34. Pippa
PIPPA
The offices on the top floor of The Sanatorium are warmer and cozier than the rest of the building.
The three wings are constructed of the same gray and black stones that compose most of New Essik, but the inside halls are cold and sterile everywhere but here.
I’ve never been on the administration floor before.
Out the window, the landscape blooms with spring life, the trees full of leaves and birds.
In the distance, just past the cliffs to the back of the hospital, the ebb and flow of Lake Nettor offers an additional soundtrack.
It’s a lovely day, but it’s ruined by the muted beat of my heart as we wait for the head of the hospital to meet with us.
I can almost imagine I hear the clock in the clock tower, which dominates The Sanatorium’s front-facing edifice, the gears rolling to shift into place as another minute passes.
“Are you alright?” Shemaiah asks, taking my hand.
We came here straight from the station, still in travel clothes after the long journey back to New Essik. The last four days on the airship vacillated between the joy of children to boost my spirits and the despair that none of them were Toby.
Shemaiah was as patient as ever, holding me when I cried and distracting me with pleasure when I had no tears left. But by the time we arrived, I wasn’t willing to wait longer to find my boy. So we came straight here.
I squeeze Shemaiah’s arm with my gloved hand and nod. “Yes.”
It’s a lie, of a sort, and he knows it, but he doesn’t call me on it.
We’ve already had the runaround since we arrived.
The receptionist checked records and told us the same thing everyone else said: Tobias was sent to New Essik Children’s Home.
I demanded that she show us the visitor sign-in sheets from his last visit, but when she complied, there was no record of any visits from him at all.
Every person who enters the hospital always has to sign in, but there were no visitors recorded on the day he last came to see me.
I lost it then, so tired of everyone telling me the same damn lie, so hopelessly worried about my boy. Shemaiah stepped in and convinced the woman to get us an appointment with Dr. Reter, the head of the hospital, which is how we ended up waiting in his office.
When he finally enters, my heart is racing, and my palms are sweaty. Hope and fear battle in my chest, and it’s all I can do to stand to meet him.
Dr. Reter greets us with a wide smile on his clean-shaven face.
His dark hair is slicked back into a severe side part, and his brows are neatly shaped over green eyes behind round spectacles.
His tugs on his white coat, straightening it over his white shirt, closed at his throat with a red bow tie.
Because of his position, he never came to my ward, but there’s something familiar about his eyes, something that makes a chill run down my spine.
“Mr. Roan!” He indicates chairs for us before he moves to the other side of the desk and takes a seat, folding his hands in front of him as he leans forward. “I understand that you’re looking for Miss Willoughby’s son?”
“Mrs. Roan,” Shemaiah corrects. He’s done it countless times now, but each time it sets a small flutter in my belly. This time it feels almost like he’s claiming Tobias too.
Dr. Reter’s eyebrows shoot up, gaze assessing me rather than paying any attention to Shemaiah.
There’s something unnerving about it. It’s not lust in his eyes, but it’s something like desire, eagerness, curiosity.
Maybe because I look so much healthier than a woman with Vastatio should.
Despite the days of travel and the wrinkled state of my attire, I know the dark circles under my eyes are gone.
My hair has a luxurious shine. My formerly pale cheeks are rosy.
There’s no shortness of breath, no weakness in my muscles as I sit straight up in the chair.
Yes, that must be what I’m seeing in his gaze. Professional intrigue.
“Do you know where our son is?” Shemaiah asks.
My mind stalls as my heart soars. Our son. The words sound too perfect to be true.
Dr. Reter’s lips pull down in a movement so extreme it seems forced, like the look of a man trying to appear sad who isn’t. A clammy feeling skates over my skin, sweat gathering at my brow. Whatever he’s about to say, I know it’ll ruin me.
“I’m not sure why the New Essik Children’s Home didn’t tell you, but I just spoke with them—I wanted to handle this matter personally, of course.
” He looks at Shemaiah and tips his chin in deference.
“I regret to be the one to tell you the poor boy died of a fever a few months ago. Just after his last visit, it seems.”
“No,” I gasp, my heart wrenching in my chest. I’m the one who’s supposed to die, not Tobias. Not my boy. My eyes burn. The world tunnels into a vacuum of ringing sound. But deep in my bones something feels off.
I don’t believe him. I would have felt it, would have known if my boy was gone. I would have felt his life-force severed from mine. Every part that makes me his mother feels the lie because my boy isn’t gone. He can’t be.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Why didn’t they tell us?” Shemaiah says, sounding far away. There’s something disbelieving in his voice, skeptical, pulling me from my own spiral. I wouldn’t notice it if I didn’t know him so well. Shemaiah doesn’t think Dr. Reter is telling the truth either.
“It seems some of their records weren’t well kept.” Dr. Reter shrugs, dismissive. It isn’t his problem. It’s theirs. But something about this doesn’t feel right.
“The same could be said of your records, it seems,” Shemaiah answers with all the cold calculation of a man accustomed to power.
“What do you mean?” Dr. Reter sits up straighter, defensiveness stiffening his shoulders.
“There’s no account of my wife’s son ever having visited The Sanatorium. But both she and the other women in my care attest to the fact that it happened. He was here.”
“You know how receptionists can be.” Dr. Reter waves his hand through the air with a short laugh. “Some of them aren’t always strict about signing everyone in.” He turns his attention to me. “Was the boy accompanied by a nurse?”
“Of course,” I reply.
“Well, there you have it.” He leans back as if everything’s been solved, but I don’t follow his reasoning. “Nurses don’t need to sign in,” he adds as if speaking to a child. “And I’m certain they wouldn’t have required a three-year-old to do so either.”
It strikes me as odd that he would know the exact age of my son when I’ve never met him before. Doctors of his caliber don’t stoop to treat the lowly women of the Vastatio wards. Perhaps the children’s home told him.
“Besides, it doesn’t matter much now.” He stands and comes around the desk to lean at the corner beside me. He pats my shoulder in a gesture that I think is supposed to be fatherly, but manages to be patronizing instead. “The boy has gone to a better place.”
All the air caught in my lungs expels in a single breath of pain and panic. No. No. No. That isn’t right. I want to scream. But I can’t. All I can do is tense my muscles and fight the rising hysteria.
Shemaiah pulls me to my feet, away from Dr. Reter, tucking me into his side. I ball my fists in his coat, fighting the tears that threaten my eyes.
“How is it that you’re looking so well, Mrs. Roan?” Dr. Reter says, oblivious to the turmoil inside me. Cold. Calculating.
Shemaiah bristles at the question. “My brother is an excellent physician.”
The jab is subtle, but Dr. Reter flinches.
He rubs his chin and makes a humming sound deep in his throat.
“Ah. Yes. I’m aware of Noah Roan’s skills.
As a scientist. I just didn’t think they extended this far.
” His eyes jump to me, and there’s an underlying look I can’t pinpoint in their depths.
“You know, even if she’s doing well now, the disease will progress.
It might be best for her to stay here. Vastatio comes in flare-ups.
Not to speak ill of Dr. Roan, but she may just be in a good season, which is often followed by a bad. It would be best if she return—”
“She is right here,” I snap. “You can speak to me directly. And if I’m to die, I’ll be the one to choose where.”
Dr. Reter gives me an arrogant smile that I’d like to tear off his face.
He has the gall to tell me about my son’s death, pat my shoulder as if it’s nothing more than a passing inconvenience, and then in the next breath, argue that I should be recommitted to a place that did nothing to treat me. How dare he!
“Of course, dear,” he says. “I only suggest it because we could examine the effects of your treatment, since you’re doing so well, and perhaps help—”
“You will not use my wife as a test subject.” Shemaiah turns his back to the other man and offers me his hand. “We’ll be going now.”
Numbly, I take it. The gravity of my son’s death settles on my shoulders like dirt covering a grave.
He was so young and healthy the last time I saw him.
Everything about it feels wrong. I can’t believe it.
But where else could he be? We’ve already searched everywhere.
This would explain so much. A sob lodges its way in my throat, but I don’t let it out.
“Of course.” Dr. Reter motions toward the door. “I have another appointment now as well.”
Shemaiah wraps his arm around me as we leave, offering the support I need.
My legs shake, knees threatening to give out.
After all this searching and effort, it all comes to naught.
My boy is gone. The sob I’ve been holding back steals my breath, and Shemaiah squeezes me close, an attempt to comfort that I barely register.
“I’m truly sorry for your loss,” Dr. Reter says, following us to the door.
“You should know, though, Vastatio is a silent killer and can strike at any moment. Even if she appears healthy. A shock like this could send her into a flare-up she can’t recover from.
If she’s not in the care of a doctor who knows how to deal with such attacks…
” He shakes his head. “It would be best for her to be back here at The Sanatorium. We’re her best chance at prolonging her life. ”
His insistence breaks through my grief like alarm bells, but only for a moment.
“She stays with me,” Shemaiah says in a tone that brooks no argument. He guides me through the door before turning back. “Oh, and thank you for your hospitality in hosting Mrs. Darning last month.”
“We didn’t—” His denial dies as he meets Shemaiah’s gaze, his eyes taking on a more calculating quality. “Oh. Yes. Of course, she’s a lovely woman, very knowledgeable. We were grateful for her insight.”
Shemaiah studies the man like a hawk ready to swoop in for the kill. I can even see the sweat on Dr. Reter’s brow.
“Remind me, what exactly was it she was helping you with?” Shemaiah asks, hand still on the doorknob.
Dr. Reter’s gaze swings around the room. “Well, it was… those newfangled washing machines. You know, the new contraptions. Our housekeepers just couldn’t figure them out.”
“Clearly, if it took an entire month to do so.”
I almost ask how Mrs. Darning could teach them to use a technology they don’t have at Roan Island, but I keep my mouth shut as the two men stare each other down.
“Well, she wanted to visit her sister, too,” Dr. Reter adds.
Shemaiah’s eyebrows raise, but he silently nods and holds the door open for me. “Thank you again, Dr. Reter.”
As soon as the door closes behind us, I turn to Shemaiah, leaning close enough to whisper. “Mrs. Darning doesn’t have a sister, does she?”
“No. She definitely does not.”