The Vines by Shelley Nolden (most motivational books .txt) 📗

Regret and doubt wouldn’t save her son. Only she could. First, reach the shore. Then worry about the rest, she scolded herself.

Gritting her teeth, she jabbed the board into the water and pulled herself toward it, again and again.

Behind her, Kristian shrieked for her.

“Almost there.” She twisted to give him a reassuring smile and yelped in surprise. He was climbing over the cartons to reach her.

“Bleib in deinem Nest!” she yelled, harsher than she’d intended, for him to stay in his nest and he shrank back into a corner.

A current whipped them away from South Brother.

She paddled urgently, but it wasn’t enough.

Soon they would be swept into the worst chop of Hell Gate. Please, God.

The raft jerked, and she bobbled and almost fell overboard. Regaining her balance, she checked on Kristian, who was hugging his knees.

Something had hit them. The heavily trafficked river was thick with flotsam; it could have been anything.

A second impact from below sent her to her knees, and the river ripped away her makeshift paddle. She grabbed Kristian’s arm and clung to one of the tethered crates.

The platform pierced a whitecap, and the horizon tipped. She held on for both of their dear lives.

Frigid spray slapped her cheeks, momentarily cooling her fever.

The raft slid into a trough and abruptly slowed.

The chop dissipated, and her sense of balance returned. They’d escaped the current that had been pulling them toward the main channel.

Cora wiped the water from her eyes, gave Kristian a reassuring kiss, and looked for South Brother in the gaining light. Whatever had struck the raft had knocked them back on course. She scanned the surface for a pylon or other large piece of debris but saw nothing.

The wet skin on the back of her neck tingled, and she studied the water again, this time looking in vain for a shark fin.

Cora returned her attention to the tiny islet. Either through the assistance of luck or another force, they’d almost reached the beach.

The waves diminished, and the raft stabilized. The pebbly bottom, sloping upward to the rocky sand, appeared below them, and she whooped with relief.

Kristian continued to whimper.

“Mama’s got you. We’re almost there.” Pushing aside the memory of children sinking around her, she exhaled to dispel the tightness in her chest. An inch at a time, she slid into the water.

She could hear their desperate shrieking all around her.

No, it’s in my head. “I can’t help you,” she declared to quiet them, and Kristian’s lips wavered, his mouth open in a soundless cry.

“It’s okay. Mama’s got you.” She waded to the side closer to him, and he leaped into her arms. She set him on the sand, and with what little remaining energy she could muster, pulled the raft ashore.

With Kristian clinging to her, she dragged the boxes and finally the platform past the rim of the forest.

Collapsing from exhaustion, she pulled Kristian into a hug. “You are my everything,” she hoarsely whispered into his ear.

Darkness closed in on her, and she resisted it just long enough to tighten the knots on the cord that connected her to her son.

Two Days After Reaching South Brother Island

ora squinted against the light. Instead of a tree canopy, ceiling tiles blocked her view of the sky. She blinked, but they didn’t go away. The still air carried a faint scent of antiseptic, and the cut of the worn cotton against her skin felt alarmingly familiar.

Propping herself up on her elbows, she rose to a seated position and met Ulrich’s eyes, their anger barely obscured by the reflection off his wartime gas mask. He was seated a few feet beyond the side of the bed, with Kristian asleep in his lap.

Only his rage kept her from reaching for her son. The aching in her engorged breasts told her they’d been apart for too long.

Neither she nor Ulrich spoke. Averting her gaze, she recognized the vast room as one of the dormitories within the tuberculosis pavilion.

Kristian squawked in his sleep and hugged his security blanket tighter. The fact that he’d been reunited with it consoled her only momentarily. Her baby once again in the hands of her tormentor . . . she had failed.

Unable to bear seeing him sleep so peacefully on Ulrich’s lap, she rolled to her side to climb out of bed and felt resistance. Amid a fresh spattering of smallpox scars, a needle extended from her right arm.

Her veins were carrying whatever toxin was dripping from that bag to every cell in her body. Once the side effects began, it would become even harder to stop him from stealing her son. She reached to yank the needle from her flesh, and Ulrich barked “Halt.”

She froze, but her mind continued to reel. The skin around the site looked freshly washed, and her hair smelled of lavender. “What are you doing to me?”

“It’s only a saline solution to treat your dehydration.”

“You expect me to believe that?” she asked, tugging at a corner of the tape.

“I’ve no reason to lie.”

Exhausted, she let her arms sink to the mattress. He’d always disclosed the rationale and risks for each of his trials, like he was providing the necessary details to obtain her permission. But in the end, her consent was always coerced. Unlike the inmates and orphan babies that had been experimented on throughout much of the twentieth century, to the outrage of a few good reporters, she had no human rights.

But Kristian did. Ulrich had filed a birth certificate with the New York City Health Department, listing Rollie and his new wife, Petra, as the parents.

“It’s a good thing I found him when I did,” he said, stroking the fine, blond curls at the nape of Kristian’s neck.

She waited for him to continue, suspecting that once he’d recounted the details, she would agree.

“He was playing in the shallows of South Brother.