Sarah ordered at the coffee stand and offered to get Peter something to eat.
“Just a coffee, thanks. I really want to show you my poster.”
The year before, Peter had decided to conduct a five-year retrospective study of newborns treated in the clinic. Using data on children seen in the newborn clinic, he wanted to see if there were any differences between mothers of babies with congenital sexually transmitted infections, such as syphilis, gonorrhea, herpes, HIV, Hepatitis B and Chlamydia, and those who did not. It had been his wife’s idea to include church affiliations when he had collected the information from the charts.
The last time Sarah had met with him, the counter-intuitive finding of a high number of congenital syphilis cases among girls with religious connections had shocked and intrigued her. When she re-analyzed the data, she found the Jerusalem A.B.E. Church had a disproportionate number of cases. The mothers were all very young—some only eleven years old at the time of conception.
Sarah hypothesized that a sexual predator was victimizing these girls. She had informed Marian of the findings and the police had been notified as part of mandatory child abuse reporting.
“You have tape or push pins to put this up?” She asked between dodging wheelchairs and nurses’ aides.
“I have both. I used to be a Boy Scout.”
She grinned. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.”
They arrived at the door to the corridor leading to the Pediatric Department offices. Sarah swiped her ID card and entered the hallway. Peter selected a large, clean space, unfurled the six-foot by four-foot roll of paper, and pinned it to the wall. Sarah stepped back across the corridor to survey his work. The poster was easy to read with colorful pie charts, but was about as interesting as thumbing through a telephone book.
“How do you feel about the poster?” Sarah asked between sips of latte.
Peter shook his head. “B-O-R-E-D.”
“What can we do to make this un-boring?”
“Pictures,” Peter said. “Photographs of babies and young children with syphilis. This is a horrible disease, and it’s not going away. In spite of antibiotics, Baltimore in the top tier for congenital syphilis, thanks to sex-for-drugs. These kids are damaged for life.”
“We can search the Medical Archives for photographs of patients followed in the Pediatric Clinic in the 1900’s, before penicillin,” Sarah said. “What do you think about using some of those photos to punch up your poster?”
A few minutes later, Marian granted permission to access the archives. The Pediatric gave her a memo for the Medical Archivist and gave Sarah an update. “I have the head nurse in the Outpatient Clinic pulling all the files we have on children born with congenital syphilis to see if there’s any connection to that church.” Her face wore a grim expression. “If there’s a sexual predator in that congregation, I hope we get the bastard.”
“What’s your schedule look like?” Sarah asked Peter as they headed down the hallway.
“I’m free until noon. I have to cover the Outpatient Pediatric Clinic.”
“I have until about eleven. I have an appointment with a lawyer.” She looked at her watch. “Two hours to get to Medical Archives and dig through the photos. Let me grab my backpack, so I can leave directly from there and go to my appointment.” She paused and looked at the poster. “Why don’t you put a ‘Give Me Your Comments’ sheet up next to the poster? That way if the other Fellows have suggestions, you’ll have them in writing.”
“Alright, but the last time we did that, all we got was jokes. Let’s hope we get more useful feedback this time.”
* * * *
A large underground tunnel led to the Medical Archivist’s warren of dust-covered filing cabinets and cardboard boxes. Water oozed from a wall, and Sarah’s nose itched from the smell of mildew hanging thick in the air.
A pale-skinned, elderly woman with a dowager’s hump sat at a desk at with a nameplate that said, “Miss Taylor, Archivist.” She looked up as Sarah and Peter approached her desk. “Yes, may I help you?” She spoke in a paper-thin voice. Her thinning gray hair was pulled back in a severe bun. Something about the woman reminded Sarah of her mother. She felt a pang of sorrow and wondered how she would get through the day. Focus on work, Sarah. If you don’t, you’ll be overwhelmed. Think happy thoughts. Dan. Yes. Think about Dan and the possibility of seeing him again.
“We have an archival request.” Peter handed the memo to the archivist.
Miss Taylor stared at the paper, as if examining it for authenticity. “Well, this grants permission from the Department, but you need to complete a request for access form and a confidentiality agreement. It’s the privacy law.”
Sarah and Peter rushed through the forms.
“Okay, let me see where the Pediatric Archives are. I have an index of all the major collections. Just give me a minute.” She turned and clicked away at a keyboard. The computer and her desk were the only areas not covered in dust.
“Ah. Here we are. Come with me.” She stood and motioned for them to follow.
Sarah walked through what seemed like a mile of narrow rows of rusted filing cabinets and mildewed cardboard boxes. Rivulets of water ran down the basement walls, making the surface look as if a giant garden slug had slimed it. Afraid to touch anything for fear of getting filth on her clothes, she began to wonder if they were entering the waiting room to Hades. The thought was in a bubble over her head when Miss Taylor stopped, and waved her hand over a row of filing cabinets.
“The files you want begin here in 1900 and go to here in 2000. If you find what you need, we can discuss the next steps. Be cautious when you handle the files. These materials are irreplaceable. Good luck.”
Sarah and Peter started at opposite ends of the row, and began pulling out the drawers, looking for anything resembling files on syphilis. The enormity of the task gave new meaning to the expression “looking for a needle in a haystack.” From time to time, Sarah glanced up and looked at Peter. She didn’t have to ask how he was doing. Dust streaked his face and shirt, and sweat trickled down his brow. She wondered how Miss Taylor could work in the moldy gloom and had a newfound appreciation for her windowless office.
An hour and half, a major sneezing fit, and zip, zero, zilch and bupkes later, Sarah approached the fourth filing cabinet with trepidation. Halfway through the third drawer down, she saw the file. In flowing old-fashioned script, one word appeared: Syphilogy. The study of syphilis. She opened the file and saw a close-up photo of an infant.
“Bingo.” She waved the photo at Peter.
“Thank God, I was about to give up.” Peter replaced the folder he was holding in the file cabinet in front of him, closed the drawer, and dusted his hands. He came over and stood next to Sarah as she flipped through the pages. Photo after photo showed infants with closed eyes, scrunched faces, and wee little noses. Names and dates were written in ink on the back of each photo.
The babies transitioned to children at different ages with glassy stares, thick eyeglasses, slack jaws, and flat, “saddle” noses, as if they belonged to an elementary school boxing club. This was the classic, flat, hypo-plastic nose of congenital syphilis. The intellectual disability, deafness, or other functional disability could not be discerned directly from the photos. That information was written on the back, along with a name, date of birth, and the date of the photograph.
“It’s the mother lode.” Peter looked over Sarah’s shoulder as she thumbed through, turning each photo over to read the comments.
“Really. What a find.”
Sarah stared down at the face of a little girl with dark, curly hair. Her head was turned to the side, as if the camera had clicked as she looked away. She had a flat nose, bow shaped lips and a heart-shaped birthmark on her left cheekbone just in front of her ear.
“Whoa. You don’t look too good.” Peter grabbed Sarah’s elbow as she teetered. “Maybe you should go home and get some rest.”
“I just got a little light-headed. Gu
ess I should have eaten something today.” Sarah shook her head.
Miss Taylor had come up beside them. “Any luck?”
“Yes! The good news is, we found some great photos.”
“The bad news is if you want to use photos of deceased persons, you’ll need to get permission of the heirs and then the approval of the Privacy Board,” the archivist said.
Peter looked stricken. Sarah looked down at the little girl’s image in the photo she clutched.
“Okay, I know it’s probably a long shot, but let’s start with this one.” She turned the photo over and read the notes out loud. “Her name is Bessie M. Woods, date of birth, November 27, 1942, and the date the photo was taken was November 30, 1944. This indicates she’s deaf, ‘feeble-minded,’ and has very poor vision. She’s a poster child for congenital syphilis with all the consequences.”
And, Sarah thought, she has a birthmark like Aunt Ida’s. A wave of melancholy washed over her and tears sprang to her eyes, as she thought about Aunt Ida. She would have been a wonderful mother. She hoped she was having a nice drive to Florida. God, how was she going to get through this day?
“If she’s still alive,” Peter said, “she’s over sixty. I wonder if we’ll be able to find any of her relatives.”
He looked up at Sarah, his brow furrowed.
“I don’t know how we can get this done on time. I’m in the clinic and on call for the Pediatric ER all week. Do you feel like doing a little detective work?”
“If she was seen at this clinic, it’s likely she was from this area. I’ll start with the telephone book and make some calls.”
Sarah knew she had a long list of things to do, but she felt compelled to find out what had happened to Bessie Woods. Besides, she needed something to take her mind off her mother.
Sarah handed the photograph to Miss Taylor.
“By the way,” the archivist said, “Did you know there’s one other place you could look for images of congenital syphilis?”
Sarah glanced at Peter. He shook his head.
“Go to the National Library of Medicine’s Web site and look for the link for the History of Medicine Division and Images. I have no idea if they have any photographs of congenital syphilis, but it’s worth poking around online. You should use it as a backup. Really, what’s the likelihood of you finding this child’s family after so many years?”
Chapter Seven
Elizabeth Woods lay in her nursing home bed and sighed.
“I miss Clarice,” Elizabeth said to the woman bathing her.
“What is?”
The woman’s heavy Haitian accent sounded like “Wassis?” to Elizabeth.
“My roommate. I miss her.”
“Ahaha.”
What was this woman’s name? Elizabeth couldn’t recall. No matter. The aide’s hands were gentle as she washed her face and neck with warm water and scrubbed her arms and hands. Elizabeth missed long soaks in the tub and reading a book. Books on audiotape were a good substitute for reading, but nothing could replace the relaxing sensation of leaning her head back on a pillow and floating in a tub full of bubbles. Nowadays, she was lucky when the nurse’s aide who bathed her had kind hands.
“You have nice hands,” Elizabeth said.
The woman grunted.
“My husband had good hands, too. Gentle, like yours. He was devastated when he had a heart attack and the army sent him home from the frontlines. He had a hard time getting used to being a civilian again.”
The aide sighed. “Ahh. Army good for men. Make them strong.”
“He loved my daughter, Mitzi, but he didn’t show it very well. He had a hard time getting used to having a child. He kept asking where she came from. Isn’t that silly? He was a doctor, for heaven’s sake. He knew where babies came from.”
A grunt and the soft hands moved down her right side with a warm washcloth.
“We were a happy family,” Elizabeth said to the nurse’s aide who hummed as she bathed the elderly woman.
“We left Washington, D.C. and moved back to Baltimore, where we had friends and relatives. John went into private practice as a General Practitioner and was very successful. I stayed home to raise our lovely daughter. Our neighbors had small children and the mothers would meet at each other’s homes for coffee, apple cake, and gossip while we watched our children play.”
After covering her right side with a flannel blanket, the aide crooned a hymn and moved to the other side.
“Mitzi was different. When the other babies were walking at twelve months, Mitzi was crawling. When they said their first words, Mitzi was blowing spit bubbles and crying. Her wee little nose was too small, all out of proportion with the rest of her face as she got older. Flat. Not pretty. The other mothers made snide comments on her looks and her behavior. They were so proud of their perfect children.”
The Haitian woman said, “Ahaha, women tongues can cut. Bible say we must be good. Not all read the good book.”
“I was angry at the other mothers. They were mean-spirited. Then I became concerned my baby might have polio. Why, in 1943 alone, the newspapers reported over twelve-thousand cases of polio in the United States. Anyone could get it, even Presidents!”
The nurse’s aide tisked and began to hum another hymn.
“John said I was being ridiculous and should know better. If she had polio, she’d have a fever, muscle spasms, and paralysis. He told me not to spend so much time with those other mothers and their children. He said I just kept comparing Mitzi to them and making myself sick with worry. He was right, they were hurtful. I stopped the visits, but, Mitzi’s progress was too slow. The final straw was potty training. At three years old, she was content to sit and play with full diapers all day long. Well, enough was enough. I wanted some answers, and by God, I was going to get them.”
“Ahaha. Yes, I hear you. Babies must learn to use the toilet.”
“While John was at work, I bundled the baby up and took the red, white and blue streetcar downtown. Mitzi sat on my lap and sucked her fingers.”
Elizabeth recalled the posters overhead in the streetcar. “The more women at work the sooner we win!” “Women in the war—we can’t win without them!” Someone had hummed the tune to “Rosie the Riveter.” The posters and song made her feel guilty for not being a war worker, but Mitzi needed her at home.
The nurse’s aide sang snatches of songs in a language Elizabeth didn’t understand.
“We spent the whole day at the Johns Hopkins Clinics and went back the following day. A different specialist, a man who dealt only with nervous disorders in children, examined Mitzi, conducting test after test. He even had a photographer take pictures of her. I could hear Mitzi crying in the next room, but I wasn’t allowed go in. They told me I’d only be in the way. I waited and prayed.”
“Ahh. Pray good,” the aide said. “Pray very good.”
“At last the doctor came out of the examining room and motioned for me to enter. I can still see the scene in my mind, as if it were a snapshot embedded in there forever. The room was cold and sterile, with a big white examining table. He motioned to me to sit in the chair. In his formal suit and long white laboratory coat, he looked like a giant. I was in awe of him, the room, and being at Johns Hopkins.” She laughed, but it became a dry cackling sound that ended in a cough. “My daughter was unimpressed. Mitzi sat on a nurse’s lap, sucking on a toy.”
“Hmmm.” The woman continued to work her way down Elizabeth’s body, scrubbing at her legs.
“The doctor said, ‘I have some difficult news for you.’ I begged him, please say it’s not polio,” Elizabeth said. “He said he had conducted extensive tests on Mitzi. He told me she was deaf, nearly blind, and feeble-minded.”
“Ahaha.” The aide washed between each toe with care. Then she put soft socks on her feet and helped her into a flannel nightgown.
“Doctor, I said, how could this be? Tell me it’s not from polio. He looked directly into my eyes. I held my breath and stared back at
him waiting for his next words. I remember hearing Mitzi fussing. Then he said, ‘It’s not polio.’ I wept for joy and clutched his hands.”
The woman hummed and brushed Elizabeth’s hair. “Good hair. Much hair.”
She couldn’t speak the rest aloud. Not even to this kind woman who spoke so little English.
The doctor was despicable.
His vile accusation still rang in her ears all these decades later: “Tell me, Madam, when you were pregnant, were you treated for syphilis?”
Sputtering with rage, Elizabeth had jumped up, snatched Mitzi out of the nurse’s hands and shouted: “I am a good woman, a married woman, and a trained nurse. I’m not some fallen woman you can insult. I trained right here at this very institution. How dare you make such an accusation? My husband is a highly respected physician in the City of Baltimore. I trust you will keep your outrageous slurs and obscene thoughts to yourself, and I trust you and your nurse will never speak of this matter again to anyone.”
As she had run out of the room, clutching her wailing child, he had called after her, “Madam, I mean you no harm. It’s time you faced up to this matter. We’re not living in the dark ages. Now we can treat syphilis with penicillin. If you haven’t been treated, you should be, and so should your daughter.”
“Missy Lizabeth, you done,” the aide said.
Elizabeth heard the woman gather up her tools and the squeak of her rubber-soled shoes on the floor as she left the room.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “What had I done?”
* * * *
Solomon Weinstein looked like one of the Muppets' curmudgeons who sat on the balcony, making wisecracks during every show. Well over six feet tall, even with stooped shoulders, he had a large pouch of a chin that looked as if it might puff up like a gecko when he made an argument in court. Two hearing aids explained why he yelled when he spoke. Gray and black eyebrows resembling large, furry caterpillars wiggled over his wire-rimmed glasses and rheumy red eyes.
Some Other Child Page 7