Jean Perrin, who once got the job Pierre was passed over for at the Sorbonne, is quite brilliant and also kind, and I forgive him for taking Pierre’s job (which is, anyway, not his fault.) His wife, Henriette, is not a scientist but a writer of stories that she regales the children with. All summer long, she mixes me concoctions of waters and fruits designed to help ease the swelling of my condition. Paul Langevin was once a student of Pierre’s but now works in a lab at the Sorbonne. He and his wife, Jeanne, are often in an argument—they are the kind of couple who love to complain about each other. And Paul frequents our garden alone. But Jeanne is kind to me, coming to me on her own, baking us bread to make sure, as she says, you and the baby are well fed.
Still, it is funny how, that summer, Papa is gone, my sisters are so far away, but my neighbors, my friends, surround me, care for me. I begin to feel I am not without a family nearby at all. Perhaps Pierre is right. Life cycles. Grief fades and becomes lightness again.
IN JULY, A GIANT BICYCLE RACE IS COMING THROUGH THE entire country of France, ending in Paris: the Tour de France, they’re calling it in all the papers. Pierre has been saying for weeks that we should take a day out of the lab, take Irène to see the men bicycling through the city, racing one another.
But when the day comes, Pierre’s rheumatisms are particularly bad, and he cannot get himself out of bed. I have already planned this rare day out of the lab, so I decide I’ll still take Irène to watch the race on my own. As the two of us walk together hand in hand, the humid air smothers me. It is hard to breathe, and quite suddenly, my stomach begins to ache.
Irène chatters, as she often does now, telling me about the maths and sciences Dr. Curie is teaching her. It is astounding to hear the theories of geometry in her tiny voice, filled with confidence and aplomb. She is brilliant, this child of mine. Perhaps every mother believes that about her child, but with Irène it is scientifically and objectively a fact.
It is so hot. I let go of her hand to wipe my forehead, and the ache in my stomach intensifies. I clutch my stomach, nearly double over from the pain, which is suddenly blindingly bad.
“Maman?” Irène’s small bright voice comes through the darkness. “Maman?”
We have not made it far from the house yet, but I suddenly do not know if I have the strength to make it back there on my own. I want to sit down right here in the street, but I know I can’t. Irène is only six, and though she’s brilliant, I can’t fall down and leave her all alone.
I close my eyes and try to breathe. Inhale, exhale. I am the woman who spent four years extracting radium from pitchblende. I will not let a little pain, a little afternoon heat, stop me in the street.
“Maman?” Irène’s voice is softer now, or maybe it is harder for me to hear her through my pain.
“Maman isn’t feeling well,” I tell Irène. “Let’s try and make it back to the house. We’ll play a game and you can be the leader. If Maman falls behind, go fetch Papa or Grand-Père to come back for me. Or if you can’t find them, go to the Perrins and get one of them.”
“A game,” Irène giggles, reminding me that she is still a little girl who loves to play. She skips ahead, and I reach out my hand to try and hold on to her, but I’m not fast enough. She’s gone.
The pain is so bad that I have no choice but to sit down now. And the next thing I know, Jean Perrin and Dr. Curie are there, saying my name. Dr. Curie is getting older, frail himself, but somehow he is lifting me off the ground, pulling me toward home, shouldering the weight of me along with Jean. Somehow he is saying, “Oh, Marie, no. No.”
And I think, Val is gone. Though scientifically impossible, it feels as though my sternum is bursting apart, my heart falling through the walls of my chest.
I ONCE MIGHT’VE THOUGHT IT RIDICULOUS TO GRIEVE A PERSON who never really existed, who I never even met. But I cannot leave my bed for weeks after Val dies, the darkness hovering over me again, holding on to me so tightly I can barely breathe, much less think about our work.
“We are marked by death,” I tell Pierre. “It will ruin us. No matter what else we do. No matter what happens in the lab.” And maybe I have been marked by it my whole life beginning with Mama and my sister Zosia. Then Sophie-Claire and Papa gone too soon.
Pierre shakes his head, always so positive, so hopeful, refusing to succumb to my darkness. “No, no. We have each other, mon amour. And our beautiful Irène, and Papa. And our friends next door. Your sisters and their families in Poland and Jacques and his family in Montpellier. This was just an accident of science, mon amour. These things happen.”
But I do not believe in accidents of science. That is the opposite of everything I know: science is purposeful and objective, not accidental at all. Pierre is no help, so I write to Bronia, ask for her advice, wanting comfort from my sister-mother, and also her expertise in obstetrics.
I worry your work in the lab has harmful effects on your health, she writes back. Look at all the pains Pierre has been having, and now this? Perhaps you should leave the lab before you try again…
Her letter goes on to tell me about what is going on with her family. Lou and Jakub have both been ill with terrible coughs as of late, and even the mountain air isn’t helping. But I skim over the rest of her words, turning hot with anger.
It fills me with rage that she would blame my work and make it seem like this is my fault for pursuing science as well as motherhood. She has had two healthy children, and she is a practicing physician. That seems more dangerous than working in a lab, as she is exposed to diseases. I tear her letter into pieces, scattering them carelessly all about my bedroom floor. Later, Pierre will come in and pick them up one by one, tiptoeing around the room, believing me to be asleep.
And anyway, Bronia does not know my radium. It is not harmful; it can’t be harmful. It is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, the brightest thing I have left. Bronia knows nothing.
NOT EVEN TWO WEEKS LATER, PIERRE RUSHES INTO OUR BEDROOM in the middle of the afternoon with a telegram, his face white as dolomite, his hands shaking. I am still in bed, and Pierre has been telling everyone I’ve now taken ill with a summer influenza. But here I am, not ill at all, flattened by grief, spending my afternoon staring out the window at all the flowers in our garden. How dare they bloom? How dare the pinks and reds and yellows flare so brightly?
“What is it?” I ask Pierre, his countenance startling me. Pierre is the one who manages to smile still, who wakes each morning kissing my face, promising me that today will be better than yesterday. That tomorrow will be best of all. And though I turn away from him, his words seep through my skin, lighten me, little by little, piece by piece, day by day.
“Terrible,” Pierre says. “Terrible, terrible. It can’t be.”
He’s scaring me, and I get out of bed, my legs unsteady. I take a moment to regain my footing, then walk to him, take the telegram from his shaking hands. It’s come from Zakopane, from Bronia. I read the words, as disbelieving of them as Pierre is. Our nephew, little Jakub, took ill, and he died suddenly. Died. Oh Bronia, no. My anger for her dissipates, just like that. How could this happen? Jakub was just seven years old, nearly the same age as Irène.