Vivian Schurfranz - Laura

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.