by Janette Oke
She lit the lamp that sat on the kitchen table and hurried to the door. Mr. Stockwood from the town hardware store stood on the back porch, his hat in his hand.
“Mrs. Smith—Dr. Smith asked me if I would get word to you. He’s—he’s had a bit of an accident.”
Cassandra reached out a hand to the doorframe for support.
“Nothing serious,” he was quick to add when he saw Cassandra’s face go pale.
“What happened?” she asked with a shaky voice, the lamp trembling in her hand.
The man reached out and took the lamp from her and eased her back into her own kitchen. “Sit down,” he instructed. “Sit down.”
She sat down. Mostly because she could no longer stand. Her knees felt wobbly and she feared she might faint.
When Mr. Stockwood seemed sure that she was settled he continued.
“He was coming home from the Harrigans’—Mis’ Harrigan had a baby girl last night—an’ it was pretty dark. Horse musta stumbled or shied or somethin’. Anyway, he took a tumble and Doc landed on his arm. He thinks he broke it but he says it ain’t a bad break. He’s down to his office tryin’ to sort things out. Wanted you to know ’fore word started spreadin’ around.”
Cassandra felt her strength returning. She had to get to Samuel.
“Will you stay with the children?” she asked hurriedly and the man nodded dumbly, then queried, “What ya plannin’?”
“I’ve got to go help Samuel,” she explained quickly and hurried toward the bedroom to get dressed.
“Not sure he’ll be wantin’ ya to do thet,” the man called after her. “It’s awful dark out there.”
“I’ll carry a lantern,” Cassandra called back just as she entered the bedroom door.
She dressed as quickly as she could and soon rushed back through the kitchen.
“Stir up the fire and make yourself some coffee,” she invited. “The pot is there on the shelf and the coffee is in that tin.”
Then she hastened to light the lantern and left the man still shaking his head.
And all the way along the boardwalk she kept repeating the same little prayer: “Let him be all right, God. Please, let him be all right.”
Chapter Eighteen
The Mishap
She was out of breath by the time she pushed open the door and entered Samuel’s small office. She saw a lamp in the back room and headed directly toward it.
Samuel sat in a chair, his face scratched and pale, the sleeve ripped from his shirt and discarded, his injured arm extended on the desk before him as he tried clumsily to put on some kind of splint.
He didn’t even hear her until she cried out in a muffled voice, “Oh-h, Samuel.”
He looked up then, his face at first showing concern, and then he gave her an embarrassed grin.
“My horse doesn’t have very good night vision,” he tried to joke.
“Oh-h, Samuel.” Cassandra rushed to him and set her lantern beside the lamp on his desk. “What have you done to yourself?”
“Gone and broken my arm, I’m afraid,” he answered evenly, turning his attention back to the limb before him.
“Are you all right?”
He nodded his head. No tease in him now. He looked at her honestly and then replied, “As all right as one can be under such circumstances.”
“Are you hurt elsewhere?”
He seemed to think about that for a minute and then replied, “I really don’t think so. Just a few minor scratches and some sore bones. I’ll be fine in a day or two.”
Cassandra knelt beside him. She wished to take him in her arms. Wished to tend his broken body as she did the children who came to her, but there was nothing she could do. She felt helpless—inadequate.
“Does it hurt terribly?” she asked, reaching out to touch the blood that had dried on his cheek.
“I’ve taken something for the pain—but yes, it doesn’t feel especially good.”
“I wish there was something I could do,” she said with deep feeling.
She had expected Samuel to say that there was nothing. That she should go home to her bed. Home to the children. But instead he raised his eyes and looked directly into her green ones. “There is, Red,” he said softly.
The surprise must have shown on her face. After a moment he went on. “You can help me set this arm.”
Her mouth dropped—her jaw slack. Her green eyes opened wide with fright and disbelief. She stood slowly to her feet.
“We can do it,” he went on calmly. “It has to be done.”
Cassandra lowered her head and closed her eyes as she reached a hand to his desk to steady herself. The whole room was spinning around.
“Shouldn’t—shouldn’t I send Mr. Stockwood?” she stammered.
“He doesn’t know one thing more than you do,” said Samuel evenly. “In fact, my guess is he knows a lot less. And—and I think that we might work better as a team. All you have to do is follow my instructions—and pay absolutely no attention to me when I groan.”
Cassandra looked at him. She expected him to be teasing again and was about to scold him for making light of a bad situation. But when she saw the look on his face, she realized that he was totally serious.
“Groan?” she whispered.
He nodded. “I’ve set many broken bones, Cassandra. I’ve some idea of how this is going to feel.”
Cassandra went pale again. She shakily clung to reality as the world continued to spin before her.
“Do you think we can handle it?” he asked her.
Oh, Father, I’m going to need your help as never before, prayed Cassandra quickly before she opened her eyes, licked her dry lips, and nodded solemnly.
“Then let’s get to it. Bring me that medical bag. We’ll set out everything we might need and I’ll explain it to you.”
Cassandra crossed the room on leaden feet and brought the bag to him.
“Now,” he continued, “arrange the items I call for here in front of us.”
With trembling hands Cassandra began to lift items from the bag as he mentioned each name. She was familiar enough with his black bag to know the proper terms. When they were neatly arranged, he rose rather unsteadily from his chair.
“I’m going to lie on the floor,” he explained. “That way, if I pass out, you won’t need to worry about supporting me.”
It was sounding worse and worse to Cassandra.
Samuel lowered himself to the wooden floor of his office, supporting his broken arm as he did so. Cassandra heard a soft groan escape his lips in spite of his attempt to muffle it.
“Put a little ether on that cloth,” he told her, “and place it in my hand. I’ll try not to use it, but if I can’t stand the pain I will take just a whiff.”
“But—but I don’t know how much to give you,” protested Cassandra.
“I do,” he replied.
Cassandra did as bidden. The smell of the ether made her stomach heave and her head spin.
When she had placed the cloth in Samuel’s hands, arranged things in easy reaching distance, she lifted her skirt slightly, then knelt on the floor beside her husband.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She took a big breath, breathed another quick prayer and nodded.
With Samuel giving the instructions and Cassandra trying her hardest to follow them, the procedure began.
It seemed to Cassandra that it would never end, but eventually she was able to lean back, face in her hands and let sobs shake her whole frame. She feared that Samuel had passed out again, but as her tears began to flow she felt his hand lift and move as he tried to pat her reassuringly.
“You did a good job,” he whispered hoarsely.
His words had a comforting effect. She managed to check her sobs and began to wipe up her face. She wasn’t sure if she was wiping tears or cold sweat. As she tried to compose and tidy herself, she realized that her maze of red hair was hanging in disarray about her shoulders. She had not paused to try to pin it before
she left the house. She swept it back now, trying to gather it into some kind of orderliness. She had no pins. They were lying at home on her dresser.
She noticed a discarded strip of bandage on the floor and reached for it. It made a clumsy ribbon but she managed to get her hair back out of her face.
She looked at Samuel. His deathly pale face was bathed in perspiration also. She reached for a soft cloth and began to wipe his brow gently. He opened his eyes then and looked at her. She had never seen his hazel eyes quite that color before. They looked black by the light of the lamp and she wondered if it was his pain that had darkened them.
“How are you?” she managed to ask.
“Well, I don’t think I will try to walk home quite yet,” he answered, but she could hear the teasing in his voice again.
She didn’t know whether to scold or to smile. She brushed back the shock of hair that had fallen over his forehead and let her fingers run along the strong line of his chin.
“I’m not sure I’m ready to walk yet either,” she admitted.
“You should,” replied Samuel, his words slurred from the drowsiness of ether, the pain he still felt, or perhaps just his total fatigue. “The children might soon be waking.”
Cassandra let her eyes wander to the window. He was right. The sky was lightening with the coming of morning. She reached down a hand to free her skirts and stood shakily to her feet.
At first she felt unsteady, cramped and achy. It had been a long time since her legs had received proper circulation. She tried to work a few kinks from them in tentative stretches and small steps.
She brushed at her skirts but the wrinkles refused to be whisked away.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked Samuel.
“I think I can make it to the cot if you’ll just help me to my feet. After I get a bit of sleep I should be fine.”
She helped him up and to the cot, laid him down and removed his shoes, then brought a blanket from the cupboard shelf.
Instead of leaving him, she pulled a chair up beside the bed. He opened his eyes and said sleepily, “You need to get home and relieve poor Mr. Stockwood.”
“But I can’t leave—,” she began.
“Sure you can. I’ll be fine now. All I need is a little sleep.”
“I’ll send Joseph,” she conceded. She crossed the room, leaned over the desk and blew out the lamp. They would need it no longer. Morning had come.
Then picking up the lantern, she blew it out as well. She looked around the room for her hat and shawl and then remembered that, in her haste, she had not worn them.
She returned to the cot to tell Samuel she would be back to see him as soon as she had fed and settled the children but found him breathing deeply and evenly. He had already fallen asleep. She leaned to kiss his forehead, took one more look at him, and left as quietly as she could.
“I sure could use your help,” said Samuel a few mornings later as he held his breakfast coffee cup awkwardly in his left hand.
They were lingering a bit. There was really no reason to rush. The children had left for school and Samuel was limited in what he could do.
Cassandra looked from the man to the coffee cup and back again. “You wish me to feed you now?” she asked with a hint of banter.
“No. No, I still seem to be able to take care of my stomach. But I’m not much good at the office—and the people don’t seem to understand. They still keep getting sick.”
“Perhaps this was God’s way of slowing you down,” answered Cassandra. “You’ve been working far too hard for far too long.”
“Well, if it was His idea to slow me down, He’s accomplished it quite nicely,” Samuel replied without rancor.
He drummed the fingers of his good hand on the table and Cassandra recognized it as a sign of impatience.
“So how do you need my help?” she asked to change back to a positive note.
“Well, I was thinking—if I had your hands I could still help a number of the patients.”
“My hands?”
“Yes. If you could come into the office I could examine and diagnose and you could—well, sort of do the work.”
“Oh, Samuel,” she said a bit indignantly. “You know how I hate the sight of blood.”
“Not every patient comes in all bloody,” he reminded her.
She put down her cup and looked at him. He was serious!
“Not for the whole day,” he went on. He obviously had been giving this some thought. “Maybe a few hours in the morning—or the afternoon—while the children are in school. It certainly would be a help to the patients. Mrs. Merriwood was in yesterday, and I couldn’t even re-bandage her burn. And Mrs. Granger—”
“All right,” she said impatiently. “I understand the need—but I’m still not sure that I could—could—”
“Of course you could,” he answered without hesitation. “You’ve had a crash course. Anyone who could do what you did last week could handle anything I’ll have to care for.”
She looked at him. Doubts still filled her mind, but she did feel bad that there was no one to care for the ill since Samuel had broken his arm.
She stirred restlessly in her chair. “You wouldn’t leave me?” she asked him.
“Not for one minute,” he assured her.
“I—I could try—for a day or two and see how it goes.”
That was as much of a promise as she could make him at the moment.
“That’s good enough for me.” He smiled at her and stood to his feet.
“Could you be in about ten?” he asked.
She couldn’t help but laugh at her practical and efficient husband. She nodded and began to gather the breakfast dishes. If she was going to spend her morning nursing, she had to hurry with her household chores.
He normally left the house with his hat in one hand, his black bag in the other. Now he lifted his hat from the peg and surprised her by handing it to her.
“I’ve heard of women who wore the pants in the family,” she teased, looking down at the hat she held in her hand, “but this is ridiculous.”
He grinned, picked up his medical bag and said simply, “My mother taught me that a gentleman does not put his hat on in the house.”
“So?”
“So—walk me to the door—and put the hat on me.”
Cassandra began to laugh but she did as bidden. As soon as he had stepped through the door onto the back porch, he turned, kissed her and tilted his head toward her. She placed his hat on his head, pulled it down over his eyes and laughed as she returned to the dishes.
Chapter Nineteen
Assistant
At first Cassandra felt nervous and awkward as she tried to follow Samuel’s careful instructions, but it wasn’t long until compassion for the patient took over. Instead of praying for herself and her own ordeal of dealing with cuts and bruises and aches and pains, her prayers soon turned to petitions for those she tried to help.
“God, be with little Margaret. That is such a nasty burn and for such a little one.” “Father, help old Mr. Marshall. He’s almost blind and I’m not sure we can clear up the infection in his eyes. You touch him, Father.” “Lord, give Mrs. Collins strength to deal with her pain each day. Her hands are so twisted I don’t know how she can hold a spoon. Yet she must care for the needs of her elderly husband.”
And on and on it went. Patient after patient and prayer after prayer.
Some days she came home so exhausted, emotionally as well as physically, that she began to wonder how her husband had endured all the years of intense giving.
Samuel noticed her weariness. “Let me read the children their bedtime story,” he’d say, or “Vivian, Mama needs a bit more help tonight. She’s had a long day.”
The children did not seem to mind the tasks Samuel added to their responsibilities. It rather surprised Cassandra and made her realize that their youngsters were growing up.
Joseph had the job of bringing in wood and water for the kitchen and ke
eping the sidewalks shoveled. The girls shared in the meal preparation, setting the table, and doing the dishes. Thomas and Peter cared for the pets, cleaned the shoes for school the next morning, and put away all toys that had been played with that day. Each child was responsible for making beds. Cassandra was never sure of their system. They worked it out among themselves, trading the job back and forth, but Cassandra never found an unmade bed after they had left for school in the morning.
The winter days passed, and Samuel assured Cassandra almost daily that his arm was healing nicely. But she didn’t like the way his fingers swelled on occasion, or the fact that he moved restlessly at times when he didn’t think she was looking.
At last the day came when he said the cast should come off, and the task was assigned to her. She was sure that her hand would slip and she would cut him, but somehow the plaster fell away as it was supposed to do and there was his arm again, thin and pale and ugly looking. Cassandra was not prepared for the sight and in spite of her toughening from nursing chores, she nearly fainted.
But Samuel did not seem the least concerned. He tried to move his arm, working the fingers of the hand to test the mobility.
“I think you did a good job, Red,” he grinned at her.
“Samuel—it looks—looks sick,” she countered, still feeling the horror of the sight before her.
“That’s normal,” he replied without a flinch. “It takes a while.”
Cassandra turned away and cried out to God in silent prayer, “Please, God, let it be all right. We need him whole again. We have endured about as long as we can on our own strength. The family needs him now. And his patients need their doctor. I can’t do what needs to be done, Lord.”
When Cassandra turned back around to face Samuel, he was still flexing his fingers, working them this way then that—tightening, relaxing, lifting, bending.
