Ghosts of Graveyards Past (16 page)

“Have you been ill since the time in February?” Mariah asked, pulling a stethoscope from her bag.

The girl frowned. “Not physically. There was a…a time after my parents' accident when I was greatly indisposed. I had no appetite and took to my bed more often than I should.”

“That is quite understandable.” Mariah's tone was softer than she usually allowed with patients. “I lost both my parents, my father quite recently. You need not explain the cause of such weariness.”

Geneva said nothing, but squeezed her hand briefly in response. She was still a child in most ways. Her marriage to the older farmer had likely been a means of surviving poverty when her parents' lives were claimed in a carriage mishap.

“I began corresponding with Mr. Kendrick two months ago,” Geneva told her, chattering nervously. “My aunt saw his advertisement in a newspaper and advised me to answer it.”

Mariah didn't comment on this, listening for the patient's pulse through her stethoscope. It was a trifle fast, but that was explained by nervousness as much as the illness.

“He is a very gentle man,” Geneva continued, more to herself. “Kind and patient, as well. I think he must have been lonely here without a companion for so long.” She sounded lonely herself, a hollow ring to the words of praise for her new spouse.

Mariah wondered that she had attempted no changes thus far to the house, big enough despite its plainness. Perhaps loneliness left her with no enthusiasm for such tasks as homemaking.

Listening to Geneva's chest and lungs, Mariah heard a rattle each time a breath was drawn. When she pressed a hand to the patient's forehead, she felt warmth that might only be from the parlor's hearth.

“Does your husband share any of your symptoms?” she wondered.

“No—that is, he says nothing to suggest it.”

Mariah knew the farmer was unlikely to seek her advice, even if he suffered the same illness. Few men consulted her and only one had shown faith in her work's results. The same one who made her presence here bearable after months of rejection, his loving correspondence now the only consolation for the absence of his touch.

“Are you married, doctor?”

The question snapped her out of the memory. Laughing, she said, “How could I be? I would hardly be a doctor if I were married, you know.”

Geneva echoed the laugh, though hers was raspy sounding. “I only ask,” she explained, “because I know so many here have seen their husbands go to battle.”

“They have,” she agreed, slipping the stethoscope from around her neck. How close she had come to sharing their same fate wasn't something she cared to think about.

“I am fortunate that my husband does not have to enlist,” her patient ventured, referencing the farmer's misshapen leg, the result of a haying accident in his youth. “It is nothing to be ashamed of, I tell him. Though I fear he sees it that way.”

“Perhaps, it's only natural for him to do so,” Mariah advised, thinking the girl must know little of men after so many years in a finishing school. “He must feel obligated to protect his home.”

Geneva fell silent as if mulling this over. Hands twisted in her lap as she waited the doctor's verdict on her examination.

“I do not detect a fever,” Mariah told her. “That is a good sign, at least. But you must send someone to fetch me immediately if you began to feel the symptoms of one.”

“Of course.”

At this point, Geneva turned away to cough, a hoarse sound the doctor had heard only twice since their consultation begin. “I am sorry,” she said, words muffled by the handkerchief applied to her mouth. “It is worse in the evening. I could not sleep last night.”

Quinine and castor oil were the favorite solutions for this type of case, and Mariah supplied both. Her patient seemed instantly at ease, turning the glass vials over with a kind of wonder.

“I will come back this same time tomorrow,” Mariah told her, repacking her bag's contents. “If it's convenient for yourself and Mr. Kendrick, that is.”

“It is fine,” the girl answered. In a confidential tone, she added, “Please do not think me impertinent, but I must tell you how glad I was to learn of
your
being the physician. It is much easier to speak of such things with another woman, you understand.”

Surprised, Mariah could think of no immediate answer. “I am glad to hear it,” she said at last, accepting the coins the girl fished from her skirt pocket.

Mariah saw her wave once more from the parlor window, feeling the sad gaze watch her further down the path. She would not come back the same way until dusk due to another visit to the Tate's cabin spent reassuring the restless mother-to-be.

A raven cawed somewhere in the woods, making Mariah quicken her pace. This was a shortcut back to her lodgings, its path rockier than the road that cut around the spring. She pulled her coat closer as something splashed in the water flowing below.

“Hello, Rufus.” She stooped to pet the dog that bounded suddenly up the spring's embankment. Its coat was damp and muddy as were the feet of its owner, who appeared behind it moments later.

Mariah had not seen the Hinkle boy since she removed the stitches from his injured leg. The desired scar had appeared in a raised, pink line below his left knee. It was caked in grime, as was the rest of his skin.

“Evening doctor,” he said, showing his toothy grin. “Been to the Tates'?”

She nodded, wondering if her movements were always known among the neighboring homesteads. It was to be expected, yet she found it distasteful for her patients' sake as much as her own, considering the personal nature of the visits.

“Thought maybe you had seen the plat-eye,” he said, voice hopeful with the suggestion. “Billy saw it down by the cavern one night. Said it came at ‘em from the water.”

“He said nothing about it to me,” she replied. “But then, his mother may forbid him to spin such yarns beneath her roof. She is a sensible woman, I think.”

“Guess she don't believe in spirits,” Charley said thoughtfully. “Reckon you don't, either.”

She smiled at his obvious disappointment. “It is not my way. Not in my blood, as you might say.”

This explanation seemed to satisfy him. Ruffling the dog's fur, he said, “Rufus caught a fish. Caught two myself but threw ‘em back.” A wheezing sound punctuated this last part, the boy smothering it with his jacket sleeve.

“When did that start, Charley?” As she spoke, the doctor scrutinized his face. There were no signs of illness like those of the young Mrs. Kendrick. His eyes were bright, cheeks flushed from the exercise.

“Dunno, really,” he told her. “Sort of comes and goes.”

“Anything else troubling you?” Absent-mindedly, she stroked the dog's fur, her gaze focused on the boy to see his answer.

It was one of indecision before he spoke again. “Sometimes my leg hurts. Where the stitches were, I mean,” he said, fingers tapping the jagged line.

She shook her head, relieved. “That will stop soon. I promise.” As an afterthought, she told him, “You should stay out of the water on cold nights, Charley.”

It must be the dampness causing that slight rattle in his breath. Surely, that was all.

“Yes, ma'am. I'll try.” He looked at the dog, its fur rising in response to a creature stirring in the hollow nearby. A rabbit poked its head from the foliage, then streaked down the path. Rufus pursued with deep barks.

Neglecting to say good-bye, the boy chased after his pet into the gathering darkness.

 

 

 

 

13

 

November 11
th
1862: Must use the buggy to retrieve an order of medicines from the dry goods store. Supplies from Mobile come few and far between, but anything is lucky to make it through our muddled postal routes. More welcome would be news from the regiment. How much longer shall we be forced to wait for tidings of our young men?

 

Mariah pulled away from the sudden brush of fingers against her arm at the dry goods counter. She turned to find a woman of middle age, fair hair tucked beneath a sun bonnet. “Mrs. Camden,” she said, matching the face to one of her more recent medical cases. “How is your wrist?”

“As if it never broke,” the woman replied. Hesitating a moment, she folded some bills into Mariah's palm. “I can finally repay your kindness.”

Mariah had not seen so large a sum since her days in Mobile. It was not one a widow whose only son had gone off to war should be able to pay, however. “Surely this is needed in your household,” she said.

“It is all right.” Pride in her voice, the woman said, “Wray sends me his soldier's pay, what he gets of it, anyhow. I only wish he wrote more of himself in the letters that bring it. Too much like his father, all silence and strength.” Her voice dropped slightly with this reference to her deceased husband. His violent death was still spoken of in whispers by some in the community, his grave isolated from the others in the cemetery.

“Your son sounds a fine sort of man,” she said.

“Oh, he is. Blessed in character and looks, both. More than one heart was broke when he left us for the regiment.” She glanced out the window. “I must be on my way now. My neighbors wait to drive me home, as you see.”

She referred to the cart outside, Mr. and Mrs. Widlow visible behind the reins. The two families shared a property line and a drinking well, though it was deep friendship that bound them closer than the proximity of their homesteads.

Mariah's relationship with the Widlows had been one of begrudging acceptance that quickly vanished once their son was no longer under her care. At times, she wondered if they would have preferred his slow death to the bronchial infection rather than the danger he now faced.

 

Twelve o'clock: Have gone to the Kendricks to find patient is worse. Became feverish last night and complains of dysentery, in addition to the cough and stomach pains. More alarming still is a revelation that makes me certain she is not the only one from our community to suffer this affliction...

 

“You should have told me about this before.” Mariah's tone was accusing, as she folded back the collar to the girl's calico dress. Beneath the lace, a patch of red, mottled skin traveled beyond her sight.

“Forgive me. I should have mentioned it the first time. It is just that Mrs. Lesley already told me of the lard and sulfur you gave her, so it seemed pointless—”

“It was not,” Mariah interrupted. Her voice was sharp with anger. She calculated how long it had been since Mrs. Lesley's rash appeared. By now, the other woman must have experienced the same symptoms as the girl before her but simply chose not to consult her about it.

“I am so sorry—”

“Do not apologize.” Mariah rubbed her forehead, weariness replacing the flash of irritation. “But we must agree to have no more secrets about this. You must understand, Mrs. Kendrick, how vital every detail is when forming a proper treatment.”

“Please,” the girl began, somewhat shakily, “would you call me Geneva? I have so few friends here, no one to remind me of home. This new name is still so strange to my ears.”

Her request—so unexpected and so badly timed—met with a long silence from Mariah, who scribbled something in her daybook before she formed an answer. “I…I am not accustomed to addressing patients so informally. Perhaps, for now, it is best if we continue as we are.”

“Of course,” the girl murmured.

She seemed to shrink a little in her chair, fingers toying with the brooch she had removed for the exam. Dampness spread beneath the hazel eyes, her gaze moving away when someone rapped against the parlor's wood trim.

A man stood awkwardly in the doorway. He was tall with clean shaven features and hair that turned gray at the temples. “All right if I come in?” he asked, pulling a straw hat from his head.

“Quite all right,” Mariah told him. She noted the hitch in his step, the injured leg dragging slightly behind the other. Aside from this deformity, he seemed quite robust, with none of the illness that marred his wife's features.

“I am afraid that Mrs. Kendrick's condition is much worse,” Mariah told him, “and I will need your help to see that she makes a recovery as soon as possible.”

“I will do what I can.” Coming behind the girl's chair, he placed a tentative hand on her shoulder.

Her fingers returned the touch, light against his stronger ones. Liquid swam in her eyes, but the tears from earlier had been wiped away.

They listened attentively as she gave instructions on medicine and bed rest. When she was reaching for her bag, the husband cleared his throat. “I remember the apothecary used to give a paregoric—”

“I have something stronger among my supplies,” Mariah interrupted, handing him a bottle of laudanum. The only drug to ease her mother's cries in the final stage of consumption, it was her first choice for dealing with a powerful illness. She found the smell repugnant. It brought back memories she would sooner forget. “I shall call again in the morning,” she promised, rising to see herself to the door. “Until then, I must ask that you follow my advice. Do try and rest, Mrs. Kendrick,” she urged the patient whose gaze remained elsewhere.

 

As expected, Mrs. Lesley now complains of a cough and stomach pains. Her fever is mild, but will, no doubt, require confinement. If only she would accept this before it becomes inevitable.

 

“You can't expect me to leave off the cooking and chores. What with the men working all day, there is no time for laying in the bed and what not.” This was spoken by a woman who looked as if she should be there already, her face flushed and hair plastered to her forehead. The rash had spread to her shoulders, neck, and torso, though she refused an examination of it.