Elixir (14 page)

I led Mr. Rogers down the corridor to the stairwell and we started up the stairs.

“Awfully hot,” he said. “Certainly hotter than back home.”

I didn't think he was from around Toronto because he had a funny little accent. “Where are you and your daughter from?”

“Boston. Have you ever been there?”

“Never.”

“It's a lovely city, but not close. It took us two days by train to get here. A long trip for Emma, but there was no choice. We had to see Dr. Banting.”

“Is he a family friend?” I asked.

“Never met him before in my life, but I heard about his research so we absolutely had to come.”

I opened the door to the third floor and Mr. Rogers stepped through.

“It's at the end of the hall … the door past the kennel … you can't miss it,” I said.

He gave me a questioning look, as though he was wondering why I wasn't going any farther. I couldn't. I couldn't walk past the kennel.

“Thank you for your assistance,” he said.

I started back down the stairs. It was almost worth going up just to feel the relative coolness as I came back down. Arriving in the lobby I spied the girl, Emma, sitting in a chair against the wall. Her arms were folded in her lap and she wasn't moving. I
couldn't tell for sure, but it looked as though her eyes were closed.

I sat back down and picked up
A Tale of Two Cities
. I was so close to the end. It was a wonderful book. Part of me wanted to finish while part of me was going to be sad when it was over. It was like eating a wonderful meal—no, not a meal, a wonderful treat—and the problem was that whenever you took a nibble a little bit more was gone. I started to read again, but after a few words I found my mind wandering to thoughts about the girl sitting just across from me.

Tentatively, quickly, I looked up. Her eyes were still closed. I looked longer. I found I couldn't take my eyes off her. Without a doubt I'd never seen anyone that skinny in my entire life. It looked as if her skin were stretched over the bones of her face. Was something wrong with her? Why would anyone be like that?

“Ruth,” Mr. Mercer called, and I practically jumped, startled out of my thoughts.

“Can you watch the front door for a minute while I go to use the facilities?”

“Yes, of course.” I got up and walked over to his desk.

“Can't hold it as long as I used to,” he said as he got up. He turned back. “You be sure to help yourself,” he said, pointing down to his desk. There was a brownie sitting on a plate. My mouth practically started to drool.

“Have I mentioned that my wife makes just about the best brownies in the world?”

“Not just about the best,” I said. “
The
best. But I can't take it. It's your last.”

He chuckled. “The reason it's the last is because I've had five or six already.” Mr. Mercer limped away.

“It certainly does look good,” Emma said. Her eyes were open and she was looking right at me.

“Do you want a bite?” I asked, holding it out to her.

She smiled. “That's nice of you to offer, and I'd really love to, but I can't.… I'm not allowed.”

Why wouldn't she be allowed to have a brownie?

“I'm on a special diet.”

“You're on a diet?” I exclaimed, not able to believe my ears. The only diet she needed to be on was one where she ate everything in sight.

“It's because of my condition.”

Condition? If she was here to see Dr. Banting, that had to mean …

“I have something called diabetes,” she said. “You've probably never heard of it but—”

“I know something about it. Is that why you're here to see Dr. Banting?”

“Yes. My father insisted that we take his car up here from Boston.”

“Car? He told me you came by train,” I said.

“It
was
a train … we took his personal railway car.”

“He has a
railway car
?”

“Actually, he has a whole railway.”

I didn't know what to say.… I'd guessed that they had money, but her father had to be rich!

“My father heard encouraging things about Dr. Banting's research—that he's had some very favourable initial results. So he rushed up to see for himself.”

“It's a long trip from Boston to Toronto,” I said. “My father said he would go to the ends of the earth for a solution. He wants to know what results have been obtained, and if there's anything he can contribute to help with the research.”

“Help?”

“With equipment or money,” she explained.

“I think they could probably use both.”

“My father will offer what assistance he can. He wants to make sure that if a treatment is found, I'll be one of the first in line to receive it.” She shook her head. “He's always so hopeful.”

“But you're not?” I asked.

“I can't get my hopes up every time my father hears about someone who's working on a cure. Scientists around the world have been working on this for decades. Why should I think this man will have any more success?”

“He could … somebody has to.”

“Personally, I'd be happy just to have a brownie, or pie, or tea with sugar, or even a big slice of bread smothered in marmalade.”

“You can't eat any of those?”

“I can't eat much of anything. Didn't you wonder why I look like this?” Emma said.

“I … I … sort of wondered.”

“I look like a living skeleton. I didn't use to look like this, you know.”

“You didn't?”

“I was a normal thirteen-year-old girl until the diabetes struck.”

“You're thirteen?” I'd guessed her to be younger than I.

“I'm fifteen,” she said. “How old did you think I was?”

“I don't know,” I muttered. I really didn't want to say.

“I think I look around ten. There are times I look at myself in the mirror and I can't believe the face staring back at me. And look at my hair!”

I wasn't sure what she meant by that. Her hair was long and brown and sort of … sort of frizzy looking.

“It's brittle and it falls out in clumps. It used to be so lovely,” she said. “And now.…” She let the sentence trail off and shook her head sadly as she ran a hand through her hair.

“I look like a living, breathing, talking skeleton because I'm not allowed to eat. I'm following a special diet for diabetics. It's called under-nutrition therapy,” Emma explained. “I don't know if you're aware, but diabetics can't properly absorb food, or I guess more correctly, the sugar in foods. The sugar builds up in the bloodstream and this eventually leads to a coma and
death. So by not eating much the blood sugar levels are kept down, low enough for me to live.”

“So as long as you don't eat much you'll be okay?”

“I'll
never
be okay. They keep me balanced between starving to death and dying from the buildup of my blood sugars. One way or the other, either through the effects of starvation or through the effects of the diabetes, I'm going to die.”

I gasped. I knew what she said was true, but the way she said it, so matter-of-factly, was truly shocking.

“This under-nutrition therapy doesn't save my life, it just prolongs it.” She paused, and I could see tears coming to her eyes. “Although sometimes I feel as though it isn't prolonging my life so much as simply lengthening my death.”

“There's … there's no hope?”

“There's always hope. We're here today because my father has hope. Maybe hope enough for both of us,” Emma said. “Do you know this Dr. Banting?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And what's he like?”

“He's … he's a nice man … sometimes we have tea together.” What was I supposed to say?

“Does he seem like a mad genius scientist who could actually cure diabetes?” she asked.

“He's smart,” I said. I was glad I hadn't mentioned anything about him having trouble with his spelling when he was in school.

“They're all smart,” Emma said. “But so far none of them has been smart enough to come up with a real cure. Could you do me a favour?”

“Sure … I guess.”

“Could you come over here and bring that brownie with you?”

“But I thought you couldn't eat it!”

“I can't. I'm not going to eat it. I just want to smell it … that would be so
heavenly
.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EMMA HAD SAID
she needed to rest. She'd told me that she was tired all the time and that even walking a few steps winded her. Because she couldn't eat much, she didn't have any energy to do anything. She closed her eyes and I left her alone. Then, when Mr. Mercer returned, I went outside.

I took a deep breath of air and started down the steps. My head was reeling. I was still clutching the remaining piece of brownie. I passed by a garbage can and flung it in. I didn't want to hold it and I certainly didn't want to eat it. It just felt wrong. It made me feel guilty that I could eat the brownie—heck, I could eat a dozen brownies—and all Emma could do was smell it. One more image I'd never be able to get out of my mind: a poor, painfully thin girl, being deliberately starved, smelling the brownie I was holding.

I'd never met anyone my age who was dying. And she
was
waiting
to die. That seemed so much worse than actually dying—knowing that it was coming, practically counting the days, not even being able to eat. What good did all the money in the world do if you were going to die? It would be so much better to simply be hit by a trolley bus than to live out your days like that.

I skidded to a stop. Melissa was standing beneath a tree in the distance. For the last three days I'd hoped she'd simply forgotten the whole thing. She smiled and gave a little wave. I was shocked to see her there, but maybe it was for a reason. I could talk to her about Emma. I needed to talk to someone.

“I was hoping you'd come outside today,” Melissa said.

Why did she hope that? Was she wanting to be let inside again so she could take a picture? That certainly wouldn't work with Dr. Banting and Mr. Best and their guest all up there.

“I just wanted to come outside for a walk,” I said.

“And it was fortunate that you did, because if you hadn't our plan wouldn't have worked out.”

“Plan?” I asked, although I already knew—feared— what she was going to say next.

She smiled. “It's going to happen tonight.”

“You're going to try to take another picture tonight?” I asked.

“Not a picture. We're going to rescue the dogs from the kennel!” she exclaimed and threw her arms around me.

I stood there, arms at my sides, too stunned to say or do anything. I really hadn't expected her to say that.

“And of course we need your help. Here,” she said. She reached into her handbag and pulled something out. It looked like grey mud. “This is putty. You put it in where the lock catches in the frame. It will stop the door from locking, but it will look like the door is locked because it's closed.”

I took the putty from her hand and stared at it. “You want me to put it in the door?”

“In the catch. It'll work. It would be best if you waited until the very end of the day, just before you leave with your mother for the night. That's not for another hour or so, right?”

I nodded. It was almost three o'clock. We didn't leave until just before five, depending on when my mother finished.

“We won't be coming until the middle of the night, well after the security guard leaves. There'll be six of us and we'll have cars waiting outside. And while we haven't arranged it yet completely, I'm sure we can find homes for all those dogs. I'll personally keep them until we do. We're going to rescue them! Isn't that wonderful?”

“Yes, wonderful,” I echoed.

“You don't look happy,” Melissa said.

“I'm not unhappy, I'm just surprised.… I didn't think the Society was going to approve of your plan.”
Melissa looked down at the ground for a second and then brought her eyes back up to meet mine. “They didn't.”

“But if they didn't approve …”

“Sometimes you have to take actions on your own. The Society seems more concerned about their image than the lives of those dogs, and I'm convinced that, once I'm successful, a number of people will be willing to join in that success and will cheer my—I mean
our
—efforts.” She paused. “Of course I still need to convince one other person … you. Will you arrange to have the door left open? Will you fix it so it can't lock and I can get in?”

I looked down at the putty in my hand and then back at Melissa. She was doing something brave, taking a big risk. If she got caught releasing the dogs, I was sure they'd throw her in jail. She was being a hero, standing up for something she believed in, and doing what it took to right a wrong, no matter what.

“I'll do it,” I said.

SAYING YOU'RE GOING
to do something and actually being able to do it are two very different things. I reached a hand into my pocket and felt the putty. It was soft and warm and I squeezed it nervously in my fist.

“So, are you ready to go?” my mother asked.

“Yes … almost … I just have to go to the washroom first.”

“You've had all day and you wait for now?” “I've gone before. I just have to go again.”

“Just hurry up and— Good evening, Dr. Banting,” my mother said.

Dr. Banting stopped beside Mr. Mercer's desk. “Good evening, Mrs. Williams. Good evening, Mr. Mercer. And of course, good evening, Ruthie. Are you ladies on your way home?” he asked.

“We will be soon,” my mother said. “And you?”

“Just out for a breath of fresh air. Charlie and I have at least two more hours of work to do tonight.”