Corrie pulled her chair closer to Christina, observing the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. They had been staying with the Howards for over a week and were still awaiting the arrival of the medicine for Christina's treatment. When Corrie spoke over the telephone with her mother, she had managed to convince Anita of the necessity of the treatment, and they had sent the money for the medicine overnight. Though Dr. Howard had requested that the medicine be expedited, it still had yet to arrive.
The days were fraught with worry as Corrie spent every moment by her sister's bedside, reading to her, comforting her. She scarcely left her side except during the night when she caught a few hours of fitful sleep. Hannah and Jack brought Corrie's meals to Christina's room and offered to take shifts sitting by the invalid, but Corrie refused to be parted from her as if her constant presence could stem the illness's tide.
Corrie's poetry journal sat open on her lap, already half-full with the words that had seemed to flow from her fingertips over the past few days. Her pen transcribed every emotion as it came--guilt, despair, hope, longing, wistfulness, pain. These scribbles were often her only source of strength throughout the day.
Today, the New York Times, dated June 26, 1917, took precedence over her poetry. Though Corrie had been trying to shield Christina from news of David and the war by insisting his letters remain in Irvington until her return, she knew she could not keep this news of the war from her sister, not when it affected her so directly.
Christina's eyes fluttered open, the pale green nearly translucent in the morning light that washed through the window. She squinted and turned to look at Corrie, a ghost of a smile on her pale lips.
"I have news of the war," Corrie murmured, keeping the newspaper enclosed in her lap.
Christina didn't need to see the pictures displayed on the front page; the news itself would be enough to disturb her peace.
At her words, Christina tried to sit up, wincing as she lifted herself onto her elbows. "What is it? David, is he alright? Has there been news?"
Corrie placed a placating hand on her arm. "No, no, nothing of David. It's news from the New York Times." Corrie sighed. She looked down at the article and began to read, "Today, 14,000 American infantry troops have landed in France at the port of Saint Nazaire under the command of General John J. Pershing. They are prepared to go into action alongside the Allies at the Western Front whenever called upon. Many more American troops are preparing to be shipped to the Western Front in the coming months." Corrie took a breath and glanced at her sister, refolding the newspaper in her lap.
Christina's eyes looked straight ahead, a haunting emptiness in the glassy green. "He's in France."
As one of the very first recruits, they both knew that David was now on the shores of France preparing for battle. Corrie watched as Christina processed the revelation; first her eyes widened in disbelief, and then they closed in a spasm of pain. Moments later, tears flooded her eyes and traced her pale, sunken cheeks. Her entire body shook as she wept, but not a sound escaped her lips. Corrie wrapped her sister in her arms, letting her head rest against her chest and her tears stain her blouse.
"David's in France," Christina murmured against her sister through a wracking cough.
"I know, I know," Corrie whispered into Christina's hair.
She wanted to weep with her sister, weep for the thousands of American lives that were now in peril, but though tears came to her eyes, she realized that if she wept, it would not be for the nameless boys in France, but for her sister. Selfishly, Corrie would sacrifice all of those soldiers for her sister's recovery.
So Corrie did not weep but merely held her sister as they both contemplated the days of pain to come. Corrie anticipated the generic letters that would be sent to families all across the States announcing their sons had been killed or captured by the Central Powers. She imagined the disfigured bodies that Dr. Benjamin would attempt to mend, and the broken minds and hearts from the brutality they would surely endure and inflict. She mourned for men who had scarcely escaped boyhood, like David, and young men who would never leave the shores of France.
~~~~~
Dr. Benjamin laid Christina on the hospital bed in Dr. Howard's practice as Dr. Howard fastidiously scrubbed his hands in a basin of warm water and soap. He wore an apron as well as a face mask and placed rubber gloves on his hands. Corrie eyed the vial of dark liquid resting on the countertop next to him.
The medicine had finally arrived and Christina had been readied for the first of several treatments. Dr. Howard told Corrie that he expected she would need to remain in Richmond for several more weeks so he could finish the treatment and monitor its results. Corrie had no choice but to agree.
"Now, Miss Walker," Dr. Howard said as he readied a needle to be placed in the vein in the crook of Christina's elbow. "I'm going to insert a needle here and then allow the medicine to enter your bloodstream. There may be a little pain when I insert and remove the needle, but I suspect you'll barely feel anything."
Christina nodded, but her eyes widened and nostrils flared as she shot a sideways glance at the needle in his hand. With a swab of cotton doused in iodine, Dr. Howard readied her arm for the injection and instructed her to relax with her arm lying palm up.
Corrie stood on Christina's other side, gripping her hand. Christina cast her sister a plaintive glance and Corrie offered what she hoped was an encouraging smile.
"This will work," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I promise."
Christina gave her a vacuous smile, and Corrie watched as Dr. Howard gently inserted the needle into her vein. Christina winced, her hand squeezing Corrie's, and then relaxed. Slowly, Dr. Howard released the serum from the syringe into her bloodstream, removed the needle, and dabbed the spot of blood that formed.
"That's all?" Christina asked, propping herself up in the bed.
"That's all," Dr. Howard answered, and Corrie's shoulders sagged in relief.
"How do you feel?" Corrie asked.
"It didn't hurt much," Christina said with a shrug.
"It may take several days to a week before we see any effect, but we'll give her the next dose in a few days," Dr. Howard explained.
Corrie nodded, silently wishing the results could be seen immediately. She wanted to see the color returned to Christina's face and the strength to her limbs. She wanted to hear Christina draw a breath that did not end in a fit of coughing. She wanted Christina to live to see David come home from the war.
~~~~~
Corrie knelt over the small victory garden in the Howards' back yard, pouring water from a mason jar around the delicate stem of a budding tomato plant, heat beating on the back of her neck. In between long spells at Christina's bedside, Corrie tended to Mrs. Howard's victory garden, a small plot of land dedicated to growing crops to supply food for the family so the country's produce could be sent to the Western Front. Though the work was simple, Corrie found it therapeutic to remove the infringing weeds and provide nourishment to the small plants. She could control the victory garden and decide what flourished and what died; it gave her a sense of calm in a world reeling out of control.
"Oh, Corrie, there you are!"
Corrie turned to see an unkempt Hannah rushing towards her, hat lopsided and loose curls framing her face. Corrie rose to a standing position, brushing dirt on her skirt from where she'd knelt on the ground.
"Jack and I have just returned from helping pack the medical supplies for our troops, and I'm positively exhausted," the girl said though her voice did not lack any of its typical exuberance. "Jack always works so much faster than me. I blame it on her experience from the munitions factory. Oh, but how was your day? How is Christina? Has she recovered?"
Corrie laughed at Hannah's breathless questions. "There's been no change since you left this morning, I promise. She seems to be stabilized, and her condition has neither improved nor deteriorated."
"Oh, that's wonderful. But mustn't she grow bored, sitting in that room all day?"
"I sit with her most of the day, but I'm afraid it does seem rather tiresome." Corrie recalled the countless hours spent at Christina's bedside, reading the newspaper, poetry or French novels aloud to her.
"Do you think I could let her help me with the newspaper? Not in writing anything, but perhaps in planning some of the editions I want to write when we return? I won't let her read anything about the war, I promise."
Hannah caught her breath and looked at Corrie beseechingly. Corrie smiled, knowing the distraction of Hannah's bustling presence might prove beneficial for Christina.
"I think she'd love the distraction as long as she doesn't grow as preoccupied with the war as she has been."
"Oh, perfect!" Hannah declared and again bustled off.
As she returned to the garden, Corrie wondered if her request was realistic. Was it possible for Christina to think of anything but the war?
~~~~~
Fun fact: You can look up the front pages of the New York Times back a hundred years or more! It's fun to put little snippets of history into the story like this!
Thanks so much for reading! I'd love to hear what you think so far :)
~ Hannah