After the Fog

  A shadow fell over Theresa and Rose looked up from her patient. A man, Mr. Sebastian, Rose guessed, stood over the bed.

  He ran the back of his hand over a section of Theresa’s hair. “My daughter is dramatic, believe me, this talk of TB or some new fangled diagnosis of asthma or whatever you people dream up won’t be founded. Let’s simply call her healthy so my wife…we just wanted to get on the books with you and Dr. Bonaroti that’s all. My Theresa is, well, I care about her…”

  His voice cracked and he drew a deep breath. Rose was unaccustomed to men tearing up and less for it to be a man who runs one of the biggest, most important mills in the country. Was there something more to Theresa’s case than she’d been told? Rose backed off, giving him space.

  “She is lovely. And there are ways to ease her difficulties.”

  He nodded still gazing at his daughter, a loving expression on his face, much like she’d seen on Henry’s many times. Mr. Sebastian wiped his tears away with the heel of his palm.

  Theresa coughed and shot up, eyes wide, shoulders folding in on every drawn breath. Fear swamped her face. Mr. Sebastian gently pushed Theresa on her back, telling her to calm down and breathe. Rose grabbed her stethoscope, put the buds in her ears and focused on the sounds of Theresa’s heart and lungs.

  Rose moved Mr. Sebastian’s hands and helped Theresa to sit. She supported the girl’s chest with one hand and rubbed her back with the other, hoping to show Mr. Sebastian how he might better alleviate his daughter’s breathing, that reclining might not help in her case. Rose watched, trying to discern what sort of cough and hacking this was that afflicted Theresa. Listening with the stethoscope revealed wheezing, but no mucus or blood, just a dry, violent cough.

  Rose’s soothing touch took effect and Theresa fell back, her coughs subsiding to a few per minute. Rose pulled the second bed pillow over and stacked it on the first, resting Theresa against it.

  Mr. Sebastian got up and left the room before Rose realized that’s what he was doing. No matter, most men didn’t stick around for nursing tutorials, couldn’t manage that type of care for plenty of reasons. The fact that he had been there at all was what had surprised Rose.

  Theresa smiled at Rose through her still strained breath.

  “Okay, Theresa,” Rose said. “Good to see you again. I’m going to listen to your heart and lungs one more time.”

  Rose placed the stethoscope against the pink nightgown and looked into Theresa’s face. Their gazes met and Rose felt…something. Rose looked away to concentrate better.

  “Yesterday was amazing. Awful, I mean,” Theresa said in between deep breaths.

  “Shhh, I need to get your pulse.”

  Rose lifted Theresa’s right wrist and turned it upward to place her fingers where she could feel the thumping of Theresa’s blood, and determine whether her heart was beating efficiently.

  She glanced at the wrist for the blue veins that would guide her fingers then glanced back and stared. Across Theresa’s wrist was a chocolate mark, the shape of Florida or one of the great lakes. It looked like…Rose drew back.

  Theresa looked up quizzically.

  Rose looked toward the bank of windows near the bed.

  “Don’t worry. My parents would have caught my cough by now if it were contagious…”

  Rose lifted Theresa’s hand and ran her finger around the brown shape. “Where did you get this?”

  “You never saw a birthmark before?” Theresa said.

  Rose traced it with her fingertip. It couldn’t really be the same. She narrowed her eyes, locking on Theresa’s face, trying to see...something. Theresa hacked into her hand. Rose rubbed her back for support until Theresa finished coughing then sat on the bed with the girl. Rose lifted her wrist and put her fingers over the mark yet again.

  Theresa smiled through her calming breath. “What’s my pulse?”

  Rose dropped Theresa’s hand and went back to the dresser. She had no idea what the pulse-rate was. She wrapped her stethoscope around the instruments on the dresser. “You don’t have TB. That much I’m sure of. You’re just…your father mentioned asthma. I think that diagnosis is correct. There are some new medicines, but, well, let me talk to Dr. Bonaroti and I’ll get back to your parents.”

  “I think it’s the smoke-line here near the zinc mill,” Theresa said. “Did you see it out there? Doctor Bonaroti mentioned the awful zinc mill smoke at my initial appointment, that it might bother me.” Rose stiffened and faced Theresa. “Smoke line? Every step you take is directly out of one smoke line then into the next.”

  Theresa’s eyes were closed and she had pulled her blankets back up to her neck. She nodded, showing Rose she was listening even though clearly ready to sleep again. Rose fussed with her instruments, shifting them in and out of inconsequential groupings. “You live here, you live with smoke. It runs through us like blood. I tend to think it’s the mill itself that’s most dangerous.”

  When Rose turned back to Theresa she had fallen asleep. Rose went to the bed and lifted Theresa’s hand again, looking at the mark. She drew her forefinger around it again. Perhaps it looked more like Maine. Perhaps Rose’s memory had been wrong all these years. Maybe she didn’t remember exactly what the birthmark looked like. It wasn’t as though other babies didn’t have birthmarks on their wrists.

  Theresa flinched, but didn’t wake.

  “Well, someone finally quieted her down a bit,” Mr. Sebastian said from the hall.

  Rose jumped and dropped Theresa’s hand.

  “I haven’t seen her sleep like that in a decade. You’re quite the nurse.”

  Rose quickly placed Theresa’s hand on her torso, patted it, and tucked the blankets around her body.

  Mr. Sebastian joined Rose at the bed. “She’s a bit of a soft soul, this one.”

  Rose shrugged. “When one tiny fly gets in the ointment, perhaps a wire-puller falls asleep on the job, the slag man dumps it in the wrong spot, the blast furnace cools just a smidgen too much, a fella falls from a crane because he forgets to strap himself in…and like that, in an instant, the entire operation is compromised. Of course the girl is soft. She can’t breathe.”

  Rose looked up to find Mr. Sebastian staring at her. Rose felt exposed. Did she appear unprofessional? Had he noticed the odd way she must have been mesmerized by his daughter’s wrist? She instinctively brushed her hands over her hair, and straightened her uniform. He cocked his head, watching Rose as though she were a math problem to solve.

  She hoped it didn’t mean her funding campaign had met its end. She waited for him to say something, to ask questions, but he simply squeezed Theresa’s hand and sauntered away as though Rose were not in the room at all.

  “I’ll finish her sheets,” Rose said to the closing door, “and change her gown then give my report to your wife. I’m sure she’ll appreciate being apprised of Theresa’s condition.”

  Rose completed her work, breathing like an asthmatic herself. Once finished she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, staring down at Theresa. Could this girl be my daughter? Rose repeated the question silently. She readjusted her bag over her arm and looked one last time at the mark on Theresa’s wrist. She shook her head and told herself it must be anxiety. She was tired. Henry had been right about her needing a day off. Maybe this was simply ordinary tension showing itself, cutting away at her sanity. For Rose to look at a patient’s wrist and decide it must be the daughter she gave away so many years ago, well, that was insane.

  * * *

  Rose balled up the cotton sheets and placed them in the newspaper. The Sebastians would be wondering if she was pocketing the sterling silver dresser accessories if she didn’t get moving. Rose shoved the mass of newspapers under her arm and raced down the staircase to the kitchen. Mrs. Sebastian was ordering a maid to help the cook and another to air out Mr. Sebastian’s office.

  Rose lifted her bundle toward Mrs. Sebastian. “I’ll need that boiling water.” Rose tried to wipe away the confusion she felt.


  At the Formica kitchen table Mrs. Sebastian sat with her cigarettes, dealing cards for solitaire. “Over there. Set them by the stove.”

  A new surge of irritation developed inside Rose. This household should run like an army division when it came to Theresa’s health.

  Rose called to the maid who was helping to dry the dishes. She held up the dirty linens in her direction. “You’ll need to put these directly from the papers into the water, no matter what pressing event may threaten to draw you away. Don’t lay contaminated sheets on the countertop.”

  Mrs. Sebastian flicked her Zippo and closed her eyes, while lighting her cigarette. “Sit, Rose.”

  Rose hesitated. “I should make my next call.”

  With her foot, Mrs. Sebastian pushed one of the chairs out from under the table, offering it to Rose.

  Rose was shaken from the sight of that birthmark, her mind playing tricks, and needed to leave the house. She was exhausted and wanted to forget everything. “Of course, I can sit. But I need to wash my hands.” Mrs. Sebastian dragged on her skinny cigarette and gestured toward the sink.

  Rose washed her hands, and sat back at the table, shifting, trying to get comfortable with the idea of lounging around instead of heading to her next job, and getting away from the house that was whittling away her composure.

  Mrs. Sebastian snapped her fingers, a loud crack emanating from her exquisite hands.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” the maid said, and extracted a fifth of vodka and a cut glass tumbler from a cabinet. After crushing some ice she’d chipped from a chunk in the icebox, the maid splashed the vodka into the glass and set it in front of Mrs. Sebastian who threw the drink back hard and quick.

  She stuck her tongue out like a child then grinned, pushing her empty glass into the air. “Rose will take one, won’t you, Nurse?”

  Leave, Rose thought. Get out of here. But as her mind was telling her to depart, her body was settling into the chair. Rose nodded. “Sure.”

  The cook laid a second tumbler with ice on the table. Rose’s mouth watered as the vodka washed into the glass.

  Mrs. Sebastian tamped her cigarette into a chipped Limoges saucer and her lazy gaze lifted to meet Rose’s. “So? What’s the girl got this time?”

  Rose decided this drink wasn’t the first of Mrs. Sebastian’s day and threw back her shot of vodka. “Asthma. Like your husband said. Dr. Bonaroti must have been misled, he thought you said she’d been suspected of having TB.”

  Rose could not seem to dispel her unease, the sight of the brown birthmark stuck inside her brain. Had she seen that? Was the shape the same as she remembered?

  Mrs. Sebastian drew herself up as though reinforcing her energy for what was to follow. “I suppose there is nothing we can do for asthma. Besides keeping her as inactive as possible.”

  Rose shook her head. She wasn’t ready to argue the inactivity point—she needed to research some cases like Theresa’s and discuss future treatment and protocol with Dr. Bonaroti, not to mention the money for the clinic. Focus. Yes, this was what Rose should be thinking about. The clinic. “Well, yes, for acute attacks there’s epinephrine and on a regular basis we can give her Asthmador…”

  “Lordy-be, no. We’ve tried all that. We want her fixed.” She lit a cigarette and waved away the smoke that lifted from it. “I have a baby on the way and a twenty-year-old daughter with the wherewithal of a six year-old and I was told a nurse in Donora was so good that she could fix things so my daughter would be normal. That’s you, right? Rose the nurse?”

  Twenty-years-old, Rose repeated the words in her mind. Was it possible? Her gut told her it was. She needed to get as much information as she could. She drew back and held her glass up, rattling the ice to get the cook’s attention. The woman splashed some vodka into Rose’s glass. She sipped this one, knowing Mrs. Sebastian would not ask her to leave before she’d finished her refreshment. Rose reorganized her thoughts and leaned over the table. “What the…what did you just say about me?”

  “Dr. Culvaney in Gary said Dr. Peters in Pittsburgh said Dr. Bonaroti in Donora said he’d put you in touch with us, because for lazy, coughing patients there was no one better than you at just tossing people out of bed, onto their feet and…”

  Rose raised her eyebrows. Mrs. Sebastian pulled another chair over to her. She slid off her mules and rested her feet on the seat. Rose was proud that her reputation had reached all the way to Gary, Indiana and back. That alone should have been all the credentials she needed to give stout orders to the Sebastian family regarding Theresa’s care whether it offended them or not.

  But, Rose stopped herself from telling the woman that perhaps the root of Theresa’s problem was the mother. Instead, Rose took another sip. She still needed two things from Mrs. Sebastian: funding for the clinic and access to Theresa.

  Mrs. Sebastian lifted her hand, a thread of smoke curled off the cigarette and bee-lined for Rose. She resisted the urge to wave it away.

  “I need to come back to gather more data.” Rose popped open her bag, rifling through it. “Here, this tea should help reduce Theresa’s wheezing. Just administer a cup or two every few hours.”

  Rose shuffled back through her bag, trying to figure out how she might ask the questions that kept her from leaving. She needed to confirm that this craziness regarding Theresa’s birthmark was just that.

  “Well, thank you,” Mrs. Sebastian said. “I look forward to further diagnosis. And Nurse...”

  “Yes?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind regarding the clinic. I have some concerns. I don’t have time to address them right now.”

  “You’re busy, yes.” Rose forced a warm smile over her frigid mood.

  Mrs. Sebastian pulled one of her feet up across her leg, rubbing her swollen ankle. She struggled to stretch past her bloated belly, trying to keep a firm grip on her foot.

  “Let me help you with that,” Rose said. “I’ll get the fluid moving in your joints if even for a moment.”

  Mrs. Sebastian fell back in her seat and exhaled, tilting her cigarette in Rose’s direction.

  Rose bent over Mrs. Sebastian’s feet, looking at the bulging skin. She felt poise return as she began to work on one ankle. She could be conversational as long as her hands were moving and she was under the cover of her nursing skill.

  “You said you lived in Gary.” If they never lived in Pittsburgh perhaps there was no reason for Rose to worry about Theresa any more than she would another patient. “Gary’s nice.”

  Mrs. Sebastian’s face went slack from the skill of Rose’s hands, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Yes. Gary. Oh, and Pittsburgh…before and after that. That’s where we got our Theresa. Mayview.” Her eyes lit up. “I didn’t think of it until just this moment. But I think that’s why I’m hesitant to fund a medical initiative. I gave money to Mayview at the time we got Theresa. It didn’t go well. The money was misused in my opinion. Some people are simply…” Mrs. Sebastian’s voice trailed off.

  Mayview. Rose felt as though she’d been sucked into a coal mine. She reached back in her memory, falling back through her past to when her baby had been born.

  “Nurse?”

  Rose looked up. She had stopped rubbing Mrs. Sebastian’s ankle and had slumped into her seat without even realizing it.

  Mrs. Sebastian twirled the cigarette into the saucer, smoothing a perfect ash-dome onto the end of it. “Don’t stop. I think my feet are actually shrinking.” Rose nodded and resumed the massage. This was her chance to be sure.

  “My cousin,” Rose said. “She was at Mayview. She worked there, I mean.” Rose’s words barely made it out of her mouth. “What’s Theresa’s birthday, again?”

  Mrs. Sebastian blew the smoke out the side of her mouth before tamping the cigarette out. “Twenty years ago. Born the 12th of October.”

  Rose kept rubbing, digging her fingers in the space where the anklebone met the muscle beneath it.

  Mrs. Sebastian lit another cigarette. “So tiny. She
had rose-pink skin, perfectly set eyes, bow mouth, made for the big screen. Even as a two-hour old newborn, it was as though I were looking into the face of a great child, like I imagine Hepburn’s mother must have looked at her, or Bacall’s.”

  Rose worked her way up into the woman’s calf. Mrs. Sebastian leaned to the side, resting her cheek in her hand, elbow on the table. “The social worker at the hospital put the girl in my arms and she snuggled into my chest, gurgling, that sound, it was magical.”

  Rose pushed and kneaded the muscle, lost in Mrs. Sebastian’s words, drowning in her recollections of Theresa’s first hours of life. Right or not, she felt as though Mrs. Sebastian stole those moments and held them up as hers, when they should have, when they might have been Rose’s.

  Mrs. Sebastian flicked her hand toward her other leg, directing Rose to rub it.

  “It was quite an experience,” Mrs. Sebastian said as Rose shifted to get a grip of the other foot. “I remember, oh yes. That’s right. The social worker was a bully of sorts. She droned on and on about the young mother insisting we give the baby a saint’s name of all things. She’d wanted Anastasia, can you imagine? I was partial to Nancy. Or my maiden name as her first name. But the girl, apparently, had been insistent. So we thought Theresa prettier than Anastasia. The woman and I couldn’t—ouch!” Mrs. Sebastian said.

  Rose snapped her hands back.

  “It’s tender there!”

  Rose straightened and shook out her hands, unsure if she was startled by the force she’d inflicted or by Mrs. Sebastian’s words. She started to sweat again. Rose had made that demand twenty years before, hadn’t she? Had she? Rose sifted through her memories of the past, peeling it back to that day, the moments after they’d injected her with a sedative. Suddenly the demand that her baby be given a saint’s name was fitted into Rose’s history like her bones fit into her skin. She had wanted her baby protected as she went off into the world alone.

  Rose moved back to her bag, opened it, drew out another package of tea and set it on the table. She needed to regain her composure and professionalism, but felt so mystified by this information and numbed by the vodka that her only option was to leave.