Breathe: A Novel of Colorado (2 page)

March 1883

Odessa tried to shove back the wave of fear as the slow suffocation
began. It was too much, this long ride west. Three days they had been
on cursed trains chugging across endless tracks-three days! Hours
of dust and dark, choking smoke from the train, the sweet-sour body
odor from fellow passengers. She could even smell herself, and the
combined force seemed to pour sand in through her nose and down
into her lungs, filling them, filling them like two sacks of concrete.

Her father had meant for her to chase the cure; instead, she was
merely hastening her own demise.

"Odessa? Dess!" Dominic said, leaning forward in his seat.
"Moira, quick. Dampen this handkerchief."

Odessa closed her eyes and concentrated on each breath, her
brother's voice, her sister's movement. She willed herself not to panic,
not to give in to the black demon that loomed over her. This was
worse than before. The creature had moved in and around her, tormenting her as he sat upon her chest.

"Dess, here. You must take your laudanum. Just this once. You've
made it this far; we'll be there within hours."

Odessa could feel the cold stares of the people in the seats next
to them as she sipped from the blue bottle. She knew she was not the only consumptive patient on this train, but the healthy passengers
seemed to consider all of the consumptives a nuisance. She had not
the strength to care at this point.

She had to keep herself from coughing.

To begin coughing was to never stop.

But her throat, the mucous, the tickle, the terrible desire to try
and take a deep breath, to give it just one attempt, one huge cough to
clear the way, to free her from the storm cloud that covered her now,
roiling like a summer thunderhead. Oh God, she cried silently. I can't
breathe! I can't breathe! Don't let me die!

Visions of her little brothers filled her mind. Gasping piteously.
Blue lips, blue fingernails, eyes rolling back in their heads. Michael,
thirteen; Clifford, eleven; Earl, eight; tiny Fred, only three ...

"Dess," Dominic said urgently. "Dess!"

She could feel herself sliding sideways, her head spinning. She
knew it improper, such public loss of control, but she was helpless,
giving in to the dark demon that was casting her about, twirling her
about like a chicken on a spit.

Dominic picked her up in his arms and laid her gently on the
floor between the seats. From far away, she could tell he was placing
his coat beneath her head. She could feel the rough woolen fibers at
her neck. But how was that possible? Spinning at this rate-

"Stay with us, Odessa St. Clair," he called to her firmly. "We are
almost there! Fight it! Fight back! Stay with us!"

It was as if he called to her from the mouth of a long, dark cave.
Could he not see the monster? The demon cloud that was spiriting
her away? How was she to fight such a thing? Why did they call it the
White Death when it was dark, so dark?

The laudanum, the blessed drug, moved through her and began
its soothing work. She did not wish to be the latest St. Clair invalid,
wasting away of consumption, wasting away the family money, the
family's time, the family's attentions. If she was not strong enough to
chase the cure, she didn't deserve it at all. She had to find it within
her, the hope, the desire, hovering somewhere deep within. Was it
even there any longer?

Moira returned to her side and placed a delicate white
handkerchief over her nose and mouth, cool and light and smelling
faintly of soap-clean, clear soap. It reminded Odessa of her mother,
of years ago when she would come to Odessa's sickroom to care for
her, to nurse her back to health. She wanted to thank her sister,
knowing this collapse was embarrassing her, embarrassing them all,
but she could not find the breath to utter one word.

"Nic!" Moira said in alarm. Was she outside, floating away from
Odessa? Or was Odessa floating away from them? Out of this train,
out of her cave, breaking free?

"Is there a doctor on the train?" Dominic yelled. Is there a doctor? Can anyone assist us?"

"You listen to me," Dominic said lowly and fiercely in her ear,
suddenly right beside her. "You are not going to die on this train.
You are going to reach the sanatorium and regain your health. You
have a life ahead of you, Odessa St. Clair. A life. Not as an invalid.
But as a vital, healthy woman. You will know freedom. You will
beat this curse on our family. We will be friends into our old age.
Do you hear me? Do you hear me, Odessa?"

"Is there a doctor aboard this train?" Dominic yelled as he watched
Odessa slip into unconsciousness. He looked down the aisle of the
rocking, swaying train car, meeting the doleful glances of thirty other
passengers. No one moved to help. Moira, his younger sister, wept
behind her hand. Odessa grew more lax in his arms. Never had he
felt so helpless. What had Father been thinking? He could barely keep
himself out of trouble; he was supposed to watch over his sisters, too?

He rose, Odessa in his arms. "Is there anyone who can help us?"
he cried.

Halfway down the car, a man rose, hat in hand, and a woman
beside him. They hesitantly made their way toward the St. Clairs.
Nic studied their faces, then saw the man's collar. A preacher. Nic
looked over his shoulder, hoping another was rising, a physician, a
nurse, anyone. But no one moved.

"Not the doc you're seeking, man," said the tentative preacher. "But
it looks like we're the only ones. Why don't you put your wife-"

"Sister."

"Put your sister down, and we'll pray over her. Heading to the
sanatorium, I take it? Best there is in these parts."

"And not far," put in his wife. "We'll be there soon."

Nic studied them a moment longer, then glanced down at Odessa
in his arms and Moira on the floor in a heap. "Quit your weeping,
Moira," Nic hissed. "And get back on the seat. She's not dead yet."
Her tears chafed at him, made him feel more helpless.

Moira only cried harder, but she rose and went back to the bench
seat by the window as instructed. Nic gently set Odessa down beside
her, head in Moiras lap, then moved aside to let the preacher and his
wife gain entrance to the bench seat facing them.

Moira kept crying, her slender shoulders shaking, one hand on
her unconscious sister's forehead, the other on the handkerchief dabbing at the corner of her eyes. Her face depicted the same horror Nic
felt inside.

He pinched his temples between his third finger and thumb,
trying to think his way out of this. "Use your brain as well as your
brawn, "Father had said to him as they said good-bye in Philadelphia.
"I'rn counting on you as a St. Clair. "If he failed in this, failed his father
again, here on the border of hope, if he failed his sisters ... But try as
he might, he could not think of what else to do.

"Nothing to do but pray," said the preacher, staring up at him, wait
ing, as if reading his thoughts. The preacher's wife stood beside him,
silently seeking his permission with her eyes. Odessa was still deathly
pale and her breathing now emerged as a tight, wavering whistle.

"No other option, I guess," Nic groused. "Go to it."

The preacher stared at him with eyes of understanding and pity.
"It's in God's hands for sure, friend. Let's ask Him to help her make
it to the sanatorium. Let's ask Him to restore her to life itself. Will
you join us?"

Nic pulled back a little. "No. I mean, you do what you need to.
I'll ... I'm going to go and ask the conductor how long until we reach
the Springs." He turned away and headed down the aisle.

The preacher's wife handed Moira a clean handkerchief and patted
her arm. "What's her name?" she asked softly. There was something
in her voice that soothed, warmed Moira. Something that reminded
Moira of her own mother, dead and gone a year now.

"Odessa," she whispered.

"Your older sister?"

Moira nodded. "By two years." She smiled and stroked Odessas
cheek. How many times, growing up, had Odessa held her, comforted her, nursed her when their mother had been so busy with the
boys? "Do you think God will hear us?" she whispered, the woman's
face swimming through her tears. "That is, do you think He'll actually save Odessa? I've never seen her ... so poorly."

"I hope so," the woman returned, reaching out to squeeze Moiras
hand. "All we can do is ask and hope. Hope."

Moira glanced up to see her brother pacing, waiting to talk to the
conductor, clearly not wanting to rejoin them. He had refused to go to
church ever since their mother died, claimed he wanted nothing to do
with a God who would rob them of so many dear ones.

Nic had gotten into trouble again and again; he'd even gone
to jail for brawling. It had horrified her father, infuriated him. Nic
claimed Moiras incessant desire to perform, sing, had brought their
father so low, but Moira thought Nic's troubles and Odessas illness
were the more likely cause.

Moira looked back down to Odessa, stared at her hard when she
realized she wasn't moving, wasn't even taking the tiniest of breaths.
"Odessa! Odessa!" she screamed. She cast desperate eyes toward her
brother, and he came barreling back down the aisle. The preacher
and his wife were on their knees beside Odessa, heads bowed, praying. Heart filled with dread, Moira forced herself to look back to her
sister, terrified she'd see the same death mask steal over her lovely
features as she'd seen on their brothers, their mother.

"Here, let me take her," Dominic demanded, roughly squeezing between the preacher and his wife, pulling Odessa from Moira's
arms.

"Don't be so rough, Nic!"

Nic ignored Moira and stared only at their sister. "You hold on,
Odessa St. Clair. We are just minutes away. You hold on. This is
where it begins, your new life. Wake up, wake up and see the mountains. See your new home. It's beautiful, Dess. Beautiful. Wake up."

Beat this curse. Fight it. Wake up. Odessa considered his words from
far away, as if she were a judge hearing both sides of a case. She
could give in to this demon, let it spirit her away, so her siblings could
bury her at the foot of the towering Rockies and be free to open
the bookshop, live their lives without her as a burden. Or she could
find the sword at her side and strike back at the curse of her family,
this dark cloud that had stolen her brothers, that now came back
like a foraging, hungry monster seeking more sustenance from the
St. Clair fields.

She could not tolerate that. She could not bear the thought of
her father, so thin, aging so fast, coming west to simply attend her
funeral. She longed for hope, for light to again settle into the lines of
his face. To see a smile and not that dim look of desperation, defeat.
I will fight, she thought. The words gave her strength. God almighty,
You have the power of all in Your hands. Give me the strength to fight!

Odessa opened her eyes and then quickly closed them, blinded
by the bright, clear sun shining through towering windows all about
her. She had a vision of brilliant white and wondered for a moment
if she had already landed in heaven. Recognizing that the tip of her nose and cheeks were very cold, and supposing that heaven was
bound to be warm, not frosty, she chanced a second glance through
squinting eyes.