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Textbook Ebook The Second Mother Jenny Milchman 3 All Chapter PDF
Textbook Ebook The Second Mother Jenny Milchman 3 All Chapter PDF
Happy reading!
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Part I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Part II
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Part III
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Part IV
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Part V
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Acknowledgments
Back Cover
This one is for my brother and sister, Ezra and Kari, and for our parents,
Alan and Madelyn, who made sure all our summers in Maine were times of
beauty, peace, and togetherness.
Part I
Finding Mercy
Chapter One
Julie Mason found the ad on Opportunity.com, the site she frequented the
most, in part because of its optimistic name. It seemed the essence of
simplicity: clear and unambiguous in meaning. May as well have been
called NewLife.com, although that might’ve sounded a little religious.
Looking to start all over again? the site’s marketing message beckoned.
We can help. Julie just lurked, had never taken an actual step forward with
any of the opportunities that were posted. So far it was enough to read the
listings, imagine other lives.
This latest post fit her qualifications, though, and its old-fashioned
wording drew her eye. Like a classified ad from days of old, all those small,
perfect squares lined up in columns above and below a newspaper fold. So
many people searching for a second chance, and so many chances on offer.
Julie wasn’t the only one with something to leave behind.
This particular opportunity seemed to come from a world that time forgot,
one that had vanished in the crush of modern-day life, which had also
crushed Julie.
Opportunity: Teacher needed for one-room schoolhouse on remote island in Maine.
Certification in grades K–8 a must.
Julie read the post a second time, then a third, before glancing down at the
clock in the corner of the screen. Nearly noon. Four whole hours gone since
she’d sat down at the computer. This was how time passed for her these
days, not in a fluid, comprehensible stream, or even streaking by, falling-
star fast. Instead, it was as if time had a beast lapping at its heels, taking
great, gobbling bites.
David wouldn’t be home for hours still. And if she was going to give
some thought to a real, actual opportunity, then she should eat lunch. That
was what normal people who inhabited normal lives—lives where things
moved, and changed, and were accomplished—did around noon.
The only problem was that she wasn’t hungry, and she didn’t think there
was likely to be much food in the house anyway. Over the past year, they’d
been subsisting on supermarket salads and sandwiches, pizza for a
diversion. David had never really gotten the hang of grocery shopping. That
had always been Julie’s task, along with housecleaning, which explained
why the floors were gritty underfoot, and the furniture languished beneath
an opaque veil of dust like discards from Miss Havisham’s attic.
Their finances were probably in tip-top order, however. And the yard
looked shipshape, green and blooming at this height of summer, while
never overgrown. Ole didn’t-miss-a-step David saw to that.
Julie pushed the chair back from the desk she and her husband shared, its
wheels grinding bits of dirt into the floorboards. David did the
aforementioned finances here, and once, a long, long time ago, eons to her
mind, Julie had used the laptop to communicate with the parents of her
fifth-grade students and keep up with work on the school portal.
One year.
As of five days ago, it had been exactly a year, which meant that Julie had
already lived this date, another July 28, without Hedley. Each day in which
her daughter didn’t take part was a new ordeal to be gotten through, a fresh
cut in Julie’s skin.
She stood up, legs wobbly from inactivity, or perhaps from the prospect of
leaving the house. But maybe if she went out to a place where she could see
and smell food, it would trigger her appetite. Her shorts slid downward
alarmingly on her hips; Julie couldn’t recall the last full meal she’d eaten.
Nowadays she nibbled. Bites here and there. Partial plates.
She patted her empty pockets. Cash and keys. That was the first step.
***
In Wedeskyull, New York, a town almost as remote as the island Julie had
just read about, you didn’t have to worry about locking doors. Julie skipped
the step of locating her purse; how would she possibly find it in the
unkempt clutter of the house? A quick peek in her closet, where her bag
usually hung, revealed a tangle of clothes and the teetering stack of her old
CD and DVD collection—soundtracks, shows, and musicals sequestered
away now that she no longer played them for Hedley.
Julie settled for taking the Ford’s extra keyless remote along with money
from David’s neat stack of emergency bills.
Her husband’s punctilious ways kept their lives in order, and had probably
enabled them to survive this past year. Without heat, you could die during
an Adirondack winter. Every log in David’s woodshed lay like a soldier in a
bunk, and his barn looked like a Home Depot ad: carefully maintained
equipment and tools, each stray screw and nail stored in a tiny box or tray.
David also kept an online calendar, color coded for both him and Julie.
Only lately had his methods started to register on her as smart and
utilitarian, but also hollow, devoid of the emotion she craved. The life.
NewLife.com
Julie gave a hard shake of her head. That wasn’t right. She’d go online
again as soon as she got back, open the bookmarked tab for
Opportunity.com—that was its name—then reread the post about the one-
room schoolhouse. Both activities might take up enough of the day that
sleep could be a reasonable next step, aided by some liquid assistance
combined with half of one of the pills Dr. Trask had prescribed. Julie was
down to three-quarters of a bottle from her last refill, and carefully
conserving. In Wedeskyull and the surrounding towns, meds were no longer
dispensed with a free hand. But Julie wasn’t going to think about what
would happen when her supply ran out, how she would ever sleep more
than five minutes at a stretch again. Trask knew she was still relying on
pharmaceuticals; maybe he’d have mercy.
Julie scuffed across the driveway, the heels of her flip-flops flapping
loosely. Had even her feet shrunk, every bit of her diminished now, whittled
away?
She started the Ford, its wheel feeling alien in her hands, as if the power
steering had failed. Every inch of rotation was arduous, effortful. The road,
once she backed out of their drive, didn’t look familiar. Had it always been
this steep and winding? The SUV seemed poised to topple at the start of a
hill, fall nose over tail, like a kid rolling down a lawn.
Julie braked in the middle of the road. One advantage to living on the
edge of the wilderness: there was no other car in sight to deliver a beep of
protest. She felt around for the gas pedal with her foot and began again to
drive.
When had she last been out on her own? After, David was always with
her. And before, it would’ve been Hedley, tiny in age and size, but huge in
terms of the space she took up in Julie’s life. Since her daughter’s birth,
Julie hadn’t experienced much in the way of aloneness, had even resented
that reality, fighting for hard-won fractions of time like every new mother:
Can I just take a shower, finish a cup of tea, or better yet, a nightcap
without being interrupted by this sudden, all-consuming presence?
The space in the rear of the Ford yawned, as dark and empty as a cave.
They mostly took David’s car now, on the rare occasions that Julie did go
out. She’d scarcely been inside this one in over a year. Oh God, Hedley’s
car seat was still belted in back there, secured as required by law—so many
parents got it wrong, but Julie’s closest friend was a cop—yet so
unspeakably vacant.
Julie hit the brake so hard the Ford jolted, and her chest struck the
steering wheel with which she’d just been doing battle.
Only this time there was a car nearby, and it sheered around the SUV with
a Doppler’s whine of wind and a furious blast of its horn, making Julie
throw up one of her hands in a futile, unseen gesture of apology before
driving off in halting spurts and stops.
Chapter Two
Julie decided not to go to the Crescent Diner, the place her uncles and
grandfather used to frequent for a bite between shifts on the job. On the rare
occasions when Julie’s father and mother had eaten out, they’d also been
customers at the diner. Nor did Julie choose to go to the new, upscale café
in town, which her mom and dad might’ve liked, had they still been alive
when it opened. Fancy salads and wraps and expensive coffee drinks that
cost more than most longtime residents’ daily food budgets. “What’s wrong
with plain black?” Julie could hear her uncle, the former police chief,
asking.
Instead, Julie pulled up in front of a store that barely had a name, at least
not one that anybody remembered. The letters on its aged sign had faded to
the point of invisibility. An old-fashioned general store, or The Store to the
locals, as in, I have to pick up some soap at The Store. Or pants even. Or
berries, sold in season in gleaming rows of jewel-filled cartons on the front
porch. Julie had a different mental name for the place, almost a term of
endearment. The Everything Store. Its wares had provided distraction for a
baby, enabling Julie to get shopping done during the most tender stages of
new motherhood.
Her heart thrummed in her chest as she parked. She sat staring through the
car window at The Everything Store’s facade till her eyes started to tear.
They have sandwiches here, Julie told herself, stabbing the button to turn
off the engine. I can get something to eat.
The door opened with a welcoming jangle of bells that gave Julie a chill.
She looked around before entering to see if the temperature had dropped,
leaves showing their underbellies in the type of wind that preceded a
thunderstorm, clouds rolling in. But the sun shone warmly in a cornflower-
blue sky and the day was still, the kind of weather seen in Wedeskyull only
a handful of weeks out of the year.
Julie rubbed her goose-pimply arms and went inside.
The first section to greet her was the easiest: hangers and racks with tees
and sweatshirts on display, Wedeskyull silk-screened over a row of jagged
mountaintops that looked like teeth. Then camouflage gear in adult and
youth sizes. After that came camping and outdoors equipment, with
portable hunting blinds and crossbows next. Guns were kept behind a glass
case to Julie’s left, taken for granted enough in her life that their dark,
threatening lengths and sleek triggers curving like grins didn’t trouble her.
Beyond the guns stood the lunch counter. Julie could swerve right now—
stroll past the glassed-in case, or veer in the opposite direction, toward
where moccasins sat in boxes on shelves—and avoid the area in front of her
entirely.
She had shopped and browsed, hung out and played here, each stage a
marker in reverse of the years of her life. Married with enough money to
make purchases. A window-shopping single woman, seeing which new
goods had come in, but trying to conserve her dollars. A teenager killing
time over a soda and candy with friends. A kid at her mother’s heels, or a
baby in a stroller, as the mysterious tasks required to keep house were taken
care of.
Julie could thread her way to the row of stools without looking and not
even stumble. Perch on top of a cracked vinyl seat and order a tuna-fish
sandwich and iced tea, food as simple and old-fashioned as the want ad
she’d read a thousand years ago that morning. Instead, she walked forward
as if pulled by a rope. The act had a compulsive, unstoppable feel, a victim
returning to the scene of the crime.
These clothes were different from the ones that had faced her when she
came in. Tiny onesies and miniature sweaters hand knit by local women,
priced at amounts that, even in Julie’s near-mesmerized state, seemed
shocking, exorbitant. Board books about nature, pairs of fur-lined booties so
tiny, both would fit on Julie’s palm. Sock animals and corn-husk dolls.
Slightly less frivolous items like organic teething biscuits and herbal
remedies for nursing moms.
Julie spun around, turning her back, but it was too late. Memories began
swarming her like wasps. She tried to bat them away, fight them off, but
failed and dropped to her knees.
She couldn’t explain the sudden flurry of white; it was as if it had begun
snowing right here in The Everything Store. Cloth diapers, Julie saw
through blurred eyes, made of fair trade cotton, the packaging somehow
torn open, no, clawed open, so that the squares fell in a pile on her lap. Julie
leaned down, burying her face in the sweet-smelling heap until it grew
sodden, plugging her nose and mouth.
“Um, miss? Ma’am?”
Julie looked up, and the woman leaning over her, her pregnant stomach a
swell that blocked out sight of anything else, took a sudden, lurching step
back.
“I think…we need some help over here!” the woman cried.
Julie bunched up the white drift of cloth in her hands, squeezing it tighter
and tighter. It was like a ball, an object that could be thrown. Thrown at this
horrible person with her immense belly, and her innocent, concerned face,
just trying to help because she hadn’t yet learned that there were some
situations that could never, ever be helped.
***
From the side of The Everything Store where a cordless phone clung to the
wall—it had been a modernization not so long ago, replacing the kind of
contraption with a curlicued wire—Julie heard a series of bleeps. The store
clerk made the call matter-of-factly, her voice bleached of sympathy,
allowing Julie a shred of dignity.
Chief.
Not the old chief, thank God, Julie’s grandfather, nor the son who came
after him.
You mind coming down here?
The next voice Julie heard was husky and deep, echoing in her ear. Julie
had known this voice when it was less husky, and not yet deep.
“Come on, Jules,” Tim Lurcquer said quietly, squatting beside her.
She blinked.
“Come on,” he repeated. “You’ll feel better once we leave.”
Tim got to his feet—a faint creak from his knees as he rose that surprised
her—and extended a hand, strong enough to pull Julie upright. The cloth of
his uniform shirt felt crisp despite the summer heat.
She held out a twisted clutch of plastic. “I have to buy these diapers.”
That was what you did if you broke something accidentally in a store. Or
ruined it with malice and fury. Maybe you paid double then. “Also, I think I
might’ve assaulted a woman.”
Tim took the packaging from Julie’s hand, his touch slow and gentle, as if
she were a deer or a sparrow, some sort of wild animal that would shy away
from human contact. “No,” he said, his voice so kind it caused an ache.
“You don’t. There’s not a person in this town who would take your money.”
***
(C - 0.01)t = K
where C is the concentration observed for a given time
t
. K has the approximate value of 1.7, where
t
varies between 7.5 and 480 minutes.
Vesicant Action
In addition to its toxicity mustard gas is highly important because of
its peculiar irritating effect upon the skin. Its value is seen when we
realize that one part in 14,000,000 is capable of causing conjunctivitis
of the eye and that one part in 3,000,000 and possibly one part in
5,000,000 will cause a skin burn in a sensitive person on prolonged
exposure. According to Warthin, the lesions produced by mustard gas
are those of a chemical, not unlike hydrochloric acid, but of much
greater intensity. The pathology of these lesions has been carefully
studied and fully described by Warthin and Weller in their book on The
Pathology of Mustard Gas. Our observations will therefore be confined
to certain striking features of the vesicant action of this substance.
Diphenylchloroarsine
The best known of the arsenicals, however, is
diphenylchloroarsine or sneezing gas. Although this is an old
compound (having been prepared by German chemists in 1885),
there was no method for its preparation on a large scale when, first
introduced into chemical warfare. It was finally discovered that the
interaction of triphenyl arsine with arsenic trichloride was fairly
satisfactory and a plant was erected for its manufacture.
When pure, diphenylchloroarsine is a colorless solid, melting at
44°. Because of this, it was always used in solution in a toxic gas or
in a shell which contained a large amount of explosive so that on the
opening of the shell the material would be finely divided and
scattered over a wide territory.
Its value lay in the fact that the fine particles readily penetrated
the ordinary mask and caused the irritation of the nose and throat,
which resulted in sneezing. This necessitated the perfection of
special smoke filters to remove the particles, after which the other
toxic materials were removed by the absorbent in the canister.
It causes sneezing and severe burning sensations in the nose,
throat and lungs in concentrations as slight as 1 part in 10 million. In
higher concentrations, say 1 in 200 to 500 thousand it causes severe
vomiting. While neither of these effects are dangerous or very
lasting, still higher concentrations are serious, as in equal
concentrations diphenylchloroarsine is more poisonous than
phosgene.
Various other arsenical chemicals were developed in the
laboratory, but with one or two exceptions they were not as valuable
as diphenylchloroarsine and methyldichloroarsine and were
therefore discarded.
Diphenylchloroarsine
C₆H₅N₂Cl + C₆H₅AsO₃Na₂ +
=
Na₃AsO₃ NaCl + N₂
C₆H₅AsO₃Na₂ + C₆H₅AsO₃H₂ +
=
2HCl 2NaCl
C₆H₅AsO₃H₂ + C₆H₅AsO₂H₂ +
=
SO₂+H₂O H₂SO₄
C₆H₅N₂Cl + (C₆H₅)₂AsO₂Na +
=
C₆H₅AsO₂Na₂ NaCl + N₂
(C₆H₅)₂AsO₂Na + (C₆H₅)₂AsO₂H +
=
HCl NaCl
2(C₆H₅)₂AsO₂H + [(C₆H₅)₂As]₂O +
=
2SO₂ + H₂O 2H₂SO₄
[(C₆H₅)₂As]₂O + 2(C₆H₅)₂AsCl +
=
2HCl H₂O.
“The entire process was carried out at Höchst.
The method used at Höchst was as follows: In
preparing the diazonium solution, 3 kg.-mols of
aniline were dissolved in 3000 liters of water and the
theoretical quantity of hydrochloric acid. The
temperature of the solution was reduced to between
0° and 5° and the theoretical amount of sodium
nitrite added. The reaction was carried out in a
wooden tank of the usual form for the preparation of
diazonium compounds. A solution of sodium
arsenite was prepared which contained 20 per cent
excess of oxide over that required to react with the
aniline used. The arsenous oxide was dissolved in
sodium carbonate, care being taken to have enough
of the alkali present to neutralize all of the acid
present in the solution of the diazonium salt. To the
solution of the sodium arsenite were added 20 kg. of
copper sulfate dissolved in water, this being the
amount required when 3 kg.-mols of aniline are
used. The solution of the diazonium compound was
allowed to flow slowly into the solution of the
arsenite while the temperature was maintained at
15°. The mixture was constantly stirred during the
addition which requires about 3 hrs. After the
reaction was complete, the material was passed
through a filter press in order to remove the coupling
agent and the tar which had been formed.
Hydrochloric acid was next added to the clear
solution to precipitate phenylarsenic acid, the last
portions of which were removed by the addition of
salt.
“The phenylarsenic acid was next reduced to
phenylarsenous acid by means of a solution of
sodium bisulfite, about 20 per cent excess of the
latter over the theoretical amount being used. For
100 parts of arsenic acid, 400 parts of solution were
used. The reaction was carried out in a wooden
vessel and the mixture stirred during the entire
operation. A temperature of 80° was maintained by
means of a steam coil. Phenylarsenous acid
separated as an oil. The aqueous solution was
decanted from the oil, which was dissolved in a
solution of sodium hydroxide, 40° Bé. The solution
of the sodium salt of phenylarsenous acid was
treated with water so that the resulting solution had
a volume of 6 cu. m. when 3 kg.-mols of the salt
were present. Ice was next added to reduce the
temperature to 15° and a solution of benzene
diazonium chloride, prepared in the manner
described for the first operation, was slowly added.
After the coupling, diphenylarsenic acid was
precipitated by means of hydrochloric acid. The acid
was removed by means of a filter press and
dissolved in hydrochloric acid, 20° Bé. For one part
of diphenylarsenic acid, 3 parts of hydrochloric acid
were used. Into this solution was passed 5 per cent
excess of sulfur dioxide over that required for the
reduction. The sulfur dioxide used was obtained
from cylinders which contained it in liquid condition.
“The reduction was carried out in an iron tank
lined with tiles and a temperature of 80° was
maintained. About 8 hrs. were required for the
reaction. The diphenylarsenic acid on reduction by
the sulfur dioxide was converted into
diphenylarsenous oxide which, in the presence of
the hydrochloric acid, was converted into
diphenylchloroarsine, which separated as an oil.
The oil was next removed and heated in the best
vacuum obtainable until it was dry and free from
hydrochloric acid. The compound melted at 34°. It
was placed in iron tanks for shipment. The yield of
diphenylchloroarsine calculated from the aniline
used was from 25 to 30 per cent of the theoretical.
No marked trouble was observed in handling the
materials and no serious poisoning cases were
reported.
Diphenylcyanoarsine
Ethyldichloroarsine