The Last Train to Key West Page 17

  “The storm changed course?” I guess.

  “The locals seem worried. The barometer’s falling. I don’t know exactly what that means,” he admits, “but Gus seems concerned the storm will hit us.”

  “Should we evacuate?”

  “I asked him, but he said there’s nowhere to go. The storm’s coming. Soon.” Anthony grimaces. “We didn’t get all of the hurricane preparations finished last night; they said the storm was going to miss us. It was so late, and everyone was tired, and I thought it was safe. I’m sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to apologize for. Storms can be unpredictable. It might still miss us, and even if it doesn’t, it might not be that bad. Often these storms are all bluster and trouble, but they peter out when they actually make landfall.” I take a deep breath. “We have enough food and supplies. I suppose the best thing for us is to ride it out and see what happens.”

  “I’m going to help with any last preparations we can make before the weather gets really bad. I let the staff leave so they could go back to their homes and families. There are a couple men finishing up boarding the windows for us. Gus is assisting them and then they’ll be on their way.”

  “Be careful.”

  Anthony leans into me, pressing his lips to mine in a movement that is already becoming familiar.

  “I will.”

  * * *

  —

  Outside the house, the weather kicks up with startling intensity. Inside, the house creaks and moans, thuds and clanks sending a shiver down my spine. In Havana, I knew the home I grew up in, was assured the strong walls would protect us. But this house is wholly unfamiliar to me, and with each moment my unease grows.

  After an hour has passed without an update from Anthony, I step out onto the front porch, surprised as the wind picks up the sand from the beach, stinging my eyes.

  The screen door slaps against the frame angrily.

  The storm isn’t even here yet, and already the wind is this strong. I—

  “Get inside,” Anthony shouts, coming around the house, gripping the railing, his knuckles white.

  My husband is by no means a small man, but at this moment, the wind blowing his body, it seems his grip on the railing is the only thing giving him the necessary purchase to keep from floating away.

  He climbs the stairs up to the front porch quickly despite the wind pushing against him, panic in his eyes, his body tense like a bow.

  I start to step back, but I can’t make myself fully retreat inside the house until he’s at the front door, his chest heaving from the effort. Behind him, something that appears to be a piece of a roof flies by.

  The trees sway in the wind, bending as though they would snap and cleave into two at any moment.

  Anthony hooks an arm around my waist, tugging me inside before releasing me and throwing his body against the front door to push it shut, turning the locks with force.

  He pivots to face me. “It’s going to hit us.”

  There’s a vulnerability etched across Anthony’s face I haven’t seen in our short time married.

  His gaze runs over my face, and he frowns. “You’re bleeding.”

  “The sand,” I reply after a beat, staring down at my hands, surprised to see he’s right.

  Angry drops of red cover my skin.

  “You shouldn’t have gone outside.”

  “I was worried about you.”

  “We were only able to board up a couple more windows. The wind is blowing so strong, it made it pretty much impossible. It’s not safe to be outside anymore. People are blown around like they weigh nothing at all.”

  Not only people. I watch through the window, horrified, as the roof of one of the outbuildings peels up like paper, before waving in the wind and flapping back down again.

  This storm isn’t going to miss us, and it’s going to be bad.

  We walk into the kitchen, and Anthony cleans my wounds with soap and water, my raw skin stinging. He has a few cuts on his face and arms as well, and I locate a makeshift first aid kit in the kitchen and use some iodine to clean his injuries while the storm outside grows stronger, the unmistakable sound of debris flying around becoming louder and louder.

  “How long will the storm last?” he asks me.

  “I don’t know. Sometimes they move quickly; other times they’re slower. It seems like this one has to be close since it’s so powerful.”

  “What do we do now?”

  In this moment, for the first time in our relationship, I am the experienced one, the one being looked to for guidance.

  “Now we wait.”

  Eighteen

  Elizabeth

  In a matter of hours, we have gone from ominous weather to a dangerous hurricane. We are surrounded by a cacophony of sounds—creaks and moans, groans and screeches, the heaving and sighing of metal and wood. It’s as though the inn is saying, “Enough,” the force of the storm coming on like a freight train, the strength of it simply too much for these old walls to bear.

  The guests downstairs—an older married couple and a family of four—are arguing with Matthew, the man who works the reception desk, over whether we should stay here or evacuate.

  Sam leaves me and joins the fray, his calm voice a balm compared to their panicked ones. The children cry, their parents valiantly trying to comfort them. The noise and fear grow to a crescendo, and I retreat to the small sitting room off the main reception area, desperate for a moment of quiet. There’s an octave people reach in their most dire moments, the pitch of a wail that fills your ears, a resonance to terror that’s unmistakable, and with which I am all too familiar.

  Where is my brother? Is he sitting in one of those makeshift tents or canvas roof–covered shacks riding out the storm? Or is he somewhere else entirely, safe from all of this? I’ve already lost most of my family. I can’t bear the thought of losing him, too.

  I was never one for church save for Christmas and Easter, the times my mother insisted I go so we could be seen in the pews, but I revert to prayers I’d long since considered forgotten, the words sticking in my throat amid all the fear there.

  Sam enters the room, his footsteps hard against the wood, causing the floor to shudder.

  And then I realize that, of course, it isn’t Sam at all. Something else entirely is making the house move.

  The ground quivers beneath us.

  “What’s that?”

  “The wind and the water,” Sam replies, his voice grim. “The ocean is threatening the house. We need to get out of here. They’re sending a rescue train to the station in Islamorada to get the veterans out. We need to get on it.”

  If my brother is indeed at one of the camps, at least he will be ferried to safety. And if he’s going to be at the station in Islamorada, maybe I’ll see him there.

  “Evacuation might be our only prayer,” Sam adds.

  “How far is it to the station?”

  “Not far. It’s our best chance.”

  “Is that what everyone has decided?”

  “No. No one else wants to leave. They’re worried it’s too dangerous out there, that we won’t be able to make it to the station.”

  “And you want to go out in that? Maybe they’re right to stay put.”

  “We don’t have another option,” Sam protests. “The inn isn’t strong enough to withstand this kind of weather, and I don’t think the worst of the storm is even here yet. There’s not enough elevation between the ground and the sea—there is no higher place we can go to. The train is it. We have to try to outrun the storm. The water is already spilling out onto the road.”

  It was difficult enough driving back from the camps yesterday in a heavy rain. This is something else entirely. And at the same time, I’ve never been one for sitting around letting calamities befall me. If there’s a chance of us surviving this, I’m going to take i
t.

  “I’m with you. Let’s catch the train.”

  “Good. I’m going to go back and see if I can convince anyone else to come with us. Why don’t you throw some clothes in a suitcase in case we’re gone for a few days?”

  Sam leaves me, and I nearly run up the stairs, more debris hitting the house in loud thuds. I quicken my pace, making my way to my room first, wrenching open the armoire in the corner and throwing a few clothes and underclothes into my little satchel, adding a few toiletries. I take the old photo of my brother, the letter he wrote me postmarked from Key West, and add them to the bag.

  A clap of thunder makes me jump.

  The voices arguing downstairs mix with the roar of the storm as I walk next door to Sam’s room.

  Unlike me, Sam never bothered to fully unpack, some of his clothes still shoved in his black suitcase, others hanging haphazardly in the armoire that is nearly a twin to mine. It’s strangely personal to go through his stuff in such a manner, but I pull out some of his shirts, pants, my cheeks burning as I add his underclothes and set them on the bed, making room in his bag for the essentials.

  Papers fall from Sam’s suitcase in my haste. I scoop them up quickly, my heart pounding, the storm breathing down my neck. I shove them back into the case.

  “Are you ready?” Sam yells up to me from the stairs.

  “Almost,” I shout back.

  I bend down and pick up the last piece of paper.

  The image is familiar enough—my face, smiling, the night of my official presentation to society. A copy of it sat framed on my parents’ mantel in our old apartment overlooking Central Park.

  How did Sam end up with it?

  I set down the picture on the stack of papers I disturbed earlier, lifting another one, heat rising as I scan the words written there.

  “Elizabeth.”

  I whirl at the sound of Sam’s voice.

  He stands in the entryway of his room, his gaze on the papers in my hand. “I can explain—”

  “Who are you, and why are you following me?”

  Nineteen

  Helen

  I sleep restlessly, my dreams more of the same strange flashes and images that have accompanied me for most of my pregnancy; this time there is one important variation—I am the one on the boat, the seas swelling around me, water pouring over me in an image that is so realistic, I swear I can feel the ocean spray against my legs, my body rocking and swaying as it did on the ferry the day before.

  When I wake, I am disoriented, a banging sound off in the distance. I roll onto my side to the area where Tom would normally lie, expecting to see his body beside me. Instead, there is merely empty space, and at once, I realize I am in Islamorada, at the cottage my aunt Alice found for me, Tom hopefully far away from here.

  I rise from the bed, surprised my nightgown is damp, an ache in my back and belly, my body covered in a thin sheen of sweat. My muscles are sore, tension filling my limbs, and I grip the mattress for support as I attempt to get my bearings.

  There’s a damp spot on the mattress where I lay, and for a moment, my heart stops when I glance at it, expecting to see blood once more. So many of my earlier pregnancies ended like that—a spot of blood in the morning on the sheets when I woke that signaled another baby was not meant to be.

  But this time, there’s no blood, only clear liquid.

  It seems like—

  It seems like my water has broken.

  It’s too early. I’m not prepared, I—

  The pain hits me, the dull ache that has plagued me for days sharpening to something far less bearable. I wince, gripping the mattress with one hand, the other wrapped around my stomach as my body bows forward to lessen the pain.

  I ride the wave of the contraction, my legs sagging beneath me as I fall to the floor. The pain seems unending, but eventually it disappears, the sensation lessening until it subsides to the constant sense of discomfort I’ve felt for the last few days.

  How much longer until Alice arrives?

  The banging sound returns, louder than it was a moment ago, and I stumble over to the cottage’s shutters, staring out to see what’s making that noise. A wooden plank whizzes past me.

  I slam the shutter closed.

  Another contraction begins.

  I clench my teeth through the pain, wishing I had something to bite down on, wishing—

  I scream.

  The baby is coming—quickly, if I had to guess.

  Another contraction.

  Another scream.

  There’s a pounding sound from the front of the cabin now, and the door flies open.

  A man bursts into the room.

  I almost think I’m hallucinating him from my position on the floor.

  “I heard screaming,” John says, rushing over to me. “Did you fall?”

  Did I hit my head? I blink, but he’s still there, inches away, concern in his gaze.

  “No. I think I’m in labor.” The pain is too great for me to muster up any embarrassment. “I woke and my water had broken.” I take a deep breath, trying to steady the panic within me. “It’s too early. The baby isn’t due for a few weeks.”

  “Babies come when they’re ready, unfortunately. How close are the contractions?”

  I wince. “Close. What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

  “I went by your aunt’s inn searching for you. She asked me to check on you. She’s coming over as soon as she can. She’s making sure her guests are safe. The storm’s coming; they’re boarding up the inn.”

  The pain subsides slightly as the contraction recedes.

  “I heard noises earlier, saw some debris go by the house. Is the wind really that bad?” I ask.

  “The wind has kicked up considerably since I left the inn. Rain’s coming down harder, too. Some of the roads will be washed out soon if they haven’t been already.”

  “Everybody thought the hurricane was going to miss us.”

  “I don’t know anything about predicting hurricanes, but someone got it wrong,” he replies, his voice grim.

  I can only focus on one crisis at a time. I’ve lived through my share of storms, so at the moment giving birth is the more fearsome thing. What if there’s a complication? What if something’s wrong with the baby? There’s no doctor to call, no midwife to come to my aid, no female friends or family to have by my side. I’d always planned on having the baby at home, but I didn’t envision being in such unfamiliar surroundings, in the middle of a hurricane.

  “I told your aunt I’d take you back to the Sunrise Inn, but it’s bad out there. If the baby is this close, the last thing you want is to be stranded on the road in the hurricane. It’s best if we take shelter here until the storm passes.” John glances around the cabin. “Let me get some hot water. Some towels. I’ll clean off the sheets and we’ll get you back in bed.”

  Another contraction hits, stronger than the last, the pain carrying me away. John kneels beside me, rubbing my back, his tone soothing, his words barely audible above the white noise rushing through my ears.

  He sees me through the contraction, and the next, leaving me in the pauses between to gather supplies, to slip the soiled sheets from the bed. He moves with a surprising amount of calm, his movements quick and sure—confident, even.

  Perhaps war prepares you for all manner of things.

  In the time since John arrived, the weather has grown much worse. The shutters on the cottage are battened down, the sound of some unknown object hitting the house at random intervals.

  Each time it does, John flinches.

  “Are you all right?” I ask.

  He nods, his lips in a tight line, his face pale.

  John helps me lie back on the bed, a clean sheet he found in the cabin’s armoire beneath me.

  “Do you have much experience deliverin
g babies?” I joke during the ever-narrowing space between contractions, trying to distract him from the growing storm outside.

  “Much? No. I went to war right after I graduated medical school.”

  I blink. “You’re a doctor?”

  “I was a doctor.”

  Of all the answers I expected, that wasn’t one of them.

  “You’re surprised by that?” he asks.

  “Perhaps. Why didn’t you mention it before?”

  “Because I was a doctor. Before and during the war. I haven’t been one for a long time. When I came home from France, I tried to resume my practice, but it was too difficult. The blood, the memories. I would freeze in the operating room, my hands shook—” He swallows. “I couldn’t do it anymore.”

  “Is that why you went to the Sunrise Inn?” I ask. “Because you thought I might need help with the baby?”

  “I was worried about you. They were talking about the hurricane in the camp today. They’re going to run a special train to Islamorada to evacuate the men.”

  “You should have gone with them. Should have gotten on that train.”

  “I’m right where I’m supposed to be. How’s the pain?”

  “Not too bad,” I lie.

  “I’m here with you. I’m not going anywhere. You and the baby are going to be fine.”

  I’m too scared to voice the fears inside me. When you’ve experienced a loss, it’s impossible to forget, to wholly ignore that little voice in your head that says that it can happen again. I’m not sure I’ll relax until the baby is in my arms, and even then—

  I take John’s hand, squeezing as the next contraction hits, no longer able to talk through the pain. I am reduced to a haze around me, John beside me, holding on to me, his fingers trembling when the noises outside the cabin grow louder.

  My body is no longer my own, and any embarrassment I might have over a near stranger, a man, seeing me in such a state is obliterated.

  With each contraction, each passing moment, I change from the person I was to someone new, someone I barely recognize.