More Than a Dream (12 page)

‘‘I . . . I will have to talk with my parents.’’
I know Mother will
be disappointed, but she is at the office enough now that she’ll be too
busy to realize I am gone
. While Elizabeth knew that was an exaggeration, she reminded herself that she had already mentioned that she wanted to return to the hospital for a while this summer.

And Annabelle had only sighed, not harangued her as in former days.

‘‘Call me back tomorrow if you can. Here is the number.’’

Elizabeth repeated the number to herself as she said good-bye. She hurried to the study to write it down. Having paper and pencil by the telephone would be a good idea, although here in town, all they had to do was ask Miss Odegaard for whomever they wanted.

Before going to find her mother, she sat down and pulled a sheet of paper from the stack her father kept in the right-hand drawer. Taking her father’s advice, she wrote her acceptance letter, signed it, addressed the envelope, and rummaged for a stamp. None. She folded the letter and inserted it in the envelope, each motion feeling like another nail pounded in the wall, the wall enclosing her with only one door out and that labeled Pennsylvania. She’d mail it after talking with her mother and before catching her father at the office. Sometimes it was better to talk to her parents separately so that she didn’t feel ganged up on. Not that they were always in agreement, but right now she needed all the support she could find, not a list of the negatives.

‘‘You do what you must,’’ Annabelle said after some discussion. Sitting under the oak tree with the roses and daisies in glorious bloom and a slight breeze with just enough breath to cool them made Elizabeth wish she didn’t have to go to Chicago either.
I don’t
have to,
she reminded herself,
it’s just that I can’t not go. I’m needed
there and here. . . .

She tuned back in to what her mother was saying, guilt nibbling at her heart because she wasn’t content with being the ‘‘at home’’ daughter Annabelle desired.

‘‘If we can work in a shopping trip like last year, we can have you ready to leave for medical school in September. That is when the new year starts for schools of this nature too, isn’t it?’’

‘‘It will for me, but as far as I understand, people can begin any time they start a new unit.’’ Elizabeth pushed her chair back and got to her feet. ‘‘I’ll be back after a while. I have some errands to run.’’

‘‘Tell your father I will be down later.’’ Annabelle smiled at her daughter, the kind of smile that said I’m really going to miss you.

Elizabeth inspected her upper eyelashes and her fringe, a new feature that she still wasn’t quite comfortable with, be it that short hair fluffed on the forehead was all the rage or not.

Why was it that now that she and her mother were getting along better than they ever had, she was about to leave home? Another of those things to ponder in the middle of the night when sleep was cavorting off somewhere else instead of bringing its healing blessings to her busy mind.

Her father’s agreement with her mother that they would support her whichever school she decided to attend should have helped, but it didn’t.

Once at the office, she stopped at her father’s desk and waited for him to look up from what he was writing.

‘‘Yes, my dear?’’ His smile made her wish she wasn’t considering leaving sooner—for a heartbeat anyway.

‘‘I had a telephone call from Dr. Morganstein and . . .’’

His nod encouraged her to continue. ‘‘And she wants me to come now. She needs another pair of hands desperately.’’

‘‘And?’’

‘‘And I’m asking for your permission to go. Mother said she understood, if we could have a shopping trip again.’’

His slight smile matched her own. ‘‘She does love to go shopping in Chicago.’’

‘‘So you don’t mind?’’

‘‘Of course I mind. I was looking forward to our croquet matches and evening concerts.’’ He leaned forward. ‘‘But, my dear daughter, you must do what you must do. I thank you for asking my permission, but you are a grown woman now and must make your own decisions. Do you want to go?’’

‘‘Of course.’’

‘‘Then you will go with my blessing.’’

When she came around the desk, he stood quickly enough to open his arms to gather her close. He kissed her forehead and sighed. ‘‘Have I told you lately how proud I am of you?’’

‘‘Not for a day or two.’’ She could hear his heart thudding, a sound she had laughed about as a little girl sitting in his lap. How often he’d said that she was in his heart, and she’d giggle and say, ‘‘No, Daddy, I’m right here. Your heart is in there.’’ And she’d push a fingertip into his shirt.

Now she looked up into eyes that matched her own. ‘‘I am the most blessed that you are my father. Thank you for everything.’’

‘‘You are welcome.’’

The tinkling doorbell took his attention, and she left his side to meander down the hall to the necessary where she used the hand towel to mop her eyes. She stared into the mirror. ‘‘Am I doing the best thing?’’

Elizabeth entered the pressroom and watched Thorliff add more ink and start the press running again. If anyone would give an honest and mostly unbiased opinion, it would be he. When he came to stand beside her, still keeping an eye on the press, she laid out her concerns for his evaluation.

‘‘Do you think I should give up on the school closer to home?’’

‘‘No, why? You are going to Chicago again to the hospital, right?’’

She nodded. ‘‘I’ve just been invited back.’’

‘‘But she told you last summer that she would love you to come again.’’

‘‘I know, but things change in a year.’’

‘‘I doubt the change is ever in the favor of a hospital. There are always more than enough sick people to treat.’’

‘‘Thorliff, you are so pragmatic. Is this a gift, or is all your family that way?’’

Thorliff decorated his chin with black ink as he thought about her question.

‘‘Growing up on a farm, you have to accept things the way they are. The wheat grows or it doesn’t; the rain falls or it doesn’t. You do the best you can and wait on God for the harvest. But if you don’t plant the seed, you can be sure there will be no harvest. Seems to me you’ve planted the seeds and now you are waiting on God for the harvest.’’

‘‘Waiting is hard.’’

‘‘The hardest part. But you’ve got tilling to do at the hospital.’’

‘‘That’s one way of putting it. But then you won’t have anyone to beat you at croquet.’’

‘‘But by the end of the summer, if I can find someone to play against, I will be a formidable opponent.’’

‘‘You will get that much better by the end of August?’’

‘‘Yes, I will.’’ He picked up one of the printed sheets to check the ink quality.

‘‘That’s a signature of your book?’’ Elizabeth was pleased she had picked up some of the terms for book printing. Each sheet of paper would have eight book pages printed on both sides, so the paper had to be turned over and printed again. It would be folded and cut later.

He nodded. ‘‘We’re printing a thousand on this first run to see how it goes. After all, most of the people around here have already read it.’’

‘‘I don’t think that’s enough. You’ll be back to the presses within a couple of weeks, if not before that.’’

‘‘As the old Jewish saying goes, ‘From your mouth to the ears of God.’ ’’

The bell tinkled over the door to the office, and Thorliff stuck his head around the corner to make sure Phillip was still out there to wait on the customer.

‘‘Who is it?’’ Elizabeth asked, her curiosity aroused by the red she could see climbing Thorliff’s neck and face. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he plastered himself against the wall.

‘‘M-Mrs. Kingsley.’’

‘‘Oh, the new woman in town. Father mentioned her at the dinner table. Mother, of course, knows of the Chicago Kingsleys. Why don’t you want to see her? Father said she seems very nice.’’

‘‘Ah, excuse me, I need to check on the . . .’’ Thorliff fled down the hall.

Elizabeth stared after him, shaking her head.
Whatever is the
matter with him?
Still shaking her head, she ambled out to the front office.

‘‘Oh, there you are, my dear.’’ Phillip turned from chatting with the woman on the other side of the counter. ‘‘Mrs. Kingsley, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Elizabeth. She has just graduated from St. Olaf College and this fall will be on her way to medical school.’’

‘‘Oh, how wonderful. I graduated from one of the first classes at Bryn Mawr College in Pennsylvania. My father is unusual, like yours. He felt a woman was entitled to just as good an education as a man.’’

Elizabeth nodded. ‘‘I’m happy to meet you too. What brought you to Northfield?’’ She kept her eyes slightly downcast, the better to study the woman without being blatant. Lovely dimity dress, obviously sewn just for her in order to fit that rather extraordinary bosom and waspish waist. Her parasol, bag, everything matched, including the ribbon bow on the leghorn hat.

Elizabeth gave a mental rundown on her own appearance. Dress a bit faded and severely out of style, no hat, parasol nonexistent, shoes dusty from a walk by the river. The only new thing she wore was the ribbon tying her curls back off her face. Improper, her mother would say.

She brought her attention back to the woman in front of her.

‘‘Pardon me, I think I went woolgathering. I missed the first part of your question.’’
How embarrassing
. She could feel the heat flaming her cheeks.
Now I know what Thorliff felt like
.

‘‘I said my husband is starting a new department at Carleton, and I was just asking which medical school you are going to. I didn’t think too many of them took women. I know they do in Europe but not so much here.’’

‘‘It’s a problem. I’ve been accepted at Woman’s Medical College of Pennsylvania, but I’m hoping to go to the Northern Medical School in Minneapolis.’’

‘‘Ah, you want to be closer to your young man here in North-field?’’

At Phillip’s not quite discreet snort that turned into a genteel cough, Elizabeth blinked and tilted her head as if she might not have heard right. ‘‘My young man?’’

‘‘Well, surely by this time one of the eligible men of the area must have put in his bid for courting you.’’ She shot Phillip a smile that invited him to be part of her conspiracy.

He shrugged as if to say ‘‘humor her, she’s a guest’’ when Elizabeth glanced his way.

‘‘You and my mother will no doubt become bosom friends. That has been her dream since I was little. My dream, however, is to become a doctor, and I see no way I can have a medical practice and be a wife and mother also.’’ There, that ought to settle her inquisitiveness.

With one hand on her now heaving bosom and the other extended to Elizabeth in an imploring gesture, Mrs. Kingsley rolled her eyes heavenward, as if pleading the interference of the Almighty. ‘‘Oh, my dear, dear girl, surely you don’t mean that. Why, if our young women don’t carry on the banner of profession and marriage both, what will happen? All of the babies will be born to those without either the intelligence or the wherewithal to rear them properly. We will become a nation of the lower classes and unschooled immigrants. It is our duty as educated women to show what we are made of, the sterner stuff of American progress.’’

Elizabeth dared not look at her father. She could feel his laughter bubbling below the surface. While he managed to keep suffragette news out of the
Northfield News,
he kept abreast of political change on all fronts. And this newcomer made wonderful parody material, the kind of thing he loved to use in his editorials and encouraged Thorliff to do likewise.

‘‘I . . . I’ll see what I can do about that.’’ Elizabeth kept a neutral expression on her face, the polite smile her mother had taught her through hours of remonstrating when a young Elizabeth had managed to offend her sensibilities in public.

‘‘Excuse me, but I have several more errands to run before I go home to pack. I’m going to be working in the Alfred Morganstein Hospital for Women this summer like I did last year.’’ She nodded to their guest. ‘‘A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Kingsley. I hope you find your time in Northfield a delight.’’
Now I even sound
like my mother
.

‘‘Thank you.’’ Mrs. Kingsley turned her attention to the man behind the desk. ‘‘And now, Mr. Rogers, is that young man here, Mr. Bjorklund? I promised him some articles from a paper in Chicago.’’

Elizabeth stepped quickly through the door so that she didn’t have to hear her father’s response. After all, Thorliff had been there and would most likely be in the back. However, she had heard the door to his room close sometime earlier. Something about the woman sent him into a dither, that was for sure.

She pondered that thought on her way to the post office, then to the drugstore, and the grocer, where she picked up some eggs and lemons for Cook, who was determined to serve all her favorite things, like lemon meringue pie, before she left. Knowing that she’d hardly find time to eat once she got to the hospital, she didn’t try to talk Cook out of her mission.

Back home she found she’d missed her mother on her way to work at the newspaper.

‘‘I’m going up to pack.’’ Elizabeth laid the parcels on the table. ‘‘Is there anything else that you need?’’

‘‘No.’’ An answer abrupt even for taciturn Cook.

‘‘The mail hasn’t come yet?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Are you all right?’’

The nod came with more force than necessary. Cook sliced a lemon in half with one whack.

Elizabeth crossed the room to where Cook worked at the counter. ‘‘You knew I would be leaving home one day.’’

A whack for the next lemon, then a wrench of the wrist on the glass juicer so that the juice spurted rather than just oozing into the basin.

Elizabeth sighed. ‘‘I’m going to miss you too.’’ She rested her head against Cook’s shoulder, feeling sinews of steel rather than the comfort of younger years. She waited until she felt the shoulder relax and then rubbed her cheek against the wash-softened calico of Cook’s dress. ‘‘Those lemons smell so good.’’ She sniffed again. ‘‘And so do you. You’ve always smelled good, as far back as I can remember. Cinnamon and flour and vanilla. I think they’ve permeated your skin and clothing. Your apron always smells of starch and the wonderful fragrance it picks up out at the clothesline. All the smells remind me how you’ve been here whenever I needed you. What a blessing you are to our family. What would we do without you?’’