The Moon by Night (45 page)

“Aw, a couple of chocolates aren't gonna hurt 'em, Doc. You worry too much.”

The four of them sat at the end of the big library table, and Shiloh said a quick prayer of thanks. They all ate hungrily, even Dr. White, who was so intimidated that she had been afraid she might not be able to swallow. She needn't have worried, because she, too, hadn't realized how very hungry she was.

Dev was telling Shiloh about the influenza spreading throughout the hospital. “So now we have six patients with influenza. It's not the really virulent strain, with extreme high fevers and racking coughs, and that's good. We're lucky that we've only had one staff member—Dr. Batson—become infected. At Bellevue their infection rate for both patients and staff is about thirty percent.”

Cheney made a face. “I wonder that it's that
low
. That place is filthy, and there's no disinfection program at all. I don't see how you can bear to work in the place, Dev.”

“Because it's the only place where many people can go,” he said mildly. “We certainly couldn't take any and all comers here, and neither can the other private hospitals. All the other government-funded charity hospitals send their serious contagion cases and terminal cases to Bellevue in order to keep their own mortality rates and cross-infection rates low. Besides that, poor old Bellevue is always lamentably short staffed. They can't afford to let their staff take off work when they're ill unless they're bedridden. Just look at the problems it's caused us with only one doctor out.”

“That's because we're understaffed too,” Cheney said. “Victoria tried to tell me that, but I didn't believe her.”

“Well, I'm glad I'm not the only one who's noticed,” Shiloh rasped. “I'm gonna sue you for divorce, Doc. I got to see you more before we got married.”

“You can't have a divorce—ever—so just think of another way, Mr. Iron Head,” Cheney retorted, but she was smiling.

“How 'bout if me and Sean and Shannon just move into one of the cubicles?” he suggested. “At least maybe we'd see you pass by. We could wave at each other.”

“Victoria's threatening to move into the hospital too,” Dev said. “But I told her there's not enough room for her shoes; and she'd have to build another hospital next door to hold her clothes. Cheney, please pass the cake. I wasn't going to eat any because I'm already full, but it looks too good to pass up. Dr. White, may I serve you?”

“No, thank you very much,” she said shyly, “but if I could, I'd love to have a chocolate cream.”

“Of course, you may have all the chocolate creams you want,” Cheney said warmly. “We need to eat them all, because otherwise Shiloh will probably just feed them to the dogs.”

“Aw, they weren't that crazy 'bout 'em anyway, Doc,” he drawled. “They're Irish, you know, so those French chocolates didn't impress 'em much. Anyway, I thought we'd just stay over at the office tonight. Dev, I went ahead and built a fire in the second bedroom too, in case you get a chance to come over and grab a nap.”

“Thank you, Shiloh, that was very thoughtful of you,” he said in his formal manner. “But somehow I doubt if I'll be sleeping much tonight.”

He was right. Neither he nor Cheney was able to take off long enough to go to the office to sleep. Still, because Dev knew that not only he and Cheney but also the three student doctors had been working around the clock and were fatigued, Dev scheduled all of them for a one-hour rest period throughout the night.

Cheney fell asleep as soon as she sat down on the couch, but after exactly twenty-two minutes she jerked awake, remembering that she hadn't ordered a two-o'clock feeding for Baby Girl Cranmer. But then she realized that the other doctors were perfectly capable of knowing that the baby had to be fed every two hours, so she relaxed again. But she couldn't go back to sleep. She just stared at the fire and wished she were with Shiloh.

They didn't admit any new patients that night, and miraculously they didn't have a stream of influenza victims or accident victims come into the emergency clinic, as they usually did when there was a snowstorm. However, the hospital patients they did have seemed to require extra care and kept them all busy throughout the night. Although as scientists they would not generally admit it, both Dev and Cheney knew that sick people generally worsened at night, and in particular the hours between two o'clock and four o'clock were usually when the crises came. She and Shiloh secretly called them the “death minutes.” And this night, in particular, was very trying, starting at two o'clock and lasting about an hour. Geraldine Cranmer's fever shot up to one hundred four degrees, so she had to have cold affusions. Her friend Wilhelmina kept complaining of pain from her amputation, until finally she simply burst into tears and couldn't seem to stop, even when they had given her an enormously large dose of laudanum.

Mevrouw de Sille was worsening by the day. The pneumonia was sapping her strength so that she couldn't fight off the influenza, and she kept relapsing. At midnight her fever rose to over one hundred, which was not really dangerous but was high enough that she couldn't sleep.

Mr. Riordan, who had been admitted with angina, had a rather severe flare-up at three o'clock. Cheney's carpenter patient, Henry Norton, was beginning to show signs of septic sore throat, and he and William Reese, who had the severest cases of influenza besides Mrs. de Sille, hardly slept at all.

Neil Melbourne was never far from Cheney's mind or thoughts. He was in a steady decline, losing weight by the minute, it seemed, as he convulsed in his coma. By Saturday morning he had been having full body convulsions for two and a half days, and Cheney thought he might not make it through the weekend. But he still had to be carefully monitored so they could keep his morphine levels steady. Cheney and Dev thought that only they should take that responsibility, so no matter what else was happening, one of them evaluated him every hour.

Because the hospital was so frantically busy, Cheney simply couldn't face trying to take Shiloh to see Neil Melbourne and explain to him about her patient. This weighed on her at odd moments, but somehow she knew that the Lord was indeed giving her a “grace period” concerning this. She knew that the time would come when she could speak to Shiloh without worry or hurry.

Finally, at five-thirty, Cheney and Dev found themselves sitting at the desk at the nurses' station, staring blankly at each other. It was very quiet and had been for the last five minutes. Cheney said weakly, “I'm afraid to move. I'm afraid if I do, it will jinx us and something will happen, and we'll have to jump up and go back to work. But I'd really like to fix us some nice hot tea.”

“I'll do it,” he said, stretching.

“You will?” Cheney asked, amazed. Normally Dev didn't do things like making tea or coffee. It wasn't that he was arrogant, it was just that he was accustomed to having others do small chores such as that for him.

“No,” he answered, “but I'll tell one of the interns to do it. What good does it do to have preceptees if they don't wait on you?” He rose, his dark eyes twinkling, and went down the hall to find one of the hapless interns.

Dev returned and he and Cheney settled down to the painstaking work of posting to the patient files. In about twenty minutes, Dr. Gilder brought them a tea tray and humbly asked if he could do anything else for them. Cheney was secretly amused, for she suspected that Dev was deliberately giving the rather spoiled young man such menial chores as this to gently teach him that his wealthy family and his charm didn't get him nearly as much recognition as Stephen Varick's continual hard work or Lawana White's eagerness for learning. Dev thanked him and sent him on his way.

When they were very busy, as they had been that night, it was almost impossible to make notations to the files while they were dealing with the patients. Cheney and Dev worked seamlessly together, with an almost unspoken mutual comprehension of a complex division of duties for some patients and working together on others. Such easy understanding made the work easier, but it did make it difficult to split up the files and each do half of them. For almost all of them Cheney and Dev had to discuss and contribute to the postings together.

They kept steadily at it for two hours while the patients finally slept and the attendants rested and the interns kept watch over the critical patients. It had been so quiet and peaceful as Cheney and Dev talked over the patient files that it startled them both when the emergency clinic doors opened and Officer Goodin came in, scattering snow everywhere when he took off his hat and stamped his feet.

“Good morning,” he said heartily. “It's truly a beautiful morning. But I've always thought snowy mornings were like beautiful women. They're wonderful to look at, but you'd best not forget that they can freeze your heart too.”

“So speaks a man who should know, since we've seen his wife,” Dev said warmly to Cheney.

Officer Goodin's long melancholy face lit up. “Why thank you, Dr. Buchanan, I'll be sure and tell Bess you said that. It'll thrill her no end.”

“Is it still snowing?” Cheney asked.

“Yes, ma'am, still snowing and already six inches deep.” Painstakingly pulling off his gloves and rubbing his hands together, he came up to the nurses' station and leaned across the counter, eyeing the tea tray pointedly.

Cheney touched the teapot. “So sorry, but it's cold, Officer Goodin. If you have time, we'll make another pot. In fact, I believe I could do with another cup or two myself. Can you wait?”

“Might be, ma'am, but first let's conduct our business, please,” he said, suddenly all professional police officer. “I have a dead woman, and I've already filed with the coroner and notified him that you'll be doing the autopsy, Dr. Duvall. I hope you don't mind my taking the liberty.”

“Why no, of course not,” she said. “You've brought her?”

“Yes. I had her picked up and transported by coroner's hearse, all according to the book. I told the coroner, Dr. Buchanan, that you'd take custody of the body. You see, I believe she's been murdered.”

“In that case isn't the coroner supposed to do the autopsy?” Dev asked.

“Yes, sir, normally. But this lady had what you might call some abnormal circumstances,” he said rather mysteriously. “And to tell the truth, I think the coroner was pretty happy not to have to roust himself out in this weather. Anyways, if you'll agree to do the autopsy, Dr. Duvall, and if you will take custody, Dr. Buchanan, I'd like to go ahead and move her down into the morgue.”

“Yes, go ahead, Officer Goodin,” Dev answered. “Do you need help?”

“No, I've got the coroner's assistant driving the hearse, so we two can manage, thank you.”

“Very well,” Cheney said. “Go ahead and put her in the morgue, and I'll go see about some tea. When you and Dev get the custody papers done, come to the doctors' sitting room, Officer Goodin, and we can have a cup of hot tea while you tell me the story. Oh—no, I suppose I'd better come now to determine the state of rigor, so we can estimate time of death.”

“Never mind, you go on ahead and see to the tea,” Dev said, rising and stretching his arms high above his head and working his head around so as to relieve some of the stiffness in his shoulders and neck. “I'll go down to sign her in, and I'll start the autopsy report with state of rigor.”

“Oh, thank you, Dev. I've just got to get up and walk around a little. I feel like I'm made out of rusty metal.”

Cheney took the tea tray to the storeroom with the small kitchen and found that Carlie was already making tea in the five-gallon samovar for the weary staff. Cheney poured the teapot full and took the tea tray into the lounge. She noticed, with amusement, that all of the food was gone, including the chocolate creams. All of the dishes were cleaned and stacked, the silverware neatly wrapped in napkins at one end of the big table.

She wondered if Shiloh had done all that. He had come back in once during the night to see if she could take a break to see Sean and Shannon and the pretty snow, but she had been attending to the baby at the time, so he had just whispered to her that he missed her and then slipped away. Cheney stood at the big windows, staring at the falling snow.
I wonder…if I keep on working the way I have been, excluding Shiloh and even neglecting him…if I'll lose him
.

She knew that Shiloh wouldn't stop loving her, but it was undeniable that as their careers had diverged, their closeness had diminished. Though she had laughed, his joke about not seeing her as often as he used to before they were married haunted her.

Officer Goodin came in, again stamping his feet and brushing snow from his overcoat. He had a bundle wrapped in brown paper, and he carried it to the table where he and Cheney sat down to tea.

“As I said, there are some special circumstances about this poor lady,” he said without preamble. He slowly unwrapped the parcel. “Do you recognize this, Dr. Duvall?”

“Why, of course. It's one of our coveralls,” she answered in surprise. “You mean the dead woman was wearing it?”

“No, she was carrying it,” he answered slowly. “I need to tell you the whole story from the beginning, but first I wanted to know if you can tell whose coverall this is. I mean, do you all have your own?”

“No. We stock them, and the doctors use them as needed,” Cheney answered. “We have them made in the three most common men's sizes, and we usually order six of each size. I have mine made to order, and when Dr. White came as an intern, I ordered two coveralls for her. I can tell you that this one is one of the men's, but I'm afraid there is no way to connect any coverall to a particular doctor.”

“They don't wear them home? Or maybe take them home to launder?”

“No, even Dr. White and I leave ours here, and the hospital laundry cleans them. But I have to say, Officer Goodin, that they do get out the door, sometimes, by accident. Why, once I had a very trying shift, and I was halfway home before I realized that I had kept on my coverall. And they probably get stolen too, along with everything else that isn't nailed down.” She smiled sadly. “When you brought poor little Geraldine in last weekend, Dr. Pettijohn told me she was wearing a petticoat made from a St. Luke's bed sheet. It happens all the time.”