Cherry Ames Boxed Set 1-4

by Helen Wells

  CHAPTER X

  Mom Talks

  A STRANGE PURPLISH LIGHT FILLED THE YARD WHEN Cherry left Dr. Joe’s laboratory. The hospital buildings seemed insubstantial pieces of white paper. The wind had risen. It was going to snow and storm any minute. She had half an hour before she was due on the ward, and she was passing the residence hall for the first-year and junior students.

  “It’s a good chance to see Mildred Burnham,” Cherry thought. “I haven’t even been to see her since she brought me those handkerchiefs. It’s not very nice of me.”

  But every time she had tried to be “nice” to Mildred, the girl had rebuffed her efforts. The only time Mildred Burnham had been friendly with Cherry was after Cherry had let her severely alone. Perhaps that was the way to treat the perverse girl—backwards! It certainly seemed to Cherry that Mildred reacted in reverse. Just then the storm broke, and Cherry ducked into the residence hall.

  Mildred was in, studying. She looked at Cherry expressionlessly, but she did say, “Come in.”

  Cherry went into Mildred’s room and paused at the open textbook. “Hmm, hot wet dressings,” she said. “I always had trouble with those. I still do.”

  Mildred looked mollified. “I have a knack with them. Please sit down, Cherry.”

  Cherry sat down, thinking, “So that’s the tack! Treat her like an equal, not an adoptee.” But there was a strained silence.

  “How do you like the heavy ward work you’re doing now?” Cherry asked.

  “All right. I’m doing all right at it, too,” Mildred added defensively.

  There was another of those awful silences. Cherry tried to think of something that would bolster Mildred’s shaky self-assurance, so that she would not have to remain on the defensive. Cherry opened her small purse and took out one of the handkerchiefs Mildred had made for her at Christmas.

  “These are my pride and joy,” Cherry said. She spread the handkerchief on the dark wood of the desk so that the drawnwork pattern showed. “Ever so many people have admired them and asked me where I got them.”

  Mildred’s heavy face lost its sullenness. “I like making things, doing practical things. I guess that’s why I like nursing.”

  “We’ve got that in common,” Cherry smiled. There followed another dead pause. Finally Mildred said:

  “Are you through on the ward for today or do you have to go on now?”

  Cherry took the hint and rose. “You’re right, I’m due there any minute. I’ll leave you to your hot wet dressings.”

  Mildred closed the door on her. In fact, Mildred virtually put her out.

  Cherry hurried over to Spencer Hall. She was so exasperated and discouraged that her interest in Mildred Burnham died. Until today, Cherry had charitably assumed that Mildred had some sort of quirk and found personal relations difficult. But it was plain now that Mildred simply did not like her. Well, that was Mildred’s right. Any further attempts to be the interested and guiding senior would amount to forcing herself on Mildred. Cherry ran up the steps of Spencer and a definite decision formed in her mind.

  This was the end. She would go to Miss Reamer, explain that she and Mildred could not get along—being very careful to shed no bad light on the younger girl—and ask to be released from the “adoption.” It was too bad, but it probably was what Mildred herself wanted. Until she could find time to see Miss Reamer, she would let Mildred strictly alone. Cherry felt relieved.

  It was consoling to be back, even temporarily, on the warm, quiet, well-lighted ward. It was especially consoling to talk to Mom. Cherry had grown attached to the warm-hearted old lady. Mom’s condition, during the time Cherry was on O.R., had gradually become worse. She was more ill now than when Cherry had first met her. But Mom managed to sit up on her elbows and demand of Cherry:

  “You look as solemn as an owl and as cross as a bear! Who bit you?”

  Cherry laughed. “You already know who bit me.” Cherry had told Mom about her troubles with Mildred, and now she related the latest fiasco.

  “If you ask me,” Mom said, “you could spare a bit more kindness to that girl. There’s plenty of folks like her, but there’s plenty of ways to get around ’em.” She turned over with difficulty as Cherry started to apply a scultetus binder, to support Mom’s wound.

  “I don’t like the looks of this,” Cherry muttered. She picked up Mom’s chart. “I don’t like it at all.” She would notify the head nurse of Mom’s condition at once. The doctor would have to be consulted. It crossed her mind that Mom might have to have a second operation. It not infrequently happened that a stubborn condition required a series of operations, spaced far enough apart to let the patient regain strength for each surgery. Only yesterday the graduate nurse on this ward had said something about Mom’s changed condition.

  “What else’d you do this afternoon?” Mom asked, making faces as Cherry pressed down the tails of the binder.

  “I went to Dr. Joe’s lab. There was a big surgeon there—one who might have to operate on you if you don’t make up your mind to get well.”

  “Was that nice young doctor there? What did you all talk about?”

  “Lie down now. And stop making such awful faces. We talked about Dr. Joe’s research.”

  “Mmm, must have been interesting. Say, could it’ve been about—I can’t remember the word, can’t remember anything any more—hand me that newspaper, honey—” Cherry found the folded newspaper. “Here it is.” Mom’s work-worn finger traveled down the news items. “Penicillin. Is that what your Dr. Joe’s making?”

  Cherry felt the blood leap to her cheeks. She whirled around. “What ever made you say that?” she demanded.

  Mom looked at her in innocent amazement. “I don’t know. I just thought that might be it.” She tugged awkwardly at her curly gray braids. “Don’t know why I thought so. Just thought so.”

  Cherry felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. She did not believe in such things as intuition or mental telepathy. And Mom did not think this for no reason at all. She must have heard something to make her think it. Everybody was Mom’s friend, she must hear a lot. Cherry sat down on a chair beside Mom’s bed and said to the old lady gently:

  “Try to remember if you heard anyone say anything about penicillin or about Dr. Joe.”

  Mom furrowed her forehead and bit her lip and tugged hard at her braids. At last she said, “Seems to me—yes, that’s right, all right. Day before yesterday, it was. The maid was telling me she heard that Dr. Joe was making this stuff with the funny name that the government’s making such a to-do about.”

  Cherry tried to keep her voice steady. “Which maid was that?”

  “The little one with the false teeth that don’t fit her. But she gave up her place here yesterday. She told me about this when she came to say good-by to me. She knows I’m a sort of a nurse.”

  So the maid had left. Why? Where to? The maid here had been a trustworthy woman, so far as Cherry knew. Cherry tried to think.

  “If the maid worked over here in Spencer, Mom, how did she know what was going on in another building?”

  “She heard. You know how you hear things in a big place like this hospital. The cleaning woman in Lincoln Hall is an old friend of hers.”

  Cherry knew the cleaning woman, Alma Jarvis. Mrs. Jarvis had worked in the hospital for twenty years. She was a widow who had raised four children, single-handed, and she was the soul of discretion. It was not like her to talk. Dr. Joe must have labeled the test tubes with their golden fluids, and carelessly left them in full view! And Mrs. Jarvis probably had recognized the name of the drug that was so publicized, and in her excitement confided the secret to the maid. Cherry frowned. Dr. Joe should have been more careful.

  Mom asked anxiously. “Did I say anything wrong? What’re you looking so pale about?”

  “Listen to me, Mom. What you heard is just gossip. But it could do a great deal of harm. Promise me you’ll say nothing more on the subject to anyone.”

  How she wishe
d the cleaning woman had not let this dangerous secret leak out! The whole hospital would be excited about it—would talk of it in public, where anyone could hear!

  Mom pressed her finger against her lips, her old eyes dancing. “I just love secrets. Mum’s the word.”

  “Mum certainly is the word,” Cherry said seriously. “I know you can keep a secret. I’ve been watching you keep your own worry to yourself, whatever it is.”

  Mom’s face changed expression, and she sighed. “’Tisn’t much of a secret. I just don’t want to worry you, honey, or make you feel bad. You’ve got your work to worry about, and that’s enough.”

  “Mom, if there’s anything I can do for you,” Cherry said earnestly, “I wish you’d tell me.”

  “I’m going to be perfectly all right, just fine,” Mom said. Her voice shook a little. “Now you run along about your work, child. Shoo!”

  Cherry certainly had plenty of work to do on Women’s Surgical Ward in the late afternoon. Besides, she and the other nurses supervised nurse’s aides who “specialed” unconscious patients just brought down from Operating Room. These aides sat beside the patients watching constantly for the pale face and cold perspiration and rapid weak pulse which meant shock—and danger. It could mean hemorrhage, too. Cherry learned to reassure a patient just coming out of anaesthetic, in a calm, low voice. Even the routine tasks on this ward were special. The operative bed required rubber sheets, three covered hot water bags, to fight shock or bleeding, but no pillow.

  Mom still managed to be a lovable nuisance, although she was seriously ill. Once Cherry entered the ward and was horrified to find Mom had shakily struggled out of bed and was giving a drink of water, instead of cracked ice, to a patient just emerged from anaesthesia—a procedure that could have made the woman choke or swallow her tongue. “But she licked her lips, she was thirsty,” Mom said. “I guess I’m forgetting what little nursing I used to know.”

  There were new lectures now, too, senior courses in medical and surgical emergencies. Most important of all, there was Operating Room.

  Cherry first went in on minor operations. Mostly she watched the surgeon and the nurse, and handed the nurse a few things at her low-voiced requests. The balance of the time, Cherry learned to keep the Operating Rooms ready for instant use—no small job, and Cherry became well acquainted with the autoclave, which sterilized dry things like bandages under steam pressure, with sterile solutions and with setting up tables of nurses’ supplies correctly. A week of this training left Cherry with the fairly correct impression that being an operating nurse was quick, painstaking, tense work, but simple work. In the following weeks, when Cherry acted as first assistant on more complex operations, she felt almost nonchalant.

  Cherry enjoyed most the drama and the personalities up here. Men and women said strange things to Cherry in the two or three minutes when they lay on the operating table, waiting for the surgeon to come in. Each surgeon and interne, too, entered the Operating Room with varied attitudes. Elderly Dr. Witherspoon, who was usually a gentle person, invariably stormed into the O.R. in a fury and raged until the operation was safely completed. Dr. Mary Vinson, on the other hand, was the coolest surgeon Cherry had yet seen. This woman was one of the very few to break into surgery, traditionally a man’s field. She was wonderfully, undeviatingly good, moving with calm sure hands and steady eyes, without a trace of temperament or tension. But the first time Cherry laid eyes on Dr. Jenks, she whispered to the regular operating nurse:

  “Look! It’s a pixie!”

  “I think he looks more like a gnome,” the nurse whispered back.

  He was a tiny little man with a funny cheerful face. His operating coat hung on him comically and his eyeglasses, almost bigger than he was, wobbled as he darted around the table.

  “Good morning,” he greeted the operating nurse. “And who’s this? A new student nurse? Well, well, that’s fine. We have a fine diseased kidney this morning, Miss—what’s your name?—Ames. I hope you like kidney cases.”

  Cherry assured him respectfully that she did. They prepared the sleeping patient and began the precise mechanics of the operation. Little Dr. Jenks took an instrument in one hand and started to sing.

  “Oh, connais-tu un pays,” he sang, off key, while he bobbed about the horizontal patient on tiptoe. “Oh, connais—con—con—,” he sang under his breath as the work grew harder. Cherry had to struggle with herself to keep from laughing. Suddenly the pixie’s voice rose triumphantly. “Yes, je connais un pays!” The stubborn organ had yielded under his instrument. “Do you like music, Miss Ames?” he inquired happily.

  “Yes, doctor,” Cherry murmured. She moved quickly forward to put the small spade-shaped instrument in his hand. He did not hear her reply. He was scowling over the patient and grunting, “Connais-tu. Connais-tu. Con—nais—tu——!”

  His hands were moving rapidly. Cherry and the nurse alertly watched, and helped. Once Dr. Jenks looked up and said, “You’re a good operating nurse, Miss Ames. Very good. Very nice work.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” Cherry murmured. Then he was singing again, at the top of his lungs, excruciatingly flat.

  “He never sings anything else,” the operating nurse laughed to Cherry after the surgeon had gone, “and he never gets to the end of that song. He’s one of the best men in this part of the country. You ought to be proud he complimented you.”

  Cherry was proud. She still had occasional doubts about her nursing ability. Praise from a man like Dr. Jenks reassured her. Later that afternoon, leaving Spencer Hall for the special reference library in another building, Cherry did a little day-dreaming about the graduate’s broad black velvet ribbon she would wear on her cap. Her half-decision, made that day in the Nursery, to nurse right here on the home front, came back to her. Nothing had happened to make her change her mind. She was wondering about her future when Lex’s voice called her.

  He was carrying a package. They went out of Spencer Hall together into the frozen yard. In spite of the still bitter cold of late winter, they walked slowly, looking into each other’s faces.

  “What’s that?” Cherry asked, nodding toward the package.

  “That’s it!” Lex looked glum. “Dr. Joe is so lax, he puts off moving this stuff to a safer place. I took it over to Spencer lab just now, on my own, but they wouldn’t touch it. They refused to take any responsibility for the safekeeping of this dynamite.” Lex shook his head. “So I have to take it back to Lincoln again. I’m worried, Cherry.”

  Cherry brushed strands of her blowing black hair out of her eyes. “Did you tell Dr. Joe you were taking it?”

  “No, I didn’t want to bother Dr. Joe with such practical matters. I simply was going to tell him that it was safe now.”

  “Lex,” Cherry said in some embarrassment, “you oughtn’t to go wandering around with that, without permission, or even without Dr. Joe’s knowledge. It—it looks funny. You might be seriously misunderstood.”

  His face tightened and he looked at her suspiciously. “What’s the matter, Cherry, don’t you trust me? Did you believe Dr. Wylie’s implications the other day?”

  “Lex! Don’t say such things!” Cherry turned troubled dark eyes on him. “Certainly I trust you. But you have to watch appearances.”

  “Maybe you don’t trust me.” He added slowly, “It’s surprising how much that hurts.”

  It hurt Cherry, too. They walked along in a painful tense silence. Cherry suddenly thought of something.

  “Lex, do you remember when Dr. Wylie hinted that it was funny you studied up on Dr. Joe’s research in order to get the job? Wasn’t it the quinine substitute you were working on? And you didn’t know about the penicillin, did you?”

  Cherry was astounded by Lex’s violent reaction to these innocent questions. “So now you, too, are beginning to ask me questions!” he said bitterly.

  “Lex!” Cherry cried in amazement. She had meant to tell him that the cleaning woman had gossiped about Dr. Joe’s discovery and that the
whole hospital was excitedly talking about it. But now she was so distressed she was tongue-tied. Lex’s eyes narrowed in anger. They both stood stock-still in the wind, staring at each other. Then with a look of bitterness, he turned on his heel and strode rapidly away.

  Lex did not go to the Lincoln Birthday dance. Cherry went. She found she had more attentive doctors and internes for partners than she could dance with. She found, too, from snatches of conversation that evening, that Lex was not so popular in the hospital, after all. “So the uppity Dr. Upham is snubbing us!” they said. “Our dance isn’t high-and-mighty enough for him!” Cherry was troubled by such talk.

  Meanwhile, Mom was getting rapidly worse. What Cherry had dreaded, happened. Mom had to have another operation, and quickly. And what Cherry had mentioned in joke, also happened. Dr. Wylie was to perform the operation. Mom was old and worn-out and her condition was complicated by still another disorder and a slight cardiac condition. Cherry knew it was serious.

  “She has a fifty-fifty chance,” Dr. Wylie told the head nurse and Cherry.

  The day of the operation she dreaded it as if a member of her own family were to face this ordeal. Only after much pleading, by both Cherry and Mom, had the Superintendent of Nurses consented to let Cherry be present, on her off-duty time, at Mom’s operation. She was not to assist, only to watch and hold Mom’s hand for encouragement. Cherry thought it was pretty human of the hospital to understand about this, and let her in.

  “I’m glad you’re with me,” Mom whispered to Cherry. They were waiting together in a little anteroom. The O.R. was receiving its last readying touches. “I don’t feel alone when I know you’re going to be there all the time, Cherry.”

  “Haven’t you any people?” Cherry asked. Mom shook her head.

  “I guess I’d better tell you what you call my secret, in case I—go bad on the table,” Mom said. She fingered her white operating jacket. “It’s this. If anything happens, I don’t want my old carcass to go to Potter’s Field. Cherry, you fix it up so that won’t happen.”