Sarah Redeemed

by Vikki Kestell

  Sarah sighed in relief. “Thank you, Miss Rose. Yes, and amen.”

  Part 3

  O the depth of the riches

  both of the wisdom and knowledge of God!

  how unsearchable are his judgments,

  and his ways past finding out!

  For who hath known the mind of the Lord?

  or who hath been his counsellor?

  Or who hath first given to him,

  and it shall be recompensed unto him again?

  For of him, and through him, and to him,

  are all things:

  to whom be glory forever.

  Amen.

  (Romans 11:33-36, KJV)

  Chapter 22

  Denver, 1921

  It was early in the day for the telephone to ring.

  Sarah left her seat to answer the telephone hanging on the wall not far from her desk in Palmer House’s great room. She no longer worked for Joy in her shop. Four months past, Sarah had resigned her position and taken over many of Rose’s responsibilities.

  Rose was seventy-three now, vibrant in her faith and still guiding the spiritual needs of the house, but less able to stand up to the rigors of managing the house alone. She also wished to spend more time with her three grandsons, Matthew, Jacob, and newborn Luke.

  Palmer House’s board of directors, as established in Martha Palmer’s will, had approved Sarah coming alongside Rose to take the strain from her shoulders. Next year, when Rose retired from her duties and moved to Chicago with Joy and her family, Sarah, with Olive’s help, would be ready to assume them.

  Sarah picked up the telephone’s receiver. “Good morning; you have reached Palmer House.”

  A male voice inquired, “Am I speaking with Miss Ellinger?”

  Sarah identified the voice although she had not had opportunity or reason to see the man behind it in more than a year. “Yes, you are.”

  “Bryan Croft here, Miss Ellinger.”

  Sarah closed her eyes and mouthed a familiar prayer of thanksgiving. Lord, I thank you for delivering me from bitter hate and judgment against men. From the bottom of my heart, I rejoice that old things have passed away; you have made all things concerning me new. I walk in forgiveness. I refuse to entertain offense or allow it a place in my thoughts or heart. I sow mercy wherever I go. Lord, I sow grace.

  Sarah had schooled herself to be open and courteous, and graciousness came naturally now. “Yes, Dr. Croft? How can I help you today?”

  The man hesitated. “I . . . I have taken a patient into my clinic, Miss Ellinger. She is suffering through the final stages of tuberculosis. The hospital wished to send her directly to a sanatorium in Colorado Springs, but the woman has no money. Moreover, she objected to leaving Denver.

  “I do not, ordinarily, provide hospice care at my clinic nor is the clinic set up for twenty-four-hour nursing, but this woman has no place to go, and I felt . . . led to make an exception in this case.”

  “I see.” A sliver of concern shivered along Sarah’s arms. “May I ask why you are telling me of this, Dr. Croft?”

  “My patient is asking for you, Miss Ellinger.”

  “Oh? And w-what is her name?”

  “She calls herself Lorraine Pritchard.”

  Lola.

  Sarah leaned against the wall, and a great weight settled upon her. Tuberculosis. It was—until recently—known as consumption.

  It had no cure.

  Mama died of consumption. It is a miracle that I did not contract the contagion from her. Recalling Lola’s frequent bouts of coughing—to which Sarah had attached no concern or alarm—Sarah added, It is, perhaps, a greater miracle that I did not contract it from Lola.

  Sarah knew from experience what Lola was facing: a horrible death from the coughing, choking, wasting disease that would sap the breath from her lungs and strip the flesh from her bones—just as it had done to Edwina Ellinger.

  And Croft said Lola was in the final stages of the sickness.

  O Lord, I accept that I cannot go to Lola. I acknowledge your will in this . . . but how I wish Lola knew you! I care for her soul, Lord, for where she will spend eternity. You know how faithfully I have prayed for her salvation.

  And I must inquire of you, Lord—why did you have this man bring me news of Lola? I do not wish to resurrect what is and must remain dead in my heart. So, what can his call possibly mean?

  While those thoughts were flitting through her mind, a comforting presence crept over her.

  Fear not, for I have redeemed thee. I have called thee by name . . . Sarah, my redeemed one. You are mine.

  The familiar words calmed her. “Oh, yes, Jesus,” she breathed, “Thank you for your loving presence. I need not be afraid if I am wise and obedient. You will never leave me nor forsake me.”

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Ellinger?”

  “No, it is I who should apologize, Dr. Croft. I was speaking aside.”

  He cleared his throat. “I see.”

  Do not be afraid, Sarah, my redeemed one. I shall lead you in paths of righteousness for my Name’s sake.

  “What are you asking of me, Dr. Croft?”

  Her question troubled him. “I suppose . . . I suppose I am asking if you will come. I believe the woman wishes to clear her conscience before she dies. She seems tormented by regret.”

  As long as she lived, Sarah would never be able to hear the word “regret” without Isaac Carmichael’s voice ringing in her ears: Regret is not repentance, Sarah; it is sorrow for the outcome, not sorrow for grieving the heart of God.

  Did Lola have more than regret in her heart? Would she be open to the Gospel?

  “I need time to think. To pray. May I call you back, Dr. Croft?”

  “Yes, of course; however, it is Monday morning, and I shall be seeing patients soon. Mondays are usually hectic; if you can come, please do so.”

  Sarah returned the receiver to its hook upon the telephone. She sat down at her desk and put away the ledgers, correspondence, and pens. With the desk clear, she laid her forearms on its surface and buried her face in her hands.

  “Lord God, I am yours. You know my heart; I do not desire to see Lola—but I do desire to see her in heaven with you. O God, what would you have me do? I would not knowingly walk into temptation, so please, Lord: Speak to me.”

  She prayed the remainder of the morning. She was still praying when Rose found her at lunchtime.

  “Sarah? Are you all right?”

  She sat up. Her eyes were dry, her heart at peace. “I am glad to see you, Miss Rose. I must ask your counsel.”

  They sat together in the great room, and Sarah repeated Dr. Croft’s telephone call and his request. Rose considered what Dr. Croft had asked.

  “You have been praying for guidance?”

  “Yes.”

  “What has the Holy Spirit spoken to you?”

  “That I need not be afraid to see Lola; that she will listen when I present the Good News to her.”

  “Then you must go and win her to Christ.”

  “Thank you for confirming the Lord’s guidance to me.”

  Sarah sighed. “I know from watching my mother die, that Lola will be weak and growing weaker by the day. She will have moments of lucid thought with horrible coughing and gasping for air interspersed with restless sleep.”

  “You should be prepared to stay as long as it takes to see her through to the kingdom of heaven.”

  “That is what I thought, also.”

  Sarah called Croft’s office. A nurse answered; Croft was, as she expected, unavailable. Sarah asked for and received the address of his clinic. “Please tell Dr. Croft that I plan to arrive near five o’clock.”

  Sarah then bent to her work, finished it, tidied up her desk, and packed a carpetbag with necessities. She called a cab to pick her up.

  When the cab arrived, Rose joined Sarah at the door. “I shall share this need with the house at dinner, Sarah. We shall pray and believe God for Lola’s salvation, and we shall hold you up
to the Lord until you return to us.”

  Sarah embraced Rose, reluctant to let her go. “How I thank God for you, Miss Rose. And I am so grateful for the love and prayers of my family here.”

  THE CAB PULLED OVER to the curb, and Sarah stepped out into an unfamiliar neighborhood. She was somewhat surprised by what she saw.

  Dr. Murphy’s offices had been on the second floor of a fine, four-story stone building in downtown Denver—a quiet, tasteful location suited to the class of patients he saw. When Dr. Murphy had retired last year, he had given over his practice to his partner. Sarah had heard that Dr. Croft had relocated the practice, but she had not had cause to visit him in his new situation.

  In contrast to Dr. Murphy’s offices, Dr. Croft’s practice comprised the first floor of a corner building in a somewhat less discriminating area of the downtown—and it had two entrances: The plain lettering on a side door proclaimed that the clinic was open to walk-in patients from eight o’clock to noon, Monday through Saturday; the ornate lettering on the door fronting the main avenue stated that appointments were available from one o’clock to five o’clock, Monday through Friday.

  The two entrances puzzled Sarah, but since the clinic was closed for the day, she entered through the door facing the main avenue into a tastefully arranged waiting room. A nurse greeted her.

  “Ah, good afternoon. You are Miss Ellinger?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “We spoke earlier. This way, please.”

  The nurse walked through a doorway, turned right, and led Sarah down a hall, past two examination rooms and a surgery, to the door of a fourth room, where she knocked softly.

  “Stand just there, please,” the nurse directed. She moved away from the door, and Sarah followed.

  Dr. Croft came out and closed the door behind him. He was garbed in gown, gloves, and mask. As he stripped them off and placed them in a bin near the door, Sarah noticed deep lines about his mouth that had not been there when she last saw him; dark half-circles hung below his eyes.

  “Thank you, Miss Taylor. If the charts are up to date, you may leave for the day.”

  “They are, doctor. Good night.”

  “Good night, Miss Taylor.” He nodded to the nurse, then turned to Sarah. “Thank you for coming, Miss Ellinger. Shall we talk in my office?” He gestured to the last room at the end of the hallway.

  Croft’s office was nicely appointed: Oak bookshelves for his medical library lined one wall, degrees and medical license hung behind a fine desk, and two plush chairs faced the desk. It was a suitable setting for Croft to meet and consult with his clientele.

  The cot against the wall behind the two chairs, however, was out of place.

  He has been sleeping here.

  “Would you care to sit down?” Croft took the rolling chair behind the desk after Sarah sat in one of the chairs facing him.

  “I suppose you have questions about the unusual arrangement of my offices? Most of my patients do. A downtown location near the edge of what my respectable patients will tolerate. Separate doors and hours split between the clinic and my private practice.”

  “I presume you have your reasons.”

  He nodded and rubbed at bloodshot eyes. “I wanted to offer good medical care to Denver families who could not always afford my normal fees, but a doctor can hardly pay his bills and provide excellent care to anyone without a steady form of income, can he? My friend George and I pondered how I might accomplish both objectives. We hit upon this arrangement.”

  Poorer patients in one door; well-to-do patients in the other, Sarah surmised, the wealthier patients’ fees allowing Dr. Croft to care for those who can afford to pay less.

  “I believe I follow you.” She felt a measure of respect for the doctor’s clever plan.

  “Well, enough about me, Miss Ellinger. I am glad you have come—” his gaze lit upon her carpet bag “—and it appears you have come prepared to stay. Excellent. I do not know how long Miss Pritchard will linger, but I have already spent four nights here, getting up when Miss Pritchard needed care. Frankly, I was not sure how I would be able to manage much longer without help.”

  Sarah had not understood that Croft meant for her to help nurse Lola, but she was suddenly relieved that she had packed her valise. “You may count on my assistance, doctor.”

  “Good, good. Shall we discuss Miss Pritchard’s condition and care, then?”

  When Sarah nodded, he said, “As I mentioned over the telephone, she is weak, unable to rise from her bed. This means she requires care for all her needs. Are you squeamish?”

  “Not particularly so. My mother died of consumption when I was a child. I stayed by her bed and helped the nurse care for her through the last weeks of her life. I know what is required.”

  Her mind wandered to another place and time and to very different circumstances: I also cared for my sister prostitutes after they were raped and beaten into submission.

  A shadow of her introspection must have crossed her face, for Croft frowned. “Are you quite all right, Miss Ellinger?”

  Sarah automatically smiled. “Yes. Only memories.”

  He studied her with probing regard before saying, “Very well. Let us, then, discuss precautions. We must consider everything within the patient’s room to bear the tuberculosis bacterium: the air, the patient’s bed, linens, clothing, body, and bodily fluids—in particular, her sputum. You are never to enter the patient’s room or assist her without proper protection against the contagion at all times. Is that understood?”

  “Yes. I understand.”

  He again searched her face before saying, “Good. Shall we look in on our patient?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are prepared for what you will encounter?”

  Sarah thought his question implied something further, something oblique, but she was preoccupied. O Lord God! Please help me to be strong. Help me to acquit you well.

  “I am ready.”

  Chapter 23

  Sarah followed Croft from his office into the surgery two doors down. A gleaming metal table occupied the center of the room, and a powerful light hung above the table. The remainder of the room’s contents were hidden away in a wall of cupboards and drawers.

  “I perform minor procedures and surgeries in this room; therefore, I require a sterile environment,” Croft said. He pulled open a drawer and offered Sarah a surgical mask. “Place this over your mouth and nose and turn your back to me. I shall tie the strings for you.”

  When the mask was in place and secured, Croft held out a white gown. “Slip this on; again, I shall tie the back closures for you.” When Sarah was gowned, he retrieved a pair of rubber gloves. “Slip these on and pull them up, over your sleeves.”

  While Sarah struggled into the clumsy gloves, Dr. Croft gowned himself, then rechecked Sarah’s preparations.

  “Clean items come out of this room, Miss Ellinger. Once you leave this room, do not return to it without first removing your mask, gown, and gloves and disposing of them. They are to be placed in the bin just outside the patient’s room. Nurse Taylor sees they are washed and re-sterilized.”

  “Yes, Dr. Croft.”

  He led her out into the hallway and into the room between the surgery and his office. Her quick perusal told her that they were in a formulary. Like the surgery, an entire wall was given to glass-fronted cupboards built above sink, countertop, cabinets, and drawers. Through the cupboard windows, Sarah saw rows of neatly labeled boxes, bottles, vials, and flasks.

  “I have removed an ample supply of medicines from here to the surgery for the duration,” Croft murmured. “This room will be re-sterilized . . . later.”

  Against an adjacent wall Sarah spied a simple cot like the one in Croft’s office. The formulary had no window, and the air was stuffy and stale. Ragged breathing came from the form lying on the cot.

  Dr. Croft approached the cot. “Miss Pritchard?”

  The patient’s head turned a little toward him. “Y-yes, doctor?”<
br />
  “I have brought Miss Ellinger as you requested. Miss Ellinger, stand at the foot of the cot, please.”

  Sarah moved toward the foot of the cot as Croft had directed her. From there she could observe the patient from a distance of several feet. Neither she nor the woman spoke as they regarded each other, but Sarah clenched her hands in front of her.

  The patient was Lola—but not the Lola Sarah had known.

  “S-Sarah?”

  “Yes, Lola. I have come.”

  Sarah had to blink continually to keep her tears at bay. Lola’s curly auburn hair was matted against a skeletal head with sunken eyes and protruding cheekbones. Her body, beneath the sheet and blankets, appeared nearly flat.

  Lola tried to lift her hand toward Sarah, but she was immediately overcome by a fit of coughing. Dr. Croft reached for a nearby basin and a cloth. Lola coughed and retched into the basin. Sarah saw the bright blood in the basin and the darker streaks that Croft wiped from Lola’s mouth and chin.

  When Lola fell back, exhausted, Croft set the basin and cloth aside. “Rinse the basin in the sink just there as needed. Now, if you do not mind, I have eaten nothing all day. I should like to step out and get dinner. I shall return in an hour, and we can discuss a care schedule.”

  Croft departed. Sarah and Lola stared at each other until Lola’s eyes closed in exhaustion and Sarah came to herself.

  “Would you like a sip of water, Lola?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Sarah knelt beside the cot and lifted a glass with a straw to Lola’s mouth. “Slowly, so you do not choke.” The words the nurse had often directed at Sarah’s mother came to her effortlessly.

  Lola sipped twice. “Thank you.”

  She looked at Sarah again. “I had hoped you would come . . . but I did not believe you would.”

  Sarah dropped her eyes. “I-I think we have things to say.”

  “And not much time to say them. I—” Lola choked, and a fit of coughing took hold.

  Sarah reached for the basin and the stained cloth; she supported Lola as she coughed up phlegm and blood into the basin. When Lola finished, Sarah wiped her mouth, pulling strings of bloody mucus from between her lips, then offered her more water.