Thomas paused for a moment, looking at his inventory.
“Syringes,” Hardy prompted. “And you accuse me of being weary, old man.”
Thomas added three freshly claved hypodermics to his kit. “All right. Lead on, Miss Stephens. And by the way…” He turned back to Hardy. “I left Jake Tate at the logging camp. He is a most resourceful young man. But I would expect there to be more cases from there. And now, with this, who knows.” He smiled sympathetically at the older physician. “I was told that someone saw smoke over the trees, coming from the Dutch camp. We may yet stop this thing.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Thomas followed the girl down Gamble Street, past the constable’s log cabin office, beyond the partially completed Post Office building, to the intersection with Angeles Street—as narrow, rutted, and unfinished as all the others. Nevertheless, the walk felt good, the late afternoon sun hot on his shoulders.
The sunshine had been one of the few blessings this day. Without it, the sodden linens, the blankets, the mattresses—all things washed would remain soaked and unusable. But all day, the sun had roasted the laundry, and they had kept the cycle of wash, rinse, boil, and hang to dry at a frantic pace.
Eleanor said not a word as they walked. She didn’t refer to the episode at the camp, or offer an explanation of her relationship with Ben Sitzberger. Thomas didn’t press her. He could imagine the girl, smitten by the logger—perhaps smitten for the first time in her life. What Eleanor’s relationship with Lucy Levine might have been, Thomas could only guess. Perhaps Ben Sitzberger, in his own offhand, carefree way, had enjoyed both girls equally. None of it mattered now, and Thomas left it alone.
The impressive church steeple rose high to overlook the town, and by the time Thomas had mounted the long hill to the church, he was breathing heavily.
The Pastor’s home was a large frame structure set well back from the church, its cedar clapboards painted so white that in the sunshine it hurt the eyes. With its frilled porch and endless variations in roof line, with its bumped out windows and dark cedar shakes on the roof, it looked as if it had been transported with the stroke of a sorcerer’s wand from a New England village.
Thomas glanced at the grounds in front of the church where the buggies, horses and mules of a fair-sized congregation would assemble for Sabbath…with all those people at risk. Off the side of the church, a long, low-roofed hall had been built for gatherings other than worship.
“You’ll fetch your step-father for me?”
“He will be in the church hall,” Miss Stephens repeated, “and then he was to go to town. I believe he was seeking out Mr. Garrison.”
“I see.” While his wife lies dying, he thought. They mounted the white steps and entered the house. Instantly, the repugnant odor struck his nose, the impact heightened after the walk through cleansing sunshine and inlet breezes.
“She is upstairs,” Miss Stephens said.
“Where are your sisters?”
“Elaine is upstairs with mother. The two youngest children are accompanying their father.”
Their father. An interesting distinction, Thomas thought.
“You know that, having been exposed, that is exactly the wrong thing for them to do?” Eleanor didn’t respond. She functioned as if hollow inside. “Were they in school today? Were they among those tested?”
“They are too young for school.”
“At least there’s that,” he said, and followed Eleanor upstairs, and straight back to the rear of the house. The bedroom door was closed, and Eleanor Stephens knocked discreetly, then pushed it open without waiting. Mrs. Patterson lay curled on her side, one hand listlessly over the side of the bed. In a chair beside her, a teen-aged girl sat sideways, both hands enclosing her mother’s. She looked up as her sister as Thomas entered, and placed her mother’s hand back on the linen.
At the foot of the bed a large chamber pot rested, the lid slightly askew.
“Empty that immediately,” he instructed, and it was the younger girl who leaped to obey. “You are Elaine, young lady?” He didn’t recall seeing the girl at the school.
“Yes.” Her voice was strong, with just the trace of a lisp. She shared her sister’s black hair and pale face, but with more prominent cheekbones and a forthright chin. She would play hell with the schoolyard boys, Thomas reflected.
“You weren’t at the school today.”
“No, sir. I have tended mother all day.”
“When did she take ill?”
“Early this morning, just as we finished breakfast, sir. We supposed it was something that she ate.”
“The chamber pot, then.” Thomas fought down a surge of temper, refusing to snap at the girl, who certainly knew no better. He glanced at Eleanor, who certainly did know better, but who now stood infuriatingly mute. “You didn’t see the similarities between your mother’s illness and the cases at the clinic?” The physician moved to the side of the bed.
“Mrs. Patterson?”
Her eyes had been staring at the linen beside her face, and they shifted without the least movement of her head, having trouble focusing. Her forehead felt dry and cold. He took her hand in his. “Can you squeeze my hand?” The response was slight. A nearly full glass stood on the nightstand. For a healthy woman, the glass would have been near at hand. For Mrs. Patterson, it might as well have been a mile distant.
“Have you been able to hold down water?”
“No,” the woman whispered. Her voice tapered off to just the movement of her lips. “So thirsty.”
“When were you…” Thomas started to ask, and was startled as the woman drew her legs up sharply with a cry of distress. Eleanor moved forward with a towel, but her ministrations were slow and awkward, as if she wanted to accomplish her task from a dozen feet away. The girl’s face was so pale that Thomas could see the network of capillaries under the skin, and Eleanor’s lips trembled.
With a yank, Thomas threw the bedding to one side, but the gush fountained, most of the release caught by several layers of rough towels. “A deep wash basin first,” he commanded. “Where are you putting the soiled linen?”
“We have a Morgan washer,” the girl said.
“These must either boil or be burned,” Thomas instructed. “And replaced the moment they are soiled. The towels are good, but there must be more of them, and clean.” He turned back to the woman, who now lay panting, mouth dry. Eleanor backed out of the room, the linen wadded in her hands. “At first we thought…I mean, at first, the symptoms seemed a mild grippe only.”
“I’m sure,” Thomas snapped. As Eleanor started to turn away, he added, “And change that apron.” With swift movements, he listened with the stethoscope, hesitated and then listened again, frowning. He moved the instrument down the side of the woman’s thin back, pausing several times just below the tip of her shoulder blade. “Can you manage a deeper breath, Mrs. Patterson. Just ever so?” If she heard, there was little response. He leaned closer, pushing the left earpiece in tightly, trying to catch the slightest irregularity. Closing his eyes, he sat quietly, listening far longer than need be. The cholera had joined with an old ally. The rales of lungs ruined by tuberculosis were distinctive. Mrs. Patterson’s heart beat like a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, tripping beats of little force or regularity. As he listened, she writhed in agony.
“Now,” Thomas said as the younger daughter, Emily, returned. “How old are you, young lady?”
“Fourteen, sir.”
And soon to be much older. “I want a large pan filled with the hottest water you can find,” he said. “Lots and lots of hot water. Clean hot water. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.” The lass frowned as if offended by his blunt question.
“Good. From where do you fetch your water?”
“We have a good well, sir.”
“Even better, then. Hot, hot, hot. And clean towels. We must do half a dozen things at once.” The child’s eyes grew large as he retrieved one of the
syringes from the kit. He pulled a half grain dose of morphine from the tiny brown bottle and injected it into the woman’s thigh. She jerked and moaned.
“The morphine will help with some of the gut pain. We must be able to force her to relax. That’s the first thing.” He placed the used syringe into a small enameled pan from his bag. “Mrs. Patterson, listen to me,” he said, moving to the head of the huge bed. “You’re going to be all right, do you hear me? Your daughters are angels, and they’re going to help me. You are going to help me.”
Again, that prompted little reaction, but just as Thomas turned toward his medical bag, the woman vomited an enormous geyser that splashed across the bed, spattered the fashionable chest of drawers, and flooded onto the floor. Her eyes closed, and she rolled away.
Elaine nearly pounced across the room to dab at the mess with yet another towel.
“Hot, hot water,” Thomas repeated. “And we need it now, girl.”
Elaine nodded and vanished holding the fetid towels. Eleanor had yet to return, and from her expression on backing out of the room, Thomas wasn’t surprised.
Thomas snapped one of the towels from the small pile at the end of the bed, opened the bottle of carbolic acid, and splashed it liberally over his hands.
“Doctor?” The single word came clearly, if only a whisper.
Thomas bent down, keeping his dripping hands well back.
“Am I to die?” Mrs. Patterson whispered, so little breath that Thomas was forced to read her lips.
“Most certainly not.” Thomas forced the lie to sound like an optimistic promise. He knelt at the bedside, and her eyes, sunken and listless though they were, locked on his. He did not need to tell her that her tuberculosis, itself untreated for who knew how long, had ruined her otherwise sturdy constitution.
“Listen to me.” He kept his own voice just above a whisper. “I have given you an injection to dull the pain and quiet the spasms. We must replace the fluids that you have lost. That is the main thing right now. Do you understand me?” She blinked. “You will help me with that.”
To his surprise, Eleanor reappeared, carrying linens, towels, and a large basin.
“In my bag, you will find a box marked corrosive sublimate.” He pointed at the bottle of carbolic acid on the bureau top. “Mix approximately…” and he stopped, holding out his hand. She handed him the box, and he shook perhaps a gram into the pan. “That much. Fill with hot water, which your sister is fetching. Then wash your hands first with that, then a drench with the carbolic acid. Then you will help me.” He paused. “And I instructed you to change that apron as soon as you have the chance. The contagion is spread by just that sort of thing.” She started to turn away. “But not until you have sterilized your hands. That first, then change, then sterilize again.”
While he waited for the water, Thomas removed the black rubber tube and bulb from their sterile linen wrap, along with another small pan. The tube and bulb went into more disinfectant.
Elaine returned with the water, more tepid than hot.
“This is the best you have?”
“I have more on the stove. It will be some minutes.”
“We do with what we have. But the instant it boils, please fetch it. Now, she must be on her side,” Thomas said, “facing away from the edge of the bed.” The girls managed that, and at the moans from their mother, Eleanor blanched, her breath panting as she fought her own nausea.
Elaine, however, had no such difficulties. Surprisingly strong and deft, she cooed to her mother at each step of the process, and when Thomas instructed her in her mother’s positioning, the girl obeyed perfectly.
“We must replace all the liquid that her body has lost,” Thomas explained. “There is no point in trying to force her to swallow, since her stomach will simply eject the fluid instantly.” He glanced at Elaine, who was listening with complete concentration. “So we are going to replace the fluid directly to her gut, Elaine.” The girl’s attention was so complete, so rapt, that despite the urgency, he found a pleasure in instructing her.
And clearly knowing that his actions must be dictated by that urgency, since for every moment that the patient’s system was deprived of fluid, her chances dwindled, Thomas nevertheless took care with the preparations. Sweeping the linens to one side, using one towel after another, he cleaned the woman, explaining each step to the girl. There was no consideration of drapes to address modesty.
“The contagion that poisons her resides in the gut, Elaine. If we are not careful, we run the considerable risk of reintroducing it to her body once again. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We can’t have that.” He continued talking as he worked, an almost conversational dialogue that the young girl neither replied to nor questioned. He noticed that Eleanor hovered near the doorway now, hands clasped, her face ghostly pale.
“Upward pressure here and here,” Thomas said, positioning Elaine’s hands on Mrs. Patterson’s hip and buttocks. “The linen, if you please.” She understood his intent, and with one hand flipped the clean linen over as much of the woman’s body as she could without interfering with Thomas’ work. She watched as he lubricated the flexible black rubber rectal tube. “Merely a foot or two is enough,” he said, and was astonished that, as much as he would have wished for Bertha Auerbach’s calm, utterly competent assistance at that moment, this fourteen year-old child was herself a wonder.
He filled the bulb with their standard brew of chamomile infusion, tannin, laudanum, and gum arabic and then opened the small clamp ring to secure the bulb to the black tube. “This must be done after every evacuation, Elaine. The goal is to replace the fluid that she loses. Even more if we can. One must be diligent, for it is a battle between us and the disease.” He looked up at her, and saw that her eyes were locked on his right hand, now gradually squeezing the bulb.
“How much?” the girl asked, the first time she had spoken in many minutes.
“The goal is two liters,” Thomas replied, then when he saw the puckered eyebrows, turned just a bit and nodded at the bottle that he had brought with him. “That much. Each time.”
“But you have no more.”
“No, I don’t. That means we must take your mother to the clinic where she can be treated. Twenty-four hours a day. That is the only hope.”
He refilled the bulb and continued. The liberal dose of laudanum would have a quieting effect on the gut, he hoped. Without interrupting the infusion, he turned and looked at Eleanor. “Had Dr. Haines treated your mother for tuberculosis?”
“No, Doctor.”
“Why ever not? Her condition is advanced.” But the girl didn’t answer, her attention drawn elsewhere. At the same time, Thomas heard the heavy footfalls on the stairway, and a moment later, Pastor Roland Patterson’s dapper figure appeared in the bedroom doorway.
For a few heartbeats, Patterson didn’t speak, his eyes taking in the scene on the bed. “Elaine, this instant,” he said, one slender finger pointing out of the room. His voice was little more than a hiss, his face white. For a fleeting moment, he reminded Thomas of one of the professors at the university whose volatile temper was legendary. The elderly physician had once hurled a scalpel across the operating theater, where it stuck into the molding around the doorway. There it had remained for weeks as a grim reminder not to try Dr. Bolhman’s patience. Despite the tone that defied any contradiction, Patterson’s step-daughter didn’t move. Instead, she looked across at Thomas, who hadn’t changed his grip on the bulb or the rubber tube.
“Sir,” Thomas said quietly, “your wife is fighting the cholera. If we don’t do something to replace…” and that was as far as he got. Patterson crossed the room in two strides, and with one hand reached out and grabbed the child, practically snapping her small, lithe form off the bed and onto the floor. With the other hand, Patterson reached out and grabbed the rubber tube. His action was so unexpected that Thomas was caught completely off guard. Apparently not knowing where the other end of
the tube actually was, Patterson jerked it hard from Thomas’ hand. The clamp ripped open from the bulb and the tube was yanked from its position, solution splattering.
“Get out of my house,” Patterson snarled, and he bent over and jerked the linens across his wife’s exposed body. “What kind of man are you?”
Flabbergasted, Thomas reached for the dislodged tube and bulb. “Good God, man, listen to me. If we don’t replace fluids…”
“Good God, indeed,” Patterson shouted, his face livid. As he spoke, Elaine pushed herself to her feet, coming into her father’s view. “And my daughter, for the love of God.” His anger soared to a point where he enunciated only spittle and his eyes bulged, and he turned his fury on his step-daughter. “Elaine, you will leave this room. This is no place for you.” He swept an arm wide, jabbing his finger toward the door.
“Sir, do you have any idea, any idea at all, what this is?” Thomas reached out and retrieved the tube, standing as he did so.
“You will leave my house.” Patterson spat each word, fists clenched. Thomas could see the pulse throbbing at the man’s temples. Would he actually lash out? Surely, no one could be so unreasonable, Thomas thought—especially with a loved one so frightfully ill. But the young physician was in no mood to negotiate.
“I don’t think so, Pastor.” He took a deep breath and shifted his weight, hands ready to defend himself. But he made no move from the end of the bed. “To do so will certainly jeopardize your wife’s life. She needs constant treatment, sir. She must be taken to the clinic where the nurses may deal with her distress day and night.” He held up the tube. “She cannot retain food or fluids, sir. She vomits them immediately. The unrelenting diarrhea drains her body. If that fluid is not replaced, then she dies.” He shook the tube again. “If not replaced via the mouth, then via the rectum. It is as simple as that.”
Comes a Time for Burning Page 21
