“I’m sorry?”
I lifted her left arm and pressed around her lymph nodes. “Do they look normal? Are there any hard areas? Do they hurt?” I put her arm down and moved to the other side of the bed.
“No. Is everything all right?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Dr. Hankins has never examined me like this.”
“Has he not?” I lifted her right arm.
“I’ve never had a nurse be so thorough.”
I smiled and put her arm back down by her side. “Does your stomach hurt?”
“No.”
“Have you had any abdominal pain since you started gaining weight?”
“No.”
“Backache? Trouble with urination or defecating?”
“My back aches, some. But no trouble with the other.” She looked away.
I walked to the end of the bed.
“Is it time?” The hopefulness and anticipation in her voice embarrassed me.
“Not yet. I need to examine you first.”
Lily scooted down to the end of the bed, bent her knees, and opened her legs. Though she was covered modestly by a sheet, I could not help but be reminded of the same resigned motions from Lavina a few weeks earlier. I walked to the dresser and washed my hands in the basin. When I returned, I reached beneath the sheet and internally examined Lily, while pressing down on her stomach with my other hand, confirming my suspicion of a large ovarian tumor. I removed my hand and returned to the dresser to wash my hands.
“What about my treatment?”
I sat on the edge of the bed and was silent for a moment, trying to decide what to tell her, or if I should tell her at all. On the one hand, Dr. Hankins had handed her treatment over to me. She was my patient and I should tell her my suspicions. On the other hand, to her and everyone in town I was a nurse, a midwife. A nurse might be able to diagnose a tumor, but it would draw suspicions. If I suggested operating, my ruse would be up. The safest course would be to tell Dr. Hankins my suspicions and convince him to operate, though I wasn’t sure he had the skills to perform it. I knew he didn’t follow Lister’s guidelines, so putting Lily Diamond into Hankins’s unsanitary hands would be risking her life. She wasn’t in pain and the tumor wasn’t hard—both good signs. Her lymph nodes felt normal as well. There was no indication from an external examination that the tumor was cancerous, which meant I had time to consider the options before making a decision.
But that was only half of my problem.
“Please, Helen. I beg you,” Lily said. Her eyes were red with threatening tears. “This is the only thing that gives me relief.”
“Temporarily.”
“Yes, but I receive the treatment regularly.”
“And pay dearly for it.”
“Harry doesn’t mind the expense if it keeps our house peaceful.”
I placed my hand over Lily’s. Poor woman. Grieving for two lost sons, uprooted from her home and moved to a rough frontier town with few women to befriend, her legitimate physical complaints dismissed by her doctor, and married to a man who frequented whores. Was it any wonder she was emotionally distraught? How could I possibly refuse to give her the one thing that helped her?
“Of course I’ll do the treatment.”
She sighed. “Oh, thank you.”
“But I’m going to teach you how to bring yourself to crisis so you don’t have to … pay.” My mouth twitched when I realized that the treatments male doctors were giving and receiving money for were akin to the services and charges of a soiled dove.
Lily gasped. “I can’t do that!”
“Why not?”
“I can’t touch myself down there.”
“It’s a medical treatment I’m prescribing, like prescribing laudanum for pains.”
“But if people found out!”
“Who will tell them? I surely won’t. Will you?”
“Good heavens, Helen. What a question.”
“Then no one need know.”
Lily fidgeted with the edge of the sheet covering her. I waited, suspecting there was more she wanted to say. The silence finally did its work. “But it goes against Christ’s teachings.”
“This isn’t a sexual act,” I lied. “This is a medical procedure.”
“It can’t be done without a doctor.”
“Yes, it can.”
“Why isn’t it?”
“Because women, and their husbands, pay handsomely for it.” I leaned forward and whispered, “And doctors are greedy.”
“I don’t know.”
I sighed. “How about this: I’ll explain to you what I’m doing. If, before our next appointment, you feel a spell coming on, you can try the treatment yourself. If it doesn’t work, we’ll have the upcoming appointment on schedule.”
Lily smiled and said, “That will be fine,” with such relief I knew she had no intention of trying to help herself to crisis. I stood and turned away, steeling myself to do a task I had no urge to perform.
CHAPTER
20
Irritated, exhausted, and feeling rebellious, I returned home, went to bed, and fell into a deep sleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow. When I woke the frenetic noise outside had transformed from daily activity to the winding-down music of twilight. A dog nearby barked and was answered by a deeper bark farther away and another farther away still, as if relaying messages or gossip. A horse or mule clomped by in rhythm to the creaking wheels of the wagon it pulled. A shout and men’s laughter. The snort of a pig. I turned over and pulled the pillow over my head, trying to return to the dream I’d woken from.
Kindle.
Less a dream than the certainty of his presence, the sense of calm and safety that surrounded him and enveloped me like a knight’s armor. I reached across the bed, deluding myself that he was next to me, that it was the morning before our departure from Saint Louis. He would turn on his side and curve his body into mine, whisper, “Good morning, Slim,” in my ear as his hand stroked my hip with the promise of slow, almost lazy lovemaking, the desire for connection greater than the need for release.
My hand fell on cold cotton sheets. I sighed and pulled the pillow away from my head but couldn’t ignore the physical response the memory gave me. I rose from the bed quickly, went to the dresser, and splashed cold water from the basin onto my face. I scrubbed my face dry with a coarse towel and stared at myself in the mirror. I refused to satiate myself without Kindle. Let my physical need for him be motivation for leaving Cheyenne. As if I needed more.
I folded the towel and placed it on the dresser next to the pile of five silver dollars Lily had given me. I closed my eyes against the sight of them. It was a medical procedure, nothing more. I derived no pleasure from it, and wasn’t that necessary for it to be something different? I thought of the whores I’d known and how little pleasure they received from their daily tasks. The difference, I supposed, was intent and understanding. Society understood that the purpose of transactions between whores and their johns was the man’s sexual release. Whereas society deluded itself that the treatment for hysteria was medical in nature. After all, women weren’t supposed to want or need pleasure the way men did. Responsibility for maintaining society’s moral and spiritual laws rested squarely on women’s shoulders. Pleasure or release did not figure into it.
I put the filled basin on the floor and undressed, trying and failing to banish the memory of my and Kindle’s first nights as husband and wife. Passion and tenderness, exploration and experimentation, taking as much satisfaction in giving as receiving pleasure. Of course I’d known on some level how unique Kindle was, that his willingness to let me take the lead, to teach and be taught, would be considered weak by society’s standards. But we’d been so thoroughly cocooned that I’d forgotten about the outside world, and took for granted what a treasure it was to have a man like him.
Until I was reminded of it today.
I was one woman in a sea of ignorance, ignorance ground into society’s morals an
d opinions by generations, nay centuries, of faulty diagnoses and logic. It would take many generations more for a change to come about, many voices built one upon the other until these ridiculous opinions were seen for what they were. As it was, Dr. Catherine Bennett’s voice would not be one of them. Nor would Laura Elliston’s.
I lathered soap on a cloth, stepped into the basin, and washed myself.
Helen Graham had no voice, no name, no true profession.
I lifted the pitcher of water from the dresser and poured it over my body. I cringed at the shock of cold. Goose bumps prickled my skin. My nipples tightened and stood erect.
No freedom.
I toweled off.
This was the life I chose when I left New York City instead of facing the charges against me. I’d been deluded to think my new life could be a semblance of my old. With Kindle beside me I had the opportunity for normalcy, a different life from the one I knew, sure, but one that promised to be better in many ways. I was trapped by my lies. No power. No voice. A dreary future of being used and manipulated by others to further their own goals.
I stepped into my bloomers and laced my corset.
A pawn.
I jerked the laces tight, enjoying the pain, the loss of breath.
I buttoned my dark blue shirt and thought of the man who attacked me on the street in New York City on that fateful night. That was the moment that changed me. Faced with death for the first time in my life, I’d lost the characteristic that had defined me, that had driven me to cut my hair and put on boys’ clothes to serve in the war, that had pushed me until I’d been accepted into medical school, that had prompted me to stand erect, head held high when derided by teachers and fellow students, that had led me to graduate at the top of my class, that encouraged me to walk to Twenty-Seventh Street and start treating whores to survive: fearlessness. Since being held against the stone wall at knifepoint, every decision and action of mine had been geared to survive. I didn’t realize until now that surviving wasn’t the same as living.
Kindle wasn’t there to help me. I was on my own.
I knew what I needed to do, had known for weeks. Months, maybe.
I donned my skirt and boots with the secreted knife, threaded my arms through my vest, and buttoned it. I buckled the holster Rosemond had given me, checked the ammunition in my gun, and drove it home. I jerked the front of my vest down, stared into a pair of determined eyes, and smiled.
Lily Diamond’s parlor resembled the rest of the house but little. It was light and airy, the walls painted a soft blue, the furniture traditional but unvarnished and upholstered with a light floral pattern. The lilies on the sideboard waved gently in the breeze blowing through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The room was full of light and smelled refreshingly of wood polish and flowers. Despite the pleasant surroundings, the ticking clock in Lily’s parlor turned deafening in the prolonged silence.
I poured her a finger of whisky from the decanter on the sideboard. She stared into the middle distance still, as if she hadn’t heard me. I held the glass out to her, and she looked up at me with unfocused eyes.
“I don’t believe it.” She took the glass and drank absentmindedly. She choked and coughed in surprise. I caught the glass before she dropped it and spilled it on herself. The whisky had the desired effect; her eyes focused. She woke up.
“Which part?”
“You’re Catherine Bennett?”
“I am.”
“But you’re wanted for murder.”
“I am.”
“Did you do it?”
“No. I plan on returning to New York City soon and clearing my name.” I sat on the edge of the chair adjacent to Lily’s. “I told you who I am so you will have confidence in my diagnosis.”
“A tumor?”
“Yes. But I believe the prognosis is good.” I explained my diagnosis to her again.
“Would you do the surgery?”
I pressed my lips together. “No.”
“Aren’t you a—”
“A surgeon? Yes. I don’t have the tools or the sterilization ingredients necessary to perform surgery.” I lifted my oft-injured right hand and rubbed it with my left. “My skills have eroded since I left New York City.” I swallowed and continued with the knowledge I’d been struggling against admitting since I amputated Thomas’s foot. “I couldn’t in good conscience perform a surgery not up to my standards.”
“Would Roger perform it?”
“No,” I said quickly. “He isn’t a surgeon. Dr. Hankins mentioned a surgeon in Denver, but I know nothing of his skills.”
“Whom do you recommend?”
“Unfortunately, I only know New York surgeons, though I can write and get recommendations for Saint Louis or Chicago doctors, so you won’t have to travel as far.”
“Wouldn’t that reveal who and where you are?”
“As I said, I plan on leaving soon anyway.”
“But you’ll return.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Oh, please do. I—I would hate to lose the best doctor I’ve ever had after one examination.”
I flushed with pleasure, though I tried to hide it. “Thank you, Lily. It means more than you will ever know to hear you say that. It felt good, taking care of you. It’s been too long. It was taking care of you that made me realize I have to return to clear my name.”
“Oh, don’t say that! What if you hang? I’ll never forgive myself.”
I clasped Lily’s hand. I was so accustomed to people using me, betraying me, and threatening me that genuine care and concern caught me off guard. My eyes stung with unshed tears.
Lily, apparently sensing my emotional state, patted my hand roughly and turned businesslike. “I suppose you’ve told Harry and Oliver. What did they say?”
“Indeed I have not. I believe you should hear it first.”
“How refreshing.”
“I’m going to tell them when I leave you.”
Lily nodded. “Good luck. I can imagine how the conversation will go.”
“So can I.” I picked up my bag and rose to leave.
“Does Dr. Hankins know who you are?”
“He does.”
“He’s making you work for him instead of turning you in?”
I nodded.
Lily rose. “Sounds like something Roger Hankins would do. Who else knows?”
“Eliza, Reverend Bright.”
“Portia?”
“I don’t think so, though she might.”
“Does Amalia know?”
“No.”
Something like triumph crossed Lily’s expression. “Good. She’d turn you in before you got the confession out.”
“Do you not like Amalia?”
“Of course I do. She’s done a lot for women in the territory. But she’s a bit of a dragon when it comes to law and order. It never crossed your mind I might turn you in?”
I shrugged. “I can’t imagine anyone I’d rather have receive the reward.”
“You are a strange creature, Helen.”
“People have been telling me the same thing, in one way or another, my entire life.”
True to form, Hankins was at the Rollins House Hotel drinking with Harry Diamond. I smiled widely at the men as I glided across the floor. Hankins looked overly pleased to see me, no doubt due to his level of intoxication, if his ruddy complexion was any indication. It had been six hours since he left Lily’s, after all. Harry Diamond’s face clouded at the sight of me. He pressed his shoulders back in a show of arrogance.
“Oh, perfect. Just the men I need to see.”
“Helen!” Hankins waved at me and pushed a chair out with his foot. “How did Lily’s treatment go?”
“What?” Harry Diamond snapped.
“I’ve given Lily’s treatment over to Helen.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
Hankins looked puzzled. “Is there a problem?”
I sat and placed my bag on the floor. “None whatsoever,”
I said, giving Diamond a meaningful look. He sat back in his chair, unconvinced. I continued, “Lily’s treatment went fine.”
Hankins flexed his hand. “Is your hand sore?” He laughed heartily at his predictable and unimaginative joke.
“No, actually. She reached her crisis in under ten minutes.”
Hankins’s laugh died slowly. Harry Diamond harrumphed. “I’m not paying five dollars for ten minutes’ work.”
I met Diamond’s gaze steadily. “It does seem a high price when you look at it through that lens. But are you paying for my time, or the act?”
Diamond narrowed his eyes. “The act?”
I smiled. “The treatment. If you’re unhappy, you are welcome to perform the treatment yourself, Mr. Diamond. Some husbands enjoy it as much as the wife.”
“Mrs. Graham!” Hankins said. “That is wholly inappropriate.”
“Of course Dr. Hankins isn’t going to tell you it’s something you can do. He would be ten dollars the worse off every month. But I assure you, you can be as effective treating your wife’s hysteria as I, or Dr. Hankins. As I said, some men even enjoy it.”
“Mrs. Graham!”
I reached out and touched Harry Diamond’s arm. “I was sorry to learn of your sons. My condolences.”
My compassion arrested Diamond’s anger. His expression went through a series of emotions, before finally settling on a determined strength.
“I think your wife’s hysteria can be directly linked to the loss of her sons and the move west.”
“It’s been seven years,” Diamond said. “She has to get over it.”
“She will never get over it,” I said. “Perpetual mourning for the dead has become commonplace, almost expected of mothers. Imagine what others would say if she removed her weeds.” Diamond opened his mouth to speak, but I continued. “There is no cure for grief. But I didn’t come to talk about your wife’s hysteria.” I hated using the term, but I knew it was the only way to frame Lily’s state of mind in a way they would understand. “When I examined her—”
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