Robert slid his father’s watch from his vest pocket, warming the gold case in his fingers. He held his thumb against the cover for a moment before clicking it open. Two-thirty? He should have gone to bed hours ago.
He glanced back at the open pages. Buried somewhere in these books were the answers he sought. Every time he considered putting them away, his thoughts jumped back to the patient lying in the hospital ward and the family counting on him to bring her back from the brink of death.
A familiar chill swept over Robert. If this failed, it could jeopardize everything he had built with his mentor. Robert had been fortunate to land this position straight out of medical college. Dr. Gerald Larkspur—methodical, meticulous, and precise—had generously involved Robert in every detail of the practice, from examinations to billing. While most of Robert’s classmates were still groveling about, hoping for the opportunity to stitch a wound, Robert prospered under the guiding hand of one of the city’s finest physicians.
Best of all, Gerald not only served as Robert’s mentor, but their association had also deepened into friendship.
Robert sighed. Unfortunately, his friend remained trapped in the nineteenth century.
Skimming through William Allen Pusey’s The Practical Application of the Röntgen Rays, Robert pressed a pencil against his chin, a day’s worth of stubble scraping against the wood. Pusey’s evidence clearly stated more radiation was better than less. Did their patient have time for caution? For precision?
Cecelia Fischer needed more.
Abby Fischer’s beaming face filled his mind and he closed his eyes to the page. The woman’s passion entranced him. Whenever she looked at him with those glowing eyes, Robert felt he could move heaven and earth, if only to please her.
He’d barely recognized her at the hospital today—her hair pinned at the back of her neck, a crisp white blouse, dark skirt, and matching vest—nothing like the uncouth country girl who nearly fell into his arms two weeks ago. And yet, her honesty and zeal remained unchanged.
God, since when did beautiful girls fall from the sky?
He’d never met anyone quite like her. Most San Francisco socialites strutted about in their feathered hats, concealing any sign of intellect or inner passion. They took pride in spouting frivolous conversation like flocks of twittering songbirds.
Abby Fischer spoke few words, but the expressions drifting across her features announced her inner thoughts like a newspaper boy shouting headlines from the street. The fire burning in her gaze as she argued for her sister’s care ignited a matching passion in Robert’s chest.
He lifted the book, gripping its cover with renewed vigor. He would wring the answers from its fragile pages if it took all night.
Because if it were up to him—Cecelia Fischer would survive.
Abby tossed and turned on the narrow bed, her dreams filled with scattered images of her sister. One moment, she danced at a grand party, the next she fled through flaming streets. Abby opened her eyes, her nightgown damp with perspiration, the musty scent of the room dragging her back to reality. She pushed up from the bed and swung her feet to the floor.
Padding to the window, Abby drew an arm tightly around her middle, pulled back the curtain, and peered out into the night, the gas streetlamps sparkling like low-hanging stars. I’d rather see real stars. She lit a candle and set it on the nightstand by the bed, the flickering glow casting comfort into the stark room.
At home, she would have rushed to check on her sister, certain the dreams were a sign of impending doom. Dr. King had assured her the nurses would telephone if there were any problems. Abby cracked the bedroom door ajar to ensure she would hear its ring. Her family had never owned a telephone before, so she wasn’t sure how far the sound would carry.
Abby loosed her long braid and retrieved the tortoise-shell brush from the vanity. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she watched the candle flicker. At least the X-rays are working. She drew the bristles in long strokes through her hair, the muscles in her neck relaxing with the soothing rhythm.
Her mind wandered back to Dr. Robert King. The image of his warm eyes and smile remained imprinted on her heart. Abby paused mid-stroke and tapped the handle against her chin. Cecelia would laugh if she knew. Her sister had always tried to entice her into conversations about men, but Abby became an expert at changing topics. Besides, no man ever gave Abby a second glance once he spotted Cecelia. Abby had never needed skills in the fine arts of conversation and flirting—an area best left to the master.
Laying the brush on the nightstand, she grasped the candle and walked to the vanity. Surveying her reflection, Abby cocked her head to the side and drew her brown hair over her shoulder. In the dim light, she could almost imagine herself beautiful. Abby lifted her lips into the coy smile she’d seen Cecelia employ with such ease.
A gargoyle grinned back.
Abby covered her mouth in horror. Better not do that.
Abby sat back in her chair, resting the novel on her lap and meeting her sister’s gaze. Cecelia’s face had definitely gained new life—color and sparkle had returned. The luminosity of those familiar eyes brought a lump to Abby’s throat.
“Why did you stop reading?” Cecelia’s brow wrinkled.
“I can’t get over the change in you over the past few days.”
Cecelia ran her fingers along the snowy-white sheet covering her legs. She lay propped up with several large pillows, her blond hair brushed and braided, the gold locket gleaming against her chest. “I am having trouble believing it myself.”
Abby shook her head. “It’s astonishing how an energy field helped more in a few days than all of the medicines Dr. Greene has given you over the past six months.”
“Dr. Greene did what he could.” Cecelia stifled a yawn with the back of her hand.
“I’m tiring you. I should go.” Abby tucked a bookmark into the novel. “Mama and Papa will be coming to see you at noon. You’ll want to be rested.
“And here I thought you were waiting to get a glimpse of my handsome doctor.” Cecelia smiled, lips parting.
Abby’s cheeks warmed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m sick, not blind. And I’m pleased for you. Robert is very nice.” Her sister fiddled with the locket, sliding it back and forth on the delicate chain.
A cold prickle washed over Abby’s skin. “Robert, is it?”
“Dr. King. He seems too young to call ‘Doctor.’ He’s only twenty-five, you know.”
The prickles grew thorns. “He’s your doctor, Cecelia. Mama wouldn’t approve of you flirting with him.”
Cecelia’s chin jutted forward. “Calling him by his first name is not flirting. Now who’s being ridiculous?” The sudden pout gave way to a smile, like a glimmer of sun after a quick storm. “You do care for him—I can see it in your face.” She folded her arms across her chest and raised one eyebrow. “Here I am in the hospital and you’re setting your sights on my dashing, young physician.”
“Hush,” Abby jumped to her feet. “Someone will hear you.” She glanced around the hospital ward, but the nearby patients didn’t stir. She pointed a finger at her sister. “None of that kind of talk or I’m leaving. Besides, you’re the one who told me to pray, and Dr. King was God’s answer. For you, not for me.”
Cecelia yawned a second time, snuggling deeper into the pillows. “You can leave if you like. Robert’s coming in a few minutes. I’m sure he won’t mind keeping me company.” She closed her eyes, a triumphant smile lighting on her face.
Abby flopped back onto the hard chair. “I’d almost forgotten what you’re really like.”
Cecelia opened one eye. “What?”
“Incorrigible. Impossible. Insufferable.” Abby hadn’t bickered with her sister in months. Her heart rose.
“Irreplaceable.” Cecelia finally allowed her eyes to close, a small dimple appearing in her cheek.
“That, too.” Abby flipped open the novel and stared at the words swimming across the page. She would wait
for Dr. King, if for no other reason than to keep an eye on her sister.
Robert nearly collided with two nurses as he paced down the hospital hallway, still thumbing Pusey’s Practical Application. He apologized, the women’s giggles sending heat crawling up his neck as he juggled the heavy tome. Gerald stood at the desk nearby, a telephone receiver in his hand.
Robert excused himself and hurried over to join his partner just as Gerald replaced the receiver on the stand. “Gerald, I wanted to speak with you, if you have a moment.”
Gerald ran a hand across the back of his neck, “I just spoke with my cousin Clara. She and Herman will be coming in at noon to meet with me. I’d like for you to be there, also.”
“Of course.” Robert clasped the book to his chest as he eyed his friend. “You look terrible. Did you spend the night?”
“Mrs. Joyce passed during the wee hours.”
Robert’s heart dropped. In his fascination with the leukemia case, he’d somewhat lost sight of Gerald’s other patients. “I—I’m sorry.”
“It’s for the best. She’s been battling edema from dropsy for years. There was nothing more we could do. I’m glad to see her out of pain.” He shook his head. “There are days when it feels like all we do is watch our patients suffer. No matter how much science moves forward, death still wins in the end.”
Robert’s father’s voice echoed through his memory, reciting a favorite Scripture. “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? ” How had he always maintained such hope in the face of stark reality?
Robert reached for Gerald’s shoulder. “Your cousin seems to be improving all the time. It must be somewhat of a relief, right?”
Gerald glanced up. “Of course.” He eyed the book in Robert’s hand. “You look pretty exhausted, yourself. Been burning the midnight oil?”
“I’ve been reading some of the recent research regarding X-ray technology.” Robert hesitated. “I’ve found some case studies I think you should read. They suggest we should be using higher intensity radiation.”
Gerald’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve been over this.”
Robert flipped the book open. “But if you’d take a look at the research—”
“Why are you pushing this so hard? Cecelia’s responding to the low-level treatments. Why take the risk?”
Robert straightened his shoulders. Stiff competition in medical college had trained him to defend his conclusions with conviction, but facing off against a friend required prudence. “There may be additional risk in the long-term if we continue with this conservative approach. We might be giving the malignancy a chance to spread. I believe we should hit it hard and fast.”
“We need to make sure Cecelia can handle strong doses of radiation—build up her vitality first.”
Robert pointed to the pages of the book. “Pusey says the patient may not have time to wait.”
Gerald sighed, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “Give me the book. I’ll take a look at it.”
“It’s all I ask.”
6
Sunday, September 10, 1905
Abby opened her eyes, blinking against the hazy sunshine spilling through the bedroom window. A motor purred outside, catching her attention. The front door rattled and she sat up with a start, book falling to the floor.
Cousin Gerald must have given the family a ride home from church in his automobile. Glancing at the gold-framed clock, she blinked in surprise. Several hours had passed since she had stretched out on the bed to read the dog-eared copy of Kipling’s The Jungle Book she’d found on the shelf. Abby stretched and slid her feet to the cold floor.
“Abigail?” A quick rap sounded on the bedroom door. Mama peeked in, tiny wrinkles lining her forehead. She crossed the rug in an instant, placing a cool hand on Abby’s face. “How are you feeling?”
Abby’s stomach turned and she brushed the hand away. “Just a headache. How was church?”
Mama perched on the edge of the bed, unpinning her feather-bedecked hat and resting it on her lap. “The service was beautiful. The choir sang like angels. It’s not like church back home, of course, but it was very nice.” Her voice faded as her finger traced the pattern in the rosebud quilt Abby had brought from home, the twin to Cecelia’s. Mama’s eyes darkened.
She looked at Abby from under impossibly long lashes, her lips pressed to a thin line. “Aunt Mae is looking forward to having us for Sunday dinner.”
Abby gazed at the floor. She’d rather spend the day at Cecelia’s side or here in the quiet house.
“I know you’re not feeling your best, but it would make everyone happy to have you there. Aunt Mae was disappointed when you weren’t at church. You know how she loves to see you. Gerald even asked if he should come and check on you.”
Abby covered her eyes with her hands, “No—please.” This is what comes of feigning sickness rather than going to church.
“I understand. But I think you will feel better if you join everyone for dinner.” A tremor crept into Mama’s voice. “It isn’t good to be alone at a time like this. We all need to be together now, more than ever.”
Abby chewed on her lip. Her mother’s request hung in the air. She needs me.
“Dr. King will be joining us as well.”
Abby’s chin jerked up before she could catch herself. She lowered her eyes, but not before spotting her mother’s raised brows. An uncomfortable silence filled the room.
Mama stood. “Come, now. Let’s not keep everyone waiting.”
Abby sighed and rose to her feet.
Her mother smiled in triumph, but the expression faded as she eyed Abby’s rumpled brown skirt. Crossing to the wardrobe, she opened the door. She examined the plain shirtwaists and skirts with a frown. “Didn’t you bring a dinner dress?”
“I didn’t think I would need one.”
Mama’s hand stopped when she reached Cecelia’s Easter gown.
“Mama, no.”
“It’s the only suitable article of clothing in here. Your sister won’t mind.” She pulled the garment from the wardrobe and laid it across the bed. “Now, off with your old skirt and I will help you with your laces.”
Abby leaned against the bedpost for a moment, staring in dismay at the stylish gown. She remembered Mother and Cecelia choosing the material last year. Ivory lapels framed the pistachio-green gown, Irish lace on the cuffs and high collar softening the fashionable color Cecelia had so adored. The elegant dress deserved to grace the figure of a young woman stepping into the world of high society, not a freckled country girl who felt more at home tending to the orchard.
Taking a deep breath, Abby slipped off her comfortable white shirtwaist and brown skirt and pressed a hand against the front of her corset with a frown. The two sisters had not been cut from the same cloth. Whenever they traded clothes, the results were the same.
If this X-ray treatment fails, we might never share clothes again. Her throat tightened, as if the corset squeezed her neck rather than her middle.
Her mother wrapped Abby’s laces between her fingers and pulled, drawing the undergarment in like the coils of a hungry snake. Abby closed her eyes, imagining the constriction as glue holding her together while she spent the afternoon making small talk with relatives.
After her mother fastened the laces, Abby reached for the gown. After fastening the lace collar around her throat, she ran a finger between it and her skin to secure a few decent breaths of air.
Mama frowned as she tugged and adjusted the dress, trying to get it to fit on Abby’s sturdier frame. Finally, she stepped back and stared, a series of emotions passing across her gentle face like cloudbursts wandering through a summer sky. Turning away, she lifted a finger to the corner of her eye as if brushing away an errant lash. “It’s such a lovely garment.”
Abby glanced in the looking glass, a sinking sensation in her stomach. “Yes, lovely.” On Cecelia.
Her mother cleared her throat. “I’ll leave you to finish getting ready. Be quick, please. Ger
ald and Dr. King are waiting to drive us over.”
Abby stared down at the dress as her mother’s footsteps receded. After a few moments of silence, she hurried down the hall to her parents’ bedchamber. The long looking glass conveyed the unpleasant truth. Even worse than she feared. The lace and ruffles drew attention to the straining bodice, the yellowish-green color of the fabric accentuating the dark circles under her eyes. She rotated, frowning at the huge ivory bow hanging crooked on her backside. Abby tugged at it, but the ludicrous ornament refused to be straightened, its reflection mocking her from the mirror.
I can’t wear this. I won’t wear this.
She turned and faced her reflection head-on, running her hands down the ivory lapels. What choice do I have?
She poured some of Mama’s lilac-scented oil in her hand and ran sweet-smelling fingers through her long locks before braiding. Borrowing a few hairpins, she coiled the plaits into a knot at the nape of her neck. Not fancy, but at least her hair looked tidy.
She pinched her freckled cheeks and cast a final scornful glance over her shoulder at the bow on her rump.
Abby paused at the top of the stairs to smooth some of the puckers from her bodice and noticed Robert King examining a painting in the front hall. A crisp white celluloid collar and black tie peeked out above his wine-colored vest and black suit jacket, his dark hair parted in the center.
Abby’s breath caught in her throat. She retreated a few steps and stole a glance from around the corner, taking this rare opportunity to inspect the young man from a safe distance. Dr. King tugged at the edges of his suit coat, shifting from foot to foot. Curious. He radiated self-assurance the last time we met.
Leaning back against the wall, she took a deep breath. Maybe Dr. King lacked confidence after all. Abby glanced down at the gown before reaching up to smooth her hair. She’d never cared much about her appearance before. It’s just this dress. She tugged at the snug collar, beads of perspiration forming where the stiff lace scratched against her skin. She took another quick gander down the stairs, hoping Dr. King had gained the nerve to move into the parlor.
Out of the Ruins Page 4
