The Scientist's Experiment: Chapter Thirty-Five

(FLASHBACK)
A thud sounded from upstairs. It wasn’t terribly loud, but it was enough to wake Zeke from his light slumber. He hesitantly raised his head from the surface of the desk. Blinking slowly, he tried to get his bearings. It was dark, already in the thick of the evening. He’d slept longer than he’d intended, though he hadn’t intended to sleep at all. Lighting a nearby candle, he lifted his eyes to the ceiling. He started to call out to Emily, but the name caught in his throat. She was probably asleep at this hour; he certainly wouldn’t want to wake her.
But he remembered the noise which had awoken him, and a feeling of nausea washed over him. He snatched the candle from its spot, and hurried to the staircase. His legs felt weak and airy, but they managed to get him up all nineteen steps without a stumble. He paused at the top step. His eyes traveled down the long hallway, but his body went no further.
‘I don’t want to go back there,’ he thought. His legs moved forward regardless.
As he crept down the hallway, a sense of dread crept up his spine. Nearing the end of the hall, he noticed that the nursery door was wide open, and blood drained from his face. The light of his candle cast a light glow into the darkened doorway, and washed over pale body of Emily Howell. She was splayed on the floor, brown hair fanning out towards the door, bare legs folded up under her torso, her large gown pooling around her still body. Her rose tattoo looked shriveled against her pale leg. Zeke choked on his own breath, his weakened hand almost dropping the candlestick. He collapsed to his knees, crawling to Emily’s prone form.
“God…oh God…” Zeke moaned.
His hands grappled for her wrist, holding it tightly. Amazingly, he found a pulse. It was terribly faint, but existent nonetheless. He coughed out a sob of relief, and wiped away oncoming tears. He pulled strands of hair away from her face, tucking them behind her ear. Her face was sunken and pale, and her chest rose in soft, shallow breaths. Zeke tucked one arm under her head, and the other he wrapped around her thighs. He wondered if he’d even be able to lift her. Even with how emaciated she’d become, she was still a woman of larger stature. But he could, and was able to get her back in their bed, though it wasn’t without being a very slow process.
He left Emily’s side only for a moment to get some fresh water and a cloth. Her skin was slick with sweat, and he used the damp cloth to mop her brow. He glanced around the thoroughly disheveled room. It had become a wreck. The sheets smelled sour and damp from sweat, cobwebs cropped up in the dark corners of the room, and many of the candles were practically waxen puddles. Zeke resolved immediately to clean the next day; he’d clean the whole house, no matter how long it took. He looked down at Emily again. As the rag passed over her jaw, her eyes opened in a lazy and confused manner.
“There you are…” Zeke said, forcing a cheery smile.
“…what…happened?” Her voice was quiet and breathy.
“I was hoping you could enlighten me, actually. I found you in the nursery. It seems you fainted,” he said.
“The nursery…” she said, familiarizing herself with the concept, “yes.”
She opened and closed her mouth several times, making the thick smacking sound of dehydration. Zeke pushed the bowl of water towards her, but she waved it away.
“I heard crying,” she said.
“I haven’t been-”
“Infant crying. From the nursery…but there was nothing there…then…”
She looked towards the open door. Zeke followed her gaze, but saw nothing.
“Then you fainted,” he finished.  
‘Auditory hallucinations,’ he thought, ‘Maybe visual, as well. Probably delirium. Maybe I should telegram Dr. Clive.’
But he didn’t leave the bed. A deep and powerful force rooted him there, and the thought of leaving suddenly terrified him. This sudden rush from such an instinct made his throat dry. He set the bowl of water on the side table, and gripped her frail hand.
“I fainted…” she muttered, though she were reminding herself. Her eyes focused on Zeke once more.
“Mm. I heard you from downstairs.”
He dabbed her face a little more, until she pushed him away, then he left the cloth to soak in the bowl.
“I guess we’ve both been up late, tonight,” Emily smiled a little.  
“I fell asleep at my desk. Again,” Zeke blushed, “what have you been doing?”
“Reading…as always,” she gestured limply towards the book on the table.
Though the spine was worn from use, Zeke could still read the title Frankenstein, the letters pressed deep into the leather. He smiled softly, memories of the beach and their first meeting surfacing in his mind.
“Ah…it’s a good one. We’ve revisited it many times, you and I,” he said.
“It’s my favorite, too…that’s your fault…” she smiled, her lips twitching.
“I’m not terribly sorry about that.”  
“You were right, though…always were…”
“Regarding?”
“It’s a romance novel…I hate romance novels,” she said, her voice hoarse. “…and a tragedy… I hate when novels make me cry…but I love that damned book.”
Her eyes watered. Zeke didn’t know whether it was due to the novel, or just her overall bodily exhaustion, but he wiped them away.
“Yes. It is a tragedy,” he nodded.
She petted his leg, as if to say “there, there,” as if he was the one crying. He smiled best he could, trying to show her he was alright.
“What have you been working on…down there,” she paused, then added with a sly grin, “Mister Mad Scientist?”
He gave a stunted laugh, then choked on his response. “Many things, but nothing terribly important…”
In the past few weeks, his notes had become muddled together. His ideas were sparse and strange, and while he’d once had a vague concept of how to cure Emily’s illness, it had all become garbled nonsense by now, all fueled by lack of sleep and a steadily building drinking habit. It was clear to him, only at that moment, that the research and work had never really mattered. The realization of his ignorance was a lead weight on his shoulders, slowly crushing him.
“…the will…I hope I can help,” she paused, “you can use anything you need…anything that can aide your research…”
“I know,” he nodded, but the idea of actually harvesting and using Emily’s organs felt incredibly perverse.  
“But don’t get any bright ideas…from Shelley, I mean…”
“I won’t. You have my word.” He giggled a bit, but his smile fell as he felt eerily cold simultaneously. Had he been considering it? Even subconsciously? He was worried he had.
“Don’t be afraid.”
Zeke didn’t know what she meant, but the words made him shudder. He felt the tears come, but he held them back with nothing but force of will. He stayed stone faced.
“Do you still hear the infant crying?” Zeke finally said.
The moment had the viscosity of molasses, as if every word was taking too long. Every sentence was one pregnant with hesitation. Zeke couldn’t think five minutes ahead of now; he was here, and that was all. Emily’s response followed suit with the slowness, seeming to come hours later, instead of seconds.
“No,” she said, “it’s gone, now.”
“Good,” he said.
“Zeke…” she murmured, placing a hand on his cheek, “my sweet, sweet Ezekiel…”
She’d used his pet name. A fissure formed in his emotional dam; a scant tear ran down his face. He kissed her left hand, holding it tightly.
“I’m here, I’m right here,” he breathed, his words shaking.
She nodded, and smiled.
Her fingers lightly brushed at the damp streaks on his face. He gently pulled her right hand away, and held it tightly between both palms.
“It’s warm…”
He assumed she meant his grip, but when he didn’t respond, she gestured towards the window with her unheld hand.
“Warm…fresh air…”
“Oh. Open the window?”
She nodded slowly. Feebly.
“Yes, darling. Of course.”
He bent forward and softly kissed her cracked lips, then let go of her hand. He slid from the bed, walking torpidly to the other side of the room. He drew back the thick curtains, moonlight instantly streaming in. He unlatched the window, and pushed both panes outward into the cool evening air. The dank smell of the room seemed to instantly dissipate. Zeke sighed, and turned back to face the bed. The burning lamp beside the bed cast a warm glow on his wife. She lay still against the mattress. Her eyes were closed.
Zeke inhaled deeply, and gripped the ring that hung around his neck.
“Emily?” He tried.
But he already knew. There was no response. Zeke took in another shuddering breath, released it, then took another. When he released a second time, the muscles in his body melted. He found himself on his knees. Fully numb, he then heard a loud ragged moan, only to come to and realize it was coming from his own throat. He cried aloud, harshly, without restraint. His hands were balled against his forehead and his tears came in burning, sickening waves. Minutes passed, and he began screaming fiercely and furiously to nobody at all. He bashed his fists against the floorboards, not noticing when his hands started bleeding. Zeke didn’t care who could have possibly heard. Finally, as his energy began to deplete, he was reduced to shivering sobs. He lay against the bloodied wooden boards, holding himself and curling into a wretched fetal position, crying himself sick.
(PRESENT)
A heavy thunk sounded from the lock as Zeke carefully turned the key. He could feel a lump forming in his throat as his other hand wrapped around the doorknob. He exhaled, his muscles tense, as he slowly pushed the nursery door open. Frieda and Zeke peered into the dimly lit room. Faint sunlight came through thin curtains. A protective white sheet covered every furniture item, but just based on their shapes, Frieda could make out a cradle, a bureau, a rocking chair, what she assumed was a toy chest, and some shelving. Despite the pervading musty smell, and the fact that the wallpaper had faded a bit, the room was otherwise well preserved.
“Hmm,” Frieda said.
“What?” Zeke asked softly.
“Well, I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but it’s actually lovely.”
“It is…” he muttered.
Even so, Zeke could feel the emotions rising in his tight throat, as the memories, few but painful, were coming to mind. He took a shuddering breath. He set a hand on the sheet that covered the crib, feeling the dust which had settled there, then slowly pulling it off. The crib stood about to Zeke’s chest, and was made of dark mahogany wood. In addition to the already present rocking chair, the cradle was mounted on two pieces of curved wood, so that it too could make a pleasant rocking motion. Slightly taller than the small mattress was a series of wooden bars, so that the infant would not be completely closed off from the room. Despite the emotional stress he felt, his heart still fluttered with happiness at seeing the crib again for the first time in years.
Wordlessly, Frieda handed him the lavender blanket, and he tucked it into the mattress so that it was now nicely covered.
“It fits. And it looks pretty nice. Is all the furniture this kind of wood?”
“The rocking chair isn’t, but it’s also from an older set. Everything else matches,” he said.
He pressed his hand over the blanket, smoothing out the creases. Frieda walked to the chair and removed its protective sheet. Zeke felt his throat tighten as he looked at the chair’s velvet cushions. Images of Emily, sick with grief over their son and spending endless hours in the rocking chair, flashed in his mind. Zeke clasped his hand over his mouth before he could say anything. Or even cry out.
“Are you alright? Are you coping?” Frieda asked.
“Mm…” Zeke nodded stiffly.
Frieda took both sheets and folded them into a neat little stack, dropping them in the hallway.
“We’ll hang them outside, let them get some air,” she said.
“I’ll do it after I’ve done the testing today. While you’re still waiting for the cocaine to take effect, I’ll do a bit of laundry.”
Zeke breathed, pulling away another sheet, this one from the bureau. A few scant objects rested on the top of the set, little toys, a mobile, and a picture frame that Zeke was trying to look away from.
“I forgot that was in here,” he said.
Frieda picked up the frame and examined the photo. The daguerreotype was a picture of Emily, though Frieda almost couldn’t tell it was her. She wore a lovely dress of what Frieda assumed was velvet, but it hung strangely on her body, as she was abnormally thin for the dress’ large size. Emily sat on the chaise lounge in the library, and her hands were folded over a small book, though Frieda couldn’t tell what book it was. There was something about her staring eyes that were very cold and unnerving, and it immediately dawned on Frieda that the subject of the photo was deceased. She shuddered unintentionally, and put the frame back on the bureau.
“The photo wasn’t something I wished to do, but she explicitly requested it be done,” Zeke said.
“Why did she want it so badly?”
“A memento for me? A gift? I’m still unsure, but regardless of what it’s meant to be, I don’t like it.”
Zeke walked over to the dresser, picked up the frame, and gave it a long stare. He finally folded it closed, and placed it in one of the several drawers.
“Don’t you think it’s important for the child to know about it’s mother?” Frieda asked.
“It goes without question, but I have nicer photos than that,” he said.
Zeke took the sheet from his assistant and began folding it like the others. Frieda went to the window and unlatched it, opening it and allowing the fresh winter air in and the mustiness out. She wiped her hand across the windowsill, clearing it of some of the dust.
“Oh! That was a strong one…” Zeke chuckled.
“Strong what?” Frieda turned.
“A kick. She favors the ribs, lately.” He pressed his hand below his chest, where the quickening had occurred.
“That can’t be comfortable.”
“Especially in the wee hours of the morning, when her father is trying to sleep,” he sighed.
She gave him a sympathetic grin, but it quickly faded as something grim and unexpected dawned on her. It was so completely unnerving, Frieda almost swore she’d had some kind of premonition.
“What’s wrong?” Zeke asked concernedly.
“Emily…she died in here, didn’t she? That’s why this room makes you sick.”
Zeke’s eyes widened, astounded and perplexed. “Well I haven’t the foggiest idea how you knew that, but you’re half right. This is where I found her when she was close to passing. She actually died a little while later, in our bed.”
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”
“Yes, well…you already know all about that,” he mumbled, clearing his throat, then outright coughing.
“There’s quite a bit of dust,” Frieda said, “I hope opening the window will help.”
She took her appointed cloth, and began dusting the window’s ledge. Frieda almost had to scrub, it was caked on so hard. Leaning over the sill, she peered down at Zeke’s front lawn, where piles of snow were melting only slightly, and would be covered in new snow in the coming weeks. The start of February was inching closer and closer. She smiled, noticing her footprints from where she had been walking minutes ago. After she’d dusted the window panes as well, Frieda turned back to Zeke, who was now taking a dust rag to the armrests of the rocking chair.  
“Carla was sorry she couldn’t make it, but you know how busy she is,” she said, turning to the musty bureau.
“Oh?”
“She really wanted to see the nursery,” Frieda added.
“I’ll give her a tour during her next visit. She’ll be able to see it when it’s clean.”
“About that…” Frieda paused.
Zeke looked at her. “What?”
“Carla wants to start seeing you on a weekly basis up until the delivery.”
Zeke stopped dusting. “Yes, she mentioned that. Does she think there’s something to be concerned about?”
“Nothing like that. She just wants to make sure everything goes smoothly with the rest of the gestation, and thought it’d be best to see you on a regular schedule.”
“I am still quite capable of monitoring myself, thank you.” His eyes narrowed.
“She knows, trust me. I think she’s just been a little worried about you ever since…”
“Since Montgomery tried to kill me?”
“That was rather blunt.”
“Well, it is what it is,” he snapped.
He resumed dusting the chair, rather roughly now. Frieda sighed, and turned back to the bureau. It was clear the assault was something that still bothered him, as reluctant as he was to admit it. Frieda wasn’t positive whether any of his agitation had to do with his mood swings, or whether it was a general lingering anxiety. Stress definitely wasn’t good for him, but Frieda didn’t dare tell him this when he was already irritated.
Frieda had removed most of the lingering dust from the surface of the bureau, and asked Zeke if he wished to polish any of the furniture while they were cleaning. He shook his head “no,” but said nothing.
“Do you want to move the baby clothes from the guest room?” She asked.
“I suppose now is an appropriate time as any,” he said, shrugging.
“I’ll collect it. Why don’t you sit for a moment?” Frieda said, and left the room.
Feeling a little guilty about fussing, Zeke resolved to apologize when Frieda returned. He eased himself into the rocking chair, the cushions easing the persistent pain in his lower back. He knew the comfort wouldn’t last, and he’d have to return to his feet sooner of later, most likely to revisit the lavatory.
Zeke observed how shallow his breathing was, the fetus’ position continuing to put pressure on his lungs. He wished the baby might shift into a different position, but he also doubted any different angle wouldn’t tax his body in some form or fashion. Zeke tried gently pressing under his ribs, trying to provoke movement, but he only received a harsh kick to the diaphragm.  
“Well, you’re stubborn…” He choked.
“Me?” Frieda asked, walking back in the room.
“No, no…I actually meant…” His voice drifted off.
“Mm. Which drawers do you prefer?” She asked, setting the pile of clothes on the dresser.
“Oh, I really don’t care what goes where,” he said, then added, “I’m sorry if I was a bit agitated a moment ago. I didn’t mean to snap. Really.”
“No matter. It happens,” Frieda shrugged.
“I haven’t been sleeping well, and I…I may just be having a lot of different emotions, lately…”
Before Zeke knew what was happening, he’d started crying. He furiously wiped at his face, dreadfully embarrassed.  
“Oh my…er, there there?” Frieda lightly patted his shoulder.
“Damn it all! I’m terribly sorry about this…” Zeke said.
“If the room is too upsetting, we can move the furniture to the other room. Swap it out. There’s still plenty of time, and Carla can help.”
“No, no, no. I wouldn’t dream of it,” he sighed, “I can’t avoid this room forever. It’s just a room, but I wish it didn’t affect me so.”
“The more time you spend in here, the more you’ll adjust. Besides, your emotions are probably an effect of the pregnancy. It’s a little mood swing. Perfectly normal,” she assured him.
“Even so, I’m still trying to be professional around you, even if that opportunity is too far gone.”
“The professionalism may have been thrown out the window when we had to sleep in the same bed in Geneva,” Frieda sighed.
Zeke chuckled, wiping away the few remaining tears. “Well, at the very least, I do appreciate all you’ve done to help me, lately. The little errands, and such. I realize most of the tasks are definitely outside of your job description, but I hope it hasn’t been too awful.”
“I’ll manage along somehow,” she smirked.
“Oh, I forgot to ask. Your headache?”
“Better. Definitely better. It cleared up sometime last night.”
“I’m sorry you vomited, though. Are you sure you wish to continue the trials?”
“Absolutely. It was a headache. I’m still alive,” she smiled.
“But no further issues? Fevers? Chills? Disorientation?”
“No, just the headache. I’m not worried. It was a side effect listed in the original trial reported in the medical journal.”
Zeke “hmmed,” and leaned back in the chair, hands on his stomach.
“Come on. Help me put this stuff away, then we can hang the laundry,” Frieda said.
Zeke awkwardly slid out of the rocking chair, and aided Frieda in stuffing the tiny clothes and cloth diapers into each of the many drawers. His heart swelled as he held each little article of clothing, knowing the infant’s arrival would come in the blink of an eye. The feeling that surged through him was a delicate balance of glee and sickening anxiety.
“There we are,” Frieda said, all clothes packed away, “that wasn’t too difficult.”
“Not at all. Come, let’s hang the sheets outside. It may snow before too long, and I don’t want these to get wet and freeze,” he said, closing and locking the window.  
Before Zeke had even asked, Frieda hefted the basket of linens into her arms.
“Thank you,” Zeke blushed, “Frieda, are you sure you still want to do the cocanization today?”
“Yes, and that’s the end of it!”
“You are stubborn, and I mean you this time!”
Frieda grinned. “Can I make one request?”
“Of course.”
“May we do the test on your sofa? That table of yours is not comfortable.”
“I’ll do you one better. I’ll throw in a free lunch.”