After a restless sleep, Edward rose before the hopeful sun showed its face. He pulled on the same trousers from the day before and buttoned his shirt on all the wrong buttons. His hair was uncombed and unwashed. He jumped as the forgotten tea kettle burst into loud, demanding cries. He sipped it at the dining room table with shaky hands. I could barely stand to be in that room—in that house. I was alone in a building once fit for two families who loved each other. My pain was worse than my mother's. She still had us. Me? I was alone.
Edward learned from his mother's mistakes and from his own—he didn't bother to speak to the person manning the desk—he went directly to Carlisle who gave him a cotton mask and a pat on the back. Thankfully, she was awake.
"My love." She said weakly. He sat in a folding chair beside her. She propped herself up on her elbows and leaned against the pillow, "I've missed you."
"I've missed you too, my darling. You look… better." The strangest thing was, she did. Her cheeks regained their natural colour and her breath seemed somewhat normal. It looked as if my wife, my dearest Cara had beaten the unbeatable disease.
"Thank you. A few doctors have said the same." She smiled—Influenza, you despicable temptress of Death, you could never steal away my beautiful wife's gracious smile, "who knows? I may be home soon."
"Of course, my love, of course." He smiled at her with love and a glimmer of hope, "But for now, you should rest, baby." She gave a weak laugh and settled into her pillow.
"Did you pack your things?" she asked with a sparkle in her eyes.
"Not just yet, my dear." He smiled at her, "I wanted to wait until you were by my side." She shook her head slowly.
"You should. In two days we'll go. Far, far—" she coughed, "far from here." A small smile as she secretly wiped the blood on her hygienic frock.
"We will, Cara, we will."
He left a few hours later, promising a hasty return (a man cannot survive the morning on a cup of tea alone). With his departure, Carlisle walked to Cara's bed.
"Doctor Cullen, I feel awful." She admitted quietly, "Am I dying?" He was silent for a period then gave her a paper cup.
"Drink this…" she held it with a shaky, dried-blood spattered hand, "You are young, Cara. There should be no reason as to why you can't fight this. The biggest targets are usually the elderly, children and pregnant women." There was a pause. A drink. It was bitter.
"People my age have been dying… I've seen the papers…" Another sip.
"Yes… it's more common than previously believed."
"Is there any way to determine pregnancy?" she asked softly. A flash of pain across his face.
"How—" he cleared his throat, "how far along would you be?"
"A week or so at most…" He gave her a strange look, "I feel something. Something different… I think I'm at higher risk than you think…"
"Well... There is really no way to test so early. What do you feel?"
"It's just different... It's difficult to explain." She looked up at him as he took her arm to feel her pulse, "I'm afraid."
There was a long pause. She felt every heartbeat he counted.
"I will do everything I possibly can to help you." She nodded slowly and looked down.
She fell asleep soon after.
Let the reader take note, had Carlisle been the sole caretaker of this story's heroine, she would've made history. The couple would have walked proudly arm in arm down to the train station to begin their new lives. At some point, they would forget about their pain and misery of 1918 and live happily and quietly. A doctor. A father. A writer. A mother. A healthy child. A loving family. But this is not the case.
There was a small window between Carlisle's promise and Edward's return in which Cara slept soundly. In this time, an under rested, underqualified, shaky doctor walked along Cara's row of cots. In every patient, he injected into their arm a weakened sedative to help them rest. But an unfortunate lack of judgment and awareness occurred. A short, Spanish girl of seventeen lay in the cot next to Cara. The former, already at the height of her aliment, had slipped away into the depths of no return a few hours before. Unnoticed and unaccounted for. The doctor—who was later found drowned in a porcelain prison—noticed this after the syringe was already an inch in her arm, took it out and put it in his pocket.
She looked young.
They all did.
It was terrifying.
He walked over to Cara's bed and, with a huge lapse in judgment, he took the sinister sedative from his pocket and gave the leftover dose to the patient before him. He became cognizant only after reusing the same needle twelve or so times after. Within a time, Cara's health began its inevitable decline and with its journey, enter our dearest Edward to view the downfall in its entirety.
For hours, they were together, whether she was awake or not, and he noticed the change. She coughed more than normal, her breath was laboured and short, her beautiful dark olive skin paled. She weakened. Whenever she fell asleep, Edward took note of every single breath—with every exhale he feared for her death, with every inhale he felt hope. At some point, Doctor Cullen returned with another paper cup.
"What happened?" Edward asked, finally vocalizing his inner conflicts and nearly breaking down by the weight of them, "She seemed alright earlier." He shook his head, "It was nothing like this."
"I know…" Carlisle sighed and looked down at Cara, taking her pulse, "I cannot explain it." He looked at Edward like a father might a son, "I'm doing everything humanly possible to help her. Truly, Edward." Edward nodded. Carlisle turned to Cara, putting a hand on her shoulder. She stirred under his touch and looked up with tired eyes, "Drink this." He urged gently. She nodded and put her lips to the slightly bitter water and drank in small sips before coughing a little and moving her head to the side.
"What is that?" Edward asked.
"A mixture of water and wine vinegar," he put the cup on the medicine table beside her cot, "Usually, it helps."
"Usually?"
Carlisle left to round up a few common vitamins to help with her symptoms. After a few sleepy breaths, Cara awoke, looking at Edward with a small smile.
"Edward?"
"Cara! My love! How are you?"
"Would you be terribly upset with me if I didn't come to New York with you?" Her voice was far off and after a moment, she wasn't looking at him anymore. Rather through him, just like on the day they first saw each other.
"What do you mean?"
"I am dying, my darling." She sighed, focusing on him again, eyes becoming moist, "I am dying, and there is no way to stop it…" she sniffled and coughed.
"My baby, that's not true… you will get better." Edward's eyes started to water, he touched her outstretched hand. It was boiling hot.
"No…" she shook her head, shaking a tear down her cheek, "No, I won't…" She tried a smile, "But I love you. I know I love you." She took a deep breath, her face contorted in pain. A knife seemed to go through Edward's chilled heart, "It's such a shame though." She was serious, her eyes rained rapid tears. Edward placed a hand on her scolding cheek to catch her tears, she exhaled in delight and kissed his palm, "It's such a shame," she tried again, "you would've been such an amazing father."
The world stopped.
They looked at each other with the utmost sternness. She placed a weak and aching arm over her fragile womb as confirmation. Slowly, with each laboured breath, she drifted back to sleep. As Edward looked at his wife, half dead, on the cot, he swore he heard his heart beating. He heard it when he stood up, peeling away his cotton protector, and kissed his bride with as much love and passion as he planned to pour on her everyday for the rest of his life. He heard it when he put a hand on her accompanied belly and kissed that as well. The son he would never meet. He heard it when he stood next to her, contaminated healing water in hand.
A heartbeat. A gulp. A cough. A tear.
Eighteen steady sounds from the street clock.
And thus, the downfall truly begins.
...
This chapter, and particularly the scene where he drank the water, was the inspiration that drove me to write this story. I thought it was very Romeo and Juliet, as most romances often are. Anyway, a few bits of information about this: the water, first, is a mixture of wine vinegar and water. Any avid bible-reader will tell you that that is the mixture that Jesus drank whilst on the cross. Is it a coincidence that I am referencing the suffering of an innocent man to the suffering of Cara? Hmm... not sure (wink wink). Anyway, this is important, be mindful. You know now that our poor Cara is pregnant. Is this particularly important? I'm not sure. But I feel like its important in terms of pushing Edward off the deep end enough to lose all hope and want to contaminate himself as well by sharing her "healing" water (see what happened there?) and basically killing himself. Now, for those who read this and go, "oh, it's all just faffing, there's no way you can kill yourself that way" I say you're wrong! The Spanish Influenza was a highly contagious disease and the symptoms alone were enough to kill you. People at the peak of health were dying within hours of exposure to a carrier of the disease, so yes, you can actually die. Anyway, hope you enjoyed it, please don't forget to review! Cheers!