More Than a Dream

by Lauraine Snelling

  ‘‘Well, I wish you had shown her that love, but because you beat her instead, she died not long after the women brought her here. She never regained consciousness.’’

  ‘‘And the bairn?’’

  ‘‘We tried to save him, but we were too late.’’

  ‘‘Him? How do ye know that?’’

  ‘‘He was stillborn.’’

  Elizabeth listened as Dr. Morganstein sidestepped telling him about the emergency surgery. What would he do when he found out? What could he do? She glanced at the huge hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He could do a lot of damage, that was for sure. He had, in fact, sent more than one man to their hospital. Ian had a fierce reputation, especially when he’d been drinking.

  ‘‘She really is gone?’’ He covered his eyes with his hands and rocked back and forth on wide-spread feet.

  Patrick eased back and slipped out the door to see if the police had arrived.

  ‘‘I want to take her home.’’

  ‘‘We will notify you when we’ve—’’

  ‘‘You will notify me when I can take my dead wife home so we can be having a funeral?’’

  ‘‘Yes. If you go talk with Father O’Henry, we can fix up a coffin for her.’’

  Elizabeth knew this was not hospital policy, but then she realized it was to save face. This man had no money for even the pine box that Patrick would nail together, and perhaps if they prepared the body and put it in the box, they could keep him from discovering what had gone on.

  ‘‘If you bring me the clothes you want her buried in, we will take care of the rest.’’

  He studied her through slit eyes. ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘Why what?’’

  ‘‘Why are ye doin’ this? No one ever does something good for the Irish without wanting a pound of flesh in return.’’ His voice had softened.

  Had Dr. Morganstein’s gentleness conquered his fury? Was she seeing ‘a soft answer turneth away wrath’ in action? If she had approached Reverend Mueller with the same calm, would she have been able to make a point too, instead of creating an enemy?

  ‘‘I want to see her.’’ All the agony he’d been yelling around spilled out of his face.

  Dr. Morganstein drew in a quiet breath. ‘‘Give me a few minutes, and we will have her in a private room. If you will be seated, I will have coffee brought out for you.’’ When he started to sit she beckoned to Elizabeth with one hand. ‘‘Come with me.’’

  Seeing the despair on his face, Elizabeth felt a pang in her heart. True, what he had done was despicable, but sorrow was sorrow, and he was grieving.

  Grateful that the nurses had already cleaned up the body, they wrapped her in a sheet and moved the stretcher into an empty room.

  ‘‘I’ll comb her hair,’’ one of the younger nurses said. ‘‘She was a beautiful woman.’’

  One of the other nurses brought in the baby, also wrapped in sheeting, and laid him in his mother’s arm. She stepped back. ‘‘Such a waste.’’

  ‘‘We did our best, and for us right now that is the most important part. Show Mr. Flannery up and have Patrick wait outside the door to show him out. I don’t want him wandering the halls.’’

  He’ll most likely head right back to the saloon to drown his sorrows, Elizabeth thought, then flinched at the hardness of her reactions. But not much. ‘‘Who will raise those two sweet children of hers?’’

  ‘‘He’ll most likely remarry very quickly and then beat up that wife.’’ The older nurse took Elizabeth by the arm. ‘‘And I don’t apologize for my words either. I’ve seen this too often. He was most likely born a bully, and he’ll die one. God protect those around him in the meantime.’’

  After Ian left, Elizabeth watched as Patrick and two of the nurses readied the pine box and laid Moira and the babe in it. Since Mr. Flannery hadn’t returned with a dress for his dead wife, they made the gown they had look as nice as they could. The old man tacked the lid in place and oversaw the delivery to St. Mary’s Catholic Church a few blocks from the hospital.

  ‘‘I’m certainly glad that is over,’’ Elizabeth said to one of the nurses as they turned back to work that had been pushed aside. ‘‘Doctor wants me to spend some time in the clinic, so if someone needs me, that’s where I will be.’’ She climbed the stairs to the second floor where the noise of the waiting room slapped her on both sides of her head. She passed by the open doorway and continued down the hall to a door that said No Admittance. Pulling it open, she made her way down the corridor with small examining rooms on either side. Babies crying, children whining, mothers at their wits’ end either pleading or threatening permanent impairment if their children didn’t cease and desist. The heat of the rooms pressed against her, sucking out her sweat like rapacious bloodsuckers. She could feel herself wilting. The basement had been so cool. If only they could move everyone and everything down there.

  ‘‘Ah, there you are. Doctor said you would be joining us.’’ Nurse Korsheski stuck a pencil in the bun she wore at the top of her head. It joined another, giving her the appearance of a strange kind of fairy with wooden antennae.

  ‘‘What would you like me to do first?’’

  ‘‘Take that room. There are two very sick babies in there— twins. I’m thinking typhoid, but I’m hesitant to even mention it. How would we quarantine an entire tenement? She brought them here as a last resort. Shame they don’t do that as a first resort.’’

  ‘‘Will we admit them?’’

  ‘‘That is up to you and if Doctor will concur. Running at both ends they are.’’

  Trying to remember what she had read about dysentery-type diseases, Elizabeth opened the door.

  The stench made her gag and hesitate. A young woman sat leaning against the wall, one emaciated child on her lap, the other on a pallet at her feet.

  ‘‘Ma’am?’’ Elizabeth spoke once, then louder. ‘‘Ma’am.’’

  ‘‘Yes, sorry.’’ The woman raised her despair-laden eyes. ‘‘Can you please help us? Me neighbor said if anyone could, you would here.’’

  ‘‘How long have they been ill?’’

  ‘‘Three, four days. I used the last silver I had to pay a doctor to come, but all ’e did was give me a bottle of some kind of medicine and collect his money. Sign in the window said ’e could cure anything.’’

  Elizabeth, breathing through her mouth, bent over to examine the boy sitting on the woman’s lap. She lifted an eyelid to peer into his eye. Yellowed, jaundiced. ‘‘Can he keep anything down? Water, milk?’’

  The woman shook her head. ‘‘And if it does stay down, it runs right out the other end. I drag water up from the pump down the street, but I can’t keep up with the changing and washing.’’

  Shivers shook the child on the floor in spite of the furnace-like heat emanating from his body.

  Elizabeth tried to think of where she could put these poor babies and who would care for them.

  ‘‘I will stay and care for them if’n you tell me what to do. No one to home who needs me.’’

  ‘‘Did you bring the medicine along that the doctor gave you?’’

  She pulled a brown bottle out of her reticule.

  Elizabeth pulled out the cork and sniffed it. Moonshine for sure, and if there were any curatives in it, she’d be surprised.

  ‘‘I already lost a baby.’’

  ‘‘Follow me.’’ Elizabeth picked up both sides of the pallet, cradling the child in the fold, and led the way to a room at the back of the floor. It was barely larger than the single bed that waited for them.

  ‘‘We will wash the babies first in the water closet and then lay a sheet across that bed. If we put diapers on them, that will help too.’’ She showed the young mother into a bathroom that, simple as it was, made her eyes grow round. ‘‘If you will start washing them up, I’ll prepare the room.’’

  Elizabeth ignored the thought that she should clear this with Dr. Morganstein as she set a pitcher of water on the stand. Hot a
s it was, the boys needed nothing more than diapers.

  ‘‘Oh, Doctor, I canna begin to thank ye. . . .’’

  ‘‘You are most welcome. Your job is to sponge them off to help keep them cool and dribble water into their mouths every half hour or so. I’m going down to see if we have some broth ready.’’ And to ask if anyone knows of something else to do.

  She saw two more patients, one with boils she was able to poultice and lance, the other with the wheezing she feared to be consumption.

  Lord, how many of these people would not be sick were it not for their terrible living conditions? But she didn’t bother to voice her plea. Everyone else already knew that was what was wrong.

  She’d just returned from checking her hidden family and for an instant had laid her head down on a tabletop when she felt a gentle hand on her head.

  ‘‘Is there something I can do?’’ Dr. Morganstein handed her a glass of lemonade. ‘‘This is a treat for all of us, so enjoy.’’

  ‘‘At home we drink ours out on the verandah under the shade of an oak tree that might be a hundred years old.’’ Elizabeth took a sip. ‘‘Ah, good.’’

  ‘‘Now we must talk. I learned that you admitted two very ill little boys.’’

  ‘‘I gave them one of the back rooms. Their mother plans to stay with them. She washed them up, and they are sleeping right now. I gave her orders to dribble water in their mouths, alternating with the beef broth I took up there. I was coming to ask if there was anything else we can do.’’

  ‘‘If it is typhoid fever, they are highly contagious.’’

  ‘‘That is why I put them way back there.’’

  ‘‘Are they beyond saving?’’

  Elizabeth stared at the woman across the table from her. ‘‘I hope not.’’ Elizabeth shrugged. ‘‘Children have amazing powers of recuperation.’’ She waited for an answer, but when Dr. Morganstein continued to stare at her clasped hands, Elizabeth set her glass aside and leaned forward. ‘‘Did you want me to send them on their way? Some man with the unlikely title of doctor visited them and took her money for a bottle of nothing. Here we are dedicated to saving lives, and you want me to just shove them out in the street? At least here they are in a clean bed, with clean water. If they have a chance anywhere, it is here.’’

  ‘‘Elizabeth, you are right, but if others die because of trying to save those two boys, what have we accomplished?’’

  Elizabeth tried to force her mind to come up with an answer, but instead she heard someone yelling. The male voice came closer, louder with a drunken slur. ‘‘ ’Tis all her fault. She told me Moira I was no good!’’ He pounded on the wall, the echo of the thud chilling her blood. ‘‘Ye butchered me wife!’’

  Elizabeth felt as if someone had grabbed her by the neck and shaken her. Ian Flannery was back in the building.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Northfield, Minnesota End of July

  July 23, 1895

  Dear Thorliff,

  Thank you for your letter. I am too busy to be homesick until I get a letter from home, and then I read with tears in my eyes for wanting to see dear faces. I haven’t played a piano for so long that I am afraid my fingers will no longer remember the right keys. But I cannot begin to tell you of all the things I am learning. I assist in surgery almost on a daily basis, depending on what our schedule is. With the heat and humidity of summer, many of our surgeries are to repair the aftermath of fights. What with the drinking of spirits here, which is prevalent, and the hot tempers due to overcrowding and deplorable living conditions, I sometimes wonder if God has turned his eye away from this part of the world and said, ‘‘Do your worst and pay the penalty.’’

  So many babies and little children die that it is no wonder the wives are in a family way most of the time. But oh, the heartbreak.

  I tried to save two little boys sick with typhoid fever, and Dr. Morganstein reprimanded me rather severely because they were so contagious we could have lost many of our other patients, but they both died within hours of each other. I think the mother wanted to stay with us for the privilege of clean water, a little quiet, and a clean bed. But her husband insisted she return home, no doubt to breed another. I had to scrub and disinfect the room, as well as the bed, afterward. But I would do it again if I could, or rather if I were in charge. But Dr. Morganstein is right, and I must get tougher.

  My time here is slipping by so quickly. Two more weeks and Mother will arrive.

  Oh, did Father tell you that Dr. Morganstein is planning to start a medical school in the building next to the hospital? She purchased the three-story building not long ago and says she will start having classes in October. She plans to start with ten students and has a room that will be used for the laboratory where cadavers will be available for dissection. I know that sounds macabre, but as you well know from my ranting on about the need to learn the human body from more than drawings in textbooks, I am excited. I have already written to both of the other schools to decline admission there. So I will spend the next two years in Chicago instead of Minneapolis, with no breaks for summer or holidays. Hospitals run both day and night, as I have well learned. Dr. Morganstein says that I am far ahead of most beginning medical students, and she has already given me every opportunity to learn all that I can.

  Are your mother and Astrid coming to Northfield in August as they hoped? I am so looking forward to meeting them. When I return I am planning to sleep for three days straight or perhaps a week.

  Another little thing: a man here is accusing Dr. Morganstein and me of killing his wife because we did a Cesarian on her to try and save the baby. Oh, a Cesarian is when the baby is removed via an abdominal incision. The police have been here, and we are exonerated, but Ian Flannery will not leave it or us alone. On one hand I feel sorry for him, but not much, because she died after he pushed her down the stairs in a drunken rage. My heart breaks for his two little children.

  I am praying he will stop his attacks on us—so far they are only verbal. I really don’t trust him. I shall be glad to leave that situation behind. Please don’t mention this to Mother or Father, as I don’t want to worry them, but I needed to tell someone.

  Your friend,

  Elizabeth

  PS: How is your croquet game coming?

  Thorliff reread the part about the angry drunken man. The urge to go there and make sure she was safe almost lifted him from his chair on the front porch of Mr. Stromme’s house.

  ‘‘Bad news?’’ Henry still spoke slowly and sometimes forgot what he was going to say, but he communicated far better than Dr. Gaskin had ever thought he would. The good doctor had told Thorliff that one evening, claiming it was due to Thorliff’s good nursing. Of course, that same evening he’d been giving Thorliff a bad time about Mrs. Kingsley, who managed to show up wherever Thorliff was. At church, at the newspaper office, at the front porch right where he’d been sitting talking with Henry and the doctor. She always had some excuse to be walking by, like needing his expertise with her writing or wanting to introduce him to someone she felt he should meet. He wished she would leave him alone. After all, she was a married woman.

  Even at night she haunted him. He’d prayed so often for God to help him keep pure thoughts, he was sure he’d passed the seventy times mark.

  ‘‘Ja, no. Well, not so much bad news as not really good news. You know what I mean?’’

  The old man chuckled, ending on a snort. ‘‘Not really.’’

  Thorliff changed the subject. ‘‘How’s your checker tournament going?’’

  ‘‘Takes me longer to play, and sometimes I miss a good move. Never did used to make mistakes like that. Orville is ahead by two games. Pete is one behind me, and John accuses us all of cheating.’’ His pauses between words were becoming shorter.

  ‘‘Did you walk down to the corner today?’’

  ‘‘I walked to the corner and back twice.’’ Henry held up two fingers. ‘‘Takes me a month of Sundays, but I make it. I been—’’ h
e wrinkled his entire face in thought—‘‘c-craving a strawberry soda in the worst way.’’

  ‘‘Mrs. Sitze’s is pretty far away for walking. How about I borrow a buggy and take you down there?’’

  ‘‘I used to walk that in ten minutes, or less if I was in a hurry.’’ Henry sighed. ‘‘But Pastor . . . he reminded me today to be grateful for walking slow when I coulda been stuck in a chair or bed for . . . for the rest of my life.’’ He shook his head as he spoke. ‘‘Don’t know if I coulda stood that.’’

  Visions of Joseph Baard in such terrible pain for so long made Thorliff clear his throat. ‘‘I had a friend once who was bedridden like that after he fell out of the haymow. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I think you are doing real well.’’

  ‘‘But not so well you can move out yet, you know.’’

  Thorliff folded Elizabeth’s letter and stuck it back in his pocket. ‘‘Can I get you anything?’’

  ‘‘The checkerboard.’’

  ‘‘You sure you wouldn’t rather have dominoes?’’

  ‘‘One of each?’’ His sly cackle followed Thorliff into the house.

  ‘‘Hey, you want some of this lemon meringue pie? Not that there is a whole lot left.’’

  ‘‘Sure.’’ He made a cutting motion. ‘‘For us both. Mavis will bake another one tomorrow if I ask her to.’’

  Thorliff returned, carrying the domino case under his arm and a plate of pie in each hand. ‘‘She the one who cleaned up the kitchen too?’’

  ‘‘Nope. I did that.’’

  ‘‘Really?’’ I could move back to the newspaper if I had to, Thorliff thought, but that will seem mighty lonely again. Of course it wouldn’t matter when school started. He’d have no time to think about being lonely then anyway.

  Later that night Thorliff’s thoughts went back to Elizabeth’s letter. So do I tell her parents or not? The thought threatened to turn into a worry. Thorliff lay on his bed, arms locked behind his head. But Elizabeth had confided in him as a friend.