Race for the Dying (5 page)

Chapter Seven

The newspaper promised some curiosities, and Thomas spent five minutes with it, annoyed both by the difficulty of folding it neatly and by the news that didn't apply to his world. It did nothing to assuage his frustration.

Thomas did not recall the details of his plunge into the cold waters of the inlet, but he did recall the excitement he had felt when he responded to the initial summons for help at the sawmill. That was immediate. That was medicine on the front lines. The throbbing in his right temple increased as he tried to force himself to lie still, to relax, to mend. What if he could no longer walk? What if the ligaments and tendons in his hip had been so torn and twisted that they would heal in a frozen, useless lump, forcing him to hitch along with crutches or a cane? What if he were blind in one eye, unable to manage the intricate feats of depth perception necessary in the surgery? He heard a loud groan, and realized with a start that it had issued from himself, frustration mixed with self-pity.

He turned his head, reaching up with one hand to hold the bandage.

“I can't do this,” he said aloud.

Do what?” The voice startled him, and he pulled his hand away to see Alvina standing in the open doorway. “You're talking to yourself. I'm not sure that's a good sign.”

“I'm sorry.” He tried a smile. “I was remembering all the wrong things.”

“That's what lying about accomplishes, I think.” Alvi stepped up close to the bed. “I looked in on you earlier, but you were asleep. I didn't want to wake you.”

“I was asleep? I would have been grateful for the company. I can't lie here like some dead fish, rotting while the world goes on without me.” He touched the newspaper. “I wasn't taken to the clinic after the accident…?”

She reached out and touched his cheek. “And I don't think you're rotting, Dr. Thomas.” She withdrew her hand and regarded him with amusement. “I've heard Father say that physicians make the worst patients. I see now that he is correct.”

“I want to get up, and I want to eat, and I want to go outside. Shall I go on?”

“If it gives you pleasure, Dr. Thomas. You slept through dinner, but Gert has prepared a plate for you. Do you think you can sit up a little straighter?”

“Slept through?” he asked. “How is that possible? And yes, please…anything,” Thomas replied fervently.

“My goodness, yes,” she chided. “We're going on the third day now, after all.” She stood back and watched. Thomas waited. “You see?” she said after a moment.

“See what?”

“If you want to get out of bed, the first step will be to sit up by yourself.”

He grimaced with impatience. “Of course,” he said. “I just thought…” He pushed carefully, trying to turn this way and that, finding an impasse with each movement until he could feel the sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“Now, let me—” Alvi said, moving close.

“No,” he snapped. He held up his left hand.

“At least let me manage the pillows,” she said, and in a moment he rested back against the feather pillows. “So,” she continued, “right after you've had a bit to eat, we'll go for a bracing stroll down to the harbor and back.”

He saw the twinkle in her eyes. Again her fingers ran down his cheek. “You fancy a beard?” she asked, and he stumbled over an appropriate reply, unused to young women so forward in nature.

“No. I had one once,” he said. “I looked like a dog with the mange.”

She laughed and smoothed the sheet a bit, pulling it up over his chest. Her face became sober. “The meal will be modest,” she said. “I know that you could eat a banquet right now, but moderation is prudent. With injuries such as yours, nausea is a common companion. We don't want that.”

“No, we don't,” Thomas said. “I am a physician, you know.”

“Yes. For better or worse, you are.” She patted his thigh with a familiarity that made him blush. “Gert will be in in a moment.” She pointed at the corner, and for the first time Thomas saw that the wicker chair there was actually a wheelchair. “If you tolerate food well, then in the morning, we'll see.”

As she turned to leave, it seemed urgent to Thomas that Alvi Haines remain, if even for an instant more. “You mentioned that the mill owner might stop by,” he said. “I don't recall his name.”

Without so much as a pause, she said over her shoulder, “He did. We enjoyed a fine dinner, but you were asleep. Perhaps when you're up and about.” She stopped in the hallway. “Mr. Schmidt wishes you well, Dr. Thomas. He looks forward to meeting you.” She disappeared from view, and Thomas let out a long exhalation of resignation.

Chapter Eight

Well, well,” Dr. John Haines said, and his full beard bobbed. “You're going to repair very nicely.” He tilted his head back so he could see through his half-glasses. One massive hand rested on top of Thomas' skull, turning the young man's head this way and that.

“Close your left eye, now,” he instructed, and Thomas did so, trying not to scrunch up his face. “You know, I've seen probably a million sutures in my time. The very best of them were tied by my daughter. Little old ladies who labor over quilts have nothing on her.” He peered into Thomas' right eye, his thumb applying just enough gentle pressure on the underside of the swollen eyebrow to lift the lid. He hummed to himself thoughtfully. “Am I hurting you?”

Thomas murmured an untruthful no.

“I'm sorry I missed your excursion this afternoon. Alvi tells me it was spectacular.” With the one hand locked on Thomas' head, he held the other out at arm's length, index finger pointing upward. “Follow my finger, Thomas.” His breath was strong with tobacco and brandy. “Focus?”

“I think so.”

“Read that sign on the opposite wall for me.”

“There is no sign on the opposite wall, Doctor.” Thomas felt Haines twist, and the grip on his skull released.

“Well, now. So there isn't. I used to have one there, back in the old days, when we used this as an examining room. Well.” He stood up, hands on his hips. “I'm pleased, Thomas.” He pulled a gold watch from his vest and regarded it judiciously. “Alvi tells me that you were able to keep down some supper.”

“Yes. It tasted good.”

“Oh, that's a guarantee. Gert does magical things with the simplest food.” The physician turned and hooked the wheelchair out of the corner with his toe. He turned and sat in it carefully. “Handy thing, this,” he said, patting the wicker arms. He pushed closer to the bed and rested his chin on his hand. “We haven't really had the chance to talk, have we? I've been in and out, and we could say that you have been as well. You've slept most of the time, and I've been loath to wake you, sleep being the perfect restorative.”

“Enough is enough,” Thomas replied.

Haines laughed. “Ah, the impatience of youth.” He lowered his arm and leaned forward, picking up one of the small tumblers on the nightstand. “Nightcap?” he said as he hefted the brandy bottle. “It's really very nice. Have you tried it?”

“I haven't.” The glass on the nightstand was empty, but not by his doing.

“Well, then.” Haines decanted a small amount in one of the glasses and held it out to Thomas, then splashed a generous half tumbler for himself. He held up the glass. “To your arrival on our shores, Thomas. My God, it's good to see you.”

“Such as I am,” Thomas replied, and touched his glass to the other. “It's going to be good to be here.” He touched his tongue to the liquor. Haines polished off the first glass and refilled.

“So tell me,” he said finally. “What's your passion, Thomas?”

“My passion, sir?”

The beard bobbed and more brandy disappeared. “Yes. Why travel some…what, three thousand miles or more?” He held up a hand quickly. “And please. Don't misunderstand me. We're delighted that you've come. It's a dream come true for us, I assure you. But what is it that you seek? What spurs you on, Thomas?” He held up both fists and shook them dramatically, endangering the brandy that sloshed in the glass. “After all, you've studied in the very heart of modern medicine, Thomas. That must have been exciting, was it not? To listen to all the greats? To be at the very core of all the marvelous debates and developments and discoveries that are surely changing the course of modern medicine?” He took a deep pull of brandy, his eyes going to half-mast with pleasure as he did so.

He lowered the glass and looked at Thomas. “Leaving all that for our miserable little village…that must have been a difficult decision.” Before Thomas could comment, the doctor waved his glass and continued on. “I mean, here we are, soaked in the mists, mucking along, right in the middle of the most amazing squalor, right in the middle of some of the most lunatic undertakings that man ever imagined. My God.”

He ran his finger around the rim of the glass thoughtfully. “You know, I received the June issue of
Journal Medica
last week. That's how far from the center of things our little world is, Thomas. My journals are three months out of date when they find this soggy place. Delivery of pharmaceuticals, of equipment, of anything you might imagine, is sporadic and always delayed.”

He waved a hand with impatience. “Listen to me prattle on like an old woman.” Haines drained the glass and reached for the bottle, adding another inch.

“So I ask you, tell me about your dreams. What is your passion, my good young man? What are you looking for here? Thank God that you did, but why have you come to join us?”

“You invited me, sir.”

Haines tipped his head back and bellowed a laugh. “That's a fine thing,” he said, regarding Thomas fondly. “You've inherited a measure of your mother's directness, bless her soul. Indeed I did invite you here. And now I want to know why you accepted the offer with such alacrity. You could stay in Philadelphia and become a wealthy man…but I suppose you may be that already.”

“There is wealth everywhere, sir, just as there is pain and suffering everywhere, but the excitement is on the fringes. That's what I saw on my trip. Once things become established, something in the excitement is lost.”

“Really. The old frontier-spirit business.”

“I suppose so.”

“And excitement? That's what you seek in medicine? Some sort of frontier?”

Thomas reached over and carefully set the glass on the nightstand, clutching one of the pillows tight to his chest with his other arm. He settled back and took a slow, deep breath, right to the point where the battered ribs said “no more.”

“Exactly what happened to me,” he said.

“A certain irony there,” Haines observed.

“Yes, I see that. But what excites me are the decisions to be made immediately following a catastrophic event…and more than just a few cuts and bruises, I must say. But when the patient's life hangs in the balance, when there are but moments, perhaps even seconds, that decide whether he bleeds to death or lives. Whether his next faltering inhalation will be his last.”

“My word,” Haines said, “you bring back memories.”

“Of the war, you mean?”

Indeed, and not such welcome ones, either.” He drained the glass again, and then rolled it between his fingers, watching the patterns in the glass catch the light from the single gas wall sconce behind the nightstand. “That was a long time ago,” he said, and dismissed the recollection. “Well,” he said, and dropped one foot to the floor, pushing his chair back away from the bed, “you need some rest.”

“That's all I've had the past days, sir.”

“Ah, then I need some rest, Thomas.” He stood up carefully and returned the wheelchair to the corner. “Tomorrow I want you out and about. We'll help you to this chair, and then I need to evaluate that hip…troublesome, I think. You can spend the day exploring the house. Without doing more damage to yourself, by the way. You'll find my library of interest. We'll have dinner at eight sharp, and we'd be pleased if you would join us, providing you don't wear yourself out.”

He moved close to the bed and extended his hands, taking Thomas' in both of his. “Welcome to one-oh-one, Thomas.”

“Thank you, sir.” Dr. Haines reached up toward the gaslight. “I'd prefer you left the light, sir.”

“Certainly.” Haines saw the newspaper and cocked his head. “Perhaps you'd prefer a journal or two? Not that I have any that you haven't already seen months ago.”

“That would be welcome…and the wheelchair as well. I look forward to visiting the clinic.”

“Ah.” Haines nodded. “I hope you won't be disappointed. It's rather modest.”

“Is it far from here?”

“In your condition, it might as well be on the other side of the world,” Haines replied. “Six blocks only. That gives you something to strive for, doesn't it? Let's take it one step at a time, shall we? There's no need to rush nature, Thomas. You and Zachary will get on famously, I'm sure. You have much in common.”

“I look forward to meeting him,” Thomas said. “I have him to thank for rescuing me from my most recent embarrassment, but he didn't remain in the room long enough for us to exchange words.”

“He's a busy man, Thomas. I know he'll welcome your assistance. He and Alvi have more to do with the clinic's success than anything I do. Rest easy, young man.” He nodded good night, and pulled the door closed as he left the room.

Chapter Nine

The house was dark and silent when Thomas awoke on his right side, his right hand balled under his head. The head wound both ached and itched, and the young man eased onto his back.

The gaslight had been turned off. The outline of the window gradually coalesced, but with no street lamps, the village was as dark as the inside of a closet. After a moment, Thomas realized that the door of his room was open. He could see the outline of the jamb, highlighted by a gas lamp left on far down the hallway.

Moving with the utmost care, he pushed himself farther upright, sitting crooked to favor his left hip and ribs, supporting himself on his hands. He sat thus for a long time. To feel his pulse thumping at the same time from head and hip was an odd sensation. Shifting his weight again, he maneuvered his right leg over the edge of the bed and paused, trying to calm his breathing. The pain in his ribs was sharp and stinging, more acute than it should be.

It seemed so simple to just slide down, taking the weight on his right foot. Simple enough—but exactly the way he'd ended up in a fetal position in the corner after his first excursion.

For a time he sat on the edge of the bed, considering his predicament. “Returning were as tedious as go o'er,” he whispered, but Macbeth was no help.

From somewhere deep in the house came a deep, harrumphing cough. Thomas could picture John Haines tossing in bed, his sleep floating in a sea of brandy. The window curtains behind him stirred, and the air that wafted into the room was damp and cool across his bare shoulders. His eyes had adjusted enough to make out the outline of the wheelchair in the corner.

Keeping his weight on his right hip, he let himself slide off the edge. His right hand shot out to grasp the nightstand. Standing up straight was impossible.

Bent at the waist, both hands now on the edge of the nightstand, Thomas worked away from the support of the bed. He hopped once, rewarded by a stab of pain so agonizing that he gasped aloud. He hopped again, closing the distance toward the chair.

He leaned his weight hard against the nightstand, balanced on his right arm, reaching out for the wall with his left. An inch at a time, he crabbed along the wall. A final, ungainly lunge brought him to the chair, and it rolled backward a few inches until its back thumped the wall.

Hunched over, both hands clinging to the wicker, he considered how to turn so that he might sit down. He realized that he could now see the chair, including the woolen blanket spread over its back. He turned ever so slightly and looked toward the light. The figure stood in the doorway, lamp in hand.

“You are a determined young fellow.” Alvina glided into the room on bare feet, wearing a long nightgown and robe. She lit the gaslight and turned it up, the shadows dancing around the room. Satisfied, she turned back to Thomas, who waited by the chair like a desperate hunchback.

“So,” she said.

“I'm almost there.” Thomas tried to sound lighthearted and gallant.

“Indeed you are. Here,” she said. As she drew close, he could smell the fragrance that enveloped her as if she stood perpetually in a field of blossoms. “Put your arm over my shoulders.” As skillfully as if she had practiced that very maneuver dozens of times, she hooked the chair with a toe and turned Thomas at the same time. She was strong and practiced. “Now,” she said, and he sank into the wicker seat.

He could feel a tear running down his left cheek, and wiped his face with the back of his hand to bring her into focus.

“Are you going to be all right?”

“I think so.” He leaned his head back against the blanket pad.

“Let's make that more useful,” she said, and in a moment the blanket was draped around his shoulders. She stepped back, hands on her hips. “Nearly human, now,” she said.

“What time is it?”

“Just after five.”

“Are you certain? It's that late?”

“I'm certain. I heard you thumping and bumping around and was afraid you were exploring the floor again.”

“Almost. I'm sorry if I woke you.”

“Oh, you didn't. We don't often have patients here at the house, but when we do, I tend to sleep with one ear open. Father wouldn't awaken if the entirety of Puget Sound turned upside down. Do you need the bedpan?”

Thomas found himself blushing, and pulled the blanket around himself…and then blushed again at the ridiculousness of it all. He was a physician, after all. The body held no secrets.

“I suppose I do,” he said.

“Now that you're on wheels, let's do something easier,” she said. “Mind your feet.” She pushed him out of the room, and the sense of liberation was amazing. They reached the doorway centered at the end of the hallway, and Alvi stepped around the chair.

The toilet was spacious and for a moment, as he watched her adjust the gaslight and check the water pitcher beside the sink, Thomas was sure that Alvina Haines proposed to assist him all the way.

“The pitcher is full of hot water,” she said, patting the edge of the marble sink, “and I'll bring you more in a minute. When you're finished with the toilet, just pull the chain.” She turned and touched the brass chain that hung from the suspended water reservoir for the toilet.

“I know how they work,” Thomas said, more testily than he would have liked.

“That's good. I wasn't sure if Philadelphia was as up to date as we are out here in paradise,” she said with a straight face. “I'll leave you then.” She patted him on the shoulder like an older sister, and bent slightly, hand still on his arm, eyes searching his. “May I get you something for the pain?”

Thomas shook his head carefully, lest it fall off at her feet. “No. I'm fine, really. Thank you.” He knew that in all likelihood he was as pale as porcelain, and he could feel the sweat on his forehead.

“I'll be listening for the crash, then.” She eased the door closed, leaving him alone.

By the time he struggled back into the wheelchair he was exhausted. He sat for a while, panting, then dabbed himself as best he could with the water from the pitcher. Anything more required balance, and he had none of that.

The hallway was empty when he opened the door and pushed the wheelchair through. Alvi rounded the corner at the end of the hallway, dressed now as she had been the day before, pure white with a white apron, her hair drawn up tight against the back of her head. She carried a white porcelain cup.

“Well, now, you clean up quite nicely. I thought you might like some coffee,” she said. “Gert will have breakfast here in a little bit.” He drew the blanket up around himself and accepted the cup.

“You're an early riser,” he said.

“It's just easier,” she said. “I like to have a few moments to myself.”

“And now here I am.”

“Yes…and an incredible nuisance, I might add.” She laughed and moved behind his chair.

“I enjoyed talking to your father last night.”

“Yes. I noticed the level in the brandy bottle. But he's pleased, Dr. Thomas. He says that you're healing well. You're a very, very lucky young man.”

“Sometimes it's hard to see that.”

“Well, you are. Now, let me take you on a little tour. And let me know if it's too much.”

Shortly, Thomas saw that he had been occupying only one tiny corner of 101 Lincoln Street. Keeping up a steady narrative, she pushed him from room to room, all polished opulence, lighting the gas lamps as she did so.

“Let's see how the air is this morning,” she said, and opened a set of double doors. A long, wide porch, well furnished with wicker, graced both sides of the house that faced Lincoln and Gambel Streets.

“This is my favorite place,” Alvi said. She let the chair nudge against the ornate white railing. “When we don't have the fog, you can see all the way across to the islands. It's magnificent.”

The fog was so dense that he had difficulty seeing the Mercantile across the street. “And the clinic? Where is that from here?”

“Just down the hill. Follow Gambel Street down past the grove of evergreens that the loggers somehow missed.”

Thomas pushed the wheel forward. “I've…” He interrupted himself and pointed. The dark shadow plodded across toward them, head down, the rise of each bony shoulder marking his steps.

“Oh, that awful dog.” Alvi said. “I've never known such a disreputable creature. He seems to have an affinity for the muck.” She walked to the head of the steps. “You can just turn around and go home, Prince.” The dog ignored her, hesitating only when it appeared that his nose might actually bump against the first riser. He stood thus—whether pondering or calculating or simply blank, Thomas couldn't tell.

The door behind him opened, and the housekeeper appeared. “My soul, Alvina, what are you trying to do, kill this young man?” She pulled her own wrap more securely around her bony shoulders. “It's the damp of the grave out here. For heaven's sake, come in, now. Breakfast is ready.”

“It's wonderful out here,” Alvi countered. “He needs some relief from being cooped up.”

“Well.” Gert James started to argue, then saw the dog. “Oh, for heaven's sake. Will you go home,” she said, and clapped her hands sharply. “If Mr. Lindeman would feed you once in a while,” she added. Taking Thomas' chair, Gert spun it around and pushed him toward the door. “Let's get some food in you, too,” she said.