What Heals the Heart

by Karen A. Wyle

  Chapter 22

  Joshua went to bed in the early morning and awoke hours later with a miserable cold. He dragged himself to his office, put up a DOCTOR IS SICK sign, and dragged himself back to his rooms again, there to spend the rest of the day coughing, sneezing, blowing his nose, and cursing everything about the day before, from the weather to its disastrous results.

  Freida, of course, insisted on bringing soup — chicken again. “The best thing for a cold! You watch how it helps, then you’ll know, you can tell your patients.” When she had finally left and he was sitting in his easy chair eating (and, he had to admit, feeling strengthened by) her soup, she returned with one of her quilts. She would have tucked it around him if he had not lost his temper and shouted hoarsely at her to leave him in peace.

  She dropped the quilt on top of him, narrowly missing the bowl in his hands, and thrust her considerable chest out at him. “I’m leaving, I’m leaving! God forbid I should bother you, a big important doctor, busy feeling sorry for yourself.” She closed the door with force just short of a slam.

  Of course she didn’t know what had happened. She would have been more forbearing if she had. . . . A sudden thought made him jump out of the chair, tripping on the quilt and dropping the bowl with a clatter. What if she went to talk to Dolly? To complain, to seek advice, to send someone to him that he would be less likely to treat rudely?

  He knew Dolly would not come. He could only hope that she would not tell Freida why.

  Freida brought him soup again two days later. When he apologized, she shushed him. “You were sick, naturally you got cranky. So you need to take care of yourself, get better, then you’ll be able to keep your temper. A hot compress on your chest, it’ll loosen up that phlegm, you’ll see.”

  He laughed out loud, which made him cough again. “Yes, Doctor Blum. Whatever you say.”

  She gave him a stern look down her nose. “There have been doctors how long, compared to old women? And somehow people survived long enough for doctors to come along.”

  When Joshua recovered enough to get around again, there was so much work waiting for him that he overexerted himself and relapsed. Freida came to scold him, and he suffered it humbly: he should have known better. This time he paced himself, seeing only the patients who needed him most urgently. The first day that he made it to evening without struggling to stay awake for supper, he declared himself well.

  Freida must have agreed. She stopped by the next day, caught him up on events, and asked, so she said, a favor. “Rachel, my niece, she’s coming to visit! Her parents, they found her a Jewish man to marry, a little older, but a good provider and worships the ground she walks on, my sister says, and they’re getting married this summer, so she wants to come see me while she can, one of her cousins has business farther west and can escort her, then he’ll come back for her in a couple of weeks.” She stopped for breath and went on, “So I’m going to meet the train, I could use some company while I’m waiting if you’re not busy, who knows if it’ll come on time, and if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, you could bring the buggy, Rachel will have luggage.”

  Joshua wondered what else Freida might have in mind. Had she discovered the change in his relations with Dolly, and meant to get to the cause of it while he was distracted and off guard? Or while he was in a public place and would be constrained as to his manner of protesting?

  He would take preemptive action.

  As they drove to the station, Nellie-girl pulling the buggy at a sedate pace, he told Freida, “You mustn’t ask me about Mrs. Arden.”

  He was aiming for uninformative firmness. But he could feel a jaw muscle twitching in his cheek. Freida opened her mouth and then closed it. She said, quietly for her, “You say don’t ask, I don’t ask. Would I stick my nose into your business?”

  Joshua burst out laughing. Freida made a brief attempt to look offended, but after a few seconds she gave up and laughed with him. The baker, the barber, and two farmers stopped in the street and stared at them, which made them laugh harder as they reached the station.

  They were early — an eastbound train would be coming through before the westbound train brought Rachel and her businessman cousin. Two passengers stood near the track, a well-dressed older man with a valise and a woman with a larger trunk —

  Joshua exclaimed, “Clara!” without intending to do so. Freida looked at him in surprise, but he paid her no heed, joining Clara and the older man. Both had turned toward him, the man with a vaguely censorious expression, probably due to his use of Clara’s given name, and Clara with no expression beyond a dull weariness.

  He had wondered, in stray moments when he thought of anything beyond his own miseries, how Clara was faring, whether she had suffered any lingering impact from that day at the Barlow farm. It had even crossed his mind to go see her. But Freida’s strictures about endangering the reputations of women, or low spirits, or shyness, or a mixture of them had kept him from actually doing it. And here she was, seemingly ill or in distress, and bound on some journey.

  Joshua suppressed his embarrassment at intruding and introduced himself to the man with Clara. The man reciprocated, briefly. He shared Clara’s last name. An uncle, perhaps. But where was he taking her? And “taking” appeared to be the right word, from the demeanor of both.

  Before he could decide whether or how to question either of them, the train appeared around the bend. The uncle took Clara’s arm as if to steer her. The train pulled in, puffing and grinding; the uncle gave Joshua a short nod as the conductor descended the stairs and called, “All aboard!”

  As her uncle towed Clara toward the stairs, Clara turned and looked Joshua in the eye, in a sort of solemn farewell.

  Joshua returned to Freida’s side and tried to pay attention to her report of Rachel’s fiancé and impending nuptials. He suspected his efforts would have fallen short, but Freida was apparently too excited by her niece’s imminent arrival to notice his distraction.

  The westbound train arrived in due course, and the travelers disembarked with Rachel’s single suitcase. Freida thanked the cousin profusely, saw him back onto the train with a kiss on the cheek, and enveloped her niece in a Freida-sized hug before holding her at arm’s length. “You must be exhausted, but you look so well, let me look at you!”

  The young woman’s slim nose and pointed chin were familiar from the photograph; her hair, a surprising shade between copper and auburn; her eyes, a warm brown. As soon as Freida released her, she turned toward Joshua, smiling warmly. “You must be Doctor Gibbs. Thank you so much for meeting the train. Oh, and do call me Rachel.”

  He refrained from mentioning that Freida had failed to tell him her surname. “Certainly, if you wish it. How was your journey?”

  She replied at some length and with a quickness of speech that reminded Joshua of her aunt. He found it impossible to attend to what she said to the degree politeness required; but fortunately, Freida’s eager interest and frequent interjections disguised his neglect. When his failure to contribute became too glaring, he managed to smile and say, “I would wager that your aunt’s kitchen is overflowing by now with all the dishes she’s made to welcome you.”

  Rachel gave a rueful little laugh. “It’s a good thing Auntie is a seamstress, because I won’t fit any of my clothes by the time I go home.” She turned wide, appealing eyes on him. “Please come with me and eat some of what she’s made!”

  He replied quickly, before Freida could chime in repeating the invitation. “I’m afraid there are matters I must attend to, but it has been a great pleasure to meet you.” By now they had reached the buggy, so he could concentrate on assisting both women inside. It took little time, though it felt longer, for them to reach Freida’s, where he helped them out again, carried Rachel’s case inside, and said his goodbyes. Then he was finally free to return to the buggy and dwell on his thoughts, which were increasingly troubling.

  Where was Clara going, and why did she, or her kin, think she needed an escort to go th
ere?

  He hesitated for a couple of days, knowing her family would be puzzled and possibly offended at his making inquiries. But the morning of the third day, he rode Nellie-girl out to the Barlow farm, examined Tom, replenished the family’s supply of laudanum, and headed from there to the Brook place.

  Clara’s family were, as he had expected, bewildered at his stopping by. Joshua explained to Clara’s father, “After she assisted me so well in such a difficult case, I wanted to thank her once again, and make sure she had suffered no ill effects in the aftermath.” He would probably learn more and meet less resistance if he pretended ignorance of her leaving town.

  Mr. Brook wrinkled his forehead and goggled at him. “What case? Assisted? How? Our Clara isn’t a nurse no more.”

  Had she told them nothing? Had her brother not mentioned Joshua’s praise? “I would have had serious difficulty dealing with young Tom Barlow’s crushed leg had she not been there, doing so much for me and for that poor lad.” He owed it to her to say more. “It was a hard thing for both of us, and she helped me immensely.”

  The man shook his head. “Well, I wish the lass had said more about it. We knew Tom’s mother had come, though not exactly why, and Clara went off with her. And she came back looking mighty wrung out, her brother said. We didn’t make much of it at the time. But I figure that’s when she started being so poorly.”

  Joshua hung onto his patience with difficulty. “Can you tell me more about how she was?”

  Clara’s mother had come up and took her turn answering. “She got awful moody. Hardly talking, except once in a while to snap at someone, which wasn’t usual. She’s always been a good-tempered girl. And then she didn’t eat much at all. She’s thin enough without missing her meals.”

  The father took over again. “We didn’t know what to do for her, so I wrote to my family back in Kentucky. And my brother, he reckoned that what she needed was treatment for nerves, such as she could get in one of those hospitals back east. So he came and got her, and that’s where she’ll be now.”

  It obviously hadn’t occurred to them to consult the local doctor about their daughter’s condition. To be fair — which he was having trouble being — he had never done much to encourage people to think of him as someone who treated nervous conditions. Nor could he claim to have the latest knowledge on such things. But he suspected the “latest” was as likely to include treatments that would be useless or worse. Someone had patented a machine twenty years ago that subjected patients with “nervous diseases” to electricity, a thought that had made him shudder as if subjected to it himself.

  “I would like to write to Miss Brook to see how she’s getting on, and to convey the thanks I’d hoped to convey in person. Do you know the name and location of the hospital?”

  The father was obviously unsure whether to help Joshua take such a liberty. But the mother, perhaps more tender-hearted or more in tune with her daughter, said, “I believe I have it written down somewhere,” and hurried off into the house. She returned with a slip of paper and handed it to Joshua with a somewhat defiant air, looking at Joshua rather than her husband.

  He bowed and tipped his hat. “Thank you kindly, sir, ma’am.” He mounted Nellie-girl and rode away at as fast a pace as he could set without looking positively suspicious.

  Joshua had not thought of asking for the uncle’s name and address. But remembering the man’s manner, he doubted there was much to be gained from writing to him. He would try the hospital first. If he bluffed, if he claimed to be Clara’s treating physician, they might be willing to respond and even provide some information.

  Or they might not. And he would have lost a worrisome number of days in the attempt.

  Joshua returned to his office sunk in profound gloom. If Clara Brook needed assistance, and if there was any way he could provide it, he would almost certainly have to do so in person. But how could he take the train so far, all the way to New England? He lived as much on the payments he received in kind as on cash money. His account at the bank was so small that he sometimes imagined the banker snorting with laughter at the sight of him approaching to make one of his infrequent deposits.

  As a boy, like any child reading fairy tales, he had idly imagined being rich, but he had never longed for wealth. And never until now had he regretted leaving behind the possibilities Philadelphia might afford for attaining it. But wealth would have given him the means to come to Clara’s aid.

  Though if he had remained in Philadelphia, he would never have met Clara, let alone know she might need his help.

  He half hoped a patient would come to distract him from his thoughts, and half feared he would be unable to pay a patient sufficient attention. When he heard a familiar knock, he forced himself to the door and opened it, as expected, to find Freida standing there, evidently overflowing with updates about Rachel’s visit. If all he had to do was listen and act interested, he could probably manage it. He escorted her to one of the chairs that would hold her, pulled another chair near it, and assumed an attentive expression.

  Either he overestimated his acting ability or underestimated Freida’s powers of penetration. After a mere ten minutes or so of wedding details, she stopped in mid-sentence, leaned closer, and put her hands on her substantial hips. “So what’s wrong?”

  He was reluctant to confide in her, given her almost unfriendly comments about Clara in the past. In his present mood, if she repeated any such sentiments, he would find it hard to restrain his temper. But it would probably prove impossible to evade her questioning for long. He surrendered. “I am concerned about Miss Brook. I have made some inquiries and discovered that her family has sent her east to be hospitalized for some nervous disorder.”

  To his relief, Freida had nothing critical to say, but wrinkled her forehead in concern and replied, “Poor girl, a shame, she’s always seemed healthy. And you worry about everyone, no wonder, it’s part of what makes you a good doctor.”

  He managed a quick twitch of a smile at the compliment. “I am uncertain whether it might not be helpful for me to travel to the hospital myself. But such a journey is wholly beyond my means.”

  Freida tilted her head and raised her eyebrows. “You want to go there why? A hospital full of fancy doctors isn’t enough, she needs one more who has patients right here? Not that you aren’t every bit as good a doctor, don’t get me wrong, but to me this makes no sense.”

  Except for Clara’s parents just now, he had told no one of Clara’s part in the amputation. He should have done. She had been more than helpful, more than confident; she had been invaluable, and might well have saved him from failure and dishonor. Well, he could remedy the situation now. What Freida knew, others would know shortly. “I have knowledge her doctors lack, and which may make a material difference in her care. Her condition did not come upon her as mysteriously as her family believed, and I am in part responsible for it. On the day I was summoned to tend an injured farm lad . . . .” He told her all of it, how Clara had helped him withstand the assault of his own memories even while struggling with her own.

  Freida listened without a single interruption. When he had done, she reached out and patted his hand. “Like a knight in armor, you’d be, riding to the rescue.”

  Joshua had to laugh. “A poor battered knight I would make. And whether she would want rescuing, and whether I could help her if she does, I can hardly predict. But it makes no difference. A knight may ride his steed to the rescue, but this distance would require the railroad.”

  She sat back and nodded a little as if in agreement with her own thoughts. Finally she leaned forward again and looked him in the eye. “You maybe know, my Samuel left me well provided for.”

  He put up his hands as if to fend off whatever might come after. She waved the gesture away and went on. “You spend so much time on me, and you never charge enough, I would be happy to help you do something that matters so much to you.”

  He was shaking his head almost violently before she finished. “It
is a kind and generous offer, but I could never take money from you for anything but your care —”

  “Men! So proud, always! Call it a loan, then, if it makes you feel better.”

  This one time, he would out-stubborn her. “I cannot see any prospect of repaying such a loan. I thank you, but this must be the end of it. Now, shall I examine you before you go?”

  She stood up, tossing her head. “No examining, I didn’t come here to have you fuss. You won’t let me help you, I hope you find some way to do your good deed.” She turned and opened the door before he could reach it, surging through with majestic displeasure. He caught the muttered exclamation, “Men!” as the door closed behind her.

  He had two patients after Freida left. The first, a farmer’s wife in town for provisions, wanted a rash looked at. He had seen such rashes often on women who spent much of their day washing and scrubbing, and had an ointment to give her. Then, when he was already flipping the sign on his door, one of Madam Mamie’s bartenders hurried up, full of apologies, with cuts from broken glass on the palm and forefinger of his right hand. Joshua tried unsuccessfully to stifle a sigh and fetched what he needed to clean and stitch and bandage them.

  When the job was done, the bartender inspected the bandages, stood up, and said, “I’d shake your hand to thank you, but I reckon you’d tell me I shouldn’t. Come back to Mamie’s place and have a couple of beers on the house instead. Mamie won’t mind.”

  Given the tenor of his thoughts, he could not help wondering when he would receive some more substantial payment. But beer would, if not actually drown his sorrows, at least blur his vision of them. Off to Madam Mamie’s they went.

  But once he was sitting at the bar with the glass in front of him, he found he had little interest in drinking it. He took a couple of swallows and then left it there, collecting condensation, watching the drops trickle down and form a ring.