American Anthem

by BJ Hoff

  So much for her resolve not to finish everything on her plate.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Andrew said, his tone smug as he stabbed another piece of German sausage. “The place may not look like much, but Axel’s is a legend.”

  They sat on benches across from each other at a scarred wooden table. Bethany glanced around the small, dim room, the air of which was heavy with too many rich aromas to distinguish one from the other. Earlier, when they had come in, they’d had to wait for a table. Now she knew why.

  Amid the clink of glasses and clatter of silverware, a variety of diners talked and laughed. Most of the patrons were dressed in business attire, but some men wore the work clothes of laborers, too.

  A waiter in a butcher’s apron appeared just then to suggest dessert. Bethany groaned aloud. “Do people really eat dessert after a meal like that?”

  “Not I,” Andrew said, waving off the waiter. He pushed his plate out of the way and leaned forward, folding his elbows on top of the table. “Tell me about Dr. Blackwell,” he said. “What’s she like?”

  “Dr. Blackwell,” replied Bethany, “defies description.”

  Elizabeth Blackwell had been the first woman in the United States to receive a medical degree. She had also created quite a scandal with her insistence on attending a male-dominated medical school because, at the time, the women’s colleges didn’t provide as high a quality of medical training as did the traditional universities. After finally graduating from Geneva Medical College—at the head of her class, no less—she had gone on to do advanced studies in London. When she returned to New York, with the help of her sister she established her own hospital: the New York Infirmary for Women and Children, where Bethany had received a part of her training while also serving on staff.

  “Actually,” Bethany said, “I’ve only met Dr. Elizabeth once, when she was here for a visit. She spends most of her time in London now. I know her sister, Dr. Emily, much better. And Dr. Jacobi as well.”

  “Yes, I know Dr. Jacobi, too. An excellent doctor. She’s still teaching at the Infirmary, then?”

  “Oh, yes. In fact, I more or less functioned as her assistant until recently. She’s really remarkable, you know. In addition to her practice and her teaching, she’s been busy setting up a children’s dispensary at Mount Sinai. I’ve learned more from her about children’s diseases than I ever did in medical college!”

  “Good. I can promise you you’ll put that knowledge to work sooner or later in our practice.”

  Bethany studied him. “Andrew,” she said, “why haven’t you told me about the rheumatism?”

  A look of pained surprise darted over his features. As if by instinct, he dropped his hands to his lap, where they couldn’t be seen, and glanced away. “I didn’t realize you’d noticed.”

  “I wasn’t sure until today,” Bethany said. “So I’m right? It is rheumatism?”

  “Rheumatoid arthritis, actually.”

  Bethany swallowed. “Acute?”

  He tossed his head a little to flick the stubborn shock of hair away from his face. “No, chronic. With all the predictable symptoms.”

  “I’m sorry, Andrew.”

  “It doesn’t interfere with my work,” he said quickly, almost irritably. “You needn’t worry about that.”

  “I’m not worried. But it must make things difficult at times.” Bethany was careful to allow no hint of anything resembling sympathy to slip into her tone. She sensed he would be appalled if he suspected she felt sorry for him.

  His shrug seemed casual enough, but he avoided meeting her eyes. “I apologize, Bethany. I know I should have told you before you agreed to come into the practice with me.”

  “Why didn’t you?” she asked quietly.

  He raised his head and looked at her. “That’s fairly obvious, isn’t it? I was afraid I might frighten you off.”

  “Oh, Andrew! Surely you don’t believe that.”

  He sighed. “I wasn’t being entirely selfish, Bethany. At least, I hope I wasn’t, although I could hardly blame you for thinking otherwise. I really did believe I could be of help to you in your own efforts rather more quickly than if you tried going it alone.” He paused. “Naturally, I’ll understand if you want out.”

  Bethany frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous. This makes no difference whatsoever.”

  His relief was unmistakable as he leaned forward and brought his hands back to the table. “You can’t imagine how glad I am to hear you say that. And it truly doesn’t affect my work.”

  “Stop apologizing, Andrew. Your work is exemplary. I should know that if anyone does. So…how long have you had it? The arthritis?”

  He took a sip of water. “Several years, actually. It started when I was still in medical college. Although looking back, I think I had symptoms of it even before then.”

  “What do you do for it?” Bethany had no intention of prying, but her interest wasn’t entirely professional. She had come to like Andrew Carmichael. She liked him a lot. She also admired him a great deal. Knowing how his particular disease could ravage the body, she hated to think what might lie ahead for him if the affliction progressed.

  Again he shrugged. “I’m sure you already know there’s not much one can do. Heat. Massage. The new salicylate treatments seem to help more than anything else. Of course, there are two schools of thought on whether exercise is helpful or harmful. I tend to think activity is best. At least that’s been my experience.”

  “What about new research? Is there anything available?”

  “Not very much, I’m afraid. I haven’t run across anything lately that I didn’t already know. The problem is, there seems to be a disadvantage for every potential benefit.”

  “What about these ocean crossings, Andrew? Don’t you worry that being on the water so much might aggravate your condition? The dampness and cold can’t be good for you.”

  He made a gesture with one hand as if to minimize the question. “I suppose it doesn’t help, but I can’t imagine giving up the traveling altogether.”

  “It’s that important to you to be a part of the Moody campaigns?”

  “It’s a way I can help in the work.” A faint smile tipped the corners of his mouth. “I’m no preacher, but I can at least help to take care of those who are.”

  “You feel that strongly about it?”

  He regarded her with a look that made Bethany wonder if he thought she was being critical. She simply did not understand Andrew’s commitment to these international “revivals.”

  The more she knew of Andrew Carmichael, the more she realized that something about Andrew’s faith was different from her own. He tended to be reserved, even shy, in some situations, but there was a bedrock steadiness and strength to the man, both as a person and as a physician. In contrast, he displayed a kind of abandonment in his life that she could easily envy. As a believer, he was almost childlike. Enthusiastic. Even joyful. Devout. And completely nonsectarian. His interest and concern for people went beyond mere tolerance.

  Andrew loved people. He loved them quietly, and sometimes even with a wry amusement. But he loved them. The impartial, unconditional treatment he extended to those around him on a daily basis exemplified a quality of life that Bethany had never before witnessed, except possibly in her grandfather.

  His voice jarred her out of her thoughts, and she realized he was answering the question she’d asked.

  “I know I’m not explaining this very well,” he said, smiling a little. “No doubt you’ve noticed that I’m not all that good with words. But you see, traveling with D. L. began as my way of giving something back. There’s always a need for a doctor’s services during such a large, extended campaign. But D. L. Moody and Ira Sankey are doing their own kind of healing, it seems to me—an even more important kind of healing than I can offer as a physician—and it’s gratifying and fulfilling for me to be a part of it, no matter how small a part. So if I’m uncomfortable for a few weeks as a result”—he gave a light shrug—“it’s
relative. It doesn’t matter all that much.”

  Bethany found herself responding to his candor, his humility. “I must say, I admire you for it, Andrew. Even if I don’t quite understand.”

  He frowned, then shook his head. “Don’t admire me. The truth is that I gain far more from the Moody-Sankey campaigns than I could ever possibly give.”

  “Goodness, Andrew, it’s not such a bad thing to be admired.”

  He regarded her with his usual warmth and good humor for a moment. Then his expression sobered. He reached across the table, and although he withdrew his hand at almost the same instant as he touched hers, the effect on Bethany was immediate—and unsettling.

  “Believe me, Bethany, I covet your good opinion,” he said softly. Their eyes locked for another second or two before he finally looked away.

  “I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Bethany said, feeling a need to lighten the moment. “I suppose I have a bad habit of sometimes saying what I think—before I think.”

  “No need to apologize,” he said softly. “It’s just that I wouldn’t want you to think more highly of me than I deserve. You don’t…there’s a lot you don’t know about me, Bethany.”

  “Secrets, Andrew?”

  His entire expression changed, and she immediately wished she hadn’t teased him. “I expect we all have our secrets,” he said, his eyes darkening with some unreadable emotion.

  Was it sorrow she saw reflected in his gaze? Bethany felt a sudden urgency to reassure him, though for what she couldn’t have said. “Andrew, I just wanted you to understand that I respect you. As a physician. And as a person. And I want to be very clear on the fact that the arthritis makes absolutely no difference in our partnership.” She paused, then added, “Or in our friendship.”

  Bethany was surprised by the ease with which the word rolled off her lips. But it was true. He was becoming more than a colleague. Even before today, she had sensed a subtle change taking place in their relationship, as if they’d moved beyond a professional alliance toward something more personal, something deeper…something that held a kind of promise.

  A promise of what?

  “You’re quite sure?”

  Bethany looked at him, and the softness of his gaze made her fumble for words.

  “Yes. I’m quite sure.”

  His eyes held hers, and he swallowed with some difficulty. “I’m glad,” he said. “And very relieved.”

  They sat quietly for a time, the companionable silence between two people who were becoming comfortable with each other.

  “Bethany?”

  She looked up.

  “Are you…is there someone in your life? You’ve never said, but I’ve wondered. Are you engaged? Do you have a…commitment of any sort?”

  His face was crimson, his hands occupied with wringing his napkin into a rope.

  “Engaged?” Bethany stared at him. “No. No, I…there’s no one.”

  He suddenly looked both relieved and embarrassed. “I confess that I find it nothing less than amazing, that some fellow hasn’t put a ring on your finger by now.”

  “Well, there was someone, once. A long time ago.”

  He watched her closely. “What happened?”

  Bethany hadn’t expected that the memory would still hurt. Even so, she forced a note of lightness into her reply. “I finally realized he loved medicine more than he loved me.” She paused and took a breath. “Not to mention the fact that a certain young debutante’s father was only too willing to finance such a promising physician’s career—if that promising physician happened to be his son-in-law.”

  He looked stricken. “I’m sorry, Bethany.”

  Bethany gave him a long, level gaze. “I’m not.”

  There. He could interpret that however he chose.

  He finally mustered a smile, and it occurred to Bethany how dramatically even the faintest of smiles seemed to alter his entire countenance. Andrew wasn’t exactly a handsome man. She supposed his face was a little too lean and long for classical good looks. But when he smiled, it was like the sun breaking through a stand of trees. She was increasingly coming to esteem that smile.

  Later, outside the restaurant, he offered his arm, and Bethany took it. “Andrew?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you be traveling again anytime soon?”

  He looked down at her. “Why, no. Not for some months, actually.”

  “I’m glad,” Bethany responded.

  “Please don’t be concerned about the workload, Bethany. I’ll make certain that when I do travel, someone will be available to help with the practice. I wouldn’t expect you to carry the entire patient load by yourself.”

  “It’s not that,” she said evenly, tightening her grasp on his arm just a little.

  “No?” He gave her a quizzical look.

  “I’m not concerned about the workload. I’m just glad you’re not going away again soon.”

  “Oh,” he said softly.

  After a long pause, he cleared his throat. “I believe I’m glad, too.”

  With that, he tucked her arm a little more snugly against his side, and they walked down the street together toward their new office.

  28

  LINGERING SHADOWS

  For the vision of hope is decayed,

  Though the shadows still linger behind.

  THOMAS DERMODY

  Bantry Hill

  But I’m not sleepy, Aunt Susanna. Why must I take a nap? Naps are for babies. And I am not a baby. I am four years old.”

  “Yes, I know, alannah, but remember what Dr. Carmichael said? A nap every day until he tells us otherwise. He wants to see you strong, even stronger than you were before your illness.”

  Susanna tucked the quilt snugly about Caterina’s shoulders, then kissed her lightly on the forehead. “And you are quite right, miss, you are not a baby. You are growing up even as I watch, it seems.”

  Caterina, who never sulked for more than a moment or two, looked up and smiled. “Am I really, Aunt Susanna? You can see me growing?”

  “Oh, indeed. I sometimes wonder where my wee girl has gone. Do you suppose someone might have taken her away and left a garden plant in her place, one that seems to be shooting up in front of my very eyes?”

  The child giggled. “You’re teasing, Aunt Susanna! I’m right here. And I don’t feel any bigger than I was when you came.”

  Susanna smiled back at her. “Ah, but if you don’t have your rest as Dr. Carmichael ordered, you might not grow at all, don’t you see?”

  “Couldn’t I have another story first?”

  Susanna could see the beginning signs of drowsiness in those deep blue eyes, so she shook her head firmly. “You have had two stories already, young lady. Perhaps tonight before bedtime we’ll read another.”

  Caterina’s expression turned solemn. “Papa is leaving. I don’t like it when he’s away.”

  “He won’t be gone long. And didn’t he promise to come say good-bye before he goes?”

  “Yes. But I still wish he would stay home.” She yawned. “I suppose I don’t mind his being gone quite so much since you’ve come, though. I like having you here, Aunt Susanna.”

  The girl’s eyes grew heavier, and Susanna touched another kiss to her forehead. “Thank you, sweet,” she said quietly.

  “Do you like it here with us, Aunt Susanna?”

  The question was entirely unexpected, especially given the fact that the child could scarcely keep her eyes open.

  “What kind of a question is that, Caterina? Of course, I like it here! I like being with you more than anything else I can imagine.”

  “I’m glad,” said the little girl, her voice even thicker now. Her lashes fluttered as she closed her eyes. “Mama didn’t, you know.”

  Susanna tensed. So rare was any reference to Deirdre by her daughter that the girl’s words took her by complete surprise. “Whatever do you mean, Caterina? I’m sure your mother loved being with you.”

  Caterina didn’t open
her eyes, and Susanna had to strain to hear her reply. “No…she didn’t…Mama didn’t like us…very much…”

  Susanna straightened. She felt suddenly chilled, as though the room itself had lost all warmth. She stood watching the sleeping child for another moment, then started for the door.

  Susanna wished Paul had suggested two o’clock rather than one.

  After getting Caterina settled, she’d gone to freshen her hair, then exchange her shoes for boots, in case the graveyard happened to be muddy. Consequently, she was in such a rush on her way out that she bumped into Michael, who was just coming inside.

  The memory of the conversation she had overheard between him and Paul that morning caused her to feel even more awkward than usual in his presence. Awkward—and angry.

  “I’m sorry, Michael,” she said, an edge in her voice that even she could hear. “I didn’t see you.”

  “Nor I you,” he said with a smile.

  “No, really—”

  Susanna stared at him. As always, it took her a moment to realize that he was teasing. Although a touch of levity was hardly out of character for him, he never failed to surprise her when he made light of his blindness.

  “And where are you off to in such a hurry?” he said, still smiling.

  “I—” Susanna hesitated. She was reluctant to tell him where she was going, perhaps because of the way his facial expression typically altered at the very mention of Deirdre’s name.

  “I asked Paul to take me to the cemetery. I haven’t had a chance as yet to visit Deirdre’s grave, you see.”

  For a change, he wasn’t wearing the dark glasses, although his eyes remained closed. Susanna watched him closely, and sure enough, his features tightened, if ever so slightly.

  There were times when it almost defied belief, that this man—always so quiet-spoken, so gentle in his treatment of others, and, on the surface at least, so accepting and at peace with his own misfortune—could possibly be guilty of the deception she suspected. Other times, such as now, however, given his immobile countenance and the hard set to his mouth, she thought it might not be so unimaginable after all.