Wishes & Tears

by Nancy Loyan

  Andrew’s dark eyes were fixed on her, frightened by her somber demeanor.

  “Oh,” Faith said, composing herself. “I almost forgot and I bet you did, too.”

  “My surprise?” Andrew asked, his eyes opening wide like saucers.

  Faith sat on the edge of his bed and nodded with a grin.

  “Yippy!” He scooted up and sat in the bed.

  Faith placed her hand in her uniform’s pocket and removed chunks of crystalline rock candy. Andrew’s eyes lit up.

  “You can have one piece now. The rest best be saved for tomorrow.”

  He reached up and grabbed the chunk of clear candy and stared at it as if it were a rare diamond instead. He drew it up to his mouth and sucked on the hard, sweet morsel. Faith watched his expression of innocent pleasure. To children, little things meant so much.

  “Thank you! Thank you!” he screamed between licks. “I still don’t know why you can’t marry my papa.”

  Suddenly, his eyes focused on the doorway. He jammed the candy in his mouth, covering his face with splayed fingers.

  Faith turned toward the doorway only to be met by the ebony eyes of Doctor Ian Forrester. His head was tilted, his face with a most contorted and quizzical expression. His brows were knitted, nose pinched, and eyes open wide as if he had seen a ghost.

  “Sir, it was getting late so I thought Master Andrew ought to be put to bed,” Faith said, heart racing. She thought for sure he would be reprimanding her on the spot for removing the boy from the party where he was a novelty.

  “I quite agree,” he said, softening his expression as he sauntered into the dimly lit room.

  Faith had lowered the lamp earlier to urge Andrew to sleep. Now she was grateful, for it dimmed her view of the doctor and hoped that he had a less focused view of her. As he approached the bedside, towering over her and Andrew, she was a bundle of knotted emotion. Her heart was out of control and she was giddy. It was so unlike her to have a case of the jitters. Ever since she went back through time, she was unlike herself.

  “I’m sure you wish to tuck your son in for the night. I’ll leave you both alone,” she said, trying to appear composed. She jumped up from the bed only to find herself intimately facing the doctor. So close was she that the front of her drab gown brushed his waistcoat and she could smell his scent of spice and mint. When she looked up, her eyes caught his. For what seemed like forever, they stood in intimate silence.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she said, stepping aside. No respectable woman of the day would ever stand so close to a man. “I … I’ll leave you to your son.”

  “Miss Donahue, wait in the hall. I wish to have a word with you.”

  Faith paced the upstairs hall, hating herself. She would surely be dismissed. She not only removed the boy from his father’s betrothal party, gave the boy contraband candy, she acted brazen. She was skating on thin ice and it seemed to be getting thinner and thinner at her every move.

  “Miss Donahue,” the doctor’s dusky voice called as he closed the door to his son’s room and approached her in the hall.

  “Doctor?” She frowned, closed her eyes, and drew a deep breath for courage.

  “Candy, huh?” he asked.

  “Only one piece. I promised him. I don’t break promises.”

  He chuckled, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “Now I know the secret to your success and why Andrew holds you in such high regard.”

  “I am not in the habit of bribing children. I do believe in rewarding good behavior in difficult situations,” she explained.

  “I agree, the situation downstairs is most difficult.” He analyzed her with his eyes. “It seems my son feels that I am planning to marry the wrong woman.”

  “Children, they say the silliest things,” she said, trying to catch her breath, trying to make light of the topic. His eyes were x-raying her and she began to fidget in place.

  “Children are more perceptive than most adults,” he said. He removed a hand from his pocket and began to stroke his chin. As he pondered her, he asked, “What is your opinion?”

  “About … what?”

  “Am I betrothed to the wrong woman?”

  She took a step back. “Doctor, it is truly your personal decision.”

  “I am asking you the question.”

  She shifted her gaze from his dark eyes to the floor. She had to shake the urge to fling herself into his arms and to kiss him. His magnetic gaze, the way he stood just a little too close, the turn in the conversation, was having a strange effect on her. She couldn’t blame it on the champagne. She didn’t touch it. Though destiny revealed that she was to marry him, this was the first inkling of romance she felt. It was as if his eyes were hypnotizing her into fulfilling fate. Yet, she had to look away in fear. So much had gone wrong in her life, she wasn’t sure what was right anymore.

  He interrupted her thoughts. “Miss LaDue is young and beautiful. She is charming, of good breeding, and dutiful.”

  “You describe her like a pedigreed dog,” Faith mumbled.

  He smiled. “Ah, but dogs have spontaneity, the desire for fun and play, an independent streak.”

  “I’m sure she can fetch and come when called,” Faith said to herself. She could envision Constance LaDue as a groomed French poodle, clipped and pouffed in white, with a diamond-studded collar.

  “Apparently, she has what you seek in a wife or you wouldn’t be formally engaged to her,” Faith said, looking straight at him.

  “She does have the qualities a successful doctor should seek in a wife.”

  “Doctor, I think, though, one important quality is missing here.”

  He tilted his head. “What is that?”

  “Love.”

  “Love?” He choked out the word.

  “I’m not very familiar with courtship in the higher classes in 1906, but in the future, love plays an integral part in every successful relationship.” She kept looking at him to gauge his reaction.

  He began to fidget. Catching himself, he clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. “Love can come with time and patience.”

  “And one can grow old waiting,” Faith replied.

  “You seem to be an expert on the subject. Have you ever been in love or are you still waiting?” He stopped to face her.

  “I thought I was in love once. I was really too young and naïve to understand that true love is so much deeper and meaningful, heart and soul conjoined.” She thought of Brad and how she fell for his good looks, charm, and earning potential. She should have been looking into his heart for integrity, respect, and honesty.

  “Wisdom from a sage.”

  “Why?”

  “You do claim to be from one hundred years in the future.”

  “When, Doctor, will you believe it’s not a claim but a fact?”

  He winked. “We’ll have to continue this conversation. The hour is late and I must bid my guests adieu.”

  Chapter 20

  Andrew awakened the morning after the betrothal party shrieking in agony. Faith rushed into his bedroom thinking that her young charge was frightened over a nightmare. The little boy’s arms flailed out as he tossed his head, writhing in his bed. His face was flush with a rash, his trembling lips blue. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

  “Andrew, Andrew,” Faith said in a soothing voice, sitting on the bed and reaching down to grasp his wrists. “Calm down and tell me what’s wrong.”

  He blinked back tears, looking up at her. He contorted his face in pain.

  “What’s wrong?” Faith asked, growing concerned.

  “My throat hurts! Make the fire stop!” he squeaked.

  “You have a sore throat?”

  “Yes.”

  She released his wrists. He immediately placed his tiny hands around his neck, as if wanting to choke himself. “It hurts! Make it stop!”

  “What hurts?” a concerned voice called from the hallway. Faith peered over her shoulder to see the doctor. He stood in the doorway dressed in a d
ouble-breasted wool worsted suit, matching bowler hat in his hand. As he breezed into the room, the fresh green scent of the outdoors entered with him. Faith was grateful that he had come home at a time when his services were needed. Faith rose from her seat and moved over to the side to allow the doctor space. He sat next to his son on the bed. He placed the palm of his hand on the boy’s forehead.

  “He’s burning with fever,” the doctor said, wrinkling his forehead, knitting his brows.

  “He’s been complaining of a sore throat,” Faith explained.

  The doctor touched his son’s neck, feeling the lymph nodes. “His throat is swollen.”

  “Sounds like a touch of the cold or flu,” Faith said, “Shall I get him some hot tea with honey? Oh, and by the way, I do have a bottle of Tylenol, a pain reliever. We can probably split a tablet in half to lower the dosage.”

  Doctor Forrester looked up at her, a fever erupting in his eyes. “My son is ill and you have the audacity to bring up your magical quackery?”

  “Say what you will, I’m just trying to help.”

  “You can help by telling Bridget to prepare a mustard bath and bring up some warm water to sponge the boy’s face. I’ll prepare a tincture of guaiac and glycerine for his quinsy.”

  “Quinsy?”

  “Sore throat. Are you just going to stand there or are you going to make yourself useful?” He was staring at her.

  “I’m going.” She moved toward the door.

  Instead of feeling better, Andrew grew worse. Faith thought it had to do with the archaic medical treatment. Who had ever heard of tying a slice of bacon around the neck and sprinkling it with black pepper to cure a sore throat? Doctor Forrester grew worried when his son’s neck grew stiff and sore and he had difficulty swallowing. After examining the boy’s throat and tonsils, he grew suspicious. He swabbed the boy’s throat and analyzed the secretions under his microscope.

  Faith encountered the doctor in the downstairs foyer. His face wore the pallor of death and fear glistened in his eyes. An unshaven shadow of whiskers masked his face. He looked confused and helpless.

  “I should have known,” he said in anguish, hands rolled in fists at his side. “The gray membrane lesions of the throat are always a sign. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to instill panic.”

  “What’s wrong? What is it?” Faith asked, her heart sinking to her stomach even before she heard his explanation.

  The doctor led her into the library and slid the doors closed. His lips trembled as he spoke. “Andrew is very ill and this house must, at once, be secured under quarantine. The guests at my betrothal party and any patients I have visited since must be sent notice before an epidemic occurs. I don’t know how he caught it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Diphtheria. Andrew has diphtheria.”

  Faith was confused. “I don’t understand. I was vaccinated for it as a child. No one gets diphtheria anymore,” she said. Remembering time and place, she threw her hands up to cover her mouth. She gasped. “Oh, no! Vaccinations weren’t administered to prevent it in 1906!”

  He stared at her, as perplexed as he always was when she mentioned her relationship to the future, the future she claimed to come from.

  “Woman, don’t you know that vaccinations are considered quackery, especially the antitoxin for diphtheria? They cause, not prevent disease? The diphtheria is not only deadly, it is highly contagious.”

  Faith didn’t know what to say. The doctor began to pace the floor like a wild man, pumping his fists in the air. “Why Andrew? Why? Isn’t it bad enough that I lost his mother? I can’t lose him. He’s a part of her, a part of me. He’s all that I have.”

  The anguish in his voice made Faith’s heart quicken. The desperate look in his eyes and the tears that soon poured forth made her swallow hard. She let him rant on about the unfairness of the situation and of a father’s love for his son.

  He sunk into a leather chair, spent from a grief as near to that of death as one could get. Hands in his hair, he cried, “I’m cursed. Truly cursed.”

  Faith couldn’t stand by any longer. She went to his side and placed her hands upon his quaking shoulders, rubbing them, trying to offer some comfort. He looked up at her, pleading.

  “God have mercy on my soul. If Andrew dies, so shall I die.”

  “Andrew will not die,” Faith said as if a fact. “You’re a doctor and you won’t let him die.”

  “His life is in the hands of God.”

  “Let those hands guide you,” Faith said in a soothing yet confident tone.

  He met her gaze. “I read your medical book. Desperate men perform desperate acts.”

  “And?”

  “I am ignorant of many of the techniques and treatments mentioned. I know to prescribe bed rest and fluids, and an icepack to sooth his swollen neck. I know that recovery is slow and overexertion can be fatal. The usual treatment is a lemon juice and water gargle and a tablespoon of citrus limonum and aqua pura every two hours. In consulting your book, I do not know what penicillin or Phenobarbital are,” he said, remembering how he had scoured the book in desperation, unable to sleep since his son had taken ill. His son’s life was at stake and he had to do something. Doctors were supposed to be able to cure the symptoms of disease.

  “You’re a good doctor but you’re limited by your times,” she assured him. “I have some penicillin tablets. Perhaps you can cut them to reduce the dosage.” She remembered how she had foraged through her medicine cabinet, throwing plastic vials in her backpack for transport back in time, knowing that some things just hadn’t been discovered yet, things that could save a life. Modern technology and advances in medical science were the things she knew she’d miss most about going back in time. The assurance of a long, happy life made her content to live without.

  “You have the medicine?” He gazed at her as if she had discovered a cure for cancer.

  “Yes. I also think it wise that I tend to Andrew. You did say that diphtheria is contagious. The last thing we need are you and other members of this household coming down with this. I only have so much medicine. I was vaccinated. I’m immune. Vaccinations do work. You’ll have to trust me, Doctor. You give me the orders and I’ll carry them out. I make no promises. We just haven’t a choice.”

  “Are you certain?” He met her determined gaze. She was stronger than he thought, or crazier. “We cannot play games with my son’s life.”

  “If we do nothing, your son may not have a life. With proper treatment, he will at least have some hope. It’s your decision.”

  “My hands are tied. I haven’t a choice.” He hung his head as if in defeat. He couldn’t sit back and do nothing. He had to do everything he could to save Andrew whether it proved successful or not.

  “Yes. Now, why don’t you get cleaned up, eat something, and get some rest. We’re doing the best we can. As Bridget says, ‘Trust in God.’”

  • • •

  During the next ten days, Andrew’s room was transformed into an in-home sequestered intensive care unit. On doctor’s orders, Faith suspended a blanket over Andrew’s bed, forming a tent. Underneath, she placed a croup kettle, steaming with the vapor of lime water and liquor pottassae. Andrew was able to inhale the warm, moist air. Between sucking on ice cubes, and forced liquids, he was administered alternating doses of iron chlorate of potash and whiskey. The halved penicillin tablets were given as well. Faith sat at his side, reading stories, singing, holding his hand. She explained his treatment and the reason for his isolation. He was silent and accepting. When he dozed, Faith lay back in her chair for a nap. Meals and treatments were delivered outside the door. The doctor sent notes and requested feedback that Faith posted dutifully.

  The mixture of old medical treatments and the new prevented the illness from growing worse. On the tenth day when Andrew began to talk again and request food, she knew that he was feeling better. The fever had abated and his color returned to normal. Though he would remain on bed rest for several mo
re weeks, both Faith and the doctor felt he was on the road to recovery. The room was thoroughly disinfected and aired out, the bedclothes boiled. A sense of renewal penetrated Andrew’s bedroom as well as their lives.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Doctor Forrester told Faith as they exited Andrew’s room, closing the door behind. “Thanks to your care and therapies, he’s improved. I still don’t understand you or your magic but it has saved my son’s life. I shall be forever grateful.”

  A lump formed in his throat as he glanced at Faith and humility filled his heart and soul. A woman, a purported time traveler, had saved his beloved son’s life. There was no doubt in his mind that if she were not a member of his household, Andrew would have died. Her magic pills, the antibiotics of the future, cured the boy. The woman was changing his life in more ways than he could count. He had to admit that all of the changes were proving positive.

  “Thank you.” Faith smiled as she accompanied him down the hall.

  Having his son survive one of the time’s most insidious diseases was enough to give anyone pause. They kept the secret to Andrew’s miraculous recovery to themselves.

  “You were with Andrew day in and day out and yet you never caught the disease. Truly remarkable.”

  “As I mentioned before, I was immunized against diphtheria and others.”