Prologue
January 2, 1870
New York Medical College and Hospital for Women
12th Street and 2nd Avenue
New York, NY
There was so much blood. As soon as I lifted the sheet, I saw it everywhere. It had soaked through Charlotte’s clothes, her blankets, all of the bedding, turning everything its bright and terrible red. Never had I seen so much blood come from one person, and I could scarcely believe there was any left pumping through her veins.
But as long as there was I wouldn’t rest.
I got to work, packing the wound with fresh cotton. Then I gently changed her out of her gown, moving my daughter-in-law from one side of the bed to the other while I stripped and changed the sheets. All the while Charlotte remained so placid, so peaceful, so still, but seeing her like this did nothing to make me feel the same.
What I would have given to see her suffering! To see her rolling and thrashing around her bed! Not only would it mean there was some spark of life left inside of her, but part of me—some new crueler part of me I did not recognize—wanted to see her ache as much as we were aching. It only seemed fair, considering what she had done.
But just as quickly I put the thought out of my mind. First, I had to save her life. Then I could tell her how angry I was with her, a moment I was very much looking forward to.
“Did you give her any medicine?” I asked the nurse.
“A dose of the Phosphorus,” she replied. “As you instructed, Dr. Lozier. Should I give her more?”
Already she had been given every homeopathic, herbal, and even some of the mainstream medicines used for hemorrhaging. Nothing had worked. At least not for very long. “I’m going to check on my other patient,” I said in lieu of answering.
After generations of only boys being born into our family—seven from me and two from Charlotte— it seemed cruel to finally have a little girl. Born a full two months too soon, no one expected her to live.
The little bundle the nurse handed to me was wrapped so tightly, all I could see was her tiny face, stained the same dark red as the pool of blood she had been born in. Light as the air itself, I held her close, until I could feel her breath entering and leaving her little body.
“Has she eaten yet?” I asked.
“A little.” Too tiny to be nursed, she was being fed small amounts of sugar water mixed with cream using a dropper. “But I will get more into her,” the nurse assured me.
I smiled, not because I believed her, but I was glad someone still had hope. Lord knew I would have liked some for myself, but no matter how hard I tried, or how often I prayed, I could not make myself actually feel it.
For the time being, however, I could still love, and I felt an overwhelming amount for the precious and precarious life I held in my arms. Not knowing how long I would be blessed to have my granddaughter with me, I would have to love her enough for an entire lifetime while she was still here. Holding her little body close to my heart, I poured out all of the love I had in it. It would be hers to keep.
By the time this was over, I would no longer have need for a heart of my own.