Dancing in the Rain (2 page)

“I’ll try.”

“Tell my buddy here the right way to say the name of this here town. He says it’s
go dot,
but them Frenchies just laugh when we say that.”

Carolyn shrugged. “They laugh at my Texas drawl, too. Don’t ask me why, but the French don’t pronounce the last
t
in Goudot.”

“Did you say
goo dough?”

“That’s right.”

The soldier turned to his friend. “Fellas, I reckon we can remember that. We’ve sure got a lot of goo here, and we’re Doughboys. Doughboys stuck in the goo.”

When they stopped laughing, the man next to Henry asked Carolyn to write a letter for him. Writing letters was one of Carolyn’s talents. Unfortunately, she was far less skilled at the tasks that were her primary reason for being here.

Today was a little easier than yesterday. She spilled less of the water when she washed their faces and hands, and the patients that she helped eat did not look as if they had taken a bath in their food today. Perhaps with a few more days’ practice, she would have mastered those chores. But the last chore … Carolyn tried not to let her revulsion show. There was no chance that she would ever enjoy emptying bed pans. Not even the scent of her perfume could keep her from wrinkling her nose at them.

“I reckon this don’t smell like a country club.” To Carolyn’s mortification, one of the patients chuckled at her distress.

“Maybe not,” she agreed, “but my dancing partners in Texas weren’t as gallant as you gentlemen are.”

“I shore would like to dance with you,” the man replied.

Carolyn knew that his wish was unlikely to come true, for he had a compound fracture of his left tibia. Looking for a way to ease his worries, she started to say, “My granny …”

“Carolyn?” At the familiar voice, Carolyn raised her head. Helen Guthrie, the nurse who shared with Carolyn the tiny third-floor room that had once been a scullery maid’s quarters, stood in the doorway, her face ashen. “As soon as you’re finished …” She gestured toward the hallway behind her.

Though Carolyn did not know the other woman well, she was familiar enough with illness to know that something was wrong. “What can I do?” she asked a minute later, when she’d made her excuses to the patients.

“I need your help,” Helen said. She had looked ill when seen from a distance, but close up, her pallor was alarming, her face unnaturally white against her dark brown hair, her eyes clouded with pain. “Hollow Heart is back, and he needs me in the operating room,” Helen continued, her voice weaker than normal. It wasn’t, Carolyn was certain, only the prospect of working with the man who was reputed to be the most difficult of the Army physicians that caused Helen’s pallor. The woman was ill.

Carolyn raised one eyebrow. “I know it’s not polite to say this, but you look awful.”

“I feel awful,” Helen admitted. “I can’t keep any food down, and my legs don’t want to support me. I can’t go in there.” She shuddered as she glanced toward the operating theater.

Unsure what Helen thought she could do, Carolyn asked, “Do you want me to ask Miss Pierce to assign another nurse?” The head nurse was strict, but everyone agreed that she was fair.

Helen shook her head. “There isn’t anyone else. The fighting near Ypres is worse, and we got another trainload of patients last night. Right now there are more wounded than the doctors can handle.” Helen gripped the wall as another wave of pain washed over her. “Everyone’s on duty. That’s why I need you.”

Carolyn reached out to steady her roommate. At just over five feet tall, Helen felt tiny compared to Carolyn’s own five and a half feet. “What do you mean?” She wrapped her arm around Helen’s shoulders.

“I need you to take my place.”

Carolyn shook her head. “You know I can’t do that. I’m a nurse’s aide, not a nurse.” If she had difficulty with bedpans, how would she handle surgery? “I don’t know anything about operating room protocol.”

“Please, Carolyn.” Helen’s English accent became more pronounced as she pleaded. “Think about the men in there. They need you.”

It was crazy. It wouldn’t work. She would get sent home in disgrace for impersonating a nurse. Carolyn started to shake her head, but as she did, she pictured Theo or Ed lying on a stretcher, waiting for a doctor. How could she not do whatever was possible to help all the men like her brother and her fiancé?

“What about Hollow Heart?” she asked, referring to the doctor whose reputation terrified the nursing staff.

The gleam she saw in Helen’s eyes told Carolyn that Helen realized she had decided to help her. “He probably won’t know the difference. He doesn’t look at us nurses, anyway. We’re just another instrument that he needs—not real people. Besides,” Helen asked, “what can he do to you?”

“He could fire me.” The image of the notorious Dr. Hollow Heart throwing her out of the operating room rose before Carolyn. She could picture the man, tall and as lanky as Ichabod Crane, pointing a bony finger at her as he ordered her to leave. Then she laughed. “You’re right, Helen. He can’t do anything. You can’t fire a volunteer.” She gestured toward the door. “Go back to bed. I’ll do my best.”

And, crazy as it was, Carolyn was grinning as she walked toward the operating room. How much worse could this be than emptying bedpans? She had survived that, and she would survive this. After all, this was a chance to prove that Carolyn Wentworth was more than a decoration and that coming to France had not been a mistake.

Her smile faded when she opened the door and she paused for a second, trying to regain her equilibrium. She had been in the operating theater the day she arrived in Goudot, but that had not prepared her for the scene before her. The room had been empty when Helen had shown it to her on their impromptu tour. At the time, Carolyn had been jarred by the juxtaposition of flocked wallpaper and a gleaming parquet floor with sturdy iron beds and tables covered with instruments. Today she felt as if her senses were being assaulted. The voices of a dozen doctors and an equal number of nurses mingled with patients’ groans, while the odor of carbolic acid failed to overcome the stench of illness. And in the midst of what appeared to be barely controlled chaos was the man she sought.

There was no question about which of the doctors was Dwight Hollins, more commonly known to the nursing staff as Dr. Hollow Heart. Only one man stood alone, pacing the floor. Only one man had a scowl etched onto his face. As Carolyn entered the room, he glared at her. With an ostentatious look at the clock, he said, “Good afternoon, Nurse.”

“Good morning, Doctor,” Carolyn corrected him. She wouldn’t let this man intimidate her. He was, after all, just a man, like all the others. His legs were encased in the same knee-high boots, the same woolen uniform. Like the other doctors, he had slipped a white linen smock over his jacket to protect it during surgery. That was no surprise. What was a surprise was that he bore no resemblance to Ichabod Crane.

Dwight Hollins wasn’t as tall as she had expected—perhaps an inch under six feet—nor was he lanky. This man was well muscled, and if it weren’t for the scowl, his face would be a handsome one. His eyes were hazel, and though his hair was covered with a cap, Carolyn knew from Helen’s tales that it was brown.

“Is it still morning?” he asked, his words dripping with disdain. “Or perhaps it is morning again? I’ve been waiting long enough that that seems possible.”

Carolyn looked around. The other doctors and nurses were so engrossed with their own patients that they seemed not to notice her. Thank goodness. No one had recognized her as an aide and was going to demand that she leave. Perhaps she could get through this after all. The first step was to placate the doctor. His nurse was late. Even though she was not responsible, there was no denying that. “I’m sorry.”

The scowl deepened. “Don’t apologize to me,” he said, his tone somehow managing to be both frosty and yet burning with sarcasm. “It’s the men here who deserve your apologies.” Dwight Hollins gestured toward the stretchers that lined the perimeter of the room. It was a measure of how many wounded had arrived that the patients were here rather than being in a ward, waiting for surgery.

Laughter, Carolyn again reminded herself, could heal. She held out her skirts and curtseyed as if she were greeting royalty. “My apologies, gentlemen. My granny warned me that vanity was a sin and that I shouldn’t spend so much time fixing my hair, but she also told me that first impressions were important. I ask y’all, what’s a girl to do when she gets conflicting advice?”

As she had hoped, several of the patients laughed. Dr. Hollins did not. “If you’re ready now,” he said, his eyes darkening with something that looked like anger, “perhaps we could do our jobs.”

“Certainly, Doctor.” Carolyn tried not to think about the charade that she had begun. Somehow, some way, she had to make this man think that she was a nurse.

He uncovered the makeshift bandage on the first patient’s arm and nodded as Carolyn took her place next to him. “Scalpel,” he ordered.

Oh, no! There were half a dozen instruments on the tray. One of them was surely a scalpel, but Carolyn had no idea which. She froze.

The doctor held his hand out, then turned to glare at Carolyn. “The one on the right,” he said, his voice as cold as ice. “Might I suggest that you spend less time trying to charm the patients and a bit more helping me.”

She
had
been trying to charm the patients, but not for the reason Hollow Heart thought. She started to protest, then stopped. So what if he believed she was frivolous and vain? That was preferable to having him realize that she had never before touched a scalpel. “Yes, Doctor,” Carolyn said as sweetly as she could. “It won’t happen again.”

“It had better not.”

And it did not. Carolyn soon learned that Dr. Hollins had a habit of glancing at the instrument tray before he requested an item. If she watched carefully, she would see what he wanted. After the first few times, she reached for the item and placed it in his open hand before he had finished asking for it. The second time that happened, though he made no comment, his tone seemed to warm ever so slightly. After that, it became a challenge for Carolyn. She tried to anticipate the doctor’s needs, retrieving a suture or a bandage and handing it to him before he could speak. This was a game she could play and win. Even better, it served the very important purpose of helping keep Carolyn’s mind off the men they were treating. If she focused on the instruments and Dwight Hollins’s face, she was less aware of the twisted limbs and torn flesh and the men who suffered so greatly.

Many of those men were awake while the doctor treated them, and so Carolyn forced herself to keep a smile on her face. She would look at each one and give him a special smile, pretending he was the man of her dreams, the one who had escorted her to a ball at the country club. In her fantasy, they were dressed in formal clothing, and she wore a fragrant corsage. Though she smiled at the men and occasionally touched one’s hand to reassure him, she never spoke to them. That might disturb the doctor’s concentration. And if there was one thing Carolyn had quickly realized, it was that the doctor took his work seriously. So very seriously.

She glanced down at the ring on her left hand. Her sisters had told her that Ed was too serious for her, that she’d never be happy marrying a man like him. If Martha and Emily thought Ed was serious, they should meet Dwight Hollins. Compared to him, Ed Bleeker was a veritable comedian.

When the next patient was brought to them and the doctor uncovered his leg, Carolyn tried not to wince. Fragments of bone protruded from flesh so badly mangled that she could not see how it could ever heal. Though it was one of the most difficult things she had ever done, she smiled at the young man.

The doctor did not smile. “Chloroform,” he said firmly.

Carolyn tried not to think about the reasons he wanted to sedate this patient. She wasn’t here to think. She was here to help the doctor and by helping him, to help these poor men. As she held the soaked gauze over the patient’s nose, she smiled brightly. The man returned her smile.

“He won’t be smiling when he wakes up with only one leg.”

Carolyn’s hand began to tremble as the implication of the doctor’s words registered. He was going to amputate the man’s leg. She bit the inside of her cheek, then closed her eyes when she realized Dwight Hollins expected her to assist him. She couldn’t! It was one thing to hand him instruments, to help him remove shrapnel and suture wounds. It was far different to cut off a man’s leg. She couldn’t!

Sensing her fears, the doctor fixed his gaze on her. “Is something wrong?” he demanded.

Everything!
her mind shrieked, but she forced down the bile and said as calmly as she could, “Nothing other than a moment of pity for this man.”

“He needs your help, not your pity.” No wonder they called him Hollow Heart; the man had no emotions. He might be a skilled physician—and Carolyn had heard that he was one of the finest doctors in the Army—but he lacked basic humanity. How could anyone be so cold? She might have thought that it was a reaction to the destruction that surrounded them, a way of insulating himself from the constant suffering, but Helen had told her that the other doctors were far more human. What had made Dwight Hollins this way? Why didn’t his heart ache as hers did?

Carolyn flashed her bright smile at the doctor. “I’ll give this man both help and sympathy,” she declared as the saw bit into the shattered bone.

Afterwards, Carolyn knew it was a blessing that she could recall none of the details of the surgery. She attempted to play the same game she had before, to watch Dwight’s eyes and anticipate his needs. Sometimes it worked. When it didn’t, he seemed to understand and would point to the instrument he needed. Somehow they finished the amputation. By the end of the day, they had treated more soldiers than Carolyn could count.

When their shift was over, Dwight Hollins nodded briefly as he removed his cap and smock. “Not bad, Nurse.”

Carolyn felt blood rush to her face. For years, people had praised her beauty and her grace. Men had showered her with compliments. Women had told her how they envied her her golden hair, the eyes so dark a blue that they could only be called sapphire, and the heart-shaped face that her sisters wished they had inherited from their mother. Though those compliments had all been fervent, none had touched her the way Dwight Hollins’s three words had.