Shaken to the Core Read online

  Both Dr. Ferber and Giuliana stared at her.

  Despite her concern for Turi, Giuliana struggled to hold back a smile. Dr. Sharpe sounded a little like Giuliana’s strong-willed nonna, who’d never been afraid to voice her opinion. Judging by the look on Dr. Ferber’s face, it didn’t make Lucy Sharpe any more popular than it did Giuliana’s grandmother.

  Dr. Ferber shook his head at her before disappearing down the corridor.

  Lucy Sharpe followed. At the door, she turned back around and said, “I will be back later to check on your brother.”

  Nodding, Giuliana sat on the stool the doctor had vacated and started holding vigil over Turi’s labored breathing.

  * * *

  With a gasp, Giuliana awoke from a nightmare in which Turi was drowning at sea, calling for her, but she couldn’t get to him. Pressing a hand to her chest, she looked around.

  Night had fallen. Turi was next to her in his bed. She must have fallen asleep, and her head had dropped onto the mattress. Yawning, she sat upright on the stool and rubbed her eyes.

  He’s fine. See?

  But maybe he wasn’t. His breathing was rapid, and he was tossing and turning. “Mamma!” he cried out. The rest of what he was saying didn’t make much sense. Was he dreaming too? Hallucinating?

  “Turi, wake up,” she whispered in Sicilian, trying not to disturb the other patients, most of whom were asleep. “You’re just dreaming.”

  He didn’t react.

  With a lump in her throat, she reached out and touched his cheek. Heat radiated from him like from a cast-iron stove.

  Turi started flailing his arms. The back of his hand hit her shoulder, nearly throwing her off the stool.

  Two nurses hurried over and secured his arms to the bed’s metal frame.

  Never opening his eyes, he struggled against them. A week ago, he would have been able to shake them off easily, but now he was too weak.

  “No, no!” Giuliana jumped up to protect him. “Let him go. He did not hurt me.”

  “He’s hurting himself, miss,” one of the nurses answered.

  “What’s going on here?” A confident voice rose over the commotion. Dr. Sharpe crossed the men’s ward toward them. The sleeves of her blouse were wrinkled, as if she had pushed them up her forearms.

  “I believe Mr. Russo has taken a turn for the worse,” one of the nurses answered.

  Dr. Sharpe bent over him, felt his pulse, and listened to his chest again. “If you’d rather wait outside, Miss Russo…,” she said over her shoulder.

  Giuliana planted her feet and stayed next to the doctor at Turi’s side. “No,” she said firmly. She wasn’t the sort of woman who was prone to fainting spells either. “I stay.”

  The doctor glanced up and gave her a short nod before bending over Turi again. She peeled back the blanket and unbuttoned his shirt all the way down.

  Despite his fever, Turi’s skin was pale and had a grayish tint. His belly, white and streaked with fine, reddish-blue veins, looked like marble.

  A moan came from Turi, but he didn’t wake as the doctor felt his arms and legs and then covered him up again.

  When Dr. Sharpe straightened and turned to Giuliana, her expression was grim. “That’s what I feared. The infection has spread. Now he’s suffering from sepsis, a poisoning of the blood.”

  Giuliana clutched the doctor’s sleeve. “Help him, please.”

  Dr. Sharpe’s gaze dropped to the floor. “There’s nothing I—or any other doctor—can do. All we can do is try to get him to swallow a little water or broth to keep him hydrated…and then wait to see if his body is still strong enough to battle the sickness.” She softly squeezed Giuliana’s fingers, which still had a death grip on her sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

  No, no, no, no. Giuliana didn’t want an apology. She wanted Turi to recover. Slowly, she unclamped her fingers from the doctor’s sleeve and dropped back onto the stool.

  * * *

  The first light of dawn filtered in through the hospital’s barred windows. Giuliana watched and listened as the world outside awakened. The hooves of a horse clattered over the cobblestones, and milk cans clanked against each other as a dairy wagon made its way down the street.

  Dr. Sharpe went from bed to bed in the men’s ward, checking to see how each patient had fared during the night.

  Did the woman ever sleep?

  Anxiously, Giuliana waited until the doctor reached Turi’s bed. They nodded at each other. “He did not drink the broth. But he stopped moving like a sardine on the pier. Maybe he sleeps away the sickness. That is what our papà always did when he was sick. He went to his bed with the fever, and he slept and slept, and when he got up, he was good again.” She realized she was babbling and snapped her mouth shut.

  But Dr. Sharpe wasn’t paying her any attention. She was staring at Turi. Instead of listening to his chest with her stethoscope again, she lifted his arm and moved his fingers.

  Giuliana held her breath. What was the doctor doing? It wasn’t Turi’s arm that was hurt.

  Slowly, Dr. Sharpe lowered his arm back to the bed and turned toward Giuliana with a serious expression. “I’m very sorry. He’s gone.”

  “What? No, no, no.” He couldn’t be gone. Not Turi. Giuliana gripped his hand, which lay stiffly on top of the blanket. “He only sleeps. He is not…”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Russo. He slipped away some time during the night. I’m sure he didn’t feel any pain.”

  Blood roared through her ears, and she saw the compassion on Dr. Sharpe’s face only as if from very far away. “No. It’s…not possible. This cannot happen. It cannot.” She bent her head and pressed her face against his chest. It wasn’t moving up and down in a painful struggle for breath anymore.

  The truth hit her like a hard punch to an already bruised area. Her brother was dead. Never again would she hear his triumphant laugh as he jumped onto the pier after making it back with a boat full of crabs. Never again would she watch him nearly choke on his food because he couldn’t gobble down the spaghetti she’d made fast enough. And he’d never again set foot onto their island, never see home again.

  Tears burned in her eyes, but she couldn’t cry. Too many thoughts were tumbling through her mind. What would happen now—not just to her, all alone on this side of the ocean, but also to their family back in Santa Flavia?

  As the oldest, Turi had taken their father’s place as the breadwinner of the family. He’d tried to sell enough fish to earn a living, but their region was so poor that he barely made enough to keep their younger siblings from starving. Finally, he’d come up with a daring idea. Like other young men from their village, he wanted to go to Merica, the land where everything was possible, and work there for a year or two.

  Their mother reluctantly let him go—under the condition that Giuliana would accompany him. That way, he wouldn’t be all alone in this strange land and would have someone to cook for him and tend to his home.

  Now Turi would be buried here, in this strange land, as their mother had called it, and Giuliana was left behind on her own.

  When she finally lifted her head off Turi’s chest, she realized that Dr. Sharpe hadn’t left. She was standing next to the bed without saying anything, just keeping her company. “If you need any help making arrangements…”

  Giuliana squared her shoulders. There was no time to grieve now. She had to take charge and do what was right. “I want to take him home.”

  “Home? But…”

  “It is tradition where I come from,” Giuliana said. Turi had forever teased her about her becoming too American; he would have wanted her to observe the old traditions.

  The doctor nodded. “All right. I’ll get someone to help you.”

  * * *

  “Good thing Nonnu can’t see this,” Giuliana muttered in Sicilian and pointed at the simple pine casket in which Turi now lay. Their grandfather had been a master carpenter in his day.

  Nedda Galati, whose family owned the crab stand next to Giuliana’
s, patted her shoulder. “You did the best you could,” she said, using their native language too.

  Giuliana didn’t answer. She moved around in their small room in the boardinghouse South of Market, trying to stay busy and avoid thinking too much. Every time she glanced at Turi’s face, tears blurred her vision.

  Nedda and her husband helped her lift Turi’s head so she could sprinkle salt beneath it. They placed his favorite possessions—his good pipe, his razor, and a photograph of their parents—in the casket with him, as her grandmother had done when their grandfather had died. She didn’t want Turi’s soul to come back looking for the things he had loved most.

  Nedda’s husband, Francesco, opened the door and the room’s single window so Turi’s soul wouldn’t remain trapped in this world. The aroma of boiled cabbage and sausage drifted in, probably from one of the rooming house’s Polish tenants.

  Giuliana’s stomach growled.

  “You should eat something.” Nedda slid the arancini—fried rice balls—and the caponata she had brought closer to Giuliana.

  “I’m not hungry,” Giuliana said, even though she hadn’t eaten all day.

  Nedda and Francesco traded gazes. They kept her company as she sat next to the casket, trying to say good-bye to her dead brother, but not knowing how.

  She stared down at Turi’s now-calm face. How could this have happened? Just a few days ago, she had stared at him in this very room because his snoring had kept her awake. And now…Now he was gone. She still couldn’t believe it.

  Francesco cleared his throat. “What are you going to do?” he asked in Sicilian. “Go back home, I suppose?”

  Giuliana looked at Turi as if he’d provide her with the answer.

  Five years ago, she wouldn’t have hesitated. She’d have grabbed the chance to return home with both hands, no matter what. Her first year in San Francisco, she’d ached for Mamma’s food, for the familiar sight of old men playing bocce ball in the village square, and for the way her younger siblings’ small bodies draped over hers at night. But with every year that had gone by, that ache had faded a little more, until she was no longer sure where her place in the world was. Would she still fit in at home with her American ways, as Turi had called it?

  “I’m not sure.” She looked at the photograph of her parents in the casket. “What would happen to my family if I go back?” They would be just as bad off as they had been five years ago, before she and Turi had set off for Merica—or actually even worse, without Turi. As a woman, Giuliana couldn’t provide for her mother and her siblings back home. In Sicily, there was no work for women, no way to make a living for her family.

  “So you want to stay? All alone in Merica?” Nedda asked, her eyes wide.

  Giuliana’s chest tightened until she could barely breathe. “I think I have to. At least for a while, until my siblings are older.”

  “But how will you earn enough money to feed them all?”

  Giuliana dug her teeth into her bottom lip. “I don’t know. Maybe…” She gave Francesco a hopeful look. “Maybe I could help you sell your fish. People tell me I speak English very well. I realized that Ida, Tommaso’s American wife, always sold more fish and got better prices from the restaurant owners, so I asked her to teach me her language. You know people cheat you and pay less for crabs if they think you’re an uneducated fool.”

  Francesco sighed. “Giuliana, I… It’s not that I don’t want to help you, but I barely make enough to provide for my own family.”

  “Of course.” Giuliana tried to keep her head up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  He squeezed her hand for a moment. His fingers, callused and strong, felt so much like Turi’s that tears burned in her eyes. “It’s all right. There’s one thing I can do. I could buy the boat from you. That would give you enough money to last for a while…or to pay for the journey back to Sicilia.”

  Sell the boat…Turi’s boat… At the thought, a hand seemed to squeeze Giuliana’s heart. No, she couldn’t do it, no matter how reasonable Francesco’s suggestion was. “I can’t. Not yet.”

  “I understand.” Francesco got up, followed by his wife. They pressed kisses to her cheeks and told her when to expect them and the other piscaturi for the procession to the graveyard.

  Then Giuliana was alone with Turi and her despair. For the first time in her life, she was on her own, with no one to rely on for help. The other Sicilian families in the city wouldn’t be able to help either; they just didn’t have the money to spare. What was she to do?

  She bent over the casket and kissed Turi’s cold forehead one final time. “I’ll stay,” she whispered to him in Sicilian. “I’ll find work in a factory or in a private home.”

  But that was easier said than done. Like most women in her village, Giuliana had never learned how to read or write, so how was she supposed to read the newspaper advertisements?

  CHAPTER 2

  Winthrop Residence

  Nob Hill

  San Francisco, California

  March 21, 1906

  Today was the day. Nervous energy prickled down Kate’s spine as she headed for the morning room. She hoped she would be able to sit still during breakfast. Her mother hated it when she fidgeted. She took her place at the mahogany table, pulled her linen napkin from its silver ring, and spread it across her lap. “Good morning, Mother. Morning, Father.”

  “Good morning,” her father said, glancing up from his newspaper.

  With any luck, she would soon provide the photographs for this very newspaper. The thought made her giddy.

  Her mother returned the greeting but kept looking at her plate with a frown. “The bacon is cold—again.” She stabbed at it with her fork. “With a name like Obedience, you’d think our maid would manage to get the food onto the table while it’s still warm. I’ve told her a hundred times. If it weren’t nearly impossible to get good servants, I’d put her out on the street.”

  “Obedience can’t manage all the work on her own,” Kate said.

  “Well, it’s not as if we didn’t try to hire another maid, but you know how hard it is to find a reliable girl nowadays—or any girl, for that matter.” Her mother tsked with disapproval. “Many young women are seeking employment in the factories South of Market.”

  “Then why don’t we hire a Chinese houseboy?” Kate reached for the pitcher of cream and poured a little over her bowl of oatmeal. “The Harringtons have one, and they seem very satisfied with him.”

  Her mother’s frown deepened. “You know I don’t like Chinese people. They are just not trustworthy.”

  Kate sprinkled sugar over her oatmeal. “How do you know, if you’ve never employed one?”

  “It is common knowledge,” her mother answered. “Right, Cornelius?”

  Not looking up from his newspaper, her father gave a noncommittal nod. “It shouldn’t be a problem for much longer. They’re running our ad again today, and they added the bit about ‘good wages,’ just the way I suggested. See?” He turned the newspaper around to show them the help wanted section.

  Her mother pushed the plate with the cold bacon away. “I hope a competent girl will turn up this time.”

  The grandfather clock in the vestibule struck nine.

  By the time it struck ten, she would either be the San Francisco Call’s newest staff member or be on her way home, dejected.

  Her father folded the newspaper and emptied his cup of coffee. “I have to head to the office now. The Millicent sets off for Shanghai tomorrow, and I want to make sure all the cargo is accounted for.”

  The mention of the ship named after her softened her mother’s expression.

  Kate hastily swallowed another spoonful of oatmeal and then jumped up. “I’ll go with you. I have some things to attend to on Market Street.”

  Her mother’s delicate china cup rattled on its saucer. “But I need you to be here when the applicants for the maid position arrive. What could you possibly have to do on Market Street that is more important
than that?”

  “I’m sure you’ll manage to pick the best one,” Kate responded without answering her mother’s question. Her mother wouldn’t approve if she knew Kate was heading to the Call building to ask for a job as a staff photographer. While her mother at first hadn’t objected to Kate taking up photography as a hobby, she now thought it was an unnatural obsession for a young lady of Kate’s standing. She wanted her daughter to spend her time in the drawing room, drinking tea, crocheting for one of her charities, and receiving dapper young gentlemen from wealthy families.

  Kate found that kind of existence mind-numbingly boring. She preferred the darkroom to the drawing room. There had to be more to life than just marrying well. In fact, she didn’t want to marry at all, but it was better not to come right out and tell her mother that.

  “But how will you get back home?” her mother asked.

  “I’ll take the cable car. It stops right in front of the Fairmont Hotel, so I won’t have to walk far,” Kate said, knowing her mother didn’t like her walking along the street like a commoner, especially not while she was unchaperoned.

  Kate sighed. Sometimes she wondered if her family’s money afforded her any more freedom than their servants or the other working-class women had.

  “Kate,” her father called from the entryway. “Are you coming?”

  Not waiting for her mother to object again, Kate rushed out of the morning room.

  * * *

  Kate had her father stop the automobile in front of the Emporium, between Fourth and Fifth Street. She would walk the rest of the way and let him assume she intended to shop at the department store.

  Without waiting for her father to help her, she jumped down and stepped up onto the sidewalk. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t spend too much,” he said.

  “I won’t.” Quite the opposite. If all went according to plan, she would soon have her own money to spend and wouldn’t have to rely on the spending money her father gave her anymore.