by Leen Elle
"But if it were to continue, perhaps there wouldn't be."
"Gail . . ." he chuckled, "I never knew you were the sort to get worried over something as simple as this. It's a few speckles of blood! It's nothing!"
"It's not nothing! Look at that handkerchief! It's practically drenched and . . ."
"If it's going to bother you that much, I'll just get rid of it . . ." Nathaniel leaned over and set the handkerchief behind some stacks of newspapers, "There! Now we don't have to talk about handkerchiefs or consumption or coughing up all my blood anymore."
"Nathaniel . . ." Gail groaned, half mournfully and half angrily.
"It's your turn, you know."
Gail groaned again, but drew her card and continued the game nevertheless.
*****
"Have you been experiencing any fatigue?"
"Hopson . . ." Nathaniel grumbled, "You ask me that every time you come in here and every time I answer yes. What do you think?"
"I'm only asking a simple question, Mr. West," the old man chattered, "If you'll just . . ."
"Yes, for Christ's sake, yes! I'm always experiencing fatigue!"
"And has there been any lightheadedness?"
"Of course."
"Any violent coughing, sneezing?"
"Of course."
As Dr. Hopson continued to bombard Nathaniel with questions and scribble madly in his notebook, Dr. Fitzgerald eyed Gail and raised an eyebrow.
"Still residing in Wickensville, Miss St. James?"
"No, I'm residing in Brazil actually."
The old man crossed his arms with a huff, "I can't believe your mother and father will agree to let you stay in a faraway town like this one all on your own. You're not even sixteen."
"My parents are dead, Dr. Fitzgerald," Gail raised an eyebrow, "So thank you for bringing up so many unpleasant memories. I appreciate it immensely, I assure you."
He huffed again and mumbled an apology, which Gail readily accepted, before continuing to grumble about how she ought to leave the room during their examinations. They continued their bickering while Dr. Hopson looked over Nathaniel.
"Your temperature's dropped," he observed, "That's odd."
"Everything's odd. That's life."
"And your heart beat's abnormally slow."
Dr. Fitzgerald left Gail to join his colleague at Nathaniel's side, "Have you been feeling much worse in the past day or so, Mr. West?"
Nathaniel shrugged, "It hasn't been the best day, but not terribly worse, I don't think."
"You're looking pale, have you been eating enough?"
"I just ate a full supper."
"Were you given all your medications properly?"
"'Course."
"He nearly choked on all those pills," Gail muttered from the back.
Dr. Fitzgerald raised an eyebrow and glanced behind him for a moment before asking of Nathaniel, "And have you been very stressed or felt as though you strained your efforts during the period of the day? Another argument with the nurses or Miss St. James, perhaps?"
"Everything's my fault, isn't it?" came Gail's voice once more, "It's my fault that Nathaniel's 'strained himself.' It's my fault that he's not eating your lovely hospital food. It's my fault that I'm going to hell since I'd rather sit in here than go to church on Sunday. And it's my fault that I accidentally fell asleep in here the other day. You're still upset about that, aren't you? You know, doctor, I'm probably helping Nathaniel. Laughter is the best medicine after all and . . ."
Dr. Fitzgerald interrupted her, his eyebrows knitted together in anxiety, "First of all, Miss St. James, I'm not still upset about your falling asleep in here. You're the one who brought it up! And apparently doctors aren't allowed to interfere with the hospital's decisions. Because if they could, I'd make sure that silly little girls weren't dozing off on the beds of severely ill young men!"
"It was only my head! It's not like I was lying beside him. And I knew you were still upset about it!"
"Miss St. James! Please! And second, I would hardly say that you've aided Mr. West by your presence. He's worse already! And this constant yelling can hardly be doing any good! He's probably worn himself out and it is your fault!"
Gail crossed her arms, "Well I never!"
Dr. Hopson, raising his hands at both his colleague and Gail, spoke above both their voices, though his own was soft and calm, "Please, please! Doctor Fitzgerald. Miss St. James. Let us decide what is wrong with the patient and what should be done about it before your argument continues . . . Are you quite sure, Mr. West, nothing out of the ordinary has occurred today?"
"I don't think so . . . but, well . . . Well, I did cough up a bit of blood earlier but I wouldn't say that's exactly out of the ordinary. It's happened before."
Dr. Hopson's eyes narrowed, "How much blood exactly?"
Nathaniel shrugged, "A bit."
"It covered his whole handkerchief," said Gail.
Nathaniel scratched his head, "That, and there was some in the night too. Edith had to change my pillow cases and I, er . . . I went through a few handkerchiefs during the night too."
"You say this has happened before?"
Nathaniel nodded.
"In the same amounts as before too?"
"Well, there might have been a bit more today than other times . . . I can't be sure. It's not like I measured it or anything."
Dr. Hopson and Dr. Fitzgerald exchanged a quick, uncertain glance.
"I don't know exactly what sort of effect this may place upon our results, but it's an event worthy of our attention to be sure," said Dr. Fitzgerald.
Dr. Hopson nodded in assent, "Perhaps we ought to do some research and discuss this a bit, Dr. Fitzgerald, before deciding what ought to be done."
"Yes, yes, I couldn't agree more."
"We shall be back in the course of the evening, Mr. West."
"Until then, it would be best if Miss St. James were to stay with you and alert the nurses should any drastic change occur in your health while we're out. If his temperature drops even more or if more blood is lost, call in Carolyn."
"He hasn't got consumption, has he?" Gail asked quickly, "Because I told him that he . . ."
"My God, Gail," Nathaniel moaned, "I told you that I . . ."
"I truly doubt that it is tuberculosis, Miss St. James," said Dr. Hopson, "If it were, the other usual symptoms would be more apparent. Night sweats, loss of appetite, weight loss, fever, chills. He may be a bit chilled at the moment and he is, of course, very thin- but a more dramatic weight loss would have occurred if he caught tuberculosis. So now, if you'll please excuse us . . ."
The two men left, scratching their heads and searching through their brains for some sort of an answer that might explain this unexpected change in Nathaniel's condition. They rushed down to the hospital's archives, looking through every file that might somehow relate, and racked through all sorts of medical journals and books. Never before had they seen a patient with an illness so completely indefinable. Ever since he'd arrived in Wickensville and been placed in their care, they'd wondered and examined and sought to find an answer to his ailment. But still, after weeks of careful examination, they had no answer. And now, with this added shock of his drop in temperature and loss of blood, their curiosity only heightened.
To keep him feeling as healthy as they could and to prevent any worsening in his condition, up until this point they had given him several treatments- in the form of all his pills and vaccines- to cure him of various afflictions. And it had worked seamlessly thus far, giving them an adequate reason to believe his illness was truly just a large mixture of many various other diseases. So, in order to cure him of his newest malady, they sought the treatment for a disease in which such symptoms were common. And once this information had been obtained, they returned to Nathaniel's room to present their results.
The two doctors, though Nathaniel thought them to be loony old men, were actually quite accomplished in their area of work. They knew very quickly that
the symptoms shown by their patient in the past hour were of a very serious nature. Their results for his recovery were not bright and, even more unfortunately, they were not, in any way, certain. Each potential procedure had its own positive and negative aspects and neither doctor could state for certain which would be best for Nathaniel. They only knew that they must act quickly.
His options were as follows.
One, he could simply continue as he was now in hope that his temperature would return to normal quickly and that his coughing up blood would cease immediately.
Two, he could attempt a rarely successful treatment which, although it was usually rather painful, may have a chance at returning him to good health. It would involve the injection of a vaccine into his arm three times per day. But, the chance of immediate good health was very small indeed.
Three, they could take him into surgery and operate on the organ involved in his disease. Although it was not an easy operation, there was a fifty percent chance that he would, after recovery, be in the best health of his life. But, on the opposite side, there was also a fifty percent chance that the operation could be fatal. The smallest mistake in the operating room could easily result in the loss of life.
Nathaniel was furious when they told him the news. He didn't understand what was so serious about a temperature drop and coughing up blood; their serious expressions upon the issue only served to anger him all the more. He'd felt worse than this before, he thought, so why should this time be any more important or more devastating than the others?
But what really got him heated was when they told him that it was his decision to choose which option he wanted to go with. If they were the doctors, shouldn't they be able to decide what to do? But it wasn't as simple as that. His disease was a mystery so, therefore, its remedy was also a mystery.
Nathaniel had never been forced to decide what was best for his own health in such a serious situation before and he dreaded making the decision now. If he were to make the wrong choice, the only person he could blame was himself.
CHAPTER 34
Brook’s Painting
It was an undeniably cloudy day and the threat of a storm loomed overhead, yet the bad weather could do nothing to lower the spirits of Brook Lindsey and Emy St. James. The sun, though hidden, peaked out at moments, casting a ray of bright light upon the darkened streets. Already December, the town of Norrance was caught in the start of a very long and very cold winter. Icy winds swept through the streets while the temperature hovered just degrees above freezing.
Brook and Emy sat upon a bench in the center of the city, Brook sketching in his notebook and Emy looking around herself with bright eyes.
To her right, a pair of musicians with fingerless mittens, tattered jackets, and old violins was playing a melody that carried seamlessly with the wind. Every so often a person passing by would toss a few coins into the rusty cans beside them on the ground and the violinists would smile and nod in gratitude. To Emy's left a woman wearing a headdress of oriental silk scarves was standing upon a crate and belting out a few choice passages from the scroll in her hand, proclaiming her poetry for all to hear with a confidence Emy could only dream of possessing.
She sat primly, with her mittened hands in her lap and her feet crossed at the ankle, admiration and wonder filling her head as she gazed further down the street towards artists trying desperately to sell their paintings and sculptures, singers serenading the town with operettas, and brilliantly lit theaters that Emy hoped to enter in the coming days. She wore a clean white cloak, whose broad collar folded over the top with the faint designs of cream-colored thread. The hat atop her head, though white as well, was adorned with a thick, black silk ribbon around the brim that fell off the back in a large bow. Beneath it, waves of light brown hair crept slowly down her back, shifting slowly with the chilly winds. Her dress was made of miniscule stripes, evenly spaced, in two dark shades of blue. A hand-me-down from Sara, the skirt of the dress was a few inches too long, so, accordingly, the hem was filthy with dirt and scuffed from where she'd accidentally tread over it with her shoes.
When finished regarding her surroundings, Emy's attention turned to Brook and his sketch.
His gloves sat beside him, leaving his hands prey to the cold winter climate. They were numb and white, but nevertheless moved steadily across the paper with a stick of charcoal. His coat, made of a warm but itchy black wool, came down to the knees of his gray tweed pants. And his hat, a very monotonous dark gray plaid, dipped down on his forehead, providing a sliver of a shadow that fell across his eyes.
As he drew, Emy turned her head sideways for a better look of his paper, which was blocked partially from her view by his hand, lingering over the sketch until momentum struck.
On the paper, an image featuring a small boy, an older man, and a speckled Dalmatian was coming into sight. The outlines of all three subjects had been lightly drawn, and now Brook was adding in more detail, glancing up every so often as he did so.
Emy gazed ahead of them, but couldn't see exactly where he was looking.
"Who are you drawing?" she asked.
Brook pointed ahead of their bench and slightly to the left, "See that little boy and his grandfather, just there?"
Emy nodded, "Oh, I see them now . . . It's very good, you know."
"No, no," Brook denied, "They move around so often I'm not able to catch the details very accurately. It's very sloppy." Continuing his drawing as he talked, he said, "Are you very hungry yet? There's a café just across the way that I've heard makes the most scrumptious scones."
"Perhaps in an hour or so," Emy agreed, "I'm afraid I ate so much at lunch I won't be hungry for quite some time."
Brook laughed, "Yes, that lamb was rather filling, wasn't it? No matter. If you like, we could simply skip supper and have a scone this evening."
"I would like that very much."
"And you still want to go to the theater tonight? I believe they are showing Much Ado About Nothing."
"Of course." Emy agreed before pausing, glancing from Brook's sketch to his models, "Do you think anyone ever knows when you're drawing them? Has anyone ever gotten upset over it or anything?"
Brook shook his head, "As of yet, no one's been angry with me over it. Plenty of people know I'm doing it but most don't mind too much. Honestly, they should really expect it in an artist's town like Norrance. I'm not the only one who enjoys sketching random people for practice," he added the last details to the dog's black spots, "I only wish they wouldn't move so much. Trying to draw someone in a single attitude when they're constantly moving about is next to impossible. What I really need is a true model. Someone who knows I'm drawing them and is willing to sit still for me until I finish," he glanced towards Emy, a faint glimmer in his eye, before returning to the drawing and adjusting the pattern of the old man's hat.
Emy raised an eyebrow, "What was that look for?"
"Nothing, nothing."
"Brook, you don't want me to . . ."
"Only if you wanted to."
"Oh, but I couldn't be a model. You know that," she murmured, blushing, "I don't like to be stared. And for such a long while too."
"You don't have to," said Brook, "I was only suggesting it as a possibility."
"I know . . ." Emy sighed, "But I don't want to say no based purely on my own bashfulness."
"It's not so bad really," Brook added, looking not at Emy but only at his paper, "We wouldn't do it all at once. And if you ever felt uncomfortable, I'd stop immediately."
"Well," Emy said finally, feeling her cheeks grow hot, "Perhaps I could do it . . ."
With a smile and wide eyes, Brook looked up, shocked, "Really? Are you sure?"
Emy nodded, "I think so."
"Well then," Brook finished the last few details on his sketch, "Shall we begin?"
*****
Although the subject of a painting is certainly its most important element, the effects of the background, setting, and props should not be underestima
ted. As soon as Emy agreed to model for Brook, her mind instantly set to wondering exactly what he would want her to be doing. Would she simply sit in a chair in an empty room? Would she be set in an awkward pose holding several props? Would she have to change her clothing or her hair or somehow contort her facial expression? Holding Brook's assurances in mind, however, she was fairly certain it wouldn't be anything too uncomfortable.
Walking around the town a bit with Emy at his side, Brook searched his mind for how he would like Emy to be situated in his painting. After all, such an important feature could not be denied a good amount of thought. It took some time, but with a bit of inspiration his answer became dreadfully clear. And he related it to Emy as soon as his mind had sorted out the details.