Chapter 4

Over the next four days, Charity kept a constant vigil by her husband's bed. She slept in short spurts in the bed next to Finn, grateful that even with the addition of other patients, the nurses allowed her to occupy it. She went home once to change into her oldest dress. By the fourth day, her hair was lifeless, unwashed, and pinned haphazardly on top of her head.

The girls had come each day, escorted by Anne, who had volunteered to move into the Barnum's house temporarily to take care of the girls. For the past two years, they had lived just a few blocks from the circus in a newly built walk-up. It was a third the size of their country home, but Charity felt much more comfortable in it. She also felt that Phinn was more at home living in the city, where he was closer to the action of the growing island of Manhattan.

The first morning, when the girls had come to see their father, Caroline had grown instantly pale at the site of him, lying prone and unresponsive. At the age of thirteen, however, she still refused to break down. Charity watched as her daughter silently took her father's hand and held on tight, much like she'd done when she was a little girl. She stood there for a long time, and Charity wondered if she was praying. Helen, however, was still young enough not to feel the pressure to be so strong. She also tended to keep her heart on her sleeve. So Helen cried fat tears into the blankets that covered her father. And Charity watched, her heart breaking again, but in a different way.

Now, by her calculations, it was Wednesday. Phinn's last show was Saturday night. It had been four days without any sign of him coming out of the deep sleep in which he lay. Charity was ever grateful for the nurses who came to help her care for her husband. In many ways, she felt like she was caring for an infant again. The only thing Phinn could do for himself was breathe, and she tried to be grateful just for that.

As she sat, staring out the cloudy glass at an equally cloudy sky, Margaret, the quiet, dark-haired nurse entered the ward. She checked on two other patients before crossing the room to Charity.

"Mrs. Barnum?" she asked rhetorically, pulling up a spindly chair.

Charity turned, trying to focus.

Margaret looked at her with wide, concerned eyes. "Doctor Warshaw asked me to speak with you. He is concerned that your husband...he's taking in very little water. His state has made him unable to eat. He is concerned that this state may be...permanent."

Charity drew in a sharp breath. "What are you saying?" she demanded.

Margaret took a moment before continuing, "Mrs. Barnum...if your husband continues to languish in this state, he will starve to death. We can get in just enough water to keep him alive, but he's not able to eat. And starvation...I've seen it. It takes weeks...and it is awful."

Charity felt like she'd been struck in the chest. She struggled to speak, asking, "So what am I to do?"

The nurse looked at her with compassion and said, "We can use a new therapy they're trying here, something that's been successful in Scotland, where the doctor introduces fluids directly into the blood. Quite revolutionary. It sometimes helps patients who are…"

"Dying?" Charity spat at her.

Taking a deep breath, Margaret said, "We want to do all we can. This therapy may help. But if he does not eat...Doctor Warshaw wants you to consider...whether prolonging his suffering is the right course."

Charity felt sick. "What are you implying?"

"There is a relatively new drug, when administered in certain doses, that can relieve the suffering of patients who would otherwise have a long and arduous end."

Charity balled her hands into fists. Standing up, she ordered, "Get out. Get out! How dare you come in and ask me to...to…"

She couldn't even say it. They wanted to kill him. They had given up. They were offering to put her husband down like a foundering horse. She was so angry she was shaking.

"Get out!" she screamed, startling the other patients.

Margaret gave her a long look, her eyes full of sadness, and then turned and left the ward.

Charity dropped back onto the bed. She put her head in her hands and rubbed her temples. Her heart ached. The pain was physical, as though someone had driven a blade through her and left it to torment her. Standing, she pulled over the spindly chair and sat as close to Phinn as she could. She took his hand and pressed his fingers to her lips.

Two days ago, Charity had asked the nurses to help her wash most of the blood from his hair, working around the bandages. She'd paid someone to come and shave him as best they could. She had bathed him herself, refusing to allow him to wallow in filth like some of the patients who were abandoned to the hospitals in their time of greatest need. Still, even with her best efforts, he was pale and thinner, and so still.

Leaning in, she begged, "Please Phinn. Please don't make me do this. I can't let them come in here and take you from me. From the girls. Please wake up. Please hear me! Please!"

She begged until the tears took over and her voice was hoarse from pleading.

"What will you do, without him?"

Phillip turned sharply to face Anne. She was draped across the sofa in the Barnum's parlor, exhausted. He had arrived just a few minutes before to tell her how ticket sales looked for the night and inquire about Caroline and Helen. They were reading upstairs, and the house was quiet.

Phillip sat down next to her. "Don't talk like that. Like you've given up on him."

Anne sat up and leaned in, studying him with her glossy brown eyes, and said, "Phillip...I want him well, too. But...it's been days."

Phillip shook his head. "It doesn't matter. He'll come around. He has to. He can overcome this like everything else."

Still holding his gaze, Anne said, "This isn't like working a few nights straight to break in a new act or convincing a new investor to come on board. Some things...don't heal."

Phillip stood suddenly and walked to the fireplace. Crossing his arms and refusing to look at her, he said, "I won't accept that. I won't."

Standing and closing the distance between them, she wrapped her arms around him from behind. Resting her head on his shoulder blades, Anne said softly, "I love you Phil. I do. But you can't do this to yourself. He's human. He can't live forever."

Phillip tensed and replied, "I know. But not now. I'm not losing him now. Not like this."

Anne held him tighter, wishing she had more words, better words. Any words to soothe the ache in Phillip that she could not reach.

He pulled away suddenly, saying, "I'm glad the girls are well. I have a meeting with Peter Murray, from the Board of Trade. Hopefully, we still have a show tonight."

Anne flinched as the front door slammed.

Late that night, Charity lay in the bed across from Phinn, her eyes trying to fall closed in spite of her best effort to keep them open. It was a vicious cycle, her body demanding rest and the fear of drifting off and waking to find her husband dead. Just a few feet away, Caroline was curled up in the bed beside her father. She had asked if she could stay the night in the ward, and she had demonstrated such maturity of late that Charity couldn't deny her. She watched as Caroline stared at her father, much as she had when she was a toddler, her bright hazel eyes, his eyes, locked on him in adoration. Now, the adoration was mixed with sorrow.

As Charity's eyes drifted shut again, she heard a sweet voice singing softly:

Every night I lie in bed,

The brightest colors fill my head,

A million dreams are keeping me awake…

A million dreams for the world we're gonna make…

Charity rolled over in the bed onto her right side. She didn't want Caroline to see her cry again. That was their song. Just a little rhyme and a melody Phinn had made up when they were kids. Then it became their family's song. Now, it was another spear in Charity's heart.

Please Phinn. Please.

She begged silently.

The next moment was another that Charity would remember, with sharp clarity, for the rest of her life. She would forever remember the horror of seeing him fall. But she would also remember, in exquisite detail, the moment when she heard Phinn's voice again. It was raspy and barely audible, but he finished the song.

"For the world we're gonna make."

Charity sat upright, certain she had been dreaming. She nearly fell over the chair trying to get to him. Caroline, who had clearly heard it too, slipped out of the bed, still holding her father's left hand.

Charity reached down and put both of her hands on his cheeks and whispered, "Phinn?"

His eyes were still closed. His lips twitched, but he otherwise did not move.

She took his left hand in hers, kept her right hand on his cheek, and leaned close to his ear and repeated, "Phinn?"

There was a moment of nothing, where Charity held her breath.

And then he squeezed her hand.