Nurse Maguire cocked her head, a clipboard balanced on one hip, her white cap floating on a sea of red curls. “Would you like some help, Dr. King?”
Lowering the wooden handle, Robert stepped away from the table. Of course, Abby wasn’t there. Why would she be? “I could use another pair of hands—well, one hand, actually. Don’t you usually work on the fourth floor?”
Nurse Maguire strode inside and took the broom from his fingers, her blinding-white apron cinched tight around a wasp-thin waist. “I’m filling in for Nurse Edgar.”
Robert cleared his throat and refocused his eyes on the row of controls. If she tripped, she might snap in half. She was clearly a change from Nurse Edgar whose waist more closely resembled a bumblebee. Or a rhinoceros.
Frowning at the counter cluttered with glass plates and boxes of coils, the nurse clucked her tongue. “I’m surprised she hasn’t done some straightening up in here.”
“I think Nurse Edgar feared she might stumble over Mr. Hyde or Frankenstein’s monster.” Robert opened the metal casing on the device and checked the wiring.
“You don’t seem much like Dr. Jekyll or Dr. Frankenstein.” The woman picked up a burned-out tube and peered through the smoky glass. “Though, after what we’ve heard about the experiments you’ve been conducting, it does make one wonder. I’d be happy to help you tidy up a bit.” She cocked her head, perusing him with catlike green eyes. “The board thinks you can walk on water, or so I hear.” She laid the tube on a rolling cart and turned to face Robert.
Robert stared at the dials, not wanting to think about the board. As soon as he’d stepped into the hospital this morning, one of the trustees cornered him in the hall, requesting a meeting. Robert ran his thumb across the row of switches powering the coils.
“They’re saying you’re the next Pierre Curie.” Her pale brows lifted and she smiled, revealing a dimple in one pink cheek. “But you don’t have a Marie, so the comparison only goes so far.” She cleared her throat. “I’d be honored to assist you in your research, Doctor.”
Robert stomach tightened. “You do know I lost my last patient, right?”
The young woman’s smile vanished. “And the fact you care so deeply shows what a wonderful doctor you are.” Her fingers brushed his elbow as she leaned in. “Now, what can I do?”
Robert gestured to the table, eager to create some space between his nose and her musky cologne. “Place your forearm on the table and hold very still.”
The nurse rolled back her sleeve and laid a milky white arm against the smooth surface. “Like so?”
Averting his eyes, he nodded. “It will do, yes, and because X-rays can penetrate clothing, you won’t need to do so next time.”
“The newspaper said they can see through a woman’s clothing, read her thoughts, and expose her darkest desires—but I don’t believe such rubbish.” Her lip curled in a saucy grin.
Robert gritted his teeth. “You need to hold still.” And close your mouth.
As the day wore on Nurse Maguire returned to other duties, much to Robert’s relief. He spent the afternoon assessing his new patients, each brimming over with unrealistic hopes. The first, a sixty-two-year-old banker presenting with a carcinoma on the back of his neck. The second, a mother of four whose thyroid sported a grape-sized tumor. When the final patient walked in, clinging to her mother’s hand, it took all of Robert’s self-discipline not to flee the laboratory. The five-year-old girl suffered from leukemia—not so different from Cecelia Fischer, just much younger.
All three cases were hopeless. Robert’s heart ached as he cleaned and organized the equipment for the next round of treatments. He remembered practicing surgeries on cadavers back in medical school. The three patients he’d seen today were little more than living cadavers, donating their bodies to science, enticed with the hope of a healing touch.
His father would say true healing came from God, and doctors were only His instruments. He’d often spent precious time praying with his dying patients, whispering words into their ears even when they were beyond hearing. How had he managed to walk the line between science and religion with such grace? His father’s quiet faith never seemed at odds with his profession.
Medical school had hammered Robert’s belief system into submission in a few short years. To mention God before one’s instructors or classmates brought instant mockery and humiliation. He learned to put God in his back pocket, or better yet—leave Him at church where He belonged.
Robert glared at the dark glass tubes holding a false promise of life for dying patients. His father might have been right. Perhaps someday doctors would achieve the cure for cancer, but it was a long way off. Too many variables. How could they track the dosages? Test the effectiveness? Quantify the results?
He dropped the burned-out tube in the trash bin, the sound of crunching glass matching his mood. If he had his way, he’d cast this research into the bin with the rest. Unfortunately, the hospital board had other ideas.
Science had failed him. Each patient reminded him of the Fischer girls. One he had tried to save. The other he tried not to love.
And with both, he’d failed.
19
Tuesday, March 6, 1906
The winter crawled past with the San Francisco fogs rolling in and out like a suffocating wet blanket over Abby’s soul. The dark days dragged, brightened only by Abby’s weekly visits with Aunt Mae. The woman had a knack for teasing a smile from Abby, and she always had a task waiting.
This early spring day, they had spent the afternoon weeding and pruning in the lush garden behind Gerald’s house. Abby uncovered the shoots of some bearded irises, overgrown and tangled, languishing in the tiny spot. Aunt Mae used a sharp knife to divide the roots, bagging up several for Abby to take back to Maple Manor—or home, as Mama had begun referring to it.
Weary after her long walk back up the hill, Abby plopped down in the one bright spot not obscured by the massive maple tree. Pushing her gardening trowel into the soft ground, she watched as the dirt crumbled, the dark particles of earth rearranging as they fell. A rich, musky scent rose from the broken soil, filled with the promise of new life.
She blinked back tears, torn apart by the very things she loved. Abby drove the spade deeper, pushing past the rich topsoil into the lighter-colored layer beneath. Reaching down into the hole, she fingered the cold mud, its slick texture clinging to her skin. The image of Cecelia buried in this damp clay chilled her heart. How could God have let this happen?
Shaking her hands, Abby flung the muck back into the hole and continued her work. After loosening the topsoil, she reached for the iris rhizomes and situated them in their new home. It wasn’t the right time of year to be transplanting iris, but they might find a way to survive. Leaning down, she spoke to the stubby, green shoots. “Do you feel as out-of-place here as I do?” She tamped the dirt down with her palms.
She felt as dead as those rhizomes appeared, and even so, they were sending up greenery. Abby ran her fingers over the ground, smoothing the surface around the stalks. Would they bloom in this new place? She glanced up at the overhanging limbs of the maple, heavy with buds. Would there be enough light to help them grow?
Sitting back on her knees, she brushed back a loose lock of hair with a dirt-crusted hand. Back home, the fruit trees should be preparing to burst forth into flowers. Early spring always brought joy. The peach trees adorned themselves in gowns of tender pink blossoms and seemed to dance with delight every time the wind caught the limbs, sometimes sending petals flying like snowflakes.
Abby closed her eyes, imagining her orchard, arrayed in its finest. In her daydream, she strolled between the trees, stopping to touch one and then another, relishing the heavy drapery of blooms dripping from the tender branch tips.
Hearing steps behind her, Abby struggled to her feet, mud clinging to her fingers.
Robert leaned against the fence, his arms draped across the boards, his face thinner than she remembered. “I thought I might fin
d you here. Gerald’s mother said you could use some help with the garden.” His warm eyes beseeched her, like a dog begging to come in from the cold.
Leave it to Aunt Mae. Abby took a step back, her shoe squishing into the soil she’d just turned. She swiped a hand across her damp cheek, the scent of dirt heavy on her skin. I just smeared mud on my face, didn’t I? “I’ve finished the planting, thank you.”
Robert wrapped his fingers around one of the pickets, his brown derby emphasizing the dark shadows under his eyes. “Ah, good. I don’t suppose I’d have been much of an assistant anyway.”
Abby dug for a handkerchief, but found none. “Like me in the X-ray lab.” She paused, the words sending a tremor through her insides. “Excuse me—” her voice faltered. “I must go.”
His pinched brow and shining eyes gouged at her heart. Abby ground the sole of her shoe into the topsoil, brushed muddy hands across her apron, and hurried to the house.
I can’t. I just can’t.
Part 2
20
Wednesday, April 18, 1906
4:25 a.m.
An alarm bell cracked Robert’s dream into a million shards of lost images. He jerked upright, flinging blankets to the side. Fire wagon? He launched to his feet, landing with a thump on the rag rug beside the bed.
He swayed for a moment as his senses recovered enough for him to locate the sound in the darkness. With a groan, Robert swiped the clock from the nightstand and silenced the ear-splitting bell. Hands shaking, Robert sank onto the mattress, blood pulsing in time to the rhythm of his heart.
A faint glow from the streetlamp outside filtered through the window of his third-story bedroom. Robert tipped the clock face toward the light and squinted. Four-twenty-five? He pinched the bridge of his nose before rubbing clumsy fingers across his eyelids. Returning the timepiece to the stand, Robert fell back in the blankets, stretching his legs down until his toes brushed the end of the wooden bedstead. He rolled onto his stomach, reaching an arm to each side and stretching his fingers around the edges of the narrow mattress, like a starfish clinging to a tide-swept rock.
With a groan, he lifted his head, blinking his eyes to clear his vision. Early rounds. Who invented such a ludicrous idea?
“Abby?”
Wrapped in the fog of sleep, Abby snuggled deeper under the covers, ignoring the soft tick of the clock and the shuffling footsteps.
“Abby?” The high-pitched voice cut through her bleary mind.
Abby clenched her eyes shut and pulled the covers over her head. “Too early,” she mumbled into the blankets. “Too early.” Gentle breathing tickled her ear. She pulled the covers down to her chin. Moonlight gleamed through the tall bedroom windows and shimmered in her brother’s eyes.
He leaned close. “Are you awake?”
Abby turned and pressed her face into the bedding, the feather pillow absorbing her frustrated groan. “Yes.” She took a deep breath, sucking air through the down. “What do you want?”
He shook the edge of the bed. “Can I sleep here with you?”
“Shh, yes. Come on.” She reached down and grabbed his wrist, hauling him up into the warm bed.
He bounced on the mattress, the frame squeaking in protest.
“Hush, Davy. Don’t wake Mama. Be quiet.”
“Mama’s singing.” His voice chirruped like a morning songbird in the quiet room as he cuddled into Abby’s side.
“Mama doesn’t want to sing to you now. She’s sleeping.” She grasped his icy fingers and tried to rub some warmth into them. “Davy, why are you hands sticky? What have you been into?”
His sweet breath flooded her face. “Nothing.” Red smears decorated the corners of his mouth.
“Have you been eating jam?”
Davy stuck his gummy fingers in his mouth.
“Oh, sure, now you’re quiet,” Abby sighed. “Mama won’t be pleased. We’re down to just a few jars.”
Abby fought the urge to roll over and go back to sleep, but she couldn’t leave a sticky mess in the bed. And for Davy’s sake, it’d be better if she hid the evidence in the kitchen before morning. She pushed back the warm blankets. “Don’t touch anything, Davy.” She leveled a finger at his sticky face. “Sit still.”
Abby slipped her arms into the sleeves of her wrapper, pulling it over her nightdress. Walking on tiptoes to keep the soles of her feet off the cold floor, Abby crossed to the washstand and dampened a washcloth.
Davy’s eyelids drooped by the time she returned to the bed.
“Oh, no you don’t. If I’m awake—you’re awake.” She scrubbed his face with the clammy rag as he batted at her wrists. “It’s what you get for waking me in the middle of the night with a sticky face.” She seized the flailing hands and wiped them clean, too.
Davy twisted his body and pushed his face into the pillow.
“I sure hope I got it all and you’re not using my pillow as a napkin.” She tugged the covers and flung them over his head. “I’ll be back in a minute. I want to make sure you didn’t leave the kitchen in a mess.”
Moonlight peeked through the kitchen window as Abby stole down the steep back stairs, skipping the creaky third step. The kitchen looked untouched. No cabinets stood open, no sticky spoons littered the table or the floor. At least her brother had been discreet about his nighttime snacking.
Abby wandered through the kitchen and into the dining room. The front parlor door stood ajar. Abby tiptoed to the door and peeked inside. The glass jar lay on its side under a small corner table, its lid reflecting the moonlight. A gentle creak broke the stillness. Abby froze, her breath catching in her chest.
Mama sat in Grandma Etta’s rocking chair, pulled close to the large bay windows facing the street. Eyes squeezed shut, the moonlight glistened off of her damp cheeks. The family Bible lay open on her lap, her mouth moving, lips forming quiet words.
The familiar hymn floated across the room. “Come thou fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy grace. Streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise.”
Abby’s heart ached as the tender notes transported her back to Cecelia’s last days. Wrapping arms around her middle, she shivered in the dark hall.
Mama’s voice quavered on the last note and she drew a long, tremulous breath, eyes still closed. “Father, we need those streams of mercy right now. You haven’t stopped sending them, have you? I don’t feel like praising You, and yet, it is what Your Word asks. Help me.”
Hot tears welled up in Abby’s eyes as she backed from the room. Cecelia’s song. No one—not even Mama—should sing Cecelia’s song. She held her breath all the way back up the stairs.
Flashes of white danced before her eyes—the nurses’ gowns, the hospital walls, the bed linens, Robert’s lab coat. She pushed away his image before her mind could travel to unwanted memories.
“Streams of mercy” hinted at misty-cool blues and living greens, like her farm home. There was no place for it here.
Davy lay curled on the bed, eyes closed, and his tiny eyelashes dark and unmoving against his fair skin.
A stone settled into Abby’s stomach and she fell to her knees on the hard floor beside the bed, staring at her baby brother. God could take him, too. God could take everything my heart loves. Papa had left for the farm this morning—signing the final papers selling their home, her orchard, to strangers.
She laid her cheek on the cool mattress, arms spread across the bedding. The image of her father slaving from dawn till dusk inside a dim factory sent shivers across her skin. It didn’t seem right.
Trembling, Abby pushed up to her feet and slid under the covers, the wrap still hugging her shoulders. She slipped an arm under Davy and scooted close, stealing a portion of his warmth. Abby’s eyes stung with tears and she slammed them shut, burying her face against the pillow.
21
5:12 a.m.
Abby opened her eyes, Davy’s fine hair tickling her cheek and the first hints of morning light drifting in the bedroom
window. Davy lay like a fallen log on her left arm, leaving her fingers tingling.
An eerie howl twisted through the morning air. The neighbor’s dog? Abby lifted her head. The shadows seemed to be holding their breath, as if someone stood nearby. Slipping her arm free, Abby sat upright, a shiver spreading through her body. Her teeth chattered in the early morning chill.
She flexed her hand and shook it, willing the blood back into her fingers. The bed rattled and she froze so as not to rouse her brother. She had hoped for a few moments of silence before Davy awoke, disturbing the peace with his endless chatter.
A wagon rumbled by outside and a second dog added his baying to the first, rising in pitch until it became an unearthly wail sending prickles racing across Abby’s skin. The tremor continued. She straightened, her heart rate quickening as she grabbed at the iron bed frame, its vibrations tickling through her fingers.
Earthquake.
Robert walked the quiet wards, coffee cup in hand. The white walls gleamed under the harsh lights. He needed to prepare the X-ray laboratory for the day, but first he wanted to check on Mrs. McCurty. After yesterday’s fever, he wasn’t eager to take her down for treatment unless she’d shown some improvement overnight.
Taking a gulp of the dark brew, he nodded to the duty nurse before stepping into the cancer ward. Eight beds crowded the small room, each one occupied by a sleeping patient. Robert glanced over at the bed where Cecelia Fischer had slept during her stay, now filled by a portly woman with several gold rings on her pudgy fingers. Her mouth hung open in sleep, gasping snores cutting through the morning stillness.
He walked to the far end where Mrs. McCurty lay curled on her side on the narrow bed closest to the window. Her brown hair tucked into a lace sleeping cap, she looked much younger than her forty-five years. Her lids fluttered open as Robert approached and a faint smile played at the corners of her lips. “There you are, Doctor. The pretty red-headed nurse said you’d be by early and here you are.”
Out of the Ruins Page 14
