Breathing Room Read online

  I was glad Nurse Gunderson couldn’t actually hear me sing. I could hardly carry a tune, despite my mother being a music teacher. But sometimes on a car trip with the windows wide open, I’d join in and sing loudly, especially my favorite lines:

  Come away with me, Lucille

  In my merry Oldsmobile

  Down the road of life we’ll fly

  Automo-bubbling, you and I.

  For a moment now with my eyes closed, I could almost hear Abe’s clear voice carrying the melody as Mother added her high harmonies and Father bellowed through the low notes.

  Nurse Gunderson popped the thermometer out of my mouth just as the happy couple drove off to the church to get married.

  “Evvy,” Nurse Gunderson leaned in close to say, “I think I almost heard some ‘automo-bubbling’ coming right out your ears!”

  I grinned, then pretended to turn a steering wheel over the road of my rumpled blanket. She smiled, then tucked me in and went to check on the others.

  For the first time since I’d arrived, I felt my body relax and sink comfortably into the bed. Maybe, with Nurse Gunderson’s help, I really could rest and get better here.

  CHAPTER 10

  The Routine

  (June 1940)

  I SETTLED IN TO the weary Loon Lake routine. I drank glass after glass of milk until I imagined my insides looking as white as a Minnesota winter. I tried to sleep through Nurse Marshall by day and stay awake for Nurse Gunderson at night. I soon learned to recognize my roommates more by their coughs than their voices.

  Each afternoon was burdened with a long Cure Hour—a false name if ever there was one. We weren’t cured, and it lasted two hours. During that time, talking was strictly prohibited. All the girls except Dena seemed to sleep or at least close their eyes. She remained wide awake, as if on guard duty. Nurse Marshall liked to point out that even people in the nearby town kept quiet during Cure Hour so we at Loon Lake could rest.

  I didn’t see any signs that all this rest was helping. I still coughed sputum thick as a raw oyster into the metal cup every morning, I still had a temperature each afternoon, my heart still seemed to quiver instead of beat, and I could still see the plus mark on my medical chart. And I hadn’t earned the first privilege yet of getting mail.

  “News from home often proves upsetting for our new patients,” Nurse Marshall had explained, as if not hearing from home made things any easier.

  Beverly got so many letters that she had to tie them up in a stack with string. I wanted to steal one of hers—a hand-me-down letter would have been better than none at all. Once, Dena caught me eyeing Beverly’s notes from home. “In a few weeks, Evvy, they’ll act like you’re getting better and give you mail privileges.”

  A few weeks? I wanted to hear from my family now! Did Abe get his snazzy new band uniform yet? Had Father dug out the stubborn rhubarb patch in the backyard? Was Grandma still baking cakes and strudels, even without me there to eat them? I tried not to think about Mother. She was probably so busy directing her music groups that she didn’t make time to miss me.

  Over that whole long first month, I felt gloomy inside and out. Probably the only thing I had in common with the other girls—besides our illness—was that we all liked Nurse Gunderson. And for good reason. She knew Pearl had read and reread Gone with the Wind but hadn’t been able to see the movie yet. So Nurse Gunderson brought in an old issue of Life magazine, full of pictures from the movie’s opening in Atlanta, for Pearl to read and keep.

  Like Beverly, Nurse Gunderson had grown up on a farm with a big family, so the two would sometimes compare notes on the care of something called pullets, which—I learned by eavesdropping—were young hens.

  Dena was a tougher case to charm. I once woke up and saw Nurse Gunderson patting Dena’s shoulder, saying something about someone being safe now. I didn’t know what they were talking about, but I was surprised to see Dena let anyone get that close.

  And Nurse Gunderson was the only staff member who called me Evvy. I would have liked her for that alone.

  But even with Nurse Gunderson around, Loon Lake was a sad place, especially late at night, without my bear Francy, alone in my miserable thoughts. If Abe and I always did everything together, why didn’t he get sick too? How come he was healthy and at home, and I was sick and stuck here? It just wasn’t fair. On my worst nights, I wished Abe had gotten TB too.

  I hated those thoughts the most, afraid maybe I really was turning into “Evil-in.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The New Bug

  THE NURSE’S AIDE put down her bucket and took a stack of washcloths out from under her flabby arm. She was a former patient who insisted we call her Miss Wanda. She looked over at the bed next to mine. “I see we got a new bug. What’s her name?”

  “Sarah Morgan,” Pearl answered, playing the welcome hostess for our room.

  Sarah was in the bed closest to me, the one where the other girl had died. I wouldn’t tell Sarah about Marianne, especially because this new girl looked so small and thin, more sickly even than the rest of us. But what would I tell her? Here’s Dena. She knows too much and will scare the dickens out of you. Then there’s Pearl. She thinks she’s a queen and expects everyone to pay attention to her. I’m Evvy—the one with no friends and a healthy twin brother back home. And finally Beverly, with her pretty blond braids. She’s so kind and perfect, you feel like you’re living with a Sunday-school teacher.

  Miss Wanda slopped a watery washcloth across Sarah’s face. The new girl squinched her eyes shut, then started to cough. A chattering, garbled sound came up from her chest as if she’d rumbled marbles loose in her lungs.

  Miss Wanda took a big step back. “Whoa! You’d better take it easy, Sarah. Too much coughin’ can bring on the coffin! That’s what happened to Marianne.”

  “Cut it out,” I barked.

  Sarah’s eyes fluttered open, seeming to find their focus only when they landed on me. Did the new girl want me to help or just leave her alone? Her dark eyes closed again without giving me a hint.

  “Well, hear the old-timer Evelyn Hoffmeister speak.” Miss Wanda strolled around to pick up the wet washcloths. “Maybe Sarah has some news about the war to share. You may not care about the Nazis, Evelyn Hoffmeister, but the rest of us might.”

  Miss Wanda wasn’t the first person to make me feel bad because of my German name. Some kids had taunted us on the playground. Abe told me, “They’re idiots, Ev. Don’t let ’em get to you.” I just hadn’t figured grown-ups could be idiots too.

  Miss Wanda kept talking. “Who’s to say one of your uncles isn’t driving his U-boat up the Mississippi River right now to come get you!”

  “Put a sock in it!” Dena called from across the room. “No submarines are coming up the Mississippi River. They stay in the ocean.”

  Miss Wanda grabbed a folded newspaper from the large pocket on her apron and flashed it just long enough so we could all see the words “Nazi” and “Paris” in the headline. “They’re parading through Paris, attacking England. They’ve already taken Holland and Belgium. We’re next—just you wait!”

  My stomach tightened. If Abe were here, he’d know if what Miss Wanda said was true or not. He’d stuck a map of Europe up on his bedroom wall, marking with pushpins each country Hitler had taken. Was she right? Would America soon join the fight?

  Miss Wanda gathered her supplies, kicked aside the doorstop, then called over her shoulder, “Don’t come screaming to me when a Nazi stares in the window some night, ready to get you!”

  I threw off my covers, angry and frustrated. Miss Wanda acted like the Nazis were a whole new kind of germ about to swarm this place and attack us all. Wasn’t our fight against TB battle enough?

  CHAPTER 12

  Blue Nothing

  TWO DAYS AFTER the new girl, Sarah, arrived, I got my first privilege. I would be allowed to sit up—or rather, get propped up on pillows—and receive mail!

  “Don’t get too excited, Evvy,” Dena said whe
n the meal trays were finally taken away. “Letters are never as good as you want ’em to be.”

  “Oh, yes they are,” Pearl insisted, wagging her hairbrush at Dena. “You’re just jealous. My best friend, Muriel, writes me the longest, best letters just full of news.”

  “Yeah, I know what her letters are full of …”

  Pearl turned to look at me as if that could make Dena disappear and kept talking. “Plus, Evvy, you can get magazines like Photoplay—oh, and the Loon Lake Booster too.” Pearl returned to her mirror and finished smoothing her hair into soft curls.

  “Yeah, there’s something to really cheer you up,” Dena said. “A newsletter written by a bunch of lungers. What could bring a smile to your sick face faster than some Pollyannas telling you their plucky little stories?”

  “Well, I like the Booster,” Pearl said. “It certainly does boost my spirits!”

  Pearl sounded like one of those too-cheerful voices on the radio pushing a new and improved product.

  “I promise to take a look at it,” I said, hoping to end all talk of the Booster. “I really just hope to hear from my brother.”

  “What’s his name?” Beverly asked with polite interest.

  “Abe—well, really Abraham—but no one ever calls him that, except maybe my mother sometimes.”

  “You mean like Honest Abe?” Dena said, half chuckling.

  “Nope, not Abraham Lincoln,” I said. “He was named after my mother’s great-grandfather who played the cornet at President James Buchanan’s inauguration.”

  “Abraham’s a Hebrew name from the Old Testament,” Sarah said without opening her eyes.

  This was the first time since her arrival she’d said anything in the way of conversation. I’d decided having Sarah in the bed next to me was about as exciting as having another white wall added to our room. Now it seemed like the wall knew a thing or two about the Bible.

  “Is your brother older than you, Evvy?” Beverly asked.

  “Yeah, but just by a couple of minutes. We’re twins.” I’d never told them before about having a twin brother—which was usually the first fact most people knew about me.

  “Identical?” Pearl said, perking up with delight.

  “No. We can’t be, since he’s a boy and I’m a girl,” I explained for probably the millionth time in my life. “We’re fraternal twins.”

  “Oh,” said Pearl, sounding disappointed. I could tell she was already dressing us in adorable matching outfits in her mind’s eye. “So do you two even look alike?”

  Sarah opened her eyes and turned her face in my direction.

  “People say we do, but I don’t think so. Abe’s got blondish hair, mine’s browner. I’ve got green eyes, his are more hazel. He’s really tall for his age, I’m not.”

  I’ve got TB, he doesn’t. He gets along with Mother, I don’t. He’s great in music and math, I’m hopeless in both.

  Dena pointed her finger at me, then mumbled “Old Eagle Eye” just an instant before Nurse Marshall stepped into the room. She delivered the mail to the other girls first. More letters for Beverly, a new Photoplay for Pearl, nothing for Dena. Pearl held up her magazine and posed her face alongside, hoping I’d notice how she resembled the actress on the cover. She did, but I didn’t need to encourage her more.

  Finally Nurse Marshall stopped at my bed and tucked two pillows behind my back. I felt a little woozy sitting up, like my brain had rolled down to visit my toes. I looked out with new eyes at the room around me. It was both bigger and emptier than I’d imagined. The windows seemed to pop into three dimensions, as if they’d only been flat paintings before. I could also see more of the trees and two different buildings far off.

  Then Nurse Marshall handed me my mail. I let my fingers slide back and forth across the paper envelopes. My hands seemed hungry to feel something other than bedsheets. I counted the letters. Only six. Somehow I had thought there would be more.

  I felt Sarah’s eyes watching me and gave a quick smile in her direction, not wanting to seem like a letter hog. She didn’t smile back but looked down at my mail as if to remind me I still needed to read my letters. I felt suddenly shy at having an audience but eager all the same to read the news from home.

  Just one letter was from Abe. I put it aside for last.

  I opened the three from Mother. Each letter began the same way:

  Then she told me the same kind of polite news she wrote to her mother in St. Louis once a week. I found myself sitting up straighter—as if Mother had reminded me about good posture—when she described the minister’s visit for tea or her meeting with the dean of music from St. Olaf College.

  Fortunately, Father ended each letter with some silly comment about our garden:

  Next I read a letter from each of my grandmothers. Grandmother Brimley—Mother’s mother—lived in St. Louis, so I hardly ever saw her. She wrote such a somber, formal letter that I almost wondered if I’d died already. She never called my disease by its name; instead she referred to it as “my struggle.” I could already feel myself getting crabby about having to write her back.

  My father’s mother, Grandma Hoffmeister, wrote a totally different letter. For one thing, I knew this grandmother. She lived in Kenyon, a little town close to Northfield, and often came to visit, even more after my grandfather passed away. She spoke with a strong German accent—and seemed to write with one as well. Her bold, no-nonsense handwriting charged across the page at me so strongly that I held the letter out at a distance to read it.

  She told me that the cost of meat was going up—all the fault of the war in Europe—and that she had baked three cakes last week for the church and was sorry I wasn’t there to help scrape and lick the leftover batter from the bowl.

  She didn’t make any attempt to sound cheerful.

  I could imagine her wagging her finger at me—sort of Grandma’s way of showing her love. At some point I would write her about how much I missed her cakes, knowing that when I did get well, she’d bake a triple-layer chocolate cake with icing just for me.

  I saved Abe’s letter for last, certain it would be the best. I pulled it slowly out of the envelope. It was written on a sheet of paper colored with dark layers of blue crayon. The words, scratched out of the wax, were blurry but still readable. Soon my fingers, too, were smeared with blue.

  I read and reread Abe’s letter. I flipped it over and examined both sides. I looked back at the envelope. Even the stamp he’d chosen was blue!

  I knew he didn’t like writing, but was this it? And what did he mean by a mystery? Didn’t he even know how to spell that word? Maybe not, since he was always lousy at spelling. But still, there was no mystery, except maybe why he wrote so little. I’d been counting on him to tell me what was really going on at home. He could have at least told me he was miserable and missed me. Or about his stupid trumpet. Or about the neighbor’s cat, who was supposed to have kittens right when I left. Something! He could have thought of something to tell me.

  Dena was right. Letters do disappoint. I’d waited all this time for nothing: a rotten blue, blurry nothing from Abe.

  CHAPTER 13

  Blue Something

  “YOUR BROTHER is clever,” a voice whispered after the lights were out.

  Who’s talking? Not Dena or Beverly. Certainly not Pearl. It was Sarah, and as my eyes adjusted to the wash of moonlight coming in through the window, I could see her looking at me, her wavy dark hair framing her face.

  But why is she talking? And about Abe?

  “I saw the letter he wrote you—earlier today, I mean.” Her dark eyes demanded my attention, as if she had important business. “He colored it blue!”

  “Yeah, it was blue,” I said, irritated that my smudged fingers seemed to have gotten more out of the letter than I had.

  “He did that for a reason, Evvy.”

  Hearing someone so close whisper my name felt both strange and exciting, as if we were in a secret hideout instead of a sickroom. “A reason?”

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p; “I like solving puzzles. I kept wondering why he’d take the time to color a piece of paper with blue crayons.” Sarah took shallow, fast breaths, as if to keep up with the rush of her thoughts. “Just blue. And to scratch out the words like that. Then it hit me. He’s feeling blue, Evvy. He misses you. He just colored it instead of saying it!”

  Could that be true? Abe did hate writing, especially letters. Coloring with a blue crayon sounded just like some scheme he’d come up with to dodge writing lots of words.

  “Okay,” I said, sorting it through aloud. “He’s blue and he misses me … . And that’s why he said the letter was a misstery!”

  Sarah laughed—a warbly, playful giggle that seemed to leap across the space between our beds and make me laugh too.

  “Shhh,” someone cautioned us from across the room.

  I waited a moment, not about to let anyone end this conversation, then whispered, “That’s pretty smart of you, Sarah. How old are you?”

  “Just turned fourteen. You?”

  “Thirteen still.”

  “I’m no Sherlock Holmes, Evvy—only jealous because I can’t get mail.”

  I spoke in an even softer whisper. “Beverly has a whole stack, and Pearl gets loads of letters from her friend Muriel.”

  Sarah whispered back to me, “Probably none as clever as Abe’s.”

  I didn’t want to be in Abe’s shadow right now, or admit how unclever I’d thought he was before. “You’ll get letters from your brothers and sisters before long.”

  Sarah’s hair swished on the pillow. “Can’t—I’m an only child.”

  “Well, I could loan you Abe!” I suggested, watching her face in the milky light. “But be warned, he practices his trumpet all the time. He wants to be the next Louis Armstrong.”