellent artist for his age, he loves to sit and sketch people and scenery. I was never any good at it, but my talent was at the piano.
"Oh! Thank you," he said, as I could see the light returning to his eyes. I knew he was still thinking about all the stresses in his young life, but these would help as a distraction.
We waited for the Abram family, who would be chaperoning him to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. From there, he would be on his own until he met our mother's cousin, Jesse, in Valentine, Nebraska. Jesse and his wife, Irene, lived just outside the small town with their three children— Clara, Louise, and Raymond.
They recognized us first, and came to introduce themselves. "Hello. Edward? I am Albert Abram and this is my wife Rose. As I am sure you know we are friends of your father's. I'm so sorry to hear the influenza has caught him too."
"Ah, yes, hello. Thank you," I replied, returning his handshake and nodding in the direction of his wife. I could read on them straight away that these were genuine souls, which helped to ease my mind a slight bit. "This here is your travelling companion, Grady. You'll never know how much we appreciate you doing this favor for us."
"It's no problem at all," he replied to me. When he shook Grady's hand, my brother seemed happy that someone was acknowledging him as the adult he wished he were. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he said, putting a little extra formality in his voice for Grady's benefit.
"The pleasure's mine Mr. Abram," Grady replied quietly. He was shy, but wanted so badly to be thought mature that he forced out the polite response.
"All aboard!" I heard the announcement, and my stomach felt as though it had dropped through the platform. Would I be strong enough to send my brother, my young friend and comrade, away not knowing when or if I would see him again?
I gave him a hug that was long and crushing, hoping to ensure that he would remember for a long time to come that his big brother loves him.
"I'll be okay, Edward. I like these people already. I'll just be sad you don't get to have fun with me." He was trying to calm me. This child, being forced to move across the country, was trying to calm me. He has such an old soul, and knows just how to comfort others.
"I love you Grady. You're a great kid," I said while ruffling his hair, teasing him to lighten the mood.
"I love you too, don't call me a kid," he pouted, but there was still a smile in his eyes.
I chuckled, "Okay I won't, if you promise to be safe and try to stay out of trouble."
"I will." I gave him another quick hug, and he turned to walk with Rose on to the train. I handed his bag to Albert. I waited long enough to see him get in his seat, and mouthed 'goodbye'. I was sure I saw a tear stream down his face. However, it was hard to tell with the tears building up in my own eyes. When the train started its slow roll forward, we waved goodbye to each other. Then he was gone.
My father's fever had been hovering between 101 and 103 degrees, but had dropped some today. Pneumonia had not settled in yet, and we were hopeful for his recovery. The newspapers were printing directions and precautions from the doctors on how to care for the sick. Following these instructions, my father lied in bed all day, my mother fed him broth, we kept the windows open for ventilation, and we only went in his room when necessary. I was taken aback at how fragile and sunken he had become in the short five days since he got sick. He was only a mere ghost of the tall, strong man I knew as my father. It was especially heart wrenching to watch my mother nurse him; she looked almost as ghastly as he did. She was disheveled from head to toe, and there were deep purple circles under her eyes.
Over the next two days, his fever came back and the pneumonia had come to overtake his lungs. He was slowly turning blue for lack of oxygen, which signified the end was very near. He refused the hospital as strongly as he could, given his weak condition. He said that was where all the disease was the worst, and would not be drowned in other people's viruses. At about nine o'clock on the seventh night, he began to cough up bloody phlegm. My mother and I sat by his side as he tried to utter his dying words.
"Edward..." his voice was hoarse, and barely a whisper. His eyes seemed to have trouble finding me, so I leaned closer to be in front of him. Seeing that I was there, he continued, "...you've grown into such an honorable man...take care of your mother and brother." I gently squeezed his hand as my response, not knowing what I could possibly say.
When he looked at my mother, both pairs of eyes got the brightest I had seen them in some time. I could see their thoughts of deep love flowing between them; no words were needed in this moment. I felt almost voyeuristic to see this intimacy. I glanced down, as a way of giving them a small amount of privacy. I had to wonder, would I ever love someone this way?
"Elizabeth...I love you...see you after." With that, he let out a long sigh, and he was gone from our lives forever.
I looked up at my mother, and she was sobbing as hard as her tired, weakened body would let her. I went around to her side of the bed to console her. She stood up to return my hug and immediately lost control of her legs. I was supporting most of her weight as she grabbed hold of my shirt and continued to cry into my chest. In that minute, our roles reversed—I was the one putting on a strong facade to comfort her. For possibly the first time in my life, I recognized her as a woman—one with her own set of worries and grief outside of her children—instead of just a mother and caretaker.
That night, we called the mortician for his assistants to come for my father's body. We would have to go the next day to discuss his funeral.
When I went to bed that night, I knew I would not be sleeping. What I hadn't expected though, were the chills and sweating. I knew what this meant; La Grippe had come for me.
The next morning, I woke after a very small amount of restless sleep. My mother was already up and moving around. I guessed she hadn't slept at all, and was now puttering about to busy herself. I made my way to the kitchen where she was, feeling dizzy the entire way. As soon as she saw me, her expression fell from a sort of nothing to profound grief and worry.
"Edward. You look as bad as I feel," she said with astonishment, laced with worry.
I hated knowing I would have to tell her I had the fever as it meant she would have to nurse me. I didn't want that for her. It had already taken so much out of her to care for her husband, and she needed time to mourn. If I could not take care of myself, I would go to the hospital. I needed to do what I could to ease her suffering.
"Mama," I used a term from my childhood, "my fever started last night."
"Oh, son, you should go back to bed. I'll bring you some soup in a few minutes." She immediately went about the kitchen, preparing my meal.
"Mother, I don't want to have you suffering more while you nurse me. I will go to the hospital if—"
"Nonsense," she interrupted, "I am your mother, and I will nurse you."
I should have known she would refuse. She had never hidden the fact that she loved being a mother, and would do anything within her power to keep us from suffering. If she couldn't, she would use that same fierce determination to make sure someone else could. I obliged her, and went back to bed. However, if and when I got worse, I would take myself to the hospital if she still insisted I stay home.
My mother went to the mortician without me; she took a friend for support instead. She didn't go over the details with me, only told me the funeral would be in two days.
She wasn't looking good, and I was thinking it was more than grief. Later that night, she finally admitted she was developing a fever. I finally convinced her we needed to go to the hospital; we would go first thing in the morning.
Hello reader,
Thank you for reading this first chapter. If you made it down here to the bottom, then you probably have some thoughts on what you've just read. I would love to hear them!
~Meg
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