Around the same time that I read The Poisoner’s Handbook, I got my paws on The Great Influenza: The Story of the Deadliest Pandemic in History by John M. Barry (Penguin, 2005). Seriously, this book terrified me. On multiple occasions, I found myself yelling at my husband, Bernie (also a doctor, whom I met in medical school and who thus shares my love of Bellevue), “Oh my God, this is terrifying. You have to read this.” (Eventually, he did. And he was terrified too.)
Some may read my novel and think I have exaggerated the swiftness and virulence of the 1918 influenza epidemic. After all, it’s not like the flu that hits the United States every year, is it? But I attempted to stay as historically accurate as possible. This strain was a beast like no other. It killed the young more often than the old. People indeed died within hours of showing their first symptoms, and yes, their faces turned startling dark shades from hypoxia, and yes, blood poured from their orifices. It was, however, fascinating to incorporate influenza in this murder mystery as its own lone wolf, one that could care less about the whims and plans of all humans but would affect them forever.
I did leave one mystery unanswered at the end of this story, and that is the fate of poor Birdie Dreyer. Birdie died of radium poisoning. It was convenient to consider her being poisoned as a red herring—who could be trying to kill off one of our story’s heroines? To be historically accurate, though, I couldn’t include closure on this, as radium poisoning in the dial painters of the time wasn’t truly understood and discovered until the early 1920s.
The element radium was discovered by Marie Curie in 1898 and later isolated in 1910. It’s been said that Curie adored this glowing element so much that she often carried a sample of it in her skirt pocket—a habit that contributed to her death from aplastic anemia. Her personal possessions are said to be so radioactive that they are kept isolated in lead-lined boxes for posterity. Radium’s ability to glow in the dark (and energize zinc sulfide to fluoresce in dial paints) made it immediately attractive in clock and watch manufacturing. Unfortunately, the women who painted this radioluminescent substance often “tipped” their camel-hair brushes, twirling them on their wet lips to keep a sharp point. By doing so, they ingested the radioactive element. Some painters would playfully put the paint on their teeth for a Cheshire cat smile in the dark or put it in their hair. They literally glowed in the dark from the dust after a day’s work, just as Birdie did.
By the end of the 1920s, many women had been diagnosed with radiation poisoning in the form of severe anemias, jaw necrosis, and debilitating bone cancers. Several dial painters—Grace Fryer, Edna Hussman, Katherine Schaub, Quinta McDonald, and Albina Larice—were dubbed the “Radium Girls” and sued the US Radium Corporation. They settled in 1928, but their work laid the foundation for modern labor safety regulations. For those that wish to learn more, I highly recommend reading Claudia Clark’s Radium Girls: Women and Industrial Health Reform, 1910–1935 (University of North Carolina Press, 1997).
And finally, an answer to the question posed in the book: What’s my favorite molecule? It’s a tie between water (it’s more complicated than many people realize) and isoamyl acetate—the essence of Juicy Fruit. I have fond memories of making the ester in high school organic chemistry lab.
Also, it’s my favorite gum.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Authors often speak of a mystical animal called “the book of their heart.” In many ways, this was that book—one that drew from my own personal history with Bellevue Hospital and my long love affair with science. So, to the colleagues I’ve worked with at Bellevue, and the thousands who’ve cared for those very special Bellevue patients in the past, I thank you. And to every science teacher out there, your passion for this beautiful earth, down to the subatomic level—it lives on in all your students.
I also have many people to thank without whose support this book never could have been created. To my husband, Bernie, my biggest fan and best friend. To my children, who are my best inventions of all time. I love you all so dearly. And to my extended family, who always supports me in my creative endeavors. Eric Myers, my agent, has always been a champion of my books, no matter how quirky and odd they are. Sarah Fine, thank you again for your encouragement when this story was but an infant of an idea. Your friendship has meant so much. To my many beta readers—Miriam Forster, Mindy McGinnis, Dushana Yoganathan, Cat Winters, and Maurene Goo—thank you for pointing out the flaws and making it shine that much more. Many people helped with historical details—the staff at the Brooklyn Historical Society, the staff at the Tenement Museum in New York City and especially David Favoloro, and Deb Salisbury—thank you so much. Any inaccuracies in the text are due to my own choices. To Lacey Boldyrev, Matthew Richard Lesinski, and Anna Staniszewski, dzi?kuj? for the Polish expertise. To Caitlin Alexander, for her excellent editorial input. You made this project glow! To Sara Addicott, Kirsten Colton, and Katie Allison, who helped make this story absolutely shine. And to Pepe Nymi, who made it pretty!
And finally, to my editor, Jodi Warshaw, and my team at Lake Union Publishing, who fell in love with Jasper, Birdie, and Allene and gave them a chance to find an audience. I am forever grateful for your vision and your support.