Disclaimer: The characters here are property of Marvel, not me.
Disclaimer part Deux: This is not fluff. Sarah Rogers had a difficult life. This may be a difficult read.
A Woman's Strength
"I, Joseph Rogers, take thee, Sarah O'Rourke, for my lawful wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part." Sarah watched his lips moving as he said the words, her heart pounding in her throat. He looked so handsome in his suit, tall and broad-shouldered. She had been dreaming of this day for so long, and it was finally here. He finished reciting the words, ending with that smile that always made her heart jump, and then it was her turn. She finished her vows with nary a missed or mispronounced syllable, and inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. The priest continued speaking, but Sarah only half-listened, instead gazing at her new husband, her eyes tracing his dark hair, green eyes and refined features, committing them to memory. She wanted to remember this day always. It seemed only a heartbeat later that they were walking back up the aisle together, a gold ring encircling her finger and its promise encircling her heart.
Only a month later, they were boarding the ship that would take them across the Atlantic to America, that shining land of opportunity. Sarah was horribly ill from the turbulent journey across the sea, as the waves pitched and tossed the ocean liner. A week later, she caught a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty, holding aloft her torch of freedom. They joined the rest of the poor passengers from steerage on a barge ferrying them into the processing center. She finally set foot on American soil, but they had not arrived yet.
The lines at Ellis Island were long. They were given paper tags, and waited their turns. The doctor inspected Sarah with impersonal, but not ungentle hands. Both she and Joseph were in good health, so they did not get the blue chalk mark and were passed on to the next station. They joined the sea of immigrants moving through the Great Hall, filing through the maze of metal guiderails and waited several more hours to meet with an immigration inspector. He had questions for both of them, although once they established that they were married, he was much less interested in her answers than Joseph's. The questions were varied. Height, occupation, education, country and city of origin, race, criminal history, health history, final destination, job prospects… Their Inspector seemed pleased that Joseph had an uncle's cousin who owned a shipping company, and had offered Joseph a job working on the docks. He gave them his final stamp of approval, and they were in.
They found lodging in a tenement house near the Hudson River. Sarah began taking in washing to supplement the wage Joseph earned working long hours on the docks. When she had dreamed of America, she had imagined shining streets and a wealth of opportunities. The tenement they lived in was dark and dirty, and the neighborhood smelled of sulfur and foul water. She missed her mother and her siblings, the green fields of her hometown and the smell of the earth after it rained. The other people in their building were from all over, but many were from Ireland. Sometimes that led to conflict, as the Protestants and the Catholics were always quarreling, and gangs ruled some of the neighborhoods. Joseph made it clear she was not to leave their tiny apartment without him, especially not after dark.
Even the days were not completely safe. Sarah ventured out of their neighborhood to shop at a grocer that had fresher produce and slightly better-quality meat. Her blonde hair protected her somewhat, as it wasn't as obviously Irish as the stereotypical red, but she was aware of the stares she drew as soon as she spoke, her Irish brogue giving her away. The shopkeeper was cold, but did accept her money. She hastily took her groceries and left. She was only a few paces away from the door when a voice called out after her.
"Hey, Mick, you forgot something!" She half-turned to see what she had forgotten, when a potato caught her in the temple. A trio of boys laughed and called insults as they pelted her with potatoes. Her temper flared, and she yelled back at them in Gaelic, hurling invectives that would have made them quite angry if they had understood her. She didn't tell Joseph about the incident. He worried about her enough as it was, and she didn't want him getting mixed up in the violence that already plagued the city. Instead, she took to practicing speaking in front of the mirror, flattening her pronunciation, mimicking the voices she heard on the local radio stations.
They scrimped and saved enough to move into a slightly nicer building in Brooklyn. It was still small and dingy, but it was further removed from the gangs and violence that had kept Sarah up at night. Their move was not a moment too soon, as her belly began to bulge, and she realized she was pregnant. Several months later, her world grew a little brighter as William Joseph Rogers joined their family. He had his father's green eyes and dark hair, but tended more towards his mother's sunny disposition. Sarah fell naturally into the long-desired role of mother. Her days were filled with keeping the house in order and playing with her son, and she delighted in watching him discover the world around him through new and wondering eyes. But her delight could not last.
Sarah hadn't learned much about female biology in school, but she remembered how she felt when she had been pregnant with William. She began to feel that way again, and daydreamed excitedly about their expanding family, doodling bows and dolls on the margins of the ledger she used to keep track of the household budget. She was confused and heartbroken when, a few weeks later, her cycle returned with a vengeance, out of step and out of time, leaving her curled up on the couch while William tugged inquisitively at her ears, unsure why Mama wasn't playing with him like she usually did. She regained her equilibrium, only to have it happen again, a month before William's second birthday. She began to wonder if she had done something to make God angry, to make Him punish her by cursing her womb. In shame, she hid her secret, not confessing it even to her priest. Joseph still reached for her, but she started to read disappointment in his gaze. Twice more, she let herself be thrilled by the promise of new life, and twice more her body failed her. She made an effort to refocus on the present, to make the most out of each day with William, and not worry about things that were not in her control. She had her husband, and she had her son. She could be happy with that. She knew that, miles and oceans away, there was a war raging, but aside from the news reports on the radio, it encroached very little on her life.
In 1917, William turned 4, and the United States declared war on Germany. Suddenly, the war became front and center in Sarah's life, as a letter arrived at the end of April announcing that Joseph was conscripted. It seemed a whirlwind, and he was off to basic training. She sent him off with a wifely goodbye, instructing him not to even think about not returning home to her. Suddenly, every waking hour was filled with worry that she tried to push to the back of her mind. She helped out at church, putting together care packages for all the soldiers deployed. She helped plant a victory garden on the roof of their apartment building. Some of the women in her building were getting jobs recently vacated by the deployed or at the huge munitions factory that had just opened, and Sarah offered to watch the children too small to attend school. She liked having playmates for William, and it helped her stay distracted from the worry.
More distraction came as suddenly William began acting out of character, having accidents even though he had been out of diapers for nearly a year, complaining about being thirsty all the time, and having frequent meltdowns. At first, she chalked it up to his father being gone, but when he began to lose weight despite having a voracious appetite, she called for the doctor. He clucked his tongue, examined William, and shook his head.
"Mrs. Rogers, I'm afraid your son has diabetes," he informed her. Her heart dropped as the doctor began to explain the treatment and prognosis. Strict diet. Nothing else to be done. With the diet, he could live another year, two at most. She clutched her son to her chest and wept.
Their days became centered around food; either she was preparing it, encouraging William to eat it, or reminding him he couldn't have those other foods that he stared at so longingly. He didn't quite understand why, no matter how many times she explained it, and he made no secret of how unfair he thought it was. Privately, she agreed. Sarah scarcely remembered to make food for herself, but she found most days she was nauseated and had little appetite anyway. At night, she barely slept, and she was so fatigued during the day that she had difficulty even getting out of bed. But she did, for William.
His face lost every trace of its baby softness, becoming gaunt, with pinched cheeks and sunken eyes. When she put her arms around him, she could count his ribs, sticking out like handlebars under his skin. It became harder and harder to tell him not to eat, but he hardly ever asked, now. He didn't have the energy. Rather than running out to play with the other boys in the neighborhood, he lay on the couch and stared out the window.
She took in washing again to try to earn some money to help pay their bills, now that Joseph wasn't there to support them. She couldn't bear to be away from William now, knowing how few days they had left. She still watched the other children in her building occasionally, but it became harder and harder for William to play with the healthy children. She preferred their time alone together. She read to him, played music for him, devoted her time to him, prayed for him. Four months after Joseph had shipped out, she noticed that her dresses were getting tighter, and she realized she had trouble remembering her last cycle.
It all seemed a cruel joke, that she had to watch her elder child waste away, shrinking down to little more than skeletal, while her own belly rounded and grew. She finally carried the sibling she had so longed to give William, and he had been given this death sentence. The moments of joy she allowed herself were quickly followed by guilt that she could be happy while her child was suffering. Then she would feel guilty that she was not happier about the new life within her.
The radio seemed to carry no good news, either. Aside from the news of battles and casualties in Europe, shortages and rations at home, there was word of an epidemic, the Spanish flu, that was taking lives of young and old, healthy and infirm, sound and frail. There were a few in their neighborhood that had fallen victim already. She began to watch William like a hawk, cleaning the house from top to bottom, fussing over him if he so much as sneezed. All her attention and precautions came to naught when he fell ill anyway.
She comforted herself that at least he had gone quickly. He had become weak and sickly, and it had taken less than a week from the first cough until he drew his last breath. She stood beside his grave, watching as they lowered his tiny coffin into the earth, blue eyes red-rimmed and swollen, shoulders back and head held high against the whispers and pitying glances. Her mourning garb did not quite conceal the swell of her abdomen, and she rested her hand on it, focusing on the one bright spot left in her universe. She walked home from the graveyard feeling numb, barely registering those she passed on the street. Falling into bed, she cried herself to sleep.
A week passed, then two. Grief and exhaustion pressed her down with the weight of an elephant, making it nearly impossible to get out of bed. Mrs. Nelson from down the hall knocked, looking for her laundry, calling through the door. Eventually, she went away. Winifred and Florence came knocking, calling through the door to ask if she were home, if she were okay. She pulled the covers over her head. Eventually, they went away too.
A loud, more insistent rapping came at the door. A man's voice, calling for Mrs. Rogers. Sarah struggled out of bed, pulling a house coat on over her rumpled nightgown and hurriedly putting her hair up in an effort to make herself presentable. She opened the door to a young man in a familiar uniform.
"Telegram, ma'am," he said, handing her a piece of paper. "My condolences." With shaking hands, she took the paper and read the words with dread.
Dear madam; I very much regret to inform you that your husband, PFC Joseph Rogers of the 107th, was killed in action as a consequence of a mustard gas attack… The letter dropped from her nerveless hand. She took three unsteady steps backwards and collapsed on the floor. She had thought she had no tears left, but found that she did as she sobbed on the floor of her kitchen.
She didn't know how long she remained there, head and back aching, heart broken, unable to move. Several forceful kicks from her midsection brought her out of her fugue state, reminding her that there was one person left who needed her to be a functional human being. Taking a deep breath, she pulled herself to her feet.
"As I told you the previous twelve times, Ms. Rogers, it is highly irregular for the nursing school to admit a married woman, much less someone in your condition," Mrs. Carrie Bath, the Directress of Nursing at St. Luke's Hospital School of Nursing, peered over the top of her glasses at Sarah. Sarah squared her shoulders and raised her chin.
"Ma'am, I am not a wife, I am a widow. I buried my husband two weeks ago. A month before that, I buried my son. I am just trying to provide for the family I have left," she pleaded. "Please, help me do that." Mrs. Bath regarded her for a long moment.
"I do feel for you, Ms. Rogers, but our policies are very clear. I am afraid my answer has not changed," the Directress said with a sigh. Sarah Rogers stood and inclined her head towards the woman.
"Very well. Thank you for your time, Directress. I will see you again tomorrow," she declared. Mrs. Bath scowled.
"Ms. Rogers, exactly how many times do you plan to come to my office and ask me to make an exception and allow you to attend the school?" she asked crisply, setting her pen down. Sarah turned to look at the woman who she had decided held the key to her future.
"As many times as it takes, Directress," she said, calmly and simply. Mrs. Bath regarded her for a long moment, and Sarah thought she noted a hint of admiration underlying her annoyance.
"You would need to live in the nurses' residence with the others," she said. "We do not have much in the way of accommodations for children." Sarah nodded.
"I understand," she said calmly. "I can make arrangements." Much as she hated to admit it, there was a part of her that would be glad to be rid of the apartment she had inhabited the past six years, haunted as it was now with memories of her ghosts, reminders of everything she had lost. She could figure out what to do with the baby when the time came.
"The nursing program here is very demanding," Mrs. Bath continued. "Are you certain you are up to the task?" She eyed Sarah's very pregnant belly dubiously. Sarah stood up straighter.
"If you allow me to attend your school, you will find that no one works harder, or takes better care of your patients," she said resolutely. "You will not regret it." Mrs. Bath shuffled through the papers on her desk, finding the file containing Sarah's application to the school. Silently, she paged through, reading carefully. Sarah remained very still at the doorway, patiently waiting. Mrs. Bath looked up at her and smiled thinly.
"See that I don't, Ms. Rogers. You may join the cohort that starts next month."
The next few weeks passed in a blur, as the void left in her world was filled with packing, moving, studying and preparing. Sarah ignored the looks of shock from her classmates the first few days of school, concentrating instead on the lessons. She devoted herself to her studies, rising early in the morning to get to class and staying up late, only grudgingly putting out her lamp to save oil when she could hardly keep her eyes open. The nurses' residence, Vanderbilt Pavilion, was not exactly luxurious; three or four women all shared a room, with two desks to share between them. The nights were short, and the days were long. Her back ached most mornings after she hoisted herself out of the tiny bed and struggled into her nursing uniform, squeezing swollen feet into high heels to get to class on time. The days were long and hot.
Two weeks in, Sarah was sitting up late studying when she felt her abdomen tightening. She ignored it for as long as she could, then got up and paced from one side of the room to the other, still reading from her Practical Nursing textbook. This awakened her roommate, Sallie, who frowned at her and was about to start scolding when the floor underneath Sarah was suddenly wet, and Sallie's eyes widened instead.
"You had better get to the hospital!" she gasped. This awakened Dorothy and Mildred, their other roommates, and suddenly Sarah was caught up in a tidal wave of well-intentioned and enthusiastic women escorting her from the residence to the hospital. Her labor went far quicker this time than it had with William. She could look out the window from her bed, and saw fireworks going off just as her baby's first cries filled the room. She hadn't even remembered that it was the fourth of July, so for a moment it felt as if the world was celebrating with her. The nurse wrapped up the squalling infant and lay the little bundle in Sarah's arms.
"Congratulations, it's a boy," she said with a smile. Sarah felt an odd twist in her gut, guilty as if she were trying to replace William, but those thoughts fell away as she pulled her baby closer and saw him watching her with wide eyes and a concerned wrinkle in his brow. She smiled at him as he stared at her intently, heart swelling with love and relief.
"Hello, Steven Grant Rogers," she said softly, "my big, strong boy." He slowly blinked at her. Eight pounds, nine ounces, soft wisps of golden hair, and quickly given a clean bill of health by the doctor. Her world contracted, and reoriented itself around him.
As she had promised, she tried to keep Steven's presence as invisible as possible. She rose earlier than ever, taking him back to their old apartment building. Winnie Barnes had agreed to watch him during the day when Sarah had to be away in class or at the hospital. After a day full of studying and practical skills, she went back to collect him. He tended to be a bit clingy after being apart from her all day, and she had to admit that she missed him, too. She spent what was left of her evenings cuddling and bonding with her infant son, reading and rereading her textbooks. Sometimes she read the textbooks to him, dressing up the dry material with silly voices, encouraged when he would reward her with a brief smile. At night, he slept in the bunk with her, her body curled protectively around him, never changing position.
Her roommates tolerated his presence, and Sarah was quick to attend his needs so that he wouldn't cry too long and cause a disruption. He did not hesitate to voice his opinion, but was easily mollified once she figured out what it was he needed. He was very different in temperament than William had been, earnest and somber where his older brother had been giggles and grins, smirks and sunbeams… when he was well.
Sarah fidgeted in class, for once having some difficulty concentrating on the lecture. She glanced at the clock, watched the minutes tick by impossibly slowly. Finally, the teacher dismissed them, and it was time for lunch. It took massive effort to remember to keep her gait to a ladylike brisk walk when she really wanted to sprint. The chapel was connected to the hospital, on the other side of the school, and she lost precious minutes on her journey there. It was mostly empty, save for a woman with dark hair drawn up into a chignon, and a child in a frock, barely past the baby stage. The woman held a swaddled bundle in her arms, talking quietly with the child, who was fidgety beside her. Sarah slid into the pew next to them, pulling at her nursing uniform to ease the discomfort. The woman handed the swaddled infant to her, and Sarah sighed as Steven latched on and relieved the pressure that had been building.
"Ah, God bless you, Winnie," Sarah sighed. Winnie smiled and drew her own son into her now-freed arms.
"Indeed He does," she agreed. "Are you certain this is easier than just taking a job at the munitions plant?" Sarah shook her head.
"Easier? No. But the war won't last forever. Once the boys come home, they'll need jobs back. But we will always need nurses," she pointed out. She rummaged in her bag for the glass jars nestled in among the books. "Here. Fresh this morning." She handed Winnie the jars of hand-expressed breastmilk. Winnie took them, and handed her a bag in return. It clinked as she set it on the pew beside her.
"Your jars from last week," Winnie said simply. "Also, a sandwich and some fruit, because I'm sure you've forgotten to eat again." Sarah smiled and shook her head.
"What would I do without you, Winnie?" she asked.
"I've no idea. But it's wartime. We have to pull together when things fall apart." Winnie grinned and made faces at baby James, who cooed back and patted her face with baby hands. Sarah smiled down at Steven, nursing with his eyes closed. There were times she wished that she could slow down and enjoy him, but for now she would just take these moments when she could.
The nursing program was demanding, eating up most of her days, classes chased by shifts at the hospital. Often, Steve was already asleep by the time she arrived to pick him up. Winnie sometimes greeted her with the news that he had started crawling, or taken his first steps. It seemed the blink of an eye before he was toddling around, getting into everything, then running and climbing.
She graduated at the top of her class, as she had promised, and Mrs. Bath even favored her with a smile at the ceremony. They found a small apartment in Brooklyn, just big enough for the two of them, and Sarah took a position in a local hospital as a staff nurse. The war was over, and the men had returned. Life seemed to be regaining some kind of equilibrium, and she was again able to extract happiness from her days. She found purpose in her work, and looked forward to coming home to Steve at the end of her shifts. He was growing fast, his blue eyes and blond hair an echo of hers. They weren't wealthy on her nurse's wages, but they got by. Steve got some the usual childhood ills, colds and fevers, bumps and bruises, but overall remained healthy and seemed to thrive.
The near-idyllic existence came to a shuddering halt when she came home from work one day to find Steven curled up on the couch, his hair sticking to his forehead in damp swirls. She picked him up and held him close, and he moaned fitfully, voice hoarse, his body boiling in her arms. Stripping his clothes off, she recognized the bright red rash spreading across his body with horror.
Their home became a quarantine zone, nobody in or out aside from the doctor. Sarah focused all her nursing skills and knowledge on her son, but still watched helplessly as her son languished, his throat so sore he could barely swallow water. Days turned into weeks without much improvement, and the fever moved into his joints and heart. The hospital notified her that her position had been filled, and she no longer had a job there. Despite all her best efforts, she feared she would lose her only remaining son. She busied herself cleaning everything in their tiny apartment, then cleaning it again. She sang to him, mostly lullabies, the only thing that seemed to calm him when the fever made him restless and fitful. She talked to him, encouraging him, even when he was too exhausted or out of his head to reply. She reminded him that he was her big, strong boy, and that he could beat this silly fever. She tried to say it with conviction, even when her heart was filled with cold fear that he would not.
But he did. After weeks of illness, the fever broke, and he slowly began to recuperate. For that she was eternally grateful, but he would never recover completely. His heart and lungs had been permanently damaged, and as he drew closer to the start of school, he was notably smaller than the other boys his age. She ignored the trepidation in her heart, knowing how cruel children could be, and sent him off to learn, reminding him – and herself – that he was still her strong boy. And even though it seemed a lie on its face, it wasn't, after all. He had beaten death once already, and his will was strong, a point he seemed determined to prove over and over again.
"Stevie, mo chroi, have you been fighting again?" She clucked her tongue at him. They had been in danger of losing their apartment after the hospital let her go, but she had found a position at the Sanatorium in time to save it. The hours were long, and the pay was less, but there was a surplus of nurses, and jobs were harder to come by than she had anticipated.
"No, Mama," he protested. She cupped his face in her hands and raised her eyebrows at him.
"So where did that black eye come from?" she asked pointedly. Steve looked away and sighed.
"I had to, Mama!" he protested. "They said you were… Well, I won't repeat it. But it was mean!" Sarah ruffled his hair affectionately.
"They're just words, Steven. They can hurt, but they only have as much power as we let them," she reminded him. He nodded.
"I tried not to let them win, Mama. But there were three of them, and they were all bigger than me," he sighed.
"Did you stay down?" she asked. He glanced up her with a frown.
"No… It was in the alley behind the general store. Mr. Harmon heard us and made everyone leave. But I was still on my feet," he replied earnestly.
"See, so you didn't lose," Sarah pointed out. Steve blinked at her in confusion.
"But I didn't get in nearly as many licks as they did," he protested. Sarah smiled and scooped some ice out of the icebox, wrapping it in a clean handkerchief.
"Ah, Stevie. It's not about who throws the most punches," she corrected. "People – and life – will knock us down many times. As long as we can get up again, we're not beaten." Steve nodded slowly, and she pressed the ice gently to his bruised face.
Time seemed to fly by. It seemed like last week that Steven had been a tiny baby in her arms, and now he was already starting the third grade. The fighting spirit that had helped him survive the rheumatic fever also regularly got him into scraps at school and after. It made her worry for him, but she was reluctant to squelch it. Some days, she was fairly certain it was that fire that kept him going, despite being harassed and targeted by his peers. Still, hearing the familiar wheeze outside her door brought her running with a vial of epinephrine, drawing up the appropriate dose. Preparing it in the kitchen, she looked up to see Steve enter, limping, soaking wet and in the throes of an asthma attack, with one arm thrown around a boy a head and a half taller than him, with dark hair and cornflower blue eyes.
Steve scrambled into his customary spot at the table and started rolling up his sleeve, coughing and struggling for breath. Sarah quickly injected the solution into his shoulder and rubbed the site, watching him carefully as his breathing slowed and eased.
"So, what happened this time?" she asked, her tone resigned rather than shocked. The larger boy's eyes widened at her nonchalant manner. Steve coughed, then took a deep, shaky breath.
"Some boys were throwing mud at Lydia McClintock," he explained. "I told 'em to… stop it."
"In your usual manner, I suppose?" Sarah said teasingly. "Did you threaten to knock their blocks off? Or just throw their books into the mud?"
"He told 'em he'd grind them into mud, until mud was all that was left," the other boy offered helpfully. "So they threw him in a rain barrel and took turns trying to hold him under." Sarah's eyes widened, and for the first time her expression became concerned.
"I don't know what I would have done if he hadn't come along," Steve admitted, gesturing to the larger boy.
"Well then, you have my thanks, mysterious blue-eyed hero," Sarah said playfully. The boy laughed and proffered his hand to her.
"Aww, I didn't do much. Bullies like that, they run off once they realize you can hit back. Name's James Buchanan Barnes, but you can call me Bucky," he introduced himself. Sarah shook his hand, her visage thoughtful.
"Barnes. Any relation to Winifred Barnes?" she asked. Bucky nodded.
"She's my mom," he confirmed. "Do you know her?" Sarah smiled.
"I used to. She watched Steve for me when he was a wee baby, back when I was still training to be a nurse. She was a great friend to me. After I finished my training and we moved here, I'm afraid we lost touch. Is she well?" The truth was, it had been difficult to keep in touch, working her long hours when most of the other women got together, spending time with her son in the evenings. Being a single mother came with its difficulties, not the least if which was a degree of social isolation.
"Yes, she is. She's going to have another baby soon," he blurted, then immediately looked abashed. "Um, but I'm not supposed to tell people that." Sarah laughed.
"Mama, can Bucky stay for dinner?" Steve asked hopefully. Sarah thought of their woefully bare cupboards, but looking down into her son's eager face, she could only smile.
"If he wants to, he certainly is welcome to," she declared.
Bucky became a frequent visitor in their tiny apartment. At first, Sarah had welcomed him into their lives so readily for Steve's sake, and also because Winnie had been such a help to her the years ago. Soon, however, she was happy to include Bucky for his own sake. He was a friendly boy, always polite to her, and quick to come to Steve's defense when her son invariably got himself in over his head. It went a long way to ease her anxiety as a mother to know that the capable boy had become Steve's staunchest defender. For the first time, the sound of laughter and rough, boyish play filled their home, a bittersweet sound she had always imagined would be in her life, before she learned that God had other plans. On the evenings when she came home from work and almost fell over the couch cushions on the floor, she still could barely summon any annoyance. After a long day at the sanatorium, comforting and caring for the sick and dying, it was nice to be around the boys, so full of life. Steve still came home with black eyes on occasion, but his stories now always included Bucky as a supporting character. The two of them grew from boyhood into the gangly, awkward not-quite-grown stage, still inseparable.
"Mom, I hate these things. They make me feel funny," Steve protested as Sarah lit his asthma cigarette for him. The apartment was soon filled with the unmistakable scent of the unique herbal blend.
"I know, Stevie. But the doctor says they will help your lungs. You'll get used to them." She ruffled his hair affectionately. "Would you rather more epinephrine injections?"
"No," he admitted grudgingly. He took a long drag on it, held it for a moment, then exhaled. "And don't call me Stevie, please. I told you, just Steve now. I'm not a child anymore."
"Oh, I am aware." Her expression turned nostalgic. "It seems just yesterday you were a tiny baby in my arms, and now you're a big, fourteen-year-old man." He rolled his eyes at her and took another drag of his therapeutic cigarette. Exhaling, he narrowed his eyes at the smoldering end of it.
"You keep talking about them coming out with better treatments and finding out that the old ways were bad," he reasoned meditatively. "What if we find out this isn't the best thing for lungs, and we should be doing something different?" Sarah shrugged.
"Then we'll do that," she said simply. "This is the best treatment we have right now. We can only do the best we can with the information we have at the time." The end of her statement was punctuated by a coughing fit. She had been having them more often recently. Steve watched her with that worried wrinkle between his eyebrows.
"Maybe you should have one of these, too," he commented, holding the cigarette out towards her. "It sounds like your lungs need it."
The coughing fits came more and more frequently, and she found herself exhausted by the end of the day, barely able to summon the energy to cook Steve dinner. It wasn't until she noticed blood spatter on her handkerchief that she finally consulted her doctor. He confirmed what she had already begun to suspect. She had worked in the sanatorium for twelve years; she knew the signs as well as anyone. Ironically, she could not afford to stay in the sanatorium where she had worked, but there were less expensive options. That she knew exactly what lay ahead of her made it more difficult, but not as difficult as breaking the news to Steve.
"What do you mean, you have to go away?" he demanded, his face constricted in the expression he always got when he was trying not to cry. "Why can't you stay here? I'll take care of you, like you've always taken care of me. I can be a newsie, help pay rent. I'll make you soup and let you rest so you can get better."
"I don't know that I'm going to get better, Steve," Sarah explained patiently. "But I do know that I don't want to get you sick. I don't want to get Bucky sick. I don't want to get Mrs. Nelson down the hall sick. Going away is the best thing, for everyone." Steve's face contorted for a moment, but he stubbornly wrestled his features back into a semblance of calm.
"Are you sure about that, Mom?" he retorted. "Because it kind of feels like you're giving up. You've got to keep fighting. Life knocks you down, but you get back up, remember? You're not beat unless you don't get back up." The tears were very near the surface now, and she felt her own prickling at the edges of her vision. Slowly, she shook her head.
"I'm so sorry, Steven," she said, her voice cracking. "I've seen too much to believe I can beat this one. You'll have to get back up for me, instead." He swallowed hard.
"I will, Mom. I promise. I'll make you proud of me." She smiled at him, reached out to cup his cheek.
"I've always been proud of you, mo chroi," she whispered. "Watching you grow up was my greatest joy." Steve didn't answer, blinking hard and swallowing repeatedly. Sarah hefted her suitcase, preparing to take it downstairs to the car waiting to take her to what she knew would be her last home on this earth. She carried it across the room, but then had to set it down and rest. Another coughing fit paralyzed her briefly. Steve came over and picked up the suitcase.
"I'll help you with that," he offered quietly. She managed a weak smile. Together, they walked down the stairs, and he helped her into the car. She could see him struggling to put into words what he wanted to say. She waited patiently. "This isn't fair," he finally managed.
"No, it isn't," she agreed. "Life isn't fair. That makes it even more important for us to be, as much as we can."
"I love you, Mom," he said.
"I love you, too, Stevie." For once, he didn't flinch at the nickname, instead helping her into the car. She settled back into the seat, exhausted by the short trip. As the car pulled away, she thought of Joseph and William, and felt them closer than she had in years. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Steve standing on the curb, watching the car taking her away from him. Suddenly, all the grief and struggle through the years seemed worth it. Whatever happened now, she could be satisfied. She had raised a good man.
Author's Note: This fic was inspired by what little we know of Steve's mom, his medical history shown briefly in The First Avenger, and filling in with historical details. Yes, they did treat asthma with cigarettes. They were not made of tobacco, but a blend of various herbs, including belladonna and stramonium. They did help a little bit. They could also cause hallucinations. The association we have with cigarettes causing lung disease didn't happen until recent decades. Insulin wasn't discovered until 1922. Prior to that, children with diabetes usually died. Penicillin was discovered in 1928, and was the first thing that could successfully treat strep, which is what causes scarlet fever/rheumatic fever. There wasn't effective treatment for tuberculosis until years after Sarah's death. She had to struggle as a single mother in a world not set up for single mothers.
Steve's medical history lists history of scarlet fever/rheumatic fever (which at the root are both complications of a strep infection). Both of these would likely be responsible for his variety of lung and heart issues, as they can do lasting damage. He also has asthma, and they list a "nervous condition," which is probably also asthma. Asthma was believed to be a psychosomatic disorder during this time period, especially since emotions could exacerbate it. It was sometimes treated with talk therapy. Now we know better. His list also mentions a "household member with diabetes." Since it was basically untreatable during this time and nearly always fatal, that led me to the conclusion it was an older sibling that had it.
Thanks for reading! Feedback is appreciated!
Revised 4/5/2019 to more accurately depict the life of an Irish immigrant.