The Reluctant Midwife (26 page)

Recovery has been slow, but this is not unexpected. Each person heals in his own way and in his own time. You can be supportive, but you can't make it happen.

It's more than one week since Patience delivered, and day by day she's getting stronger. We don't have to beg her to eat anymore; she knows what to do, and unlike before in the late months of her pregnancy, when she seemed to be fading away, she now has something to live for.

Patience is not allowed to do any work, not even to take care of Danny, only herself and the baby. Danny has had a few temper tantrums, but Blum handles them well, silently swooping the little boy over his shoulder and taking him out in yard.

The doctor has pretty much returned to his old silent self. He's fixed up a swing in one of the willow trees, and I realize, by looking at the new leaves on the willow, that we have been in West Virginia for almost a year. The long weeping willow branches are budding with yellow and the trees are bright balls of sunlight.

Most days, Patience just lies on the sofa listening to the radio, though the news isn't good. It's mainly about the nationwide
drought, the devastation of the Midwest by wind and dirt, and the rising unemployment rate, now 25 percent nationwide, much worse in West Virginia, though in rural areas we can at least live off the land.

Patience likes Will Rogers's show out of Pittsburgh best. Will rambles on about politics and the common man, not quite a Red, but not a capitalist either. “The short memories of the American voters is what keeps our politicians in office,” he said, and it made Patience laugh so hard I thought she might bust her stitches. Even Dr. Blum smiled.

After our midday meal, Patience sometimes gives the baby to Daniel and sits at the piano playing old show tunes. (She once was a chorus girl on the stage in Chicago, though it's hard to picture that now.) Then she goes upstairs, taking each step slowly, to nap with Danny and breastfeed the baby. No cooking. No cleaning. No gardening. No attending deliveries.

At first, because of the dehydration and blood loss, she had almost no milk, but she's determined to nurse and always feeds first from her breasts to build up her supply. Afterward we give the baby a bottle of Borden's canned formula mixed with Moonlight's milk.

Hester is concerned about the dangers of the tuberculosis bacterium, even though our cows have been tested, and he insists that his baby will have only top milk, heated to one hundred forty-five degrees for thirty minutes and later stored in the Frigidaire as the USDA recommends.

I, on the other hand, am concerned about the dangers of postpartum infection and check Patience's incision each day. She's a setup for septicemia, but so far, so good. Some angel must be watching over her.

At first I was worried that Patience might slip into mother depression. I've seen this before after a difficult delivery or sometimes
for no reason at all. It happened to the Hamlin girl in town, five years ago. She tried to slit her wrists in the bathtub. Fortunately, Dr. Blum was able to save her, but she had to be taken to the State Lunatic Asylum in Weston and may still be there.

On warm days, I assist Patience in going out and sitting in the sun on the porch. Despite all science has to offer, fresh air and sunshine are still the best medicine.

They named the baby Mira because she was a miracle.

Today I returned to my job at the CCC camp. I'd called Sheriff Hardman and asked him to leave word with Supervisor Milliken, via shortwave radio, that I wouldn't be able to come in for two weeks because of a family emergency, but when I showed up, there was hell to pay.

“So
nice
of you to join us, Miss Myers,” Captain Wolfe greets me, standing with his hands on his hips on the porch of the administration building. “What was the big emergency? Your
doctor
have a serious relapse of muteness?” Boodean and Mrs. Ross pretend not to listen.

“Can we speak in private?” I head for the infirmary and close the door behind him.

“What is your
problem
?”

“What is yours? I stood up for you, helped you get this job, and then you leave for two weeks!”

“I sent a message through the sheriff that we had a medical emergency. What did you expect me to do? Leave a critically ill mother and premature baby? I figured Boodean could cope with
minor problems and the doctor from Laurel would cover both camps the same way he did before I was hired.”

“Well, it wasn't that easy. Dr. Crane quit ten days ago and went back to Ohio. It's been a zoo around here. Four kids were almost killed in a truck accident and I've been going back and forth to the hospital in Torrington. I've been trying to help Private Boodean in the infirmary, doing my job and yours too. One night we had four men sleeping here. I had half a mind to come out and get you or just fire you right out, and I would have if I'd been in charge, but Milliken said to wait. There aren't many other nurses in Union County.”

The captain can't stop himself. He goes on and on. “You signed on for this job. You have responsibilities. In the middle of everything, we've had an outbreak of mumps in the camp. This place is a mess. Look around. Do you think Boodean and I were coping?”

He's right.
The place is a mess
. Two extra cots crowd the small room, there's a pile of clean linen on a chair, and a pile of dirty linen on the floor in the corner. Bottles of medication and gauze cover the desk.

We glare at each other, neither wanting to be the first to look away, and silence thickens the air. I'm eager to get to work and clean the place up, but not while Wolfe is still standing here. His face is red and I imagine mine is too, a far cry from the night he told me after the ball in Torrington that I looked so beautiful.

Finally, there's a timid knock at the door.

It's Boodean. “We have our first patient, Nurse Myers.” The captain spins on his heel and leaves without another word.

Within ten minutes after Wolfe's departure, Boodean and I have the extra cots collapsed and stored against the wall, the medications back on the shelves, and the dirty and clean linen put away, but I am still steamed.

What makes me feel so bad is that maybe Wolfe is right. Maybe I should have driven out here and told him personally what was going on. Maybe I
could
have come back to work sooner.

There isn't much time for further self-recriminations. Within five minutes Boodean escorts our first patient through the door.

It's Drake Trustler, aka Nick Rioli, the mobster's driver, and he looks terrible. His face is pale with dark circles under his eyes and he's lost so much weight his CCC uniform droops from his shoulders. I try to remember when I last saw him. It must have been before the camp Christmas party.

“Miss Myers.” He gives a little military salute. “Glad to have you back. I haven't been feeling so well.”

I take a seat behind the desk and my assistant picks up his clipboard.

“Do you think you're getting the mumps? I heard several of the men had it.” (Mumps are quite serious for adult males and can make them go sterile.)

“Not likely. Me and my brothers had the mumps in 1919. We were awful sick. I remember because my pop had just gotten back from the war.”

“Well, tell me what's wrong then. What are your symptoms? Does it involve your bowels? Are you able to eat?”

“Oh, nothing like that. I eat all I want and I keep it down. Don't
feel
much like eating though.” He starts to cough and puts a blue kerchief to his mouth. “It's more like my chest hurts and I'm not sleeping well. I wake hot and then chill. I'm worried I've got pneumo.”

Without even asking, Boodean gets out my thermometer and stethoscope. He shakes the glass rod vigorously and pops it in the patient's mouth before I have a chance to ask any more questions.

Two minutes later, as Boodean holds the glass tube up at eye level, his eyebrows go up. “One hundred and one degrees,” he reads out loud.

“Is that high? What's it supposed to be, ninety or something?” Drake questions.

“Yes, it's a little high.” I run my fingers down his neck looking for swollen glands and then lay the back of my hand on his forehead, feeling the heat. “You didn't have a cigarette on the way over, did you?”

“Nah, I never smoke. My father died of consumption, so none of us kids did.”

“Can you take off your shirt?” The medic steps over to the wood stove, opens the damper, and throws in two logs to warm the room up.

The patient coughs again. When he stops, I place the bell of my stethoscope over his left upper chest and am startled to hear a familiar rattle. I listen again. Yes, it's still there, a rattle on the in breath and not only that, there's a high-pitched wheeze on the out breath too. “Can you cough harder? Clear your airway?”

“Yeah, I feel it, a squeaky door, every time I breathe.” The man leans over, his elbows on his knees with the kerchief over his face and hacks a few times, but when I listen, the rattle's still there and so is the wheeze.

“You know, Drake. I think it's a good idea to keep you in the clinic overnight. It's probably warmer here than in the bunkhouse, and tomorrow I'm going to get Captain Wolfe or someone to take you down to the hospital in Torrington for a chest X-ray.” Boodean gives me a strange look.

“Oh, no, Miss Myers! My mother told me never to get an X-ray!” Drake argues. “She knew a lady who got brain cancer that way. I'm sure I'll be better tomorrow. Just sleeping here will help. It
is
cold in the bunkhouse and in the garage I'm on the concrete floor under the trucks all the time.”

“Drake, that's a common misconception about X-rays, but I'll consult with the captain and the supervisor to see what they think. . . . If you don't mind, why don't you sit in the reception area while we fix up your bed.” I open the door to tell Mrs. Ross, but find the room empty.

The mechanic slowly pulls his uniform shirt on and then slowly buttons it.

“What was that roll of the eyes you gave me when I told Trustler he might need an X-ray? Do you disagree?” (The medic and I are readying the room for Drake's overnight stay.)

“You're the doc.”

“Come clean, Boodean.” My little rhyme makes us both laugh.

“Okay, the truth is, it cost White Rock Camp plenty when they had to send those four boys down to the hospital, the ones that were in the truck accident. If you'd been in the camp, it might have been avoided. The supervisor and captain won't take kindly to another medical expense, especially if it's really not necessary. Trustler looks like shit, pardon my language, but it's probably just the croup.”

“You didn't listen to his lungs. I've heard sounds like that before.”

“Like what?”

“Like pleural effusion.”

He stares at me blankly.

“Fluid
outside
the lungs.”

I step to the door of the waiting room. “Hey, Drake, do you want to go back to the bunkhouse to get your pajamas and whatever else you need?”

“Drake?”

The man has fainted and is slumped over in his chair.

“Drake!”

“I may have to make a trip to Torrington on Monday,” I tell Patience as I set the table for our noon meal. “I had a corpsman
faint in the clinic yesterday.” She sits nursing the baby on one of the wooden kitchen chairs. “It's Drake Trustler . . . Nick Rioli, the driver for the mob crew from Pittsburgh. . . . Remember, I told you about him, how he's turned his life around and is now one of the lead mechanics in the camp motor pool.” Patience shifts the baby to the other breast and touches her little girl's cheek.

“She's really growing isn't she?” I observe.

“Four pounds now. Pretty good, huh? And I'm not giving her the Borden's anymore.”

“You look like you're feeling stronger too.”

She gives me a little smile. “Did I ever thank you for saving my life . . . and Mira's? You're such a blessing to us.”

“Me? It was Daniel and Isaac who did the c-section.”

“Daniel told me it was you who said, ‘Let's go. We have to go
now!
' It was you who resuscitated the baby.”

“You do what you have to do when someone you love is in danger.” This surprises me and I blush. I had never said that before, not even to myself, that I love Patience Hester. She doesn't blush. She just looks at me steady and then changes the subject.

“So you might go to Torrington?”

“I might have to, but it won't be easy. Drake is convinced X-rays cause cancer.”

“I've heard that too.”

“Heard what?” Hester kicks his rubber boots off, returning from the barn, along with Blum and little Danny.

“X-rays causing cancer . . .”

“Where do people come up with this stuff? That was twenty years ago,” Daniel scoffs.

“Mrs. Kelly thought they were dangerous too,” Patience puts in. “She told me that Thomas Edison wouldn't have an X-ray machine in his lab after one of his scientists got radiation burns and had to have both arms amputated.”

“Well, that's a true story, but they're safer now. Why are we talking about X-rays, anyhow?” He runs his hand along the back of Patience's neck and leans in to kiss his baby. Blum plunks Danny in his wooden high chair and sits down beside him.

“What ray?” the little boy asks, but no one answers him.

I put the corn bread and beans on the table and bring fresh milk and butter from the Frigidaire. “I was explaining, I have a sick man at the camp and we may have to take him to Torrington for a chest X-ray.”

Here Blum looks as if he's interested, and a familiar light flickers in his blue eyes, but he doesn't ask questions or offer an opinion. It's as if the night of the surgery, when he returned for a few hours to his old self, never really happened, or it was a dream.