“I’m so proud of you.” Lucinda hugged her when Jennie told her sister. The Sloans had moved to Portland, where the sisters met at a tearoom near the railroad station, the scent of mint fresh in the air. “I wish Rebecca and Mathias were alive to know you’re in medical school.”
“They taught me how to read.”
“And I dismissed your interest in medicine.” She picked her napkin up, then replaced it on her lap. “I’m sorry.”
“You were realistic, Lucinda. It’s a miracle that I’m about to enter school.”
“The world needs healers, Jennie. All kinds. You were willing to dream.”
“Josiah really pushed me.”
“Some husbands motivate.” She looked at Jennie, stared at a tea cake. “You were right about Joseph, he was pushing the foam. He quit the prison and is back to being a carpenter now and so much happier.”
“If only my Douglas finds a stable path.”
“He’s young.” She reached for Jennie’s hand and patted it. “He will.”
Jennie hoped her sister’s lens would be truth and not a hoped-for fiction.
Beginning in April, Jennie sat in lectures for six hours a day. Twice a week students gowned up with aprons and masks for simple surgeries performed in a cramped room. The equipment was sparse, nothing compared to hospitals like St. Vincent’s in Portland. Jennie suspected the lack of a hospital in Salem was one impetus for a separate medical college in Portland.
“Why not start a hospital here?” Jennie asked her husband. They each fixed a child’s hair with ribbons and bows while the girls sat before Jennie’s dresser mirror. They pointed at each other and laughed. Sometimes Jennie thought they might have a secret language between them. She was glad Ariyah taught them weekly with Alex and two other children she’d enlisted for piano lessons. She’d added art.
“Too expensive to open their own hospital. Salem only has 1,200 people. Portland has 15,000 to draw on, perhaps more as those wagon trains keep bringing people west. They can support two hospitals plus Hawthorne’s Asylum. Speaking as a trustee, I’m concerned.” He was even more chagrined when that fall a formal agreement was signed between the Portland area Medical College boosters and Willamette’s medical faculty. In it, the Portland group agreed to disband and the Willamette group agreed to move the college to Portland—but Jennie’s class would graduate from Salem before that.
Note-taking, reading, and remembering took her time. And dealing with the often not-so-subtle efforts by the male staff and students trying to discourage the three women still enrolled. Their cadre—made up of Esther Yeargain, Callie, and Jennie—was committed to withstand those efforts to dissipate their dreams.
At least none of the men tried to keep them from working on cadavers nor did they surprise them with the autopsy of a man. The affronts were mostly based on a belief that women were not as intellectually up to men’s standards. Jennie likely wasn’t, with her reading issues.
“That has nothing to do with your intelligence,” Esther Yeargain retorted when Jennie made her observation. “They’re simply not accustomed to women knowing as much as they do and being better able to integrate the material with actual practice. Unlike the men, we’re not in competition with each other. We’re looking for cures, not to win a game.”
Cures, yes, that’s what had led Jennie to this place. That and finally listening to her heart’s leading.
“Of course you’ll go,” Jennie said. Josiah had come into the room Jennie had turned into her study on the second floor, down the hall from the girls’ rooms. The Seth Thomas clock on the mantel over the fireplace struck the hour.
“I hate leaving you and the girls.” Gracie would be six in October and Josie five in August. Josiah was asked to negotiate a serious problem with the Bannock tribe in far eastern Oregon on the Malheur Reservation. Josiah’s health had continued to improve, and his regard by the Indians and his ability to speak native languages made his services valuable to the military. She could see how much he wanted to still be of service.
“There’ll be a school recess soon. Douglas will be here.”
“I’m not sure that makes me less concerned about leaving you.”
“You’ll be back by the time I return to class.”
“I hope.” He hesitated, then said, “It occurs to me that one should consider, that is . . .” He cleared his throat. “Jennie, this is about war. I won’t only be talking. Something could happen.”
He’d always discounted her concerns about his mortality early in their marriage when he’d been at the barns alone or traveled away. In the past eight years she hadn’t allowed such fears to come to the surface. Maybe because she had confidence that her children were secure; that God was present even in loss. Still, Josiah was being asked to go into a war, to quell it if possible. And people died in wars.
“I’m sure you could decline the request. You are seventy-two.”
“If I can help, I should. It’s just—” He lifted the book she read, set it down, and pulled her to him. “I miss you, Jennie Parrish.”
“I’m right here.”
“But you are also inside those books, engaged in your heart’s desire. I want to be sure I stay in your heart until I return.”
Did the vocation she loved take her from the people she loved? Yes. Did they all know how grateful she was that they allowed her this passion that had made her life complete? Probably not.
“There is always room for you.” She kissed him and marveled at the thrill that still worked its way from her lips to toes. Breathless, she said, “And some said it wouldn’t last.” She brushed his hair behind his ear.
“They had no idea what love can bridge: age, time, loss.”
“You’re a poet, Mr. Parrish.”
“If so, you’re my muse, Mrs. Parrish. What say you finish that chapter tomorrow.” He kissed her again and they walked arm in arm to the girls’ rooms, settling them into bed, and then found respite and peace in each other’s arms.
Their good-bye two days later lingered. The girls hugged Josiah’s legs and he picked up each child in turn, hugging them and kissing their foreheads. “JoJo, you work on that loose tooth.” She nodded. “And Gracie, will you keep teaching Van how to roll over?”
“Yes, Papa.” They chirped it together.
He pulled Jennie to him, his hands wide and firm at her waist. “Study hard, Dr. Parrish.”
“I will. You come back.”
“I will.” He kissed her one last time and she knew then she would never be held by another with as much love as that of Josiah Parrish. He mounted up, turned the rein against his horse’s neck, doffed his hat to her one last time, and rode off to meet Colonel Nesmith. She had admired her future husband from a distance, and in time, loved her husband close. That day she felt him both with her and away, but love bridged the distance.
She pressed any concerns aside, spoiled her daughters, and indulged her son, giving him spending money for a planned climb on Mt. Hood with a few other Willamette students once school was out in July. She hired private tutors for both girls at home. Lizzie and Ariyah remained the other consistent women in their lives. She doubted she could have stayed in school without this army of people.
If the three female medical students continued as planned, they would graduate next July. “I don’t think I’ll be ready,” Esther Yeargain said. They often studied together and met for their noontime meals, that day sitting on a low brick wall surrounding a fountain that burbled in the background. Robins chirped in the nearby oaks, shadowed by tall fir. Jennie wanted to talk with her colleagues about missing Josiah, but both were widows—they knew about longing and hers was temporary, or so she hoped.
Jennie began to think about post-diploma work at a university that had a hospital attached. To land in San Francisco or maybe New York for surgical experiences. She was anxious to discuss it with Josiah. As students, they had very little exposure to appendectomies or, more important to Jennie, women’s surgical needs such as hysterec
tomies or removal of ovarian cysts. She’d need postgraduate work for that. Esther and Callie planned postgraduate studies as well.
“I’ll choose Portland.” Callie ate her jerky, a supply of which she had prepared at the beginning of the term, mixing berries and nuts with the venison, nutrition to get her through her school days cheaply. She wore the silver collar pin. Jennie wondered if it was her good-luck charm. “The Medical College will be open by then. It’s where I want to practice anyway.”
Jennie vowed to talk with Dr. Cusick to get his suggestions for her postgraduate work. Postgraduate work. She was going to be a doctor.
The Portland faction had chosen a building at the corner of Yamhill and Morrison, and the dissecting room would be over a livery at Park and Jefferson. New students would have access to Dr. Hawthorne’s asylum, St. Vincent’s and Good Samaritan Hospitals, but Jennie’s class would not.
“We’ll have a big party,” Ariyah said when Jennie picked up the girls that next day.
“We’ll have a party?” Gracie chimed in. “I love parties, Mama.” JoJo pressed between them, wanting to show her mother her latest painting. “Aunt Ariyah says parties should happen every day.”
“Not every day, exactly,” Ariyah corrected. “But each day we’re given something to celebrate. And on some occasions, the perfect party must be held. Like a birthday or graduation. Let’s see, what can we serve?” She tapped her finger on her lips.
“Chocolate éclairs!”
“Cinnamon candy!”
“You’ll have help with your planning.” Jennie laughed and took her budding artists home. The girls chatted about their tutor. “He has very tiny shoes, Mama.” They praised Chen’s noodles while Van snored under the table. Jennie let them read to her, then tucked them into bed. She gave herself a half hour to sit and knit, a relaxation to quell tumbling thoughts that included assisting at an emergency Caesarean. People didn’t go to hospitals until they were ready to die, so she loved that she had witnessed this procedure in the doctor’s office. She’d been in awe. The human body was amazing; a healthy child, a gift. She could hardly wait to share the details of the surgery with Josiah. She missed him so.
She slept.
When she heard the door latch open, she stood, wiped sleep from her eyes. “Josiah, are you back?” She straightened her glasses, threw the knitting into the basket. Van barked as she raced down the hall. It was late, very late. He must have ridden through the day and into this night, as anxious to see her as she was to see him.
36
The O’er Wrought Heart
It wasn’t Josiah at all. It was a very drunk Douglas she faced.
He was fifteen now, a good-looking boy. He was never mentioned in the Collegian, the campus newspaper, as having passed his semi-term grades at any significant level, but he was also not listed as being in trouble. Their conversations were often awkward and usually ended with his request for a few extra coins for this and that. But she had never seen him like this, words slurred, scowling. Anger pressed out through his pores.
“Why didn’t you tell me my father wanted me to live with him?”
“I—we considered it, but then he got arrested and—”
“And the dignified Mrs. Parrish couldn’t have her son be seen with a drunk, even if he is his father.” He belched. “But it was all right to leave him in an insane asylum.”
“We didn’t think it would be wise. And we thought you did well at the hospital.”
“We didn’t think it would be wise. We,” he mocked. “That we never included me though, did it? Or my father. Just you and the old man.”
“Douglas, don’t. Josiah rescued us.”
“We were rescued, is that what you’re saying, Mother? We were rescued so we could live a privileged life, go to Willamette. Who’s happier there, do you suppose, you or me? Or are we?”
She wasn’t sure why she’d said “we.” Josiah and Jennie hadn’t actually discussed Douglas going to live with his father. She’d made that decision on her own. Funny how even when under the influence as Douglas was, he could bore into her own layers of guilt, mine the cavern of her grief-laden heart with his words.
“How do you even know your father came by? He never returned, never heard my answer. Walked away from us as he did the first time.”
“He came to see me. Today.” He wobbled and Jennie motioned for him to precede her into the parlor where she’d been knitting. He stood for a moment, glaring, and then he moved down the hall, flopped onto the settee.
“Your father’s responsible for your state, then.”
“No, I tipped the brew up to my lips all by myself.” He made a gesture of a mug to his mouth. He closed his eyes. “I’m a big boy now, Mother.”
“We can discuss it in the morning. Can you make the stairs? You need to go to bed. We can return to Willamette together tomorrow.”
“Don’t you always say ‘everything in God’s time’? Hmm? Well, his visit was timely because I was expelled today.”
“Expelled? For what? Why?”
He opened one eye, grinned almost. “Cheating, they said. There’ll be a letter coming. Maybe now’s the time for me to go live with my papa. His new wife left him like you did, so he’s all alone.”
“I never left—” She stopped. Hadn’t she learned with his father to never argue with a man under the influence? “Go to bed, Douglas . . . Douglas?” His snores had already begun.
She laid a Log Cabin quilt over him, opened the door that led to the garden. The new screen Josiah had installed before he left would keep creatures out but the stench of drink could leave. Jennie shivered, less from the cool air. She didn’t want the girls to find him like this in the morning. She’d wake him early. Frogs serenaded at the pond but couldn’t erase her despair. No, great discouragement, not despair.
Lantern light bounced before her on the stairs. She undressed for bed but didn’t sleep. Maybe Charles could stay sober with his son’s presence. Maybe he was a lonely man. Maybe his battle—and Douglas’s battle—with the bottle was so overwhelming that he needed others to stake him like a fragile garden plant, to keep him from falling over in the slightest wind. With the help of others, she had moved on, made her own life, tried to give Douglas every advantage so he wouldn’t suffer, yet he did.
A verse from Second Chronicles came to her in that moment, about not being discouraged, as not every battle belonged to her. Her stomach burned. She got up to take cayenne powder, wishing she had some of the new pharmaceuticals her instructors had discussed. She remembered that cayenne was used by the Indians to treat intoxication and grimaced at the irony.
“Everything all right, Mrs. P?”
“Fine, Lizzie. Douglas is . . . indisposed in the parlor. Let him sleep.”
He’s been expelled. She’d have to deal with that in the morning too. She had her own exams in physics from a text she’d plodded through by Balford Stewart said to be an “elementary work.” Nothing about it had been elementary. Each student had to present a paper in front of their peers in a second class. She was almost as worried over that as when she’d been examined before the dean preceding her admission.
She tossed and turned, going over the presentation in her head, memorizing all the sentences because she knew she could not read it under duress. But did it even make sense, her paper? Was it medicine to merely wonder about addiction when there was so little science to explain it? She offered no conjecture about cures except abstinence. Her son sleeping off a drunk in the parlor suggested that such a cure could not be brought about by a mother’s love nor by the most ardent prayers of a physician-in-training. There was only so much she could do for Douglas, and it had already been done. Perhaps it really was no longer her battle.
A carousel is predictable. A rider knows how far they’ll rise and how far they’ll dip below. The only uncertainty is when to get off. Life isn’t predictable at all, and Jennie wondered why she’d even made the comparison once. The psalmist proclaimed that each person is brou
ght to a “place of abundance,” and if Jennie looked around, as she did that morning, preparing her hair with the curling iron, managing the clasp on the jade cross she wore beneath her blouse each day, hearing the girls rise and laugh with Lizzie down the hall, how could she not see abundance? And yet, this morning her eyes were red from lack of sleep and crying, her stomach still presenting pain. Was it hypocritical to present a paper to the class, one that suggested links between alcohol and how a chronic user’s thinking could be affected even when they were sober? The links were all anecdotal, more in the new field of psychiatry than in physical medicine. And what treatment in the allopathy field could be recommended? What pharmaceuticals or surgical treatments might be suggested? She had no answers. She could be laughed out of the room.
But Dr. Cusick had said medicine made gains by the mere offering of an alternative diagnosis or idea, something to be studied in more detail. “An innovative perspective forces physicians to look through a different lens and that’s good. Anecdotal information is weighty. People tell us stories for a reason. We’re all made up of stories. It’s how we best come to know another person, and that’s critical if we are to help them heal.” He said it all without one single pun.
Jennie held on to that view to quell her queasy stomach.
She met her girls in the hall, and holding each other’s hands, they descended the stairs, Josie skipping as Jennie lifted her from step to step. “Your brother came to visit last evening.” They approached the dining room. “You go on in to breakfast and I’ll see if he’s awake.”
“He isn’t in his room?” JoJo asked.
“He slept in the parlor last evening.”
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