The rumors are flying hot and heavy all over the hospital that Prince von Baden of Germany is sending out peace feelers to President Wilson. Seems they want the peace treaty based on his Fourteen Points. I doubt if Old Clemenceau or the English Prime Minister, Lloyd-George, will go along with it. They’re too intent on revenge and reparations. Either way, it will be a relief to have the war over with!
Some of the worst fighting the Yanks have come up against has been in the Meuse-Argonne sector. Our offensive started September 26, and the battle is still being waged. The Argonne Woods are so thick, the mists so heavy, and the Germans so entrenched that the 77th Division only made five miles in six days! The Germans aren’t retreating an inch, and this could be one of the toughest fights of the war. Don’t worry, though. The way the Americans are fighting, the Germans will soon have to surrender.
I’ve saved my good news till last. I’m to be sent by the boat-train to Le Havre in two weeks. From there a troop transport will bring me home. I can’t wait to see each one of you! I should be home by the middle of November, if not sooner.
I hope you are well and in good spirits!
With all my love,
Mike
"I hope you are well and in good spirits," she repeated softly. How ironic! Little did Michael know what Sarah and his mother had been through. Carefully she folded his letter and mounted the stairs. This would cheer her mother immeasurably.
As she walked down the hall she suddenly reeled, feeling dizzy. When she touched her forehead, it was burning. The narrow walls converged upon her, and the swirls in the wallpaper pattern spun and wheeled in her head. Then a black wave washed over her, and she could feel herself falling, falling into darkness.
Chapter Twenty-seven
When Laura awakened, the dresser and mirror blurred, came into focus, and blurred again. "Mom?" she said, and wondered if that tiny squeak were her voice.
"Shhh, lie still, dear. You need rest."
Her mother was right, for her whole body ached with tiredness. Suddenly a spasm shook her. With stomach heaving and bitter gall rising in her mouth, she looked frantically at her mother, who hastened to place a basin on her chest.
The vomiting left Laura spent, and she only wanted to sleep. Despite the perspiration that drenched her sheets, she was chilled to the bone.
She glanced again at her mother. "Mother, are you all right?" she asked shakily, not believing her eyes. Was it only yesterday she was nursing both her mother and Sarah?
"Both Sarah and I have recovered and are doing fine." She measured out a teaspoon of the medicine. "Take this. Now we need to concentrate on getting you on your feet again."
Laura took the evil-tasting medicine and closed her eyes.
After a short nap she opened her eyes to see Sarah looking down at her.
"How — how long have I been in bed?" she whispered.
There was pity in Sarah’s eyes as she smoothed the covers. "Two days. We found you crumpled in a heap in the hall, and between Mother and me, we managed to get you into your own bed."
"Two days," she repeated dully. Somewhere in the dim recesses of Laura’s brain she remembered that the crisis period for flu patients was three days. She had another day to suffer. Would she live or die? The way she felt now she wanted only to die. Her head was clenched in gripping pain, and each time she moved, her aching joints protested.
Although she tried to lie still and sleep, waves of nausea swept over her, and her watery eyes hurt when she coughed. Was this what it was like to face death? Everything she wanted to do, everything she wanted to be, was over. She had lived sixteen years and accomplished nothing. Her thoughts came in jumbled, hazy spurts. And the suffragists? She had missed the demonstration. She thought of the black arm band she had prepared for the rally. A wild giggle erupted into the room. Was that maniacal laugh from her? Now that arm band could be worn by her mother at her own funeral.
Laura’s fevered wet brow was wiped; she didn’t know by whom, but it did no good. Her teeth still chattered.
More images came to haunt her. Shawn’s teasing grin… Joe’s dancing black eyes… Sarah’s pitying look… Mother’s sad countenance. All her loved ones were enveloped in a gray, damp mist, and their faces faded in and out. Her heart constricted violently. Here came Bertina with her jovial, laughing face. Now came Father with his black beard and twinkling eyes. Weakly she held out her hand. "Father," she whispered. A raging sea surged and pounded within her, submerging her once more in blackness.
Grimacing images floated before her in a nightmarish delirium — the leering guards… the sneering prison matron… the dark, clammy cell. It was frigid, and all at once ice water spilled down her spine. She sobbed. What were the guards doing to her? Suddenly she realized they were wrapping her weak, protesting body in a shroud.
In the stillness she heard a whimpering moan and knew it came from herself. Conscious again, she opened her eyes to find Sarah dabbing her cheeks with a cool, wet cloth. Sarah held out an orange slice, but Laura’s stomach revolted at the sight of food.
"No," she groaned, and it seemed her strength ebbed from her arms and legs.
"You must eat something," Sarah said matter-of-factly. "This will make you feel better."
Tightly gripping the blanket, she forced herself to allow the squeezed drops to trickle down her sore, parched throat.
"No more," she managed to say. "No more." She turned her head sideways on the pillow. "Oh, God, help me," she murmured. "If I’m dying, take me quick."
Suddenly a masked face loomed before her. She shrank against her pillow.
"Hello, little one," Joe said softly, taking her hand in his. "It’s good to see you awake."
"Joe." The name came out more like a croak. Relaxing, she recognized the dark, gentle eyes above the white gauze mask. "You shouldn’t be here," but even as she mouthed the words, she was glad he was.
"Nonsense. I’ll always be near you — whenever you need me!"
She smiled gratefully. Despite the pain, she would get better. She must — for Joe’s sake — and Shawn’s. Where was Shawn? she wondered.
Tenderly Joe smoothed back her hair. "You must fight!"
She nodded. What was it she had said? That the Mitchells were strong like lions? Well, she felt more like a newborn kitten. Her last look, before she drifted off to sleep, was of Joe’s sweet face.
On the fourth morning of her death struggle Laura sat up in bed, still weak, but her midsection no longer contracted in spasms. She was even hungry! For the first time she put her legs over the side of the bed and rose shakily, holding onto the nightstand and a chair on the way to the bathroom.
How good it felt to bathe her face in cool water.
Looking into the mirror, she could scarcely believe what she saw. She stepped back in astonishment. Her face had a purplish tinge, and there were black circles under her hollow eyes. Her sunken cheekbones were etched sharply against her thin face.
"Laura?" her mother called. "Are you all right?"
"Much better, Mother. I’m still a little shaky, but I don’t have that achy sickness." She came out of the bathroom. Her nightgown was still clean after her mother had changed it last night.
Mrs. Mitchell had brought in a tray of hot broth and tea. There was a bowl of fresh fruit by her bed. Later she would eat a banana, she thought, remembering the doctor’s advice. Nothing was better for a flu patient than fresh fruit.
As she crawled back into bed she smiled faintly. "It’s so good to be part of the world once more."
"Believe me, it’s good to have you back. Welcome," her mother said, smoothing her covers. Holding the bowl, Maude began spooning the hot broth into Laura’s mouth. She returned the bowl to the tray and poured a cup of tea, holding out the cup. "A few days' rest and you’ll be as good as new."