Pandemic: The Spanish Influenza
When the World Almost Died
This story blends parts of both the movie and the TV version of The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, both of which were inspired by R.A. Dick's book. The movie and TV series are properties of 20th Century Fox. I make no money from this story.
Prologue
I was born and raised in Philadelphia. My family was well off and our friends were as well. I had known Robert Muir since we were children and it was fated that we would marry. Robert was always "delicate" and rarely was allowed to romp and play with the other boys. I enjoyed the typical child's play, but I was asthmatic and too much activity would put me into a wheezing fit, and therefore we often sat and watched the other children playing. He was artistic and growing up, he would illustrate the little "books" I would write. He went on to become a semi-successful architect and after we wed, we lived with his widowed mother and sister Alice. Both were kind and caring to me, although it was their house and their ways. They both indulged Robert and taught him to believe in his own limitations, which quietly infuriated me. We couldn't live apart from them because they had to "take care" of him and despite my support and strength, he never did learn to rely on himself.
We had two children, a girl we named Candace but called "Candy" and a boy, Jonathan. My parents lived to see both of them born, but soon after passed away three months apart from each other.
It was shortly after Jonathan turned three that Robert began to visibly weaken. To this day, I do not truly know the nature of his malady; his mother and sister would never discuss it with me. Perhaps it was a rheumatic heart or some such, but he weakened physically day by day. To their credit, Mother Muir and Alice called for every doctor in the city and even from as far away as New York to see him, and while every single one of them was sure that they had a cure for his malady, he was dead in six months.
Robert's mother and sister assumed that the children and I would remain in their home permanently. They continued to rule my life as they had before and increased their vigilance over my children, sure that they too, would become as delicate as their father. Candy and Jonathan were most definitely not delicate and had always enjoyed playing with their friends out of doors, climbing and crawling as children normally do. But suddenly, they were forbidden to do these things. If I managed to sneak them outside to "take a quiet walk", we would head as quickly as we could to the playground. Despite our housekeeper, Martha's best efforts to clean the dirt and grass-stained clothes before Alice or Mother Muir could find them, dirty little faces and rosy cheeks after our outings were a sure sign that we were all being disobedient. After that, one or both of them would accompany us on our walks to keep the three of us on the straight and narrow path.
The comfortable house that we shared was now more like a tomb. The heavy draperies were kept closed to keep out the bad air of the city that surrounded us and that could take us to the grave at a moment's notice. Voices were hushed and my mother- and sister-in-law descended into deep and permanent mourning. Living like this became intolerable. With no father or brother to flee to, I would have been crushed if I did not have my children to care for.
Robert had left me some stocks that brought in a small monthly income. My parents had left me an estate, but it was in a trust that also gave me a small monthly income and there were bequests to the children that they could not touch until adulthood. I bided my time until the first anniversary of Robert's death was upon us. In the intervening year, I had carefully saved my income and now had enough to be able to find a small, cheap house, as far away from Philadelphia as I could. Not only did the house have to meet these criteria, I also hoped to find a place that was less dirty and apt to stir up my asthma.
I had heard that dry climates were beneficial for asthma sufferers, but I had no wish to travel to the wild southwest or to California. Martha had seen much more of the country than I had and one afternoon, I asked her opinion of an appropriate place to settle. I knew that she would keep quiet about my inquiries, but I was surprised when she offered to come with the three of us, and suggested we go to her birthplace in Maine. My investigations revealed that there was a nice large house available at an excellent price not far away from where she'd grown up.
It was quite a scene when I told Mother Muir and Alice that we were leaving. My sister-in-law in particular was quite upset and rather indiscreet words were exchanged, I'm afraid. Mother Muir just sighed and predicted we would return, hats in hand in a month's time when it was clear that I could not survive on my own.
Needless to say, after living for more than eight years in my mother-in-law's house, we had little to pack. Fortunately, Gull Cottage, as the place was called, came furnished. I had convinced the owner of the house, one Claymore Gregg, to allow me to rent the house for six months before purchasing it outright. Apparently he was unable to object to this unusual request, because no one else had shown any interest in the place. This arrangement gave me comfort, knowing that if things did not turn out well for us and we did have to return to Philadelphia, hat-in-hand, I would not be saddled with a piece of real estate.
When I finally beheld Gull Cottage for the first time, I knew in my heart that I had made the right decision and this lovely house would be my home forever. The children were excited as well, but Martha, with her experienced eye pointed out how much work would be needed on the house. At second glance I could see that it had been neglected to a certain degree, but that did not deter me. Just as I was about to respond, Mr. Gregg arrived in an automobile. I had seen them, of course, in Philadelphia, but I was surprised to find one in such an out of the way place. And just as surprising was the man himself. He seemed quite nervous and told me that he was returning my check and taking the house off the market. Absolutely astonished and angered, I stood my ground while listening to his excuses. Finally he declared that the house was haunted, and if I insisted on settling into it, he would not be liable for anything that happened.
Haunted, indeed! We've now lived in the house for six years and not a single strange event has happened. Oh, I admit that one can be frightened upon walking into the darkened parlor on a moon-lit night to see the eyes in the portrait of the builder and original owner of
Gull Cottage, one Captain Daniel Gregg. On such a night, when the moonlight hits the portrait, it can seem like those blue eyes are lit from within and they appear to follow you about the room, but that is only an effect of the lighting. We've never heard a single moan or sigh, no chains rattling, or objects found to be moved by unearthly hands. We are perfectly happy and content here and the children are healthy and sturdy.
August 1917
It's been an unusually hot and dry summer here in Schooner Bay. Everything has turned brown and this afternoon Candy and Jonathan and I are on the hillside besides the house clearing out the dry brush and other detritus from the area around the barn. There have been some lightning-started fires up in the hills and I don't want to provide any kindling for such a thing here. Unfortunately for me, the dust we've stirred up has started to make me wheeze. Candy tells me to stop working and let her and Jonathan finish what's left, which isn't very much indeed. Thankful for the reprieve, I walk to edge of the slope and look out onto the bay. The deep yellow afternoon sun shines on the water, creating a wide golden path to the horizon. It looks calm and peaceful, but there is more than just the danger of fire these days. President Wilson had promised to keep the United States out of the Great War in Europe and did a fine job of it over the last three years. Even in tiny Schooner Bay we heard about the awful war, the muddy trenches, the appalling loss of life and the German's inhuman mustard gas. Yet, it remained so very distant. Let the Old-World tear itself to pieces. We were safe, protected by the wide Atlantic. But once the Boche sunk the Lusitania, with such horrendous loss of life, there was no choice for us. We've willing followed the President in the choice to go to war. Army training camps are being thrown up all over the country and the closest one to us is Camp Devens near Boston in Massachusetts. Still, patriotic as I am, in my heart I'm grateful that Jonathan is only ten years old.
All the young men in town have registered for the draft and more and more are being notified that they will be reporting to Camp Devens by the end of the year. Miss Grover and Miss Stoddard have organized a Women's Auxiliary in town to roll bandages and knit socks for our soldiers. Mr. Gregg is in charge of the war bond drives and the townspeople buy what they can, but we are not generally a well-to-do town and it's been a difficult task for him to meet his quota of bonds. He strongly suspects that there will be another bond drive in the near future and is formulating a campaign strategy already.
I've remained in contact with Mother Muir and Alice of course, and they spent part of last summer with us. Alice has not yet given up trying to convince me to return to Philadelphia with the children so that we could all be closer, (and so that they could resume running our lives), but I gently told her that her efforts were futile. Mother Muir only made a half-hearted attempt to change my mind. She has become frail and the sea air here did her a world of good.
When Labor Day arrives this year, the celebrations are not merely about celebrating the working man, but now the fighting man. The first contingent of inductees from the town left for Camp Devens on Thursday and there are more patriotic speeches read this year than usual, and more of Professor Souza's marches played. For the children, it's a day of fun, with most of Jonathan and Candy's friends pretending to be soldiers marching to the music. Some of the young people in the town remember the Spanish American War and how quick and exciting that was and assume that once our Yankees are on European soil, this war too will quickly turn into a victory. However, the veterans of the Civil War gather in knots and shake their heads. They know that the war in Cuba was an aberration, a set-stage that gave the sons of wealthy families an opportunity to play at being officers and gentlemen in a few battles with an enemy wholly outmatched. Real war, as it was for them, is deadly and ugly. The high ideals of the beginning of the conflict become tattered and soiled before very long and though the fight must go on, most find that the honor of the thing loses pride of place to just surviving the nightmare.
School starts for the children the very next day, and while I enjoyed spending the summer with them on the beach or on expeditions through the hills, I am ready for them to be out of the house for a while. I need some peace and quiet and some rest after the exertions of the summer. I've been writing for a women's magazine for a few years now and I've also published some of the children's stories that I've written over the years. The added income is helpful, and I enjoy the writing, the sense of having an occupation. So now that school is back in session, I can start another story. But first, I need to go to town with Martha to re-stock the pantry. Both Jonathan and Candy are growing, and it seems like before we turn around, they've emptied the cupboard. While in town, I stop to see if there is any mail and find a black-bordered letter from Alice. Mother Muir passed away peacefully in her sleep a few days ago. While I mourn my mother-in-law and feel sorry for Alice's loss, I cannot rid myself of the guilty feeling of freedom.
In the past six years, I've been through every nook and cranny in Gull Cottage. Many of the books and other things that are here belonged to the builder of the house. I've no interest in the nautical texts and treatises, but many of Captain Gregg's artifacts are interesting. I even found his logbooks and letters and they are truly fascinating as well as being very well written. I am thinking of producing something based on his adventures. And of course, the real question is, why would such a vital man, living such an interesting life, commit suicide? That is indeed how he died, they say, by shutting the windows to his bedroom one night and turning on the gas from the heater. He left no note. Apparently he was not in any financial, professional or romantic difficulty and although some say he could be irascible, he was seemingly quite sane. Why would a such a person then, take their own life? Although he died some 48 years ago at the age of 46, there are some in town like Deke Tuttle who remember him. I will have to do some investigation into the man that he was if I want to do justice to his tale.
My investigations into the personality of Captain Gregg yielded little. Deke remembered as a child seeing him in town whenever he was back from a voyage and thinking him very grand in his dress uniform but had no other recollections. Claymore Gregg is his great nephew but was born a few years after his death. Miss Stoddard and Miss Grover also recall him from their childhoods, but aside from overhearing and remembering (correctly or not) some irrelevant gossip, they have no recollections either. There is some information in the library in the form of the records of the dock master's logs. They record the comings and goings of the various vessels to come to Schooner Bay. Captain Gregg owned a ship by the name of "Mary Ann" once he left the Navy, and this was her home port. The logs indicate the dates ships docked and left, their owners and masters, their crew and their cargo. While there were no personal details in these ledgers, by reading between the lines, I have come to believe that Daniel Gregg made a good living transporting cargo. Being able to build a house like Gull Cottage would not have been possible either, if that were not the case, so my next search was the older paperwork for the house and property. I already had received some of that information when I bought the house, but I was able to locate the original survey for the land and the original architects' drawings, notes and letters between them and the Captain in the files of the Chairman of the Town Council, who happened to be Claymore.
Mr. Gregg has been singularly unwilling to discuss his ancestor. After giving me the documents filed in his office for review he told me that he had absolutely no desire to speak about Captain Gregg any further and said something about disturbing the spirits. I have no idea what he is talking about. He doesn't seem to be the superstitious sort, but he did believe that the house was haunted when we arrived.
Despite all this documentation, I found no information that could lead to a reason for his suicide. Desperate, I located Captain Greggs gravesite, just yards outside the town cemetery. It was adorned with a simple metal plate that bore only his name. If I hadn't been looking for it, I surely would have walked by it, overgrown with grass and weeds as it was. I sat down beside it, until I felt the wind beginning to chill me. It was futile; I knew little more about the man than I did when I began my investigation. I suppose I will just have to make my book a fiction then.
April 1918
Now that the first of our town's recruits have been training in Camp Devens for some months, they were given their first leave and came back home to much rejoicing. The Women's Auxiliary quickly organized a dance and the Town Council sponsored a parade before the boys had to go back to camp. We are so proud of all of them and the entire town turned out for the festivities. As the weeks have gone by a few smaller groups of soldiers have returned on leave and have received much the same welcome home.
Just today I was in town at the dry goods store where I saw Norrie Coolidge who owns the town's only restaurant. He had a letter from his boy Abner, who was in the first group of soldiers on leave. Norrie says that the Army has been moving trainees from the middle of the country to the east in preparation for the coming debarkation for Europe. Abner said that some of the first units are getting ready to go overseas, but naturally can't give us details.
It's only a few weeks later that the early May newspapers are reporting that the first soldiers are embarking their ships in Boston, New York and Philadelphia. Many more are still training in camps that have grown to enormous sizes. Devens itself has become a small city many times the population of Schooner Bay.
I continue to work on the story based on Captain Gregg's papers. I originally thought it would make a good story for a young boy's magazine, but it seemed that there was more and more I could add into the tale, so I decided that it deserved to be a full-length book. And as I continue to write, a vision of Daniel Gregg grows in my head. I have decided, admittedly on no proof whatsoever, that he could not have committed suicide. It must have been an unwitting accident because I cannot conceive of the man whose logs, journals and letters I live with most hours of the day had anything but a great desire to live and live in a world he termed "beautiful". I hope he approves of what I write, but naturally, I've had no complaints from that quarter. I've even developed a bit of an infatuation with Daniel Gregg. His drafts of what can only be love letters are divine! Any woman would swoon at his words. There is one strange thing, though. As I go back and forth between adding new material and reviewing and revising the earlier pages, I seem to find sentences and even whole paragraphs that I don't remember writing. It's odd, and a pity too, because those passages tend to be the best written and the most alive.
October 1918
We've heard that some Midwest boys from Camp Haskell in Kansas have been assigned to Camp Devens. Abner Coolidge continues to send informative letters to his father and writes that there have been a few cases of heavy colds or what they call "La Grippe" in the camp. It's the time of year to get sick, I suppose. With the change of weather to cold and damp, people start to come down with these things. Mrs. Tuttle has been a little under the weather, Deke told me, but nothing too serious.
Unfortunately, by the end of the month, more people have been laid low by this malady, not only here, but apparently all over. Our little weekly newspaper has just reprinted an article from a larger paper that states that medical experts are saying that it is only La Grippe, just a bit worse than usual. Martha has been helping visit the sick and making sure, along with other women from the church, that everyone is fed and comfortable.
It is soon obvious that this is clearly no simple heavy cold, no matter what the medical authorities tell us. Abner Coolidge reported that more and more of the camp was sick and that men were dying. These are healthy young men and this disease that they are now calling an influenza has struck so many that there is no room in the Camp's hospital for all of them. He wrote that he had been sent to the hospital to work as an orderly and the deaths he observed were often difficult ones. A young man would come in at the morning sick-call complaining of fever and deep, bone-breaking body aches. He would be assigned to a bed and by nightfall have difficulty breathing. With some, if you touched their ribcages, you could hear crackling noises. Shortly, the soldier's lips and fingertips would begin to turn blue, followed by their face and other parts of their bodies. Some became so dusky in color that they looked like they were Negroes. Others would start to have a pink froth come out of their mouths. And then they died. That was the last letter that Norrie ever received from Abner. A week later, he was informed that his son was dead of the influenza as well.
Mrs. Tuttle is slowly on the mend, but Martha came down with the disease. Fortunately, although she is still feverish, her breathing never became as bad as Abner described. So far, the children and I have been spared.
The news has become so extraordinary that our weekly newspaper has begun to publish at least every other day and occasionally daily to keep up with things. Many cities and towns across our country are reporting cases, especially around Army camps. Besides Devens, Camp Yaphank on New York's Long Island and Kansas' Camp Haskell are like giant pest houses with so many bodies of dead soldiers that they had to excavate pits with steam shovels to bury the bodies in.
Of course, I have remained in touch with my in-laws. They tell me that Philadelphia has had some cases, but the authorities are not worried and have felt that no extra precautions are necessary. On the other hand, in New York City and Boston, wearing masks over the nose and mouth has become the order of the day. There, the illness is spreading rapidly, especially in the crowded slum areas and where people tend to gather, like schools, churches and theaters. They too are having difficulty with the numbers of the dead, which grows every day and threatens to overwhelm these cities abilities to cope with the bodies.
To be safe, I've kept the children home from school and other parents are beginning to do likewise. The Reverend Farley last week held Sunday services out in the open and many of the parishioners had kerchiefs over their faces.
Food supplies, already limited by the war effort seem to be even less available. Fortunately we grew a good victory garden this summer and one can always fish in the surf or in the small lakes in the area and many people keep chickens, so eggs are available. Cloth, kerosene and gas for heat and lighting is in short supply, but we have an ample supply of wood and candles.
Mr. Gregg also came down with this influenza and had a very bad case of it. Before she became ill, Martha had been looking in on him and told me that he had to sleep sitting up in order to be able to breathe. When she could no longer look in on him and bring him some broth, I took up the burden. I'm also cooking for us, and the children and I are keeping the house clean and tidy. We're not as good as Martha is; no one could be because she is a gem. We do our best. So I put a flannel over my nose and mouth and stop in to see Claymore every day and bring him some food, urge him to breathe deeply, even though it hurts and to not be afraid of leaving the windows slightly open to get some fresh air. He's not much better, but at least he's no worse.
There's no one in the streets of the town anymore. Either people are home being sick, tending to their sick or afraid to go out and become sick. The only one who is willing to talk is Betsy Potter, who runs the general store and the post office. When I go inside to pick up or drop off mail she tells me who is sick, who is well and who has died in town. It's a sad litany and it grows worse day by day. Yesterday brought a black-bordered letter from a cousin of my late mother-in-law informing me of Alice's passing from the disease.
November 1918
I think the children and I have the influenza. We are all running temperatures and I feel very weak. Martha has recovered but remains very tired and weak herself. Even going downstairs to the kitchen leaves her out of breath and she can do little but direct me in how to cook a dish. I have heard that Mr. Gregg was doing better but relapsed yesterday with pneumonia.
I've got Candy and Jonathan in their beds. Although I gave Candy her own room some time ago, they are willing to share Jonathan's room for the time being to make it easier on Martha and me. I have cool compresses on their heads and glasses of water next to their beds and once Martha slowly makes her way up the stairs, she shoos me off to my own room. Although the fire is low, the room feels stifling, but when I open one of the windows in the French doors, I feel chilled. I leave it open just a crack and climb into my bed. My chest feels constricted, but not in the way I feel when I have an asthma attack. This feels like I have a steel band around my torso which keeps me from being able to take a full breath. I must fight this marauder for the sake of my children, but I am feeling too woozy to think beyond that thought.
The Ghost of Daniel Gregg
In the many years of my afterlife, I had made sure that no one would occupy my home. It was my haunt, the repository of all the hopes and dreams I once had. I had most certainly not done away with myself. What an absurdity! I was in the prime of life, successful, happy and eager for more adventure. Those idiots, believing the word of my ancient housekeeper! She could barely see and certainly had never been in my bedroom while I was asleep. She lived in her own house in the town and was always sore to leave her duties at Gull Cottage before it became dark and difficult for her to find her way home. Therefore, I had just cause to be ill-mannered to mortals and I received a great deal of enjoyment from running off anyone who attempted to set foot in my domain. I especially delighted in playing tricks on that great-nephew of mine. He is a pompous ass, as inflated as a frightened pufferfish but as scared of his own shadow as a little girl.
However, I did allow Carolyn Muir and her family to move in and remained unknown to them these past seven years. I did it because she showed strength in standing up to Claymore and insisting on her rights, and she loved the house as much as I. And, I will admit that she is a beautiful woman and I have never tired of looking at such women. There was a time, when I was alive, that I never lacked for female companionship and had my choice of whom to have on my arm. But I never wished to have a wife hanging around my neck, weak and whining or plotting to make me into a pet. I spent my life looking for a woman who was my equal in intellect and strength of character, who would want me but not need me, and whose love had enough strength to accept me as I was, not as she would want me to be. After observing Mrs. Muir over the years, I have come to believe that she is that woman and curse the fate that brought her into a world I had recently departed. Although she is a demure woman, gentle and female in all the most charming ways, she has strength and steel in her too. I believe that she would single-handedly face an army to protect her children – and probably win the battle! Many have been the nights that I have watched her as she slept, whispering of my love for her, my admiration for her. Her research of my life has pleased me, and in an odd way, created some sort of bond between us. In her dreams we have met and spoken with each other, but they are fleeting contacts. In my fantasies, I hold her in my arms, kissing her sweet lips, caressing her graceful neck, my fingertips trailing downward toward the two soft mounds of her breasts, breathing words of love and desire into her delicate ears.
But now she, who I think of as my dearest Carolyn, is deathly sick. You may think it a joke, but with no one able to care for her, I must make myself known to her. You may also think that I would take this opportunity and merely wait for her to join me on this side of the veil, but besides knowing that she would fight me tooth and nail to remain with her children, I cannot bring myself to be so selfish.
Her sleep is restless as she tosses and turns. Her hair and forehead are wet with perspiration and there are pinpoints of red on her cheeks with the heat of fever. I sit on the bed, dabbing her face with a cool wet cloth while she mumbles incomprehensible things. I whisper to her, introducing myself to her and brush her hair. It seems to calm her a bit, so I begin to recite poetry to her; Shakespeare, Coleridge, Byron. She wakes at the dawn, staring at me.
"It must be a dream," she whispers. I tell her it is no dream, no nightmare, no feverish imagining and I introduce myself once again and explain that I am here to nurse her.
The bedclothes and her nightgown are wet from her fever-sweat, but with a flick of my will, they are all changed, and a hot bowl of vegetable broth and a cup of tea are on her nightstand. I will her to a sitting position while I resume my seat on the bed and offer her a spoonful of the broth.
Shortly I hear the shuffling of feet and Martha opens the door. I allow her to see me because between the two of us we must somehow nurse the children and Carolyn. I must admit that I have mixed feelings about the housekeeper. She keeps Gull Cottage ship-shape and Bristol-fashion; it's never looked better. However, she has made some comments to Mrs. Muir about my portrait that weren't exactly complimentary, although admittedly, that was some years back. I suppose the gallant thing to do in these circumstances would be to assign my negative feelings to the bilge bucket because Martha, weak as she still is, has not flagged in her duty to the Muir's. I step away from the bed and offer her a chair while I explain who and what I am and what I've done so far to tend to Carolyn. Conjuring up a cup of tea for her to sip, her eyes grow wide, but whether she thinks me real or just some hallucination, her New England pragmatism agrees with my plan to nurse our sick ones.
On board a vessel, whether military or private, it is the basic seamen's duty to maintain the cleanliness of the ship, wash the officers' clothes when they become too soiled to wear and help the cook in the kitchen. Naturally, when I was a 14-year-old cabin boy, I did all these things, so I am not unaware of how to clean and cook, even though it became beneath my dignity once I became an officer. Now I wouldn't care if I were a maharajah as long as I could help Carolyn and her children. Besides, I can accomplish these tasks by merely willing it. Martha and I agree that she will direct me in regard to the laundry, changing the bedding and cooking, as well as general nursing of Mrs. Muir. Anything that needs to be transported upstairs is my responsibility. Martha will continue to care for the children, but if Carolyn needs to be washed, we will switch duties for the duration of the bed-bath. Despite the fact that I am no longer of the flesh, Martha insists on the impropriety of my looking at the undressed body of any female in the house.
Later in the day I introduce myself to the children. Jonathan isn't frightened in the least, and is even excited to meet a spirit, and one of a schooner captain at that. Candy is very feverish and I'm not sure that she understands what Martha and I tell her. We exchange worried glances while standing around her bed and then I motion the housekeeper into the hall for a whispered exchange.
"I think Jonathan will recover on his own, but I am worried about Mrs. Muir and about Candy. Neither seem to be making any headway against this influenza, Martha."
"Well, it's early yet. It took me the better part of a week before the fever broke," she replies.
"Perhaps, but both of them have very high temperatures. I learned some recipes to cure fevers and such. If I can find the right herbs and flowers, I could make something for them. Do you have any brandy in the house?"
"Brandy? I don't think so. Sherry perhaps. Mrs. Muir doesn't really drink."
"Alright, I'll think of something. Keep a watch out, while I look for what I need. If you need me, just call for me. I will hear you."
With winter upon us bringing snow and ice, it isn't easy to find what I need. There are a few rose hips left from the last of the summer flowers, some half-frozen lamb's ear leaves and dried up thyme, but there is no evidence of the foxgloves that bloomed near the gate so freely all summer. Nearby the barn I strip a little bark from the willow trees I planted there before Gull Cottage was even completed. In the house I search through all the cabinets in the kitchen and find perhaps a cupful of sherry. Fortunately, I remember that I once had hidden some brandy in the rafters of the attic wheelhouse to age. I find it exactly where I had placed it fifty years ago. With my poor stock of herbs I make the best tea I can and add more of the two liquors than the recipe normally calls for. Without the foxglove, the concoction won't have anything that will act as a significant cardiac stimulant, and I am worried that if the lung congestion becomes too great, my recipe will not be strong enough to rescue a weakened heart. Still, it is better than nothing.
Martha and I feed it drop by drop to the girl and her mother. Candy's fever has continued to climb to a dangerous level, and it is all Martha can do to keep cool compresses on her head, chest and wrists. Carolyn is faring a bit better, although she has been wheezing. Fortunately Martha is able to assure me that it is a normal asthmatic wheeze and elevating her head and shoulders with extra pillows helps immeasurably. She sleeps most of the time, but whenever she wakes, she asks me to recite more poetry. I read Shakespeare line by line, slipping a spoonful of my recipe or broth in between her lips with each phrase. I ache to caress her pale cheek and hold her delicate hand in mine. Her lips, pale and dry still seem irresistible, but I cannot touch her directly. Not now, not ever.
By morning, Jonathan's fever is gone and he's ravenous. Candy's fever has dropped but Carolyn's has continued to climb, and she is less responsive now. Her breathing is more shallow and rapid. With one hand covered with a cloth, I hold her head upright while I try to spoon more of my concoction into her mouth. She seems to swallow a tiny bit if any, but most seems to dribble down her chin. Sadly, I it dry. I don't want to face what may be inevitable. The children need their mother. With no close relatives, what would become of them? The horrifying thought of them being sent to an orphanage fills my mind. If only Carolyn could know, could understand what could become of her children!
Martha comes at noon-time to tell me that Candy's fever has broken, and she is asking for soup. I am glad of it and wish that I could find a chicken or even some beef bones to make a hearty broth for her and Jonathan, but alas, there is none to be had in the neighborhood. Perhaps a fish and potato soup would suffice, but as I begin to plan gathering the ingredients, Martha and I hear a gurgling noise from Carolyn. Her lips have turned blue and her breathing is more of a gasp than an inhalation.
"Martha, get the children. There won't be much time for goodbyes."
I watch this good woman actually run a bit as she moves to quickly bring the children to their mother's side. As I turn back to Carolyn, from the corner of my eye, I see her parents' spirits waiting to welcome her to the next realm, and standing next to them, my own parents and Aunt Viola, at last come for me. We will go to the other side together, but I would gladly forgo that joy to see her restored to Candy and Jonathan.
Martha brings them in just in time for Carolyn's last breath. I watch her soul rise and float to her parents' side, happily reunited with them. She turns to me, and along with my family beckons me to join her, but I have one last task to perform. I turn to the three mortals arranged about the death bed, their sobs and their tears testament to the love they have for this woman and I stand to face them.
"My dears, I must leave you as well. Carolyn, my soul mate, and I are to be together at last. Remember us, but do not mourn us. You, your mother and I will be in each other's hearts for always. Goodbye!"
As I walk toward the other spirits, I feel the mortal world fading away.
Time is meaningless here and at last Carolyn and I are united in a joyous oneness that seems to be never-ending. Yet we are aware of what is transpiring in the mortal world. There has been more war, pestilence and pain. Life remains disrupted for many and this has kept the state from taking note of the Muir children's status as orphans long enough for Candy to turn 15. While not yet legally an adult, we hope that it is old enough that along with Martha's continued presence in Gull Cottage, she and her brother can continue to live there undisturbed. Their situation is the only thing that tarnishes our joy.
Yesterday/Today/Tomorrow Carolyn tells me that there might be a solution to that unresolved situation, but it requires that we reincarnate much earlier than normal. As she explains the long and the short of it, I do the only thing I can: I agree eagerly.
January 1919
We are Captain and Mrs. Daniel Collins. My wife, Carolyn, is a second cousin to the late Carolyn Williams Muir. Now that I have retired from the United States Navy, we are at leisure to settle down in one place at last. Regretfully, we have no children of our own. However, it has come to my wife's attention that her cousin passed away in the influenza epidemic, and her children are living with only a housekeeper in their home in Maine. After a brief correspondence, we arrive in Schooner Bay to meet Candace and Jonathan. As we had hoped, it is a match made in heaven.