The Heart Specialist

by Claire Holden Rothman

  I had achieved my dream, but what had it brought? Wealth? I glanced at my dress, worn too many days now without washing, and at the patched cloak bunched under my arm. Renown? I’d been a celebrity in my student days, but since then I might as well have died. Happiness? My eyes pricked with tears. The day I received my degree I thought my life would be completely altered. I had entered the forbidden land of my father. Nothing would ever be the same. But in truth nothing happened. I remained plain old Agnes White, no richer or more famous or happier than before.

  Across the way a girl who looked vaguely like Laure put down her book and peered at me. The girl turned away abruptly and I realized I had been staring. Was I becoming eccentric, making the young uncomfortable with my hungry, yearning eyes? Grey shoots were beginning to show at my temples. Was it Jane Austen who had written that a woman was washed up at twenty-seven? Which book was it — Emma? Persuasion? Miss Skerry would know.

  I was twenty-nine and I had two diplomas in black frames hanging on my dingy office wall to show. I started walking again. The girl now had her nose in her book. How I wished I were still in the safety of school, reading books and scribbling assignments for teachers. I was halfway across the cobblestones, absorbed in these self-pitying thoughts, when a driver shouted, his horse and buggy narrowly avoiding me. The horse’s eyes bulged with terror. Flecks of froth dotted his metal bit. He was so close I could smell his breath.

  “Watch where you’re stepping,” the driver yelled as I scrambled out of his way. “Almost cost you your life.” He slapped the horse’s flank and the carriage rolled on.

  I was about to slink back to Sherbrooke Street to take refuge in the faceless crowds and my hole of an office when I heard my name.

  In the distance a man in a grey suit raised his hand and waved. He had no hat on and the wind was blowing his hair up. It was Dr. Samuel Clarke I realized with a start, the man who had instructed me in general medicine at Bishop’s. He stepped down onto the path and took my arm. “Dr. White!” he exclaimed. “Where on earth have you been hiding? Walk with me if you have a minute.”

  I was so surprised I fell into stride. I remembered this charm, how valued I had felt in his presence. This was classic Dr. Clarke, as if he were begging for my company when really it was just the opposite. I had heard months back that he was McGill’s current dean of medicine.

  “Are you working nearby?” His eyes actually seemed interested. Dr. Clarke was the only one of my medical professors who had shown interest in me in my student days. As the only woman in the class I had stood out like a sore thumb. The other professors had viewed me mostly as an insult and a threat.

  I told him briefly about my residencies in Zurich and Vienna and gave him a card with my Mansfield Street address.

  He made a comment about the need for women physicians, how they allowed mothers and children to feel more at ease. Others had said it before, but from Dr. Clarke it sounded sincere. I did not admit how few mothers had knocked at my door since I’d hung out my shingle.

  “You should come by the Vic,” Dr. Clarke said, pointing to the stone building on the southern slope of Mount Royal. The Royal Victoria Hospital had been constructed during my absence in Europe. It reminded me of a castle, couched in golden leaves that shimmered in the autumn sun.

  Dr. Clarke turned to consider me. I suddenly saw myself through his eyes: the dull dress I wore every day as if I were a nun, the patched cloak, my scuff-marked shoes. I would buy blacking this afternoon on the way back to the office. How could I have let myself go like this?

  Dr. Clarke continued to observe me. At Bishop’s I had belonged to a band of students he’d watched over. We included Joseph, a coloured man from Jamaica, and several Jews. He brought me in as the only woman in the class. Dr. Clarke made a point of learning all our names and organized schedules so the Jewish students could leave early on Friday nights for their Sabbath. Once we graduated he helped secure positions for some of us. Rumour had it Clarke himself was a Jew. He was a member of the Presbyterian Church and he’d married an Anglican. His sons’ names were Christopher and Luke. Yet the rumours persisted.

  “I’m afraid I have to leave you,” he said as we reached the entrance to the medical building.

  I nodded. Who could blame him? Why would McGill’s dean of medicine waste his time with the likes of me?

  “We must get together.”

  I nodded a second time, grateful for his civility, but no longer really listening.

  “What about tomorrow? Is nine too early?” His intense brown eyes were studying mine.

  I was so surprised I didn’t immediately reply. Dr. Clarke was serious. He was not merely being polite.

  “Nine then?” he repeated and left me nodding on the path.

  NOW I WAS SITTING IN exactly the same spot in exactly the same chair I had occupied eight years back when Dean Laidlaw had called me in. His secretary, of the jiggly upper arms and effusive welcomes, had continued in her position and was now Dean Clarke’s amanuensis. Strange to think that while I had taken a degree at Bishop’s and travelled halfway around the world this woman had continued to fulfill the same role behind the same desk. How many young men had passed through McGill’s doors since I had had last sat here? How many women? On the wall opposite Andrew F. Holmes continued to gaze down with fierce mockery.

  Gowned boys walked by, chatting and laughing on their way to class. I did not recognize a soul. How awful it would be to encounter William Howlett or any of the members of the admissions committee who had refused me and the terrific sum of money raised for my cause. A bell clanged, the hallway emptied and became so quiet I could hear the ticking of a clock up in what appeared to be a reception room nearby. I was squinting at it when Dr. Clarke came out and found me. He opened his arms as if to hug me, then thought better of it and swung them behind his back. “Welcome, Dr. White.”

  In his office the windows were open wide, letting in the sound of pigeons cooing in the eaves. Dean Clarke had rearranged the furniture, pulling his desk to one side and allowing visitors a glimpse of trees — poplars planted in a row on the lawn outside, reaching into the morning light.

  “I’ve ordered tea,” he said.

  How different this was from the time before, when the room was filled with Dr. Mastro’s smoke and Dr. Hingston’s hostility. The secretary, whose name I learned was Mrs. Burke, carried in a tea service. As I drank from a steaming cup Dr. Clarke caught me up on faculty news. Of the committee that had rejected my admission only one person remained. Dr. Mastro was now chairman of the physiology department. Dr. Howlett, whom he’d replaced, was in the United States, apparently amassing a fortune and garnering fame. Dean Laidlaw had retired and Dr. Hingston was dead. This last fact I had known. Laure had mailed the obituary to Vienna and I had written an awkward note to Felicity, who was still living at home with her mother.

  Dr. Clarke was behaving as if I were a colleague, as if I warranted attention. It was pleasant but it was also unnerving. I had changed my dress for a clean one, but it was not flattering by any stretch of the imagination. My shoes were blacked, but I didn’t deserve the care of a dean.

  He was a good-looking man with the smooth cheeks of a boy and thick hair that was only now, late in his fifties, turning grey. “Disarming” was the adjective that leapt to mind. “Gentleman” was the noun. In that moment, however, he was making me nervous. In all of our conversation he had not met my eye. He glanced at the ceiling then out the window. “I have a proposition.”

  I put my cup down. For a crazy moment I was sure he was going to lean forward and suggest something indecent.

  “For several months now,” he said after an uncomfortable pause, “we’ve been searching for someone.”

  The breath I had just taken caught and I coughed. I thought I must have misunderstood him. McGill University still did not admit female students into medicine. Surely Dr. Clarke could not be offering me employment. The sun chose that moment to climb over the tops of the poplars and I pushed m
y chair back into the shadows.

  “It’s the medical museum,” he said. “We need someone to take it in hand.” He shook his head regretfully. “It’s not the most enthralling work, I know, and the money …” He trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

  “You are offering me this?”

  “I am sorry, Dr. White.”

  It was all I could do not to burst out laughing. Dr. Clarke was apologizing as he was offering me employment at McGill, with pay. He was unlocking the doors to the institution for me. I had to restrain myself from reaching out to hug him.

  “I’ll do it,” I said. I had to say it twice and then a third time, more slowly, before he understood.

  THE ROOM WAS LIKE a tomb it was so dark; it was full of dust. Dr. Clarke covered his mouth with a handkerchief. There was no overhead light. “I’m sorry, Agnes,” he said again after he’d opened the doors. They had not yet extended the electricity up here and he had to light a gas lamp, which lent everything a yellow glow. Faculty offices were below us, the lecture theatres were below that. Few people ventured up here. Chairs and broken desks sat abandoned in the hallway.

  “Mastro was supposed to have it cleaned,” Dr. Clarke muttered into his handkerchief. “He’s the curator.”

  The name startled me. “Dr. Mastro?”

  Dr. Clarke nodded. “It comes with the chair in physiology.” He drew his finger along the surface of the main work table and held up its blackened tip for me to see. “Mastro’s wife is in a sanatarium down at Saranac Lake. She has consumption. He has more to attend to than the medical museum.”

  My eyes were becoming accustomed to the dark. I made out high ceilings, walls lined with shelves. Once there had been order here. Someone had cared. I could now see why it was so dark. I walked to the far end of the room and tugged on a cord. A blind rolled up in a whirring rush, revealing a large, grimy window.

  “Fiat lux!” said the dean. I could see him better now, grinning like a smooth-cheeked boy.

  The jars and cavernous room pulled me back to another place and time. I stood still, inhaling formaldehyde. The smell of things preserved. I was remembering the barn at St. Andrews East and my own early attempt at curatorship, but these memories went even further back. I had seen these jars and shelves before. The room at the back of our house in Montreal.

  Eventually the dean left, promising to send the janitor with a pail and any other cleaning materials that I might need. He was apologetic about this too, as if cleaning the place was somehow beneath a person of my station.

  For the following half hour I did nothing but sit on a stool by the work table, watching the dust motes swirl. The sun was at its highest point in the sky and its light made its way through the grime of the window, which faced south over McGill’s campus. I would get light all day.

  Dr. Clarke had not described my duties but the first tasks were obvious. The museum was like an attic, things placed haphazardly and tumbled on their sides. Something white caught my eye. Bent awkwardly around a metal pole was a skeleton. It was undersized, too small for a grown woman. As I straightened it out the right arm detached at the shoulder, coming away in my hands.

  I cradled this arm. My father’s possessions had been preserved. William Howlett must have brought them here for safe keeping, and now I would be their custodian. Did Dr. Clarke have an idea of the gift he had just offered me? My eyes filled with tears.

  Like the skeleton almost every item in the museum needed repair. But it would be a pleasure. I put down the bones of the arm I still held, which were grainy and surprisingly light. I began to inspect the jars. Some were from animals. One jar contained slices of pig’s lung, culled for the parasites blocking the bronchi. “Strongylus,” I read in handwriting I’d been deprived of knowing intimately. My own script is somewhat squat, especially if I hurry. His was tall and thin, spiking upwards as if it yearned to fly away.

  One shelf held nothing but pickled human hearts. The first jar on it was labelled “Fatty Heart with Rupture,” in my father’s hand. These specimens were very old, with mossy surfaces you would not want to touch. Another specimen was labelled “Acute Purulent Pericarditis.” It had belonged to a woman who, according to my father’s notes, had produced a pint of “laudable pus.” These things had belonged to him. He had excised them himself and then preserved them. It was overwhelming.

  “The Room of Horrors,” I said aloud, smiling at the memory. I looked about at the extent of the disorder. It would take time and effort to sort through it all, but I had days and months and Dr. Clarke was going to pay me.

  When the dean returned after lunch he found me sweeping, my charcoal skirt knotted to keep the hem out of the dust, a bright kerchief wound around my head. A good number of the jars were already lined up on the work table for a preliminary sorting. He sneezed prodigiously.

  “I’m afraid I’ve stirred things up,” I said, waving my hand through the soupy air.

  Dr. Clarke laughed. “Is that not your specialty, Dr. White?”

  I was about to object when a second man appeared in the doorway and stopped me short. I recognized him immediately.

  “I thought you two should meet,” Clarke ventured affably.

  Dr. Mastro did not step forward. He remained at the threshold, his powerful shoulders rounding slightly, hands thrust in his pockets.

  “We have already had the pleasure,” I said, bowing my head in greeting. I ensured my voice was cordial.

  “I have just learned of your appointment,” he said. “Forgive my surprise.”

  Dr. Clarke produced a small, embarrassed laugh. It was clear he’d overstepped the chair of physiology. It was equally clear that Dr. Mastro was not pleased. “Dr. White is eminently qualified …”

  “I’m sure she is,” said Mastro, shifting his weight as if he might take a boxer’s two-fisted jab at us. His gaze took in my presentation, which was closer to that of a charwoman than a member of the faculty of medicine, then stepped past me into the clutter. “Well,” he said after a pause. “Someone had to do it.”

  “And you’re away, Ed,” Dr. Clarke pleaded. “You couldn’t do it by yourself. I thought you would be relieved.”

  Dr. Mastro smiled. “Of course.” He clicked his heels as if he were a soldier and made a dismissive gesture with one of his hands. “If you two will excuse me now, I have a lecture to prepare.”

  His shoes clacked on the tiles as he retreated. Dr. Clarke laughed again, but I could not bring myself to share his mirth. I had stirred up more than dust that morning. The museum was full of ghosts who were all awakening.

  III

  THE HOWLETT HEART

  The heart may be prolonged into a hollow process.

  — MAUDE ABBOTT, “CONGENITAL CARDIAC DISEASE”

  10

  APRIL 1899

  I made it through that first winter at McGill, but with the exception of Dr. Clarke I had no friends on faculty. No one stopped me in the halls to chat, and the one time I ventured into the common room at coffee hour my colleagues stared with such intensity that I didn’t dare repeat the experience. They were perturbed by my presence at McGill. I had not been hired to teach or do research and yet I was collecting pay. The hostility was never spoken. They were too respectful of the dean to show open defiance, but it was there all the same. No one besides Dean Clarke addressed me formally as “Doctor.” There was no plaque on my door announcing my title or name. I was a class apart.

  I pulled my scarf tighter around my neck. There was a crack down one side of the window, which skewed my view across campus and let in frost and drafts. I had complained to Mastro about it in November but nothing had been done. It was the least of his worries. He was away in Saranac Lake often; I was left to run the museum without him. And now it was April. It would probably not snow again but still the air was chilly.

  The window shuddered. I was sure it would give way one day. I took a moment to survey my little kingdom. Today the exhibits seemed drearier than usual because it was overcast, but o
n sunny days the glass jars gleamed and their contents glowed. I had done a great deal of work since first setting foot in the building last September. I’d had to sort through each item, dusting and grouping it by organ or functional system. At first I’d had to undertake the basic housekeeping jobs of cleaning and painting the shelves. There was a prodigious amount remaining to do. Many of the seals on the jars were broken and decay had set in. In others the glass tubes supporting the specimens had slipped loose or snapped.

  In my darkest moments I couldn’t help thinking it was a mistake to have accepted this position. When Dr. Clarke had first proposed it I’d thought it was a dream come true; but I should have asked questions I now realized. A more experienced person would have made sure that the salary was satisfactory before flinging himself headlong at Dean Clarke’s feet. I now understood why nobody else had jumped at the position.

  On the table before me was a collection of hearts — three dozen in various sizes and shapes, collected at any time between the previous week and seventy years before. Cut from thick slabs of glass, the jars shone like crystal. In some the formaldehyde had yellowed, in others there were hints of blue. Some of the organs were whole, others sectioned. Whatever their state, each was strikingly beautiful, yet also defective. The irregularities were there — small tears in the septum, scar tissue on the valves hampering opening or closing, coarctation of the aorta, transposition of the aorta and the pulmonary artery. During the patients’ lives the clues would have been subtle: breathlessness, recurrent pain, pallor and a cyanotic cast to the skin. To the initiated there would also have been sound. A stethoscope on their chests would have related an unearthly symphony.

  The newer specimens weren’t labelled. Precious little in this forsaken place had been labelled when I’d first arrived. I had cleared two shelves in a corner for these broken hearts — a heart corner like the one Father had had in the Room of Horrors. For now, however, the heart specimens sat in a mess on the work table, surrounded by chemical puddles and the stained pages of my notes.