Isabelle and Alexander

by Rebecca Anderson

  Unable to form any of her questions into words, Isabelle waited for the doctor to speak. He took her hands in his.

  “Are you ready to hear?” he asked.

  She nodded, hoping it was true.

  “There is much to be pleased about.”

  “Then why do you look so somber?” she asked. Immedi­ately, she shook her head. “No, I am sorry. Please. Tell me.”

  “Waking. It’s a small miracle and a large step forward. Wasn’t sure we’d see it happen so soon, or at all, truth to tell. He seemed to recognize me, or at least his confusion and fear seemed to abate while I spoke to him.”

  Isabelle nodded, grateful she’d stayed back in the shadows. She was in no way prepared to see that confusion and fear return to Alexander’s eyes at the sight of her.

  “But there is a long list of unknowns, and it’s perhaps best if we lay down some of the questions I have now, at the beginning.”

  “Please,” she said. After the word left her lips, she thought of many ways to continue that thought.

  Please, tell me what you think is happening.

  Please, let him be all right.

  Please, make him remember me more fondly.

  “His eyes moved about the room, but that was all the movement of which he seemed capable. Perhaps you’ve noticed that he was unable to grip your fingers?”

  Isabelle had noticed, but she assumed it was because he was sleeping. Surely now that he’d awakened, he would respond.

  “It gives me a bit of concern that he neither moved his fingers nor turned his head.”

  Waiting for the doctor to elaborate, Isabelle found her mind filled with possible reasons Alexander wasn’t responding, none of them comforting.

  When the doctor didn’t say more, Isabelle asked, “Why the concern?” Her voice emerged crackling like a spark.

  “When you described the place in which he fell, I worried about injury to his bones, but now I fear a possible wound in his spine.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  He pressed her hands between his own. “There is a possibility he won’t regain his motion.”

  She wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. “He won’t be able to move? Is that what you’re saying?”

  The doctor cleared his throat. He looked so tired. “It’s a possibility.”

  Isabelle felt a fire of anger ignite in her heart. How dare he say such a thing? “Well, there’s a possibility he’ll die in the night, as well. We might as well state that also, since we’re naming all the possibilities.”

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she registered what she had said. Her anger surprised her, as did the volume of her response. Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, doctor. I beg your pardon.”

  He simply nodded. “Of course, my dear. Of course.”

  Isabelle forced herself to appear calm. Humiliation at her outburst combined with fear, exhaustion, and terror of the unknown to make her feel physically weak.

  “I did not mean to say those words,” she said, her voice trembling. “Pray do not take offense.”

  “Not at all, my dear lady, not at all.” He patted her arm. “Perhaps you noted the look on his face? Something resembling a fright?”

  “That is one way to describe it,” Isabelle said.

  Doctor Kelley nodded. “I can imagine his inability to turn his head or lift his arm or speak a word might have alarmed him.”

  Was it possible that his distress had not been from seeing her? She wished to enfold this good doctor in her arms and weep at the relief.

  Instead she asked, “What else do you think I ought to know?”

  Doctor Kelley shook his head. “That’s quite enough to be getting on with.”

  “I don’t want to sound as though I don’t trust you, Doctor, but do you think we should move him to the city? For care, I mean?”

  “Mrs. Osgood, there will be many questions of care that arise over the next few days. For tonight,” he glanced toward the window, where the sky was beginning to lighten to blue, “for this morning, rather, we should get some rest. If it doesn’t put you out overmuch, I’ll stay and monitor his progress.”

  Isabelle felt the muscles in her back begin to soften. “Stay here?” she asked. “Would you?”

  At his nod, a flood of relief overtook her. If Doctor Kelley was the one who comforted Alexander in his fears, Doctor Kelley should be the one he saw when he reopened his eyes.

  “Go on,” he said. “Try to sleep for a few hours. I’ll be sure to send for you if there is any change.”

  “Do, please,” Isabelle said, feeling the shaking in her arms. “I believe I could sleep. Does that make me heartless?” she asked, mainly to herself.

  “It makes you human, and that’s what we’re all aiming for, isn’t it?” He patted her shoulder and turned back to the parlor. “Rest well,” he said, his voice soft.

  Isabelle climbed the stairs to the shared bedroom they had yet to share, feeling small and alone in the grand bed.

  In the days of watching Alexander’s motionless form, Isabelle had busied herself in occasional moments writing letters: letters she intended to send. Now that Alexander had awakened, she posted a note to Mr. Kenworthy letting him know that Mr. Osgood’s absence would be extended, but with no further detail than “he’s been injured.” Her letter to her mother was more detailed, and the one she wrote to Edwin was the most full of both observations and fears.

  Within a few days, return letters began to pour in. Mrs. Kenworthy, no doubt her husband’s confidante, wrote to ask for all the information Isabelle was prepared to share. Her request was solicitous, friendly, and polite. Isabelle felt the sincerity and affection of her new friend.

  In stark contrast, her mother’s questions bordered on disinterest. Isabelle felt no need to answer when all she’d asked was what social events she’d miss, who was keeping up the Manchester house, and whether Isabelle had been eating.

  “Honestly, Mother,” Isabelle muttered at the letter, setting it aside. Her mother seemed so often to miss the point.

  Edwin’s letter, true to all Isabelle expected, asked the proper questions, poured on compliments, requested permission to drop everything and come help immediately, and even managed to make her laugh.

  One line stood out to her. “You say he looked frightened. Belle, I’d be frightened too, if I woke in a room without a memory of how I’d arrived and unable to stand.” She appreciated his view of the matter, even if she doubted his ability to put himself entirely in Alexander’s place.

  Mr. Kenworthy had sent a short note in response to Isabelle’s message and a large packet of papers addressed to Alexander. Perhaps Isabelle had been less clear than she should have been. But, she wondered, how could she have made herself understood? She could not have said what she meant: “Dear Mr. Kenworthy, Your employer is unresponsive and unmoving for several days now. Please carry on running the mill as you have begun, for I have no instructions to give you.” No. Somehow, even within all her uncertainties, she was certain that would not have pleased Alexander.

  Pleasing Alexander was the question of today. And yesterday, and for the foreseeable future. She’d stayed mainly out of the parlor for the days since Alexander had awakened. Fearful of upsetting him, she’d busied herself elsewhere in the house, exploring the grounds, plucking flowers, bothering Mrs. Burns with unnecessary details, and generally feeling herself a nuisance. She left Doctor Kelley alone with his patient.

  When the good doctor came to find her in the late morning a week after Alexander had awakened, she rose to greet him. Standing this near him, she could plainly see the toll the past few days of constant attendance had laid on him. His posture fairly called out weariness, and the skin beneath his eyes hung in purple pouches.

  “Please, come and sit,” she said. They sat across the dining table. �
�How is he, Doctor?”

  If Isabelle had thought him tired before, his sigh showed that he’d been hiding his true exhaustion. He rubbed his face and shook his head.

  “Are you prepared to hear difficult news?” he said, his voice containing pain and sorrow.

  “I wonder if there’s any longer such a thing as pleasant news,” Isabelle said, steeling herself.

  “Mr. Osgood cannot move his legs at all.” Within the shock of these words, Isabelle recognized the formal use of Alexander’s name. She understood, in an intellectual manner that ignored everyone’s more personal interest in this situation, that the doctor was distancing himself in order to maintain professionalism. She wondered if Doctor Kelley would become emotional at the mention of this dreaded outcome if he’d spoken, instead, of Alec, the boy he had known and loved.

  The doctor carried on in the same formal voice. “He has shown possibility of motion in his neck, however, so there is a chance he’ll be able to turn his head in time.”

  Isabelle heard the doctor’s pause and realized that she should say something, but she had nothing to offer.

  Doctor Kelley’s hand stroked the hair over his ear, but it seemed an unconscious motion. “Although his hands are still unresponsive, there are signs that his arms may also regain motion.”

  Isabelle felt her mouth go dry and wished she’d asked for tea before this conversation had begun. It seemed so insensitive to do so now. She offered the doctor a nod to show she was still listening and understanding him. Clenching and unclenching her hands, she heard him say she would need to consider the probability of looking into long-term care. He mentioned the names of several hospitals that offered housing for the permanently wounded.

  With the phrase “permanently wounded,” Isabelle felt her entire existence shift on its axis. Over the long and frightening days of the past week, she’d allowed her mind to flit between great hope of full recovery and complete marital felicity and the awful fear of widowhood. She had recognized, even as she moved through the days in a haze of exhaustion, that the reality would likely fall somewhere between the two ideas.

  Now, with these words, the doctor pointed her toward what would most likely be her new truth. She allowed her mind to fill with images of Alexander in total dependence upon her—and her lack of any skill or native virtue that would suit her to give such care. The doctor spoke of wheeled chairs—Bath chairs such as invalids used in the resort city—and mobile beds and specialized nurses and institutions for the permanently ill for several minutes before Isabelle again found her voice.

  “Doctor Kelley, I thank you for the excellent care you’ve given Mr. Osgood in the last days.” She knew what she had to say, but the fear of sending the doctor away made the words difficult to produce. “I know you have many other medical obligations and responsibilities that have gone unheeded this past week, and I appreciate everything you’ve done here. The information you have given will indeed prove helpful, as I can only suppose. And I will heed your suggestions. But I have obligations and responsibilities, as well. I made a ­promise.”

  She shifted in her chair and sat up taller. “I promised to care for him. In health and in sickness. This is my responsibility now. And I shall carry it out the best way I can.” She felt a sob choke her as she added, “As well as he’ll let me.”

  Doctor Kelley rose from his seat and came around the table. Reaching again for Isabelle’s hands, he said, “I understand, and I honor you for your determination. You and Alec will discover the most suitable kind of care both for his needs and yours. You are capable, but you are not alone. Please understand that I will be only a short ride away for as long as you choose to keep him here in the country.”

  She nodded in appreciation, but he was not finished. “And don’t think I didn’t understand the part about Alec allowing you to care for him. He’ll soften. I’ve seen him in many degrees of difficulty, and I know his heart. He will turn to you, but it may take more time now than you would like. You can believe me, my dear Mrs. Osgood,” he said, patting her hand, and for the first time, Isabelle felt that his calling her by Alexander’s name was more intimate as opposed to more formal. “I am a man who was never blessed with a child, but I feel rather as if I am mourning a future for my son.”

  Isabelle returned the pressure of the doctor’s hands and said, “Then I promise you I will do what I can and seek your advice for questions of both his physical and emotional well-being. If you’re willing, you can help me get it right.”

  Doctor Kelley leaned over and kissed Isabelle on the cheek, surprising her. “You’ll both learn to get it right,” he said and took his leave.

  Determined to begin the day well, Isabelle brought a tray of tea and breakfast things into the parlor as the sun shone through the east window. The doctor had been gone only two hours, but as Isabelle sat in a chair at the parlor door, she felt every minute stretch into a hundred. From her vantage, she couldn’t see Alexander’s face, and without his ability to move, she’d only know he had awakened if he spoke. But with the morning sun falling onto the couch, she decided to fully enter the room.

  She felt the tray shake in her hands, rattling the cups and dishes. She wished her nerves were more in control, but she appreciated the warning sound, like a cat’s bell, that let Alexander know she was coming.

  She stepped into his line of vision and saw that his eyes were, indeed, open. “Good morning,” she said, a false note of cheerfulness in her voice. “I have some food here that the doctor thought you ought to try.”

  Alexander’s eyes roamed the room for a moment. When he opened his mouth to speak, Isabelle was shocked at the weakness of his voice. “Where is Doctor Kelley?” he wheezed, more air than sound.

  Isabelle seated herself near the couch and placed the tray on the small table. She forced a brave-looking smile. “He thought he should see to the rest of his patients, and he entrusted you to my care,” she said, her voice sounding loud in her ears. She added more softly, “Now, his instructions are simple: get as much of this food inside you as you can bear.”

  The sound of his near-noiseless laugh, delivered with such derision, scratched at Isabelle’s heart. “And how,” he whispered, “do you intend to make that happen?”

  Isabelle was surprised at the anger a whisper could carry.

  She thought his anger might not be directed at her so much as at the situation. Even if that was untrue, it allowed her to say what she needed to say. “I’ll help.”

  At her simple declaration, he closed his eyes. She spooned up a small mouthful of gruel sweetened with honey. “Here, try this,” she said, wishing for the first time that she had any experience feeding another person. How did one learn such a skill? Her hand trembled, and she feared that if he didn’t open his mouth to accept the food, she’d spill it on his chin.

  She held the spoon close to his mouth as he continued to ignore her, his eyes closed. She wrestled against the desire to prod him, physically or emotionally. He hadn’t eaten in nearly a week. Surely eating anything was better than not eating at all. She waited, spoon at the ready.

  Perhaps he expected her to relent before he did. She would not. With an exasperated sigh, he opened his lips to receive the offering. His scowl showed that at least his face had a bit more mobility than his body. After swallowing, he said, “What have you brought that isn’t invalid food?”

  Glancing over at the tray, Isabelle saw that all the food was plain, simple, and texture-free. “Well, nothing, I am afraid. But in defense of your doctor and your cook, I’d like to remind you that you are, in fact, recovering from a fall.”

  Another near-silent breath of scorn followed. “Recover­ing,” he said, as though that was a ridiculous notion.

  Isabelle had no idea how to respond to that, so she spooned up another bit of food and placed it near his mouth. With each resentful swallow, Alexander seemed to slip deeper inside himself, closing or ave
rting his eyes.

  She wondered if she should attempt playful humor or the kind of busy chatter that had previously amused him. But watching the obvious pain with which every moment passed, she determined not to minimize what he was suffering with any of her silliness.

  After several bites, Alexander said, “No more.”

  Although he’d made hardly a dent in the food on the tray, Isabelle recognized that he’d eaten more than she’d expected. Unfortunately, her instructions from the doctor from this point forward were far less explicit than she wished. Doctor Kelley had told Isabelle to give Alexander food, help him rest, and keep his mind off worrying topics.

  “Perfectly simple,” she murmured, moving the breakfast tray away.

  Alexander trained his eyes on her. “What?” As his voice came out in a whisper, it was difficult for Isabelle to read his tone.

  She decided to respond as if he’d been casually interested, as if they’d been having a conversation like any other husband and wife at breakfast.

  “Doctor Kelley would like to see you rest today,” she said, keeping her voice light. “If you’d like, I could read to you.”

  He scowled.

  She swallowed her breath of resentment. “I am sure I could find something in the house boring enough to put you to sleep quickly,” she said, watching his face for any twinge of humor.

  There was none.

  “I’ve done nothing but rest for—how long has it been?” he asked.

  Did he actually not know?

  “It’s Wednesday. Your . . . fall,” she said, hoping not to upset him further by referring to the accident in too direct terms, “was Friday last.”

  “Ten days?” More air than volume rushed out of his mouth, but the thunderous set of his eyebrows proved as well as shouting would have that he was greatly displeased.

  Isabelle picked up a candle snuffer and turned it in her hands. “Eleven, really, depending how you count them,” she clarified.

  “I must get back.” Every word he said was accompanied by a puff of air, as if the very act of speaking required every effort of each of his remaining body systems.