Page 48 of Across Eternity

I leave Marie and run into the field, where Henri is cutting back vines. He takes one look at my face and then stands straight, bracing himself. “What is it?”

“We need to take Cecelia to a hospital,” I tell him. “I think she’s struggling.”

His mouth opens. “Doctor Nadeau…”

“Acted ambivalent as hell about whether or not she survives, and probably should have known this was a possibility. And he’s the same man who lied to us about penicillin for you. Is that really who you want to trust with your daughter’s life?”

He looks lost for a moment, then gives me a small nod. “Get the baby. I’ll start the car.”

Five minutes later I sit in the back seat holding Cece in my arms, using the useless little pump to no avail.

His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “How is she?” he asks.

My stomach tightens. “Alive. But pale. Drive faster.”

He flinches. “I’m already driving as fast as the car will go.”

Her eyelids have a bluish cast now, reminding me of Kit, when they pulled her from the lake. “You’re going to be okay,” I whisper, my pinky sliding into her tiny, clenched fist. It sounds more like a plea than a promise.

I don’t know if I’ve done enough. Yes, Cecelia was alive in 1989 just a short time ago. But that doesn’t mean I’ve done everything I was supposed to do. Perhaps I should have been more adamant. Perhaps I should have jumped back to earlier in the morning or even the day before to warn them.

And now it’s too late. If I time travel from this car, I won’t land back at the farm. I’ll land naked and alone on the side of the road.

The fact that Cecelia was alive the last time I saw her as an adult doesn’t reassure me at all. It just means that if she isn’t alive the next time I go, the fault for that will rest on my shoulders alone.

* * *

Cecelia is taken from us at the hospital, and Henri and I stand there in the hallway, shell-shocked, watching her go.

It feels wrong, handing her off to a complete stranger. Henri’s hand slides through mine and I don’t pull away. I need the grip of his fingers every bit as much as he needs mine.

We wait, sitting side by side, for hours. It’s a chaotic place, a mixture of mothers scolding children over something minor, and mothers weeping as if they’ll never recover.

Every time a nurse enters the waiting room, we both hold ourselves still, bracing for bad news. After what feels like a very long time, a doctor walks out and asks us to come with him.

Henri’s hand is so tight in mine that it hurts.

We are led to his office and take seats across from him.

“You must be very worried, Madame Durand,” he begins.

“I’m not Cecelia’s mother—she’s still too ill from the birth to travel.”

His eyes flicker to our hands again. Despite that, Henri’s grip does not loosen.

“She is very ill,” he says. “Her lungs aren’t fully developed yet and she’s caught a virus of some kind.”

I flinch. I could have brought her in sooner and maybe I still should. We could call Marie and tell her to jump back a few days to warn us all. Except that might be the wrong decision as well.

“I imagine her country doctor didn’t know any better,” he continues, “but a child of her gestation…has little chance of survival under the circumstances, without assistance.”

“Is she going to be okay?” Henri asks.

The doctor leans forward. “The next twenty-four hours will tell us much. If we can keep her alive for the next week then she is likely to survive.”

“What do we do now?” Henri asks.

“Go home to your wife,” he says, a gentle admonishment. “I’ll call you if anything changes.”