Beyond the Ashes

by Karen Barnett

  Abby smiled. “Beautiful, Patrick. Well said.”

  Ruby frowned. Had God ever proven worthy of her trust?

  The server arrived with platters of steaming food, placing them atop the table with a flourish. The fragrance of the pink flaky salmon, usually her favorite, turned Ruby’s stomach. How could she hope in a God who took everyone she loved—Papa, Charlie, and now Dee?

  “Oh—look!” The glare from the window lit up Abby’s face.

  Ruby turned to gaze out the glass, the fog thinning until a peek-a-boo glimpse of the ocean beckoned, the powerful waves crashing against the rocks.

  “And that’s our Holy God, ladies. A mighty rescuer and a tender gift-giver.” Patrick folded his hands. “Shall I bless our meal?”

  Ruby’s heart tripped as she pulled her gaze from the view and focused on the man’s bowed head. He witnessed the day-to-day cruelties of life, yet never seemed to doubt God’s goodness. Could I ever be capable of the same?

  * * *

  Gerald flopped backward onto his bed, staring at the dust motes dancing in the low-angled afternoon sunbeam. A knot formed somewhere around each temple. He rubbed fingers across his forehead, trying to chase away the image of Dee’s empty eyes. Lord, how many? How many patients—friends—do we lose before admitting this isn’t working like we’d hoped?

  Dampness against his cheek caught his attention. He lifted his hand and glared at the oozing sore on his palm. He rolled from the mattress and pushed up to his feet. Crossing the room, he poured water from the pitcher into the waiting basin. He swirled the cool liquid through his fingers. If only he could wash away the day’s despair with such ease.

  He lifted the rose-scented soap to his nose, the fragrance reminding him of Ruby. The cleanser at work smelled of iodine—perhaps contributing to his skin irritation? Gerald rolled the cake between his palms, attempting to distract his thoughts from the captivating redhead. He plunged his hands back under the water, rinsing the suds from his skin.

  Gerald studied the abrasion as the drips trickled down his arm. Thankfully the blue tinge had faded with time, but the spot had enlarged. What had previously been the size of a nickel now covered half of his palm. What in the world was this? Some odd infection?

  A wave of exhaustion crept up from his feet, pulling at his spine. He wrapped his hand in a towel and headed back to the bed. Whatever it was, he’d deal with it later.

  By the time Gerald opened his eyes again, the sunlight had long disappeared from the window. He stretched, rolled to his back, and blinked at the silver clock ticking on the bedside table. Eleven o’clock? His mind struggled against the fog of confusion accompanying the odd hour. What time had he fallen asleep? His rumpled shirt and unbuttoned vest suggested he’d been there for hours. He shook himself and rose. He might as well dress for bed, even if was after the fact.

  Gerald shrugged off the vest and laid it over a chair, adding his shirt to the pile before tying a linen handkerchief around his hand. He paused, standing in his trousers, white union suit, and bare feet, stomach growling. Had he eaten today? It seemed odd no one had roused him for supper. Robert must have explained the situation. The house sounded quiet, so he lit a candle and padded into the hall and down to the kitchen. A turkey sandwich and bowl of cold stew waited for him in the icebox. Gerald bolted down the food while standing at the sink, refusing to glance at the apple pie. He gazed out the window into the darkness of the garden.

  Something stirred in the shadows.

  He leaned forward, cupping a hand to the glass for a clearer view, but the motion stopped. Animal or a prowler? Lean times led to desperate acts. Gerald glanced around the kitchen for something to use for protection, his gaze skirting over the knife block and the frying pan. He kept his dad’s pistol in a box in the attic. Unlike his father, target practice never seemed an intriguing pastime to Gerald. Where is the silly dog, anyway? Why keep a dog if it couldn’t be bothered to bark at prowlers?

  With a shrug, he grabbed the wooden pastry roller, relishing the hefty weight in his grip. He’d probably be more effective with this, anyway.

  Slipping into the quiet yard, he picked his way barefoot over the uneven ground.

  A ghostly figure rose up from the bench and a soft voice spoke from the gloom. “A little late for baking, isn’t it?” Ruby stepped into dim moonlight, the glow casting a silver sheen over loose curls.

  Otto sniffed around at the edge of the rose garden, turning his head to glance dismissively at Gerald before returning to his investigation.

  Gerald lowered his arm, stashing the roller behind his back. “I—I wasn’t sure who was out here so late.”

  “Robert told me about Dee.” She gazed at him, eyes glimmering. “I should have been there.”

  His gut twisted. “I thought I’d spare you the pain of watching. I’m sorry.”

  She turned away, stepping back to the shadows of the arbor and sinking onto the bench. “Don’t do it again.” Her voice trembled.

  Gerald hesitated, glancing down at his rumpled attire before joining her on the icy iron seat. He searched for words, but came up empty.

  Tiny streams of dim light filtered through the vines like stars, dancing across Ruby’s silk gown.

  He couldn’t resist touching her hand, the warmth of her skin a stark contrast against the cool air. “She spoke of you. It was selfish of me not to ask you to be there.”

  Ruby lifted her chin, the faint glow illuminating damp cheeks. “I never got to say good-bye. Not to my father, not to . . .” She placed a hand over her lips as if to stifle the words.

  A stab of pain cut through Gerald’s chest. Not to her husband. “Dee knew you’d be concerned.”

  “What did she say?”

  He swallowed hard. You loved me. “She called you a ‘dear friend.’ ” He ran a fingertip across the back of her hand. Only a cad would take advantage of grief, but he couldn’t help imagining her head resting against his shoulder, her curls tickling his cheek. Was it only yesterday she’d shoved him away after a kiss? How quickly his heart returned to its longings.

  Fresh tears shone in her eyes, each droplet reflecting the moonlight like a fine gem. “Sometimes it feels as if everyone I love leaves. I can’t trust anyone to stay with me. I need to guard my heart, take care of myself.”

  No longer resisting, he reached an arm over her shoulders and drew her close. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  She hiccupped a sob and leaned against him. “You can’t know for certain.”

  Gerald shifted, claiming her free hand and twining their fingers. “Are you kidding? I’m the most steady and predictable man you’ll ever find.” He grimaced. Now that’s attractive.

  She lowered her ear to his shoulder, burrowing her face against his neck. “And you could be gone in a heartbeat.”

  The weight of her body made his heart pound faster, her hair scented like a rose garden on a warm day. Steady. “And so could you. But the future’s in God’s hands, not ours.”

  Ruby lifted her head, a cold draft stealing the warmth she’d provided. “And therein lies the problem.” She stood with a sigh, her ivory gown catching the shimmers of light like angel wings. “Good night, Gerald.”

  He kept hold of her hand, not releasing it until she stepped away.

  She seemed to float up the path to the house, her footfalls imperceptible in the still night air.

  The small hound leapt up from the shrubs and dashed after her.

  Gerald gazed up at the vine-strewn arbor, the cool metal seat like a block of ice against his back. How does one answer that, Lord?

  23

  Gerald tucked the clipboard under his arm, his footfalls echoing through the hospital’s long corridor. A final check through the ward, and he would turn things over to Robert for the afternoon. The fitful night’s sleep hung heavy on his shoulders.

  One of the student nurses strolled in the opposite direction, brightening as she caught his eye. She dipped her head, the white cap bobbing atop her high-pile
d hair. “Good afternoon, Dr. Larkspur.”

  He nodded, scrambling to put a name to the face. “Afternoon . . . um, Nurse.” He pulled the board to his chest, wishing he had a better memory for names.

  The young woman didn’t seem to mind, beaming a smile. “I’m not an official nurse yet. It’s still Miss Fitzpatrick, I’m afraid. Dr. Lawrence told me you were assisting in the surgery today.”

  Gerald paused. “Surgery? Which surgery?”

  The door to the stairwell swung open, Dr. Lawrence hurrying into the hall. “Dr. Larkspur, there you are. I’ve been searching everywhere.”

  Gerald’s shoulders tightened. So much for an early day. He should have stayed sequestered in the lab.

  Lawrence grasped his elbow and steered him away from the young nurse. “Look, Gerald—Dr. Dawson is performing a hysterectomy this afternoon on a patient with endometrial cancer.”

  “I didn’t realize Dawson took on cancer patients. He seems to think there’s so little hope for them.”

  Lawrence ran a hand across his chin. “I encouraged him to refer the woman to you and Dr. King, but he’s determined to handle it himself. He’d like you to assist in the surgery.”

  Gerald cocked his head. “Did he say that?”

  The younger doctor scuffed his shoe across the tile floor. “I may have suggested the idea.”

  “Dawson doesn’t require my help. He could perform a hysterectomy blindfolded. And besides—he has you.”

  Lawrence raked fingers through his hair. “I’m not certain the patient even requires an operation in this case. I’ve been reading your studies—”

  Gerald held up a hand. “I’m not interfering with one of Dawson’s patients.”

  “You don’t need to intervene, just observe. It’s all I ask. You could send Dr. King, if you prefer.”

  The last thing Gerald needed was a direct confrontation with Emil, but he certainly couldn’t allow Robert to go in his stead. His impulsive partner would likely get them both banned from the hospital. “Fine, I’ll observe.” Gerald let his head fall back, gazing up at the ceiling. “When?”

  “He’s already begun, I’m afraid. I’d hoped to find you earlier. It’s in the surgical amphitheater, I’m heading over there now if you’d care to accompany me.”

  Gerald jerked back to attention. “The amphitheater? I didn’t know repairs had been completed.” The cavernous surgical hall had taken the brunt of the damage during the earthquake.

  “It’s better than ever. And almost every medical student will be in attendance.”

  Gerald’s stomach fell to his knees. Dr. Dawson with an audience? Suddenly the earthquake seemed like a walk in the park. He fell silent as he followed Lawrence down two floors to the surgical wing.

  The double doors opened into an expansive space. Dawson stood center stage, wielding the scalpel, several nurses at the ready. The pungent scent of ether permeated the room as the anesthetist administered drops to the cone covering the patient’s nose and mouth. Students lined the gleaming wooden risers, leaning over the rails with attention focused on the scene below. Light poured in through the glass atrium, rendering the central pendulum light practically unnecessary.

  Gerald swallowed. He’d never liked performing surgery in front of a crowd.

  Dawson glanced up, his hands obscured within the patient’s abdomen. “So nice of you gentlemen to join us.” His bushy brows pulled low over his spectacles. “I informed the students,” he lifted his voice until it boomed through the open hall, “we would have a premier cancer specialist gracing our presence. I’m glad to see you didn’t disappoint.”

  The hairs on Gerald’s arms rose as his gaze roamed the upper reaches of the surgical theater, every chair occupied. The energy in the room seemed akin to a prizefight.

  Dawson cleared his throat. “I was just saying how some doctors prefer using energy and radiation to treat their patients.” He chuckled. “They don’t like getting their hands messy.” He lifted his bloodstained hands into view. “Isn’t that right, Dr. Larkspur?”

  Acid boiled in Gerald’s stomach. “Not at all, Dr. Dawson.” He stepped to the washbasin. “X-ray technology doesn’t replace surgery. But when surgery and radiation are used in cooperation, it may prove to be the best treatment for many types of cancer. X-rays can reach into the depths of the human tissues and cells—where cancer begins.”

  Gerald turned his back and ran the cake of soap between his fingers, the lesion stinging like he’d driven a needle through his palm. He gritted his jaw, swiping suds up both wrists.

  Dawson’s voice echoed through the room, bouncing off the atrium above. “The only cure for cancer is to cut it out. Every time. You can’t cure cancer with X-rays any more than you can clean a muddy floor by shining a light on it.”

  As Dawson continued his lecture, the young Miss Fitzpatrick appeared at Gerald’s elbow, a clean surgical apron in her hands. She leaned forward, her voice soft. “Isn’t this exciting? I can’t believe I’m assisting in the first amphitheater operation since the quake. And with Dr. Dawson, too.”

  Gerald ducked so she could pull the apron over his head. “You must have impressed him. He doesn’t often invite student nurses.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “My instructor said so, too. I hope it’s not because of my father.”

  Dr. Lawrence came up beside Gerald and held out his arms for an apron. He leaned close to Gerald’s ear. “She’s Dr. Fitzpatrick’s daughter.” He turned, allowing the young woman to fasten the garment behind his back. “Quite capable.”

  Fitzpatrick—head of the hospital finance committee. Sweat broke out along Gerald’s back. God, I’m certain You know what You’re doing, but I’m at a loss. He dried his hands on the clean apron.

  The gallery buzzed with conversations. Several students clutched cigars and pipes, elbows propped on the rails, smoke curling up toward the windows.

  Dr. Dawson leaned over his patient, clamping the round ligament in preparation to sever its hold on the offending organ. He lifted his voice. “Dr. Larkspur, why don’t you come and join me? How long has it been since you’ve done one of these?”

  Gerald pushed down his irritation. Dawson knew surgery wasn’t his specialty. He’d done his share, regardless. He stepped to the doctor’s side.

  “Do you want the scalpel?” Dawson smirked. “Or would you prefer to hold the clamps?”

  The room rippled with soft laughter.

  “I didn’t come to steal your thunder, Dr. Dawson. Why don’t you let your talented protégé take point on this one? I’m comfortable observing and offering advice, should you require it.”

  The man huffed, his white whiskers pulled downward into a scowl. “Unlikely.” He cast a dismissive glance at Lawrence. “You don’t mind if Larkspur takes over, do you?”

  The younger doctor glanced up, his eyes widening. “No, sir. Of course not. I’d be pleased to watch Dr. Larkspur work.”

  Dawson’s lip curled. He slammed the metal tool down against the tray and stepped back. “Larkspur, you heard the man. Impress us with your expertise. Dr. Lawrence will assist you.”

  Cold fingers clambered up Gerald’s spine. He stepped forward and surveyed the surgery in process. Lord, guide my hands. Thankfully, much of the work was already complete. He swiveled toward the tray.

  “I’ll get it for you, Doctor.” Miss Fitzpatrick bobbed her head.

  “Of course.” Gerald waved Lawrence closer. “Doctor, will you take the clamps?”

  Dr. Lawrence nodded, beads of sweat already appearing on his lined brow. He grasped the instruments with a grimace. “Ready.”

  Gerald’s mouth dried as the student placed the scalpel in his right palm. Within a few minutes, the room seemed to fade, the students vanishing in the background as Gerald focused on the surgical procedure. He and Lawrence worked in concert, few words passing between them.

  Dr. Dawson cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, may I remind you this is a teaching institution? Our future physicians will not learn unles
s you explain and demonstrate your glorious technique.”

  Gerald tipped his head back, eyeing the lines of students peering down at him like rows upon rows of hungry pigeons. Had he been like them? He wiped his hands on a towel and gestured to the open cavity. “As you can see, Dr. Lawrence is securing the posterior artery.” The students scribbled in tiny notepads as he explained the past few steps of the procedure in detail. He lifted a hand, using his spread fingers and palm as a demonstration on how to locate the artery.

  Emil’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Gerald’s extended hand.

  A prickle raced down Gerald’s neck. He clamped his palm shut and drew it to his chest. “I—I think we can continue now.” He selected a scalpel without waiting for Miss Fitzpatrick, the cool metal handle pressing against the tender skin.

  Dawson folded both arms across his chest, a smile toying at his lips. “Would you like me to take over, Dr. Larkspur?”

  24

  For the fourth night in a row Ruby stared at the ceiling, her mind consumed by images of Gerald at the hospital—treating his patients, comforting the families, supporting her brother. She stirred, the weight of the blankets pressing her into the mattress. How can I be falling in love again? I didn’t want this, God. She tossed the covers off, a chill rushing to take their place. She preferred the cold to the stifling bulk.

  During the weeks since Dee passed, each day blurred into the next. Avoiding Gerald had become Ruby’s primary occupation—an impossible task, considering they shared both a home and a workplace. During the daytime hours, she occupied herself serving at either the hospital or with Abby at the refugee camps. At night, she fell into bed so exhausted, her thoughts should have been unable to disturb her sleep.

  In the next bed, Abby breathed slowly, the quiet rhythm of uninterrupted sleep.

  Ruby rolled to her side, pulling both knees up to her chest and studying the single beam of moonlight piercing through the narrow opening in the draperies. Dee’s death left a similar gap in Ruby’s heart. Was she cut out for this line of work? Papa’s practice had been all about fractures and colds, gout and rheumatism. Her brother’s ambitions had taken them places their father never dreamed possible.