Out of the Ruins

by Karen Barnett

  “Of course they did.” Aunt Mae raised her chin. “It’s more likely they went out to smoke their pipes. I told Gerald I wouldn’t move in here unless he stopped smoking the disgusting thing in the house.” She took a deep breath. “I’m certain Dr. King can take care of this.”

  Abby’s stomach churned.

  Dr. King glanced at Abby. “If it isn’t too serious, perhaps Miss Fischer would prefer to wait for her cousin.”

  Holding her breath, Abby darted a gaze toward her aunt. “Yes, I think—”

  “Nonsense,” Aunt Mae snapped with all the sympathy of a sergeant major, giving the young man a gentle shove. “Gerald told me you were the top of your class. I’m sure you can handle a few simple sutures.”

  A hissing from the stovetop drew Aunt Mae back toward the food preparations. “Come, Clara, let’s give him some space, shall we?” She beckoned to Abby’s mother.

  Dr. King crouched down on his heels and reached for Abby’s hand.

  Her palms grew damp. Drawing them close to her chest, Abby cradled the bloodstained towel against the apron bodice. “I don’t think it’s so bad. It probably doesn’t even need stitches.”

  “Let’s take a look. All right?”

  Lowering her hand to his outstretched one, Abby averted her eyes. As Dr. King unwound the towel, curiosity overcame her nerves and she bent forward for a glimpse of the wound. Her hand trembled she stared at the gaping, oozing wound on her pointer finger, perhaps a half-inch long. She leaned back against the chair, swallowing a whimper.

  Dr. King pressed the towel back into place. “Your aunt is right. It needs to be sutured. I’ll get some things from Gerald’s study.” His brows wrinkled above his deep, brown eyes. “Are you certain you wouldn’t rather wait for him?”

  Of course, I want to wait for him. She stared down at the doctor’s hand cradling hers, his slight olive skin tone in sharp contrast to her own pale fingers. “No, it’s fine.”

  “All right, then.” He lifted her arm. “Hold the hand up to slow the bleeding. I’ll be right back.”

  As the kitchen door swung on its hinges, the odors of the cooking food combined with the sweltering heat pressed in on Abby. One last glance at the reddening dishtowel overwhelmed her resolve. She dashed for the back door and stumbled down the stairs into the yard before her stomach heaved.

  Abby’s mother helped her back inside and into the sitting room. Aunt Mae brought a damp cloth for her forehead and a cup of chamomile tea.

  Abby settled down on the rose-colored damask chaise longue, closing her eyes in the quiet. The throbbing in her finger competed with the churning sensations in her gut. As if this day hadn’t been embarrassing enough—now she lay like some wounded heroine in a romance novel.

  Except this day had been anything but romantic.

  Her stomach did another carousel-like twirl at the sound of footsteps entering the room and a chair being drawn close. The doctor’s instruments jangled against each other, a grating dissonance in the otherwise tranquil room.

  “Miss Fischer?” The doctor spoke in soft tones. “Are you ready?”

  “As ready as I will ever be.” She swallowed, pushing the acidic taste back down her throat as she opened her eyes.

  Dr. King rested her wrist against a cushion he’d set upon a low table.

  Abby pressed her other arm against her stomach, pushing away the cold prickles crawling over her skin. This is nothing compared to what Cecelia endures.

  Dr. King swabbed the wound with iodine-soaked gauze, staining her skin a distasteful shade of orange. Reaching into a leather bag, he withdrew a small silver case, turning away as he opened it.

  She leaned forward, craning her neck for a glimpse. Spotting a deadly looking syringe, Abby’s breath caught in her throat. “What’s that?”

  “It’s Novocain.” He held up the glistening needle and flicked the glass tube several times with a fingernail. “It will numb your skin so you don’t feel the sutures.”

  She frowned. “What about feeling the needle?”

  “Trust me, this is better.”

  Abby held her breath as he positioned it against her finger. The twinge of pain reminded her of a wasp sting.

  “Now, we wait.” He turned his attention to the medical bag. Selecting several gleaming instruments, he arranged them on a pristine white cloth, touching and straightening each one in turn. With a quick nod, he excused himself from the room.

  Abby sat back against the cushion, the silence a soothing balm. She wiggled her fingers in awe as an icy sensation took hold, the ache receding into the cold.

  If only someone would invent Novocain for emotions.

  Robert stood at the window in Gerald’s study, peering down the street for a sign of his friend’s return. He wiped damp palms on his trouser legs. You’ve done this a hundred times in the hospital. Why is this any different?

  The young woman’s teary brown eyes flooded Robert’s thoughts and he shoved his trembling hands into his pockets. Perhaps he should ask her to keep her eyes closed. Most patients preferred not to see the suturing process anyway.

  Then again, Abby Fischer was no ordinary patient.

  The street remained empty. Robert glanced at the grandfather clock, wishing the steady tick would calm his nerves. He took a deep breath and strode down the dim hallway to the sitting room, his shoes sinking into the plush rug.

  Miss Fischer’s head rested against the crocheted antimacassar draped over the couch’s back. Her ivory skin revealed a hint of green, similar to her eye-catching gown.

  Robert pulled his gaze away and settled into the chair across from her. “The anesthetic should have worked its magic by now.” He cradled her wrist, stroking her fingers. “Can you feel it?”

  A pink flush rose on Miss Fischer’s freckled cheeks, a stark contrast to her frost-kissed hand. “It’s a strange sensation. It’s almost as if my hand belonged to someone else.”

  He released his hold, resisting the urge to warm her skin with his own. Selecting a curved needle from the cloth, he threaded it with catgut. “Even with the Novocain, this is still going to hurt a little. I will need you to hold perfectly still.”

  Her wide-eyed expression made it difficult to concentrate. Pretend she’s a stranger. Pretend she’s a man. Pretend she’s your mother, for goodness sakes. Whatever it takes. He adjusted the needle in the forceps, begging God for steady hands. He hadn’t been this tense since Dr. Emil Dawson breathed down his neck during his first surgery. And it had been a splenectomy.

  Imagine she’s some man off the street. Only with soft skin and perfectly rounded fingernails. Maybe a banker.

  Robert pressed the edges of the laceration together and lined up the needle for the initial jab.

  At the sharp prick, Miss Fischer gasped and jerked her arm back.

  Be gentle, you idiot. He pressed her wrist back against the towel. “Do you want me to ask your aunt or mother to help?”

  She shrank in the seat. “No. I can hold still. I promise.” Miss Fischer’s chin quivered.

  He closed his eyes for a moment. “Relax.”

  “What do you think I’m trying to do?”

  He chuckled, easing his grip on her hand. “I was actually talking to myself. But, yes, you relax, too.”

  Robert pressed the needle into her skin, using the edge of his hand to brace her finger against the table. Drawing the thread taut, he pulled the edges of the wound closed with ease. “Are you doing all right?”

  She spoke through clenched teeth. “Yes, fine. Thank you. You may proceed.”

  Robert bent his head low over his work, making quick work of the few stitches. Tying off the final suture, he snipped the thread close to the skin. “I’m sure your cousin will want to take a look at it when he gets home.” He smiled, the tension easing from his shoulders. “Make sure to inform him of my wonderful bedside manner.”

  Miss Fischer cradled the injured finger against her chest. “Thank you, Dr. King.” She gazed at the stitches. “Your sewing i
s much better than my own. I am fortunate you were here.”

  “Treating two lovely sisters in one day—I believe I am the fortunate one.”

  Her shy smile sustained him as he cleaned Gerald’s instruments and returned them to the doctor’s study. He would need to remember to replace the vial of Novocain with the supply from their downtown office. Pressing a hand against his eyes, he recalled the expression on Miss Fischer’s face as he brought out the syringe. A woman of few words, perhaps, but one could get lost in her dark, expressive eyes. The Miss Abby Fischer he’d seen today—frail as a butterfly when he took her hand—stood in sharp contrast to the picture of confidence and strength she presented at her sister’s bedside.

  A knot formed in his stomach as he remembered his own rush of emotion while touching her hand. Not very professional. Robert shook his head.

  Gerald cleared his throat as he stood in the doorway, fiddling with his watch fob. “It appears I missed all the excitement.”

  Robert jerked from his reverie and latched the glass door on the cabinet.

  “I took a look at Abby’s finger—splendid job. I couldn’t have done better.”

  Robert breathed out, his muscles loosening. “It was only a few sutures. I did plenty in medical school.”

  Gerald joined him at the cabinet, chuckling. “Yes, but not on my cousin.”

  “I suppose I’m growing accustomed to treating your family members.”

  A shadow crossed the other man’s face. “Hmm. Let’s hope it doesn’t become a habit.” Gerald dropped down into his desk chair, letting it turn side to side on its swivel post. “Still, Cecelia is making remarkable progress. It’s quite astounding.”

  A surge of pride lifted Robert’s spirits as he sat in an armchair nestled in the corner of the office. “Have you thought more about what I said earlier?”

  Gerald leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “Yes. And I read the studies you gave me.” His face sobered. “It’s a good thing I have you to keep me on track.” He turned toward the photos lining his desk. “I understand why they say you shouldn’t treat a loved one. I’m terrified of making a mistake, of being blamed—of blaming myself—I err on the side of caution. But Pusey’s research is clear.”

  Robert leaned forward. “Then we’ll increase the treatments?”

  Gerald nodded. “If there’s any chance for this to work long-term, we have no choice.” His eyes darkened. “But keep an eagle eye on her, Robert. I don’t want any burns or such. The machines are to be calibrated every time.”

  “Of course.”

  “If we see any negative side effects from the increased radiation, we’re going to reevaluate.”

  Robert stood, energy buzzing in his chest. “I’ll document everything. We’re going to make history after all.”

  Gerald gazed out the window. “I’m not in this for history. You’re welcome to the glory. I’d simply like to have my cousin back.”

  Robert’s thoughts pulled back to the image of Cecelia Fischer lying in the hospital bed, coupled with Abby Fischer’s adoring gaze when she’d recognized her sister’s vast improvement. “If I get my way, we’re going to have both.”

  8

  Abby settled onto a wrought-iron bench nestled beneath the grape arbor. The late afternoon breeze, scented with lavender, rustled the leaves, the trailing vines whispering words of solace to her soul.

  She closed her eyes, desperate to restore her composure after the disastrous dinner conversation. Without Cecelia’s lively presence to distract everyone, Abby’s lack of conversational grace glared like the summer sun. Spreading her skirt wide across the bench, Abby admired how the color blended with the emerald shades of the garden. Perhaps no one would even see her. Twenty minutes to calm her nerves would be a blessed relief.

  As if in response to her thoughts, the back door opened. Abby ducked her head. Maybe if I hold perfectly still . . .

  Dr. King stood on the top step, his dark hair gleaming in the sun. After glancing around the yard, he ambled down the stairs and made a beeline for her hideaway. “Your great-aunt suggested I come and check on you. You don’t look like you need a physician this time, but maybe she thought you could use a friend.”

  Abby stared down at the green silk covering her legs. “I don’t need anything.” Cecelia would invite him to sit.

  Not waiting for the invitation, Dr. King sat beside her.

  Abby shifted farther along the bench to give him adequate space. “You don’t have to keep me company.”

  Dr. King leaned forward, resting elbows on his knees. “I have six sisters. Did you know that?”

  Abby chewed on her lip. More conversation.

  “One older, five younger. You should have seen them cry when I left for school.” He stretched out his long legs and leaned back against the bench. “Our house was always full of giggling and chatter. Your family is altogether too quiet for my tastes.”

  Abby felt his eyes on her. She twiddled her fingers, watching the dapples of sunlight dance across her palms. This is my cue. Say something. She licked her lips. “Cecelia is our conversationalist.”

  “And what about you?”

  Her shoulders tensed. “I—I’m not.”

  “All right, tell me about your family.”

  What would Cecelia say? How would she act? Abby struggled to pull her thoughts together.

  He brushed her elbow with his own. “Better yet, tell me something about you.”

  The touch of his arm sent a shock through her system. Abby’s tongue grew thick and stuck to the roof of her mouth. “It’s too difficult. Can’t we talk about the weather or something?” A squawking giggle escaped from her mouth, sending a fresh wave of heat up her neck.

  He tipped back his head and stared up at the leafy vines. “If you insist. But it’s not nearly as interesting.”

  She darted a glance at his face, her sister’s admonishing voice sounding in her head: Don’t sit there like a lump, Abigail. Talk!

  “Cecelia’s not just my sister—she’s my best friend.” My only friend. The words rushed out. Her stomach clenched. Not a good beginning.

  He leaned forward, a glimmer in his eye. “Why?”

  Abby picked at her bandaged finger. “She’s easy to talk to. She understands me.” Abby glanced up, half-expecting to see mockery in his eyes.

  His warm gaze surprised her. “And other people don’t?”

  “Not really.”

  “Do you give them a chance?”

  She plucked a tendril from the grape vine, straightening the curlicue with her fingers before letting it spring back. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  Dr. King leaned back and studied her. “If you don’t talk to people, give someone an opportunity to get to know you—how can you expect them to understand? You’re keeping everyone at arm’s length.”

  “Maybe there’s nothing worth talking about.”

  He smiled. “I highly doubt it. Your eyes alone speak volumes.”

  Abby ducked her head as a sudden chill raced across her skin.

  He leaned closer, placing his hand on her arm, “Abby—”

  The back door slammed and Dr. King yanked away as if her arm were a hot stovetop.

  Davy galloped across the yard, launching himself into Abby’s lap.

  Papa followed, tapping a pipe against his palm. “Dr. King, I see you found my wandering daughter.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dr. King sprang from the bench, gesturing for her father to sit.

  Papa clamped the pipe between his lips, ignoring the younger man’s civility. “When Abby was ein Kind—a child—we always had to go searching for her. Eventually she’d traipse in, her skirts wet and muddy from playing in the creek.”

  Abby cuddled Davy, hiding her face in his skinny neck. Thanks, Papa.

  “Of course it was never hard to find her sister.” Papa’s face softened. “You just had to listen. She would sing wherever she went, just like her mama.”

  A prickle danced across Abby�
�s skin. “ ‘Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.’ It is her favorite. She and Mama sang it together with beautiful harmonies.”

  Robert tipped his head toward her. “What about you?”

  A laugh rose in her belly, not quite reaching her mouth. “Not me.”

  A cacophony of fire bells out front drew their attention to the street. Davy squealed in delight. “Can I go see?” He thrust away from Abby and bounded toward the sound of pounding hooves.

  Papa and Dr. King hurried after him.

  Abby jumped up and followed them through the yard and into the narrow slot between Gerald’s house and the neighbor’s.

  Papa grabbed Davy by the seat of his short trousers, swinging the boy up onto his shoulders.

  They arrived at the front gate as the fire wagon hurtled past with a rush of wind. The horses leaned into their harnesses, sides heaving and flecked with foam. The burly firemen hung onto the back and sides of the wagon as it careened down the street, a group of laughing boys and barking dogs in pursuit.

  Papa clasped Davy’s shoes as they drummed against his chest. “San Francisco has the most modern fire department in the world.” He turned to Abby. “Progress, Abigail! Many things are changing with this new century—automobiles, flying machines, modern medicines. Nothing is outside of our grasp. Pretty soon, society will have all the answers.” Papa placed a hand on the fence, staring out into the street, his voice quieting. “And children won’t have to die before their parents.”

  Abby wove a hand under his elbow and rested her head against Papa’s shoulder.

  Monday, September 11, 1905

  The electric lights emitted a soft buzz, not casting enough illumination to chase the gloom from the windowless laboratory. Robert took a deep breath of the dank air as he adjusted the X-ray machine’s settings, hoping to distract his attention from the young woman standing at the table in the center of the large room.

  Abby Fischer laid her hand on the wooden box containing the glass plate. Her round eyes shimmered, a rare smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “Like this?”

  Robert hoped she couldn’t hear the sound of his heart hammering against his ribs. “Let me show you.” He stepped closer, intoxicated by the flowery scent emanating from her hair. Lowering his arm, Robert slid his hand down Miss Fischer’s wrist, his fingers settling against hers.