Chapter 10

Chapter

Ten

Dr. Sumner Delano

I jinxed it.

People are already lined up outside, and we aren't supposed to open until eight.

I dress at first light to make last minute checks on the clinic. Luke must hear me, because at about 6:30, he comes out of the infirmary dressed in the dungarees and chambray work shirt Mrs. Andersen dropped off for him yesterday.

Calvin loiters outside. I send him to tell the nurses we might have to start early. They hurry back with him, dressed in their white uniforms and prim starched aprons.

The six of us—Lucas, Rose, Beryl, Marie, Calvin and I—take a collective breath before opening our doors. Marie wants to lead us in prayer. The last time I prayed was during the influenza pandemic, when I understood I was losing Philip and there was nothing I could do about it. I prayed he wouldn't die. Then I prayed he'd take me with him. My prayers went unanswered then. I haven't felt the need to pray much since.

She looks to me in anticipation. I shrug. What can it hurt? Marie is brief and to the point. "Lord, help us with the tasks set before us, and help those who come to us for aid. Give us strength so we may better serve You. We ask in the name of Jesus Christ, amen."

I didn't think I was still holding Phillip's death against God, but it's clear I am. In my heart, I know it's wrong to stay angry, but it seems spiteful for God to answer someone's prayer—to bring their father, son, brother, or lover safely home—but not mine. It seems personal, separating me from the only true thing I ever had.

I slip away for a quick breather before we open the doors.

Luke follows. "Is everything okay?"

"It's fine." I wipe my hands on my trousers.

"You don't look so good."

"Says the man with the punching bag face."

He glares in mock outrage. "This face makes me look like a swashbuckling pirate."

"Oh, very dashing indeed. The dungarees fit well too."

He lifts an eyebrow.

"I'm just saying."

"Tell the truth." He lowers his voice. "You look pale. Can I do anything?"

I nod toward the infirmary. "I have a lot of memories. Some good, but some gut wrenching. Medicine isn't for the faint of heart."

"No. It's not." He doesn't press further.

I lean against the wall. "Do you ever wonder why you do this?"

He seems to ponder my question. "In crime fiction, surgeons are often cast as psychopaths. No emotions. No conscience. Steady as a rock." He brushes my arm lightly with his fingers, and then he drops his hand. "Surgeons make good villains. We're willing to cut a person open and monkey around with their heart. We're driven. Calculating. We survive by not getting bogged down by possible negative outcomes. God forbid we get emotional over the people whose lives we hold in our hands."

That's cold. "You don't worry about what will happen to your patients?"

Lucas bites his lip. "I don't think about anything but the task at hand. I compartmentalize. That's my job."

"Does that mean you've never suffered a loss that shakes your faith in yourself?" I want to be sure I understand. "Patients aren't just case studies or mysteries to be solved. They're people."

"My father's a surgeon, did I tell you? The only good thing he ever taught me is that a great surgeon takes emotion out of the equation. He functions like an elite athlete, and all he thinks about is winning. I don't think about people. I win and I lose. I hate losing. I own my failures, but never while I'm working."

This man. So hard on himself.

"You can't shrug off humanity that easily, Lucas." I tuck a bit of his overlong hair behind his ear. "It won't let you."

His features tighten. "If a man wants to be the best, he must."

I picture Lucas as a child, trying to live up to the impossible standards of an unforgiving father. I picture him accepting pain in exchange for approval. "I disagree with everything you've said."

He rolls his eyes. "Because you're neither a surgeon nor a monster."

"You're not a monster either." Another thought occurs to me. "Are you trying to get out of helping?"

"I'm warning you. I'm not known for my ability to charm people."

I'm about to disagree when the bell over the door jingles. The nurses must be bringing people inside.

I push him toward the front. "My mother says noticing a problem is halfway to fixing it."

"And I just told you." He shrugs. "It's a feature, not a bug."

"Whatever that means."

"It means?—"

I place my hand over his lips. "Good luck, Luke. We'll throw you the soft balls for the first couple of days."

I walk away before he can react.

My first patient is a young pregnant woman with two sick little girls. The three come with me to the exam room, where I lift the two girls onto the exam table. They're plain girls, living in a colorless world. Brown hair and bright brown eyes with just enough mischief that it makes me want to laugh when they share secret eye contact with each other.

"What's going on, Mother?" I ask.

The woman smiles at me. "I'm Julie Adams. And these are my daughters, Katy and Caroline. They've had a fever and sore throats for a few days now."

"Have you treated them at home at all?"

"Just cold compresses. I give them hot water with a bit of honey for their throats."

"That's good." I do a nominal check of their eyes, ears, nose, and throat, and palpate the neck area to see if they have swollen glands. They don't feel too hot. Maybe slightly over normal. Marie steps in behind me, and I ask her to take their temperature.

While she does this, I step back and observe all three. They're thinner than they should be, especially Mrs. Adams, who needs to nourish her body for the baby. The girls are cleanish; they probably got dusty on the way here from church. They look well cared for. I recognize the pattern on their handmade dresses. God bless the people who started making flour sacks in pretty prints, because that is often the only fabric people in deep poverty have.

"Both girls are slightly above a hundred," Marie places the thermometers in a cleaning solution.

"That's not too bad. When is the baby due?" I ask.

"Next month. No need to be worried about this one, though. He's always moving. Sometimes I think he's trying to kick his way out."

"Let's hope not." Marie teases.

Mrs. Adams puts her hands protectively over her belly. "Feels that way sometimes."

"You think it's a boy, then?" I ask

"We hope it is, huh girls? Daddy wants a boy." Both girls grimace.

"We want a baby sister." Caroline clasps her sister's hand.

"I wish you all the best. I just want to listen to their breathing. Okay?" I warm my stethoscope between my hands. I find children especially get worked up if the metal is cold.

"You can do that?" Katy is gap-toothed, so she must be around six. She moves her little pigtails out of the way, and I listen through the thin fabric of her dress. I put the chest piece over her heart and listen for a bit.

"Can you take a nice deep breath for me? In." The girl follows my direction, "Now out."

I get good listen, and her lungs sound clear. When I check on her sister, the result is the same.

I turn to Mrs. Adams. "I don't see or hear anything more serious than a simple cold, Mrs. Adams. Keep encouraging them to rest and drink plenty of water or diluted tea, if you have any. One thing I would like to stress is that when you're outside, you must all wear a cloth covering over your nose and mouth."

Katy wrinkles her nose. "Mama makes us wear a handkerchief wrapped around our heads sometimes. It's stuffy."

"It may be stuffy, but you won't get mud in your lungs. I don't suppose you want that, do you?"

"Ew, no," said Caroline. I'd say she was four.

"So let's keep the mud outside where it belongs. You need masks for your family, Mrs. Adams. Nurse will see to that. That's four, I presume? Anyone else living with you?"

"No, it's just the four of us. I can make masks." Pink circles appear on her cheeks. "It won't be hard."

"I don't doubt you can do it, but one of the organizations that sent me here has provided me with masks to give away to my patients." I usher them into the hall with Marie. "We don't want their hard work going to waste."

From the other exam room, I hear Dr. Hamilton say, "That is a whole lot of mucous, isn't it," without inflection.

Marie and I stifle laughter. I whisper, "Dr. Hamilton isn't used to general practice."

She nods. "He told me."

"Can you get eight masks and send our lovely ladies home with the information sheet?"

"Of course, Doctor Delano." She goes behind the front desk and retrieves eight of the masks our benefactors back east have sewn for us.

"There will be two masks for each of you, so you will always have one clean. Masks should be washed regularly. They will protect you only if you wear them." We will all be saying these words over and over. "May I have your most solemn pinkie promise, oh Princesses of the Plains?"

Katy giggles but is the first to fold. I think she believes it's weird that her doctor wants a pinkie promise. Caroline is no pushover, but when she sees the masks are sewn from pretty fabric, she swears she'll wear them. Their mother accepts more for herself and her husband.

One at a time each girl holds up a tiny pink shrimp-like pinky. "I Katy, do solemnly swear, that I will wear a mask so I don't get mud in my lungs. Amen."

Her mother hides a laugh behind her hand. "You don't have to say amen, honey. It's a promise, not a prayer."

Caroline can't wait to make her pledge. She's bouncing around in her plain little dress. She enunciates clearly, ending with, "And that is all."

Laughing, I promise them I'll wear one too, to show we're in this together.

"I'm here for you and your family at any time, Mrs. Adams. Have someone let me know if you have need, and I'll come to you."

"Oh, good heavens," Marie says in mock surprise. "Four butterscotch candies fell out of those masks!"

"Oh my! I too am shocked by this." I clutch my heart. "I guess you'll have to give them to Mrs. Adams. Perhaps she knows of a family of four who might like a treat."

"Thank you, Doctor." Mrs. Adams flushes to the tips of her ears as she comes to me and whispers, "What do we owe you? We don't have much. But?—"

"This is a public clinic. There's no charge."

She frowns. "My husband won't let us take charity."

"It's not charity." This is not factually correct, but it's something she'll understand. "I'm part of the National Recovery Agency. The government is paying my salary until better times."

"Like they pay men for building roads?" asks Mrs. Adams.

"Exactly like that." I open the door for her. "I expect your girls will feel better soon. If this gets worse, come back and we'll take another look."

Before they leave, Mrs. Adams ties on their masks.

Luke's voice rises in exam room two, "But how did it end up stuck there?"

Marie and I can't look at each other or we'll die laughing.

Beryl splutters as she takes the next group into the examination room. Luke has finished seeing his patient and now leans against the wall, wearing an assessing gaze.

"Yes, Dr. Hamilton?" I feel his eyes on me. It's tingly and warm and unexpected. I like it.

"Dr. Delano." His smile fades. "Can I borrow a white coat? I don't feel like a doctor dressed like this."

"You do look like rough trade." Immediately, I want to take back the words. They're flirtatious and saucy and inappropriate as hell. He leans toward me.

"Does rough trade appeal to you, Sumner?" His warm breath, close as a whisper away from my ear, makes me shiver. My mouth goes dry.

"There's an extra lab coat upstairs in my closet."

He doesn't move. Heat builds between us until I force myself to step away. I sort masks and hard candies until I get my unruly thoughts under control.

After a few moments, Luke comes downstairs wearing my spare lab coat. He's not only easy on the eye, having him here makes it possible for us to see twice as many patients and to spend more time with each. He relies heavily on Beryl, who takes pity on him early in the day. He's as stiff as one of the Mrs. Astor's famous English butlers. He's trying, but it's hard for country people to relate to him. He's far chillier at work than he's been with me so far. Nevertheless, he works hard.

We spend the day talking to kids with stuffy noses and rashes and worrisome coughs. There are adults with asthma, stomach troubles, boils, and rheumatism. I love being a GP. The variety of things people present with keeps boredom at bay, and parts of the day are hilarious, such as when Luke is forced to address the hemorrhoids of a terribly flatulent man.

I can't help but listen while he advises his patient.

"Soak small cloths in witch hazel and leave them between your—" He coughs and lowers his voice. "Your cheeks. You understand?"

"She means your nether cheeks, Joseph," his wife Vicki happily translates.

"And if you were to eat a little sauerkraut every day, it might help with the…er…flatulence problem."

"The windies, he means." Her laughter is like a bowling ball rolling toward the pins. "Be nice if he farts less. Or if we could harness that power to run the water pump."

"Hush, woman," The man snaps at his missus. "C'mon. Let's go home."

"Please take these masks and a couple of treats." Beryl gives them two masks each, and as she ushers them out, she adds, "Wear these masks whenever you're outside. You need two because you must wash them frequently."

And so the day goes. It's exhausting, but as long as we don't get major illnesses, ruptured appendixes or deadly sepsis, I am very pleased.

"Our first day was a huge success," I say as we clean up and close for the evening.

"Hear, hear." Rose goes to the sink to wash her hands one last time.

Beryl takes off her apron. "That was the easy part, though. The sick folks with pneumonia or any other serious malady probably can't come to us."

"How will we know if they're sick if they can't come in?" Marie is the last to place her apron in the hamper. "There's no phone."

"Mr. and Mrs. Andersen are making home visits." The pastor and his wife have been greatly helpful, so far. "They'll let us know what they find."

"Then what?" asks Luke.

"We will go to them. That's when the real work begins."