Aven needed to stay where Jorgan was because it wasn’t Jorgan who had stopped making the liquor the Sorrels craved. It certainly wasn’t Jorgan who had blown up their barn. This place—where Thor was, and now Haakon—it was the last place Aven needed to be.
Turning her away hadn’t been an unkindness, but guilt stabbed him for the deceit regardless. It drove in hard and deep, making him sick. She truly didn’t know what she was up against . . . not even with him. She didn’t know that he’d been lying back there. Lying straight through his teeth. It had taken a mere glance from the top of the stairs to confirm that Thor had been wide awake and waiting for her.
TWENTY
THOR WOKE TO MORNING LIGHT AND HAAKON asleep in the chair. Beard crushed to his chest, Haakon must have dozed off sometime in the night. Why was he sleeping here in the cabin? He always bunked down in the cidery.
A lantern sat beside him on the floor, and an almanac lay abandoned beneath his seat, perhaps dropped when he’d lost consciousness. His levergun rifle leaned against the wall beside him. Still resting on the bed, Thor reached over the edge and caught hold of one of his boot laces. He tugged the shoe up, gripped it good by the sole, and chucked it at his brother’s head.
It slammed into its target, and Haakon jolted awake. With a scowl, he rubbed the side of his face. “What is wrong with you?”
You send wife away again? I break your neck.
Haakon’s eyebrows shot up. He stared at Thor, then bent forward and picked up the dropped almanac. Propping an ankle over his opposite knee, he slouched in the chair, opened the pamphlet, and continued reading. Thor reached down for the other boot.
Haakon lurched upright. “Alright, I’m sorry!” He rubbed the side of his head a second time. “I won’t do that again. I promise.”
Thor pointed at his brother, then tapped the side of his finger to his lips before bringing it down to his other hand to form Promise. Have no value.
Haakon squinted, and a sentiment that was rarely seen in his eyes darkened the blue of them. Regret.
Thor wasn’t one for eavesdropping, but it hadn’t been difficult to glimpse the pair of them yesterday through a window. He certainly hadn’t missed the way his brother had appeared here at the top of the stairs only to rush back down just as quick. Thor had watched through the window to where Aven had stood waiting, braided hair as coppery as a field in autumn. Even from the distance, her eyes had been a stark contrast to her cream-colored skin, and her freckles had made him want to be able to cup the side of her face and brush his thumb there.
Though he couldn’t touch her, Thor had risen to fetch his coat, but before he’d even slid it on, Aven had been sent away. Anger had boiled in him, but weak still, there had been little he could do since Haakon hadn’t returned. Finally, and to his frustration, Thor had fallen asleep in the night. He’d woken to find Haakon in the chair and the light of a new morning spilling in. That’s when he’d reached for his boot.
Not only had Aven been turned away, but she’d given Haakon a letter. In the twelve hours since, Thor hadn’t seen so much as a trace of it, and with it Sunday morning, Aven would be off to church instead of coming to visit him. He wouldn’t be able to inquire with her until later, let alone see her.
Letter. Furious, Thor snapped off the sign.
Haakon’s brows shot up again, this time as abruptly as the rest of him did. He rushed down the stairs, then returned with a grimace, a basket, and a letter. “I’m really sorry—”
Thor snatched the letter from him.
Haakon set the basket near. “Listen. About yesterday—”
Ignoring him, Thor dropped his attention to the envelope. Alexander Graham Bell. Washington, DC.
Haakon tapped him for his attention, and Thor shoved his hand away.
Undeterred, Haakon communicated in Sign, which was harder to ignore, explaining that he needed to tell Thor something important. Haakon nudged Aven’s offering aside and had the audacity to begin to sit. Just as he did, his head turned toward the stairwell and he stepped that way, saving Thor the trouble of kicking him off.
Haakon headed back down the stairs, and Thor lifted the cloth on Aven’s offering. Inside lay sundry items that would be of use. Haakon’s doing? Since he’d made the list, it had to be. Which likened Haakon as the cause for the photograph resting beside Thor’s pipe and tobacco pouch. A photograph taken some eight years ago when Aven had married their cousin in Norway. This had been the very first glimpse Thor ever had of her. The first he’d ever known of her existence—a tender face and what seemed a gentle soul. Both that had proved more than true upon her arrival here.
Thor doubted Aven would have been so direct as to offer her likeness as comfort, but the sight of her so near and lovely was a bolstering that eased the sorrow. Leave it to his brother—a man who had lost much and given up much—to know that.
The house lightened in what had to be the front door opening. It dimmed, and Thor felt the shuddering of it close. He started to rise, but before he got far saw that it wasn’t his brother coming up the stairs but the doctor. Haakon followed right behind.
Young Dr. Abramson set his black satchel on the empty chair. “I’m glad to see you upright, Mr. Norgaard. I had a very interesting conversation with your wife not too long ago, and now I come bearing new developments.”
Oh? Thor set the unread letter on the windowsill, keeping it within sight.
“How are you feeling?”
Little better.
When Haakon spoke for him, the doctor smiled. “That’s good to hear. I had a hunch you might be. I believe rest is what you’ve been needing.” He came nearer and set his bag aside. He bent to better study Thor. “Your eyes, I see, are still yellowed. But if you’ll hold out your hands, I’d like to try something.” The physician demonstrated for him to hold his palms out as though to place them flush to a wall. When Thor did, the doctor pressed, causing Thor’s wrists to angle back. The doctor held a good strong pressure for several seconds, then let go. Nothing happened.
The young man’s brows shot up. So accustomed was Thor to reading people’s faces that he knew relief when he saw it.
“What of nausea?” Dr. Abramson asked.
Thor made a slicing motion across his palm with his opposite hand.
“He said ‘some,’” Haakon clarified. “It seems to come and go.”
Dr. Abramson nodded. “Will you lie back for me, Mr. Norgaard?” Thor did as asked, and the man tugged up one side of his shirt. “I’m looking for bruising.” He examined Thor’s flesh on one side and then the other. “Any pain?”
Thor made the same motion again and the doctor inquired. “Some?”
Thor nodded.
“Well, you didn’t try and rip my arm off this time.” He smiled again, setting Thor more at ease. It hurt, yes, but no he hadn’t. “I don’t feel any swelling, and with a lack of bruising, that’s a sound indication that your liver is not failing. Also when I examined the reflex of your hands, they didn’t behave as is common with failure of the liver. I confess, it’s taken me some further study to identify these traits.”
Returning to mind was a memory of Da’s hands having a jerky motion. Like the flapping of bird’s wings in his last days of life. Thor had never experienced that condition, but it might still come. He signed the worry to Haakon, who spoke again.
“He’s wondering if it might be too soon to tell.”
“Possibly, but in truth I now sense that something else is at work here. I’ve done further reading, and based off your symptoms, and in conjunction with your wife’s added information and some assistance from my mentor, I have a hypothesis.” Dr. Abramson took care to stay angled toward Thor as he spoke. “Your liver may not be fatally diseased. Granted, it’s too early to be certain, but I’m of a mind that what you have is indeed Epidemic Jaundice.”
Though that meant he was contagious, it also held the hope that he was going to live.
Relief hit him with such a rush that Thor drew in a shar
p breath. A sting in his eyes, he tried to fight it.
The doctor shifted Thor’s shirt back into place and motioned for him to sit up. “You’ve every reason to be relieved. I’m optimistic that what you’re facing does not place your life at risk. If it is indeed Epidemic Jaundice with which you suffer, you’ll need to stay away from the others for a while yet but should soon be recovered enough to return to your family.”
Thor shaped the phrase with his hand.
“He said thank you,” Haakon relayed. Then, speaking of his own accord, asked the question that Thor meant to pose next. “How soon?”
The doctor moved to the washstand, where he rinsed and lathered his hands. He answered as he washed, and unable to see it, Thor waved for his brother’s help.
Haakon waited, apparently listening, then spoke in Thor’s direction. “He said a few weeks more at most based on your steady recovery and the time since you met the doctor at the train.” Haakon’s brow furrowed. “What doctor at the train?”
Thor shook his head. He’d explain that later. As for right now, what did this have to do with that day on the train?
Dr. Abramson shook droplets from his hands, then glanced back to Thor. “Do you recall the blood draw you received?”
He nodded.
Lines of confusion lifted Haakon’s forehead.
“It may be the cause of your ailment. Having looked into the matter more, I have further discoveries. You see . . .” He pulled a cloth from his bag and dried his hands. “During the War, some seventy thousand soldiers were affected with Epidemic Jaundice. Astounding numbers. Yet what made it so rampant? Some believe it was due to the soldiers’ poor living conditions and a diet of food that was often contaminated. I have a hunch this may be correct, yet there might be another culprit.” He folded the towel and stuffed it away. “Officers were given injections of morphine for pain, administered as a way to promote calm amid the horrors of war. Often of their own gangrene and amputations. Such an antidote was even given to the lowest ranking soldiers if their injuries were dire enough. For these administrations, physicians utilized the use of a needle syringe, much like that which you became familiarized with some months back.”
Thor watched the doctor intently, but when Haakon shifted, he gauged what his brother had to ask.
“I don’t understand what this has to do with Thor being sick,” Haakon said. “He wasn’t even alive during the Civil War.”
The doctor’s demeanor was patient. “Correct.” Then to Thor, “What I mean to imply is a link between needle administration and the epidemic itself. Since needles were routinely used among surgeons, and Epidemic Jaundice was rampant, there’s speculation of a connection. When I sent my mentor the additional information that I procured through your wife’s visit to my office, he concurred the likelihood. That these needles, which were injected into countless soldiers, might have transferred the illness. If this is indeed a possibility, might your own case of the epidemic have come by way of the blood draw?”
Thor thought back to the day of the interview, recalling first the prick and then the knowledge that Harlan Sorrel had returned.
“During my time as a surgeon’s apprentice, I studied much on the works of a Dr. Joseph Lister who developed a principle of the use of an antiseptic in surgical methods.” Dr. Abramson went on to explain that this was an organic compound used to kill low forms of life that caused infection in injuries and wounds.
Thor hadn’t a clue what that meant, but he focused in to try and understand.
“The antiseptic prevents decomposition of the flesh and promotes survival in patients. Based on Lister’s research, death and illness can be greatly lessened if these methods are employed. Of this, I speak to the sanitization of surgical tools by route of the antiseptic, as well as careful cleansing of the hands and any other involved surfaces.”
Haakon’s brow puckered in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“Which is why the research is so controversial. Many physicians hold to the belief that a blood-encrusted surgical apron is a mark of expertise and efficiency, but having studied under my mentor, who was a firm advocate to Dr. Lister’s demonstrations, I’m convinced that cleanliness is most advantageous, if not critical.”
Rubbing dirt-creased hands together, Haakon scrutinized the young physician but said no more.
“Simply put, should organic matter be able to live in the blood . . . causing infection . . .”
Exhausted, Thor blinked quickly, losing some of the words. He waved to the doctor to stop, then, holding out an arm, dragged a hand up the length of it to indicate slow.
He could read lips, yes, but these were phrasings he wasn’t accustomed to.
Haakon spoke. “He’s asking if you can talk slower.”
“Of course.” Dr. Abramson eased the pace of his speech. “My apologies. What I’m inferring is that infection might linger on a surgical tool such as a scalpel or—in this case—a needle.” He paused as though to let Thor process that. “Optimal cleansing methods could eliminate the issue. There is a growing number of the medical profession convinced on the matter, particularly those who have had success with Lister’s methods. While it’s too late for you to benefit from such caution, Mr. Norgaard, I offer this not as a cure but as a diagnosis. Did you witness the needle used in your blood draw sanitized in any way?”
Thor entreated Haakon for help on what S-A-N-I-T-I-Z-E-D meant.
His brother only shrugged.
The doctor stepped forward. “Did you ever boil any of your equipment when you produced liquor?”
Yes, some of it, so the drink wouldn’t sour. Thor passed that answer on by way of Haakon, and the doctor looked pleased.
“That’s it exactly. Did you in any way witness the needle be so well cleaned?”
Polished with cloth. Water. That was all.
Haakon relayed that.
“Then that is what I fear may be the culprit of your illness.”
His brother pointed at him. “But if Thor’s eyes are yellowed and he’s in pain, how does all of that get on the needle in the first place?”
“It’s microscopic, sir. I could explain it to you, but perhaps simply trust me on this: I’m convinced that the most likely reason for such a contamination would be that someone who had the same illness came in contact with the needle first.”
Thor stared at the doctor, breaking his scrutiny only to study the hollow of his elbow. He pressed against the softness of his flesh, and it was then that Dr. Abramson sat on the edge of the bed, pulled something from his bag, and set it on the rumpled blanket. A small case. The young man opened it, showing a needle and syringe against a red cloth.
“One of these, Mr. Norgaard, is what I believe made you ill. And that someone who was in contact with the needle prior to you harbored this same illness. Likely unwittingly since the epidemic lies dormant for a period of weeks to several months.” His face was taut with regret.
Thor ran a hand through his unbound hair, stopping to grip the back of his head.
Harlan had gone before him.
“I’ll go over the documents from your visit that day to investigate this doctor you were seen by. It may be a dead end, but it may also save lives.”
Save lives? He thought the epidemic wasn’t fatal.
“There’s one matter more. It may not be linked, but it’s worth addressing.” The doctor pulled a fold of paper from his bag. “My mentor sent his insights by express post, including this. It’s a record he transcribed of a lecture from more than twenty years ago where the teaching physician described an ailment that was believed to be Epidemic Jaundice. There have been many such recountings of this illness over the centuries, but this one is most critical to the situation here.” There was sorrow in his eyes, but to Thor’s relief, he spoke slowly. “I’m sorry to say that this particular outbreak occurred among women who were with child.”
Chills covered Thor’s skin.
“This account was some years ago on the island of Mart
inique, and the outbreak afflicted thirty pregnant women.” He unfolded the paper and handed it over. “Twenty of them died, and the babies were lost.”
Thor shook his head, confusion now warring with panic. Aven not touch needle.
Looking panicked himself, Haakon quickly relayed that.
The doctor nodded soberly, turning grieved eyes back to Thor. “No. But she was in close contact with you, her husband who had the illness.”
Everything else he said was patchy as Thor’s focus blurred, mottled with despair.
“. . . so far along in her pregnancy . . . bode well for your infant . . . If the baby were to deliver now, survival for the child would be likely . . .”
Thor blinked, forcing himself to follow the doctor’s moving mouth.
“. . . while still in the womb. Mr. Norgaard, I’m wretchedly sorry to have to ask you this, but has the heartbeat been confirmed lately?”
Haakon spoke in a rush. “A few days ago, I think.”
The doctor nodded, shoulders settling with relief. “We’ll check again right away. I’ve had no practice with childbirth as of yet, but what I can tell you is that her well-being will remain uncertain for a while.”
Thor blinked back a white-hot fury for Harlan Sorrel.
“This is an illness we lack answers on, but I vow to exhaust every effort in unearthing more. Since your symptoms are still pronounced, you must remain quarantined, though I sense that neither I nor your brother here are at risk, nor would the rest of your extended family be. Regardless, with the illness being most affecting to young children, it’s wise we retain limited contact. I’ll discuss this with Mrs. Norgaard’s midwife so she can assess your wife and child. In the meantime, I’ll offer up my prayers for protection for your wife and infant.”
Haakon snapped off a response but Thor saw only his angst then the doctor’s answer.
“Yes. I do resort to prayer . . . even as a physician.” The young man picked up his papers and slid them away, eyes rising to Haakon. “Please know, sir, that I’ve seen a fair number of diseases in my apprenticeship and have sat with souls as they’ve departed this world. I’ve seen firsthand how finite humanity is, and while I uphold the power of science, I would be a fool not to also seek prayer. When it comes to the safety of a woman and her unborn child, I should, in truth, have already taken a knee.”
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