Sonoma Rose: An Elm Creek Quilts Novel (10 page)

Before long they arrived at St. John’s Hospital, a white, two-story building on the corner of F Street and Doris Avenue that looked to be about four times the size of the library. The children
fell silent as they approached the imposing structure, and after Lars parked on the street nearby, Rosa had to coax them from the car with promises of visits to the library and the park and perhaps even the soda fountain Marta had spotted near the hotel afterward, if they were good.

Inside, Rosa asked the children to sit and wait while she spoke to the nurse at the admissions desk. The nurse, a plump, white-clad nun perhaps a dozen years older than herself, took one look at Rosa’s face, shot Lars a cold and stony glare, and ushered her off to an examination room. “But my children—” Rosa protested, glancing back at them over her shoulder as the nurse briskly led her away.

“I’ll see to them,” Lars called after her, leaning over the desk to beckon another nurse who had just arrived.

The first nurse closed the door behind them firmly and instructed Rosa to sit on the examination table. After taking Rosa’s temperature and inspecting the cuts and bruises on her face, she asked, “How did you come by these injuries? Take a bad fall, did you?”

“No.” Rosa hardly knew what to say. Could there be any mistaking what had happened to her? Was the nun giving her the freedom to lie if she were too ashamed to tell the truth? “That is to say, I—I did fall, after my husband hit me.”

“I see.”

“I realize I look a fright, but I’m really more concerned about my children. May they see the doctor first?”

The nurse’s mouth tightened. “Did your husband hit them too?”

“No—no, I mean, he spanks them when they misbehave, but he—he doesn’t hit them the way he hits me. That’s not why I brought them here today. Please, could the doctor see them first?”

The older woman’s features softened. “We have several doctors, my dear. One of my sisters has already escorted your children to the pediatrics ward.” She opened the door again. “Dr. Hayd will be in to see you shortly.”

Alone, Rosa watched the door and wondered if she had made a terrible mistake in coming there. She should be with Ana and Miguel during their examination to answer the other doctor’s questions and comfort them if they became frightened. Just as she was about to climb down from the table and go in search of the children’s ward, the door opened and a tall, gray-haired man with round glasses entered. “Good morning,” he greeted her, inspecting the notes on his clipboard. “Sister tells me you said you had a tiff with your husband. Is that so?”

Rosa clasped her hands together in her lap and studied them—the fingers slender, the nails uneven, the skin rough and dry from years of washing clothes and dishes and children. “My husband hit me, yes.”

Dr. Hayd glanced up, eyebrows raised. “Are you sure you didn’t bump into a door or trip on a toy a child carelessly left on the bottom stair?”

“Quite sure.” She sat up straighter and lifted her chin, irritated as much by the meekness in her voice as by his skepticism. “The injuries to my face you can see for yourself. I also have a cut on my head here—” She parted her long black hair. “And on my right side—I feel a sharp pain here whenever I draw a breath.”

“Hmm.” The doctor drew closer, inspected her face, examined her head, looked intently into her eyes one at a time, and pressed a stethoscope to her back and listened carefully as she breathed deeply in and out. “He seems like a good enough fellow. What did you do to provoke him?”

After a moment of bewilderment, Rosa realized the doctor
had mistaken Lars for her husband. Stifling her instinct to defend him, she swallowed hard and said, “Whatever it was, I won’t do it again.”

“I’m glad you’ve learned your lesson. It’s a pity to see bruises on such a lovely face.” Straightening, the doctor frowned, nodded thoughtfully, and adjusted his glasses. “Well, you’ll need a few stitches for the laceration in your scalp, but the scar won’t be too visible thanks to your hair. I won’t have to trim away any of those pretty locks to sew you up, so don’t you worry about that. Afterward Sister Mary can clean and bandage the other cuts, which should heal fine on their own if you keep them properly dressed.” He opened the door and spoke quietly to someone unseen outside before turning back to her. “Now for the bad news: It seems you have a fractured rib, but it’s merely cracked, not broken clean through. I’ll send you home with a rib belt, which you should wear regularly for six weeks, even while sleeping. Do you think you can remember my instructions or shall I repeat them to your husband?”

Humiliated, Rosa felt her eyes pricking with hot, angry tears, but she refused to let them fall. “There’s no need. I can remember.”

“That’s a good girl.”

At that moment, the plump nun returned carrying what appeared to be a broad elastic band and a small white box. “How are we?” she asked briskly, and Rosa murmured a vague reply. Sister Mary assisted the doctor as he cleaned the laceration, dabbed her scalp with ointment, and sewed the wound shut. Rosa could manage only a nod as Dr. Hayd bade her farewell, instructed Sister Mary to tend to the rest of her cuts, and left the room.

Sister Mary’s hands felt cool and dry against Rosa’s flushed
skin as she gently cleaned her wounds. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” When Rosa made a scoffing sound and glanced toward the door, the nun set down the gauze and antiseptic, cupped Rosa’s chin with her hand, and tilted her face upward so their eyes met. “I know what Dr. Hayd can be like. You mustn’t let his thoughtless words trouble you.”

Unbidden, a tear slid down Rosa’s cheek.

“Marriage is a holy sacrament,” said Sister Mary, “but I cannot imagine that our loving God would want you and those precious children to remain under the same roof as a man who would treat you so cruelly.”

Rosa pressed her lips together to hold back a sob.

Sister Mary lowered her voice. “One of my sisters can keep your husband occupied with paperwork and I can bring the children to meet you at the back door. The parish house is nearby, and you’ll find sanctuary there until you can find someplace safe to stay. Do you have anyone who can take you in—a mother, a sister, a friend, perhaps?”

“Oh, no, no,” exclaimed Rosa. “The man waiting for me—he’s not the one who did this. He’s not my husband. He’s—a very dear friend. I’ve known him since I was child. He would never—”

Abruptly she stopped speaking. In her haste to defend Lars, she might reveal too much. Quickly she climbed down from the examination table, but the plump nun stood between her and the door, and she was studying Rosa’s face carefully. “Are you sure, my child?”

“Absolutely sure.” Surrounded by uncertainty though she was, she knew Lars would never hurt her—not intentionally, not again.

Sister Mary hesitated for a moment, but she let the matter
drop. She explained how to wear the rib belt and how long to use it, and she advised Rosa to return in six weeks, sooner if she developed a fever or had trouble breathing, or if her pain worsened. “You may follow up with your own physician if you prefer,” she added, and Rosa knew the kindhearted nun did not expect to see her again.

Sister Mary led her upstairs to the children’s ward, where Marta and Lupita sat alone in the waiting room. “The nurse took Ana and Miguel in there,” Marta said, breaking off the story she had been telling her younger sister to point down the hallway to the second door on the left. “Mr. Jorgensen went with them, but he told us to stay here.”

Rosa quickly thanked her and hurried to join the others, her heart sinking when one glance over her shoulder told her that although Sister Mary had headed back toward the stairwell, she was still close enough to have heard Lars’s name.

When Rosa entered the examination room, Lars and a younger, dark-haired man in a white coat broke off their conversation. “Mrs. Ottesen?” the man greeted her, and when he turned her way, she saw that he bore his weight on crutches and his right pant leg was sewn up at the knee.

She almost shook her head at his mistake, but a warning look from Lars stopped her just in time. “Yes,” she said quickly. “I’m Mrs. Ottesen.”

“No,” said Miguel, sitting cross-legged on the examination table beside Ana. “She’s Mamá.” When Ana nudged him, he thrust out his lower lip at her. “Stop it.”

The man smiled, but he seemed taken aback by Rosa’s appearance. “I’m Dr. Russell. Your husband mentioned that you had an accident on the farm.”

Involuntarily, Rosa’s hand flew to her bruised face. “Yes,
but I’m going to be fine.” She smiled at Ana and Miguel, praying they wouldn’t contradict her.

“Then are you feeling up to a few questions? Your husband’s told me about the children’s affliction, but as the children’s mother, you’re probably more intimately aware of their symptoms.”

“Of course,” said Rosa. “Anything.”

“Maybe Ana and Miguel should wait outside,” said Lars, with a look that told Rosa he knew she would hesitate to tell the whole truth in their hearing. “Marta can keep an eye on them.”

Rosa helped the children down from the examination table and asked Ana to take Miguel into the waiting room. After they were safely out of earshot, the long, painful tale of her children’s mysterious illness poured out of her. She withheld nothing except for particular details that would betray the fiction Lars had invented to conceal their identities. Dr. Russell listened intently, nodding from time to time, prompting her with questions about the children’s diet and the onset of their symptoms, their appearance, their growth, everything. When she finished, she felt as drained as if her heart had been wrung dry, but also, for the first time, she felt a small spark of hope. No other doctor had ever listened so long and so carefully when she spoke of the children, or with such determination to glean every relevant detail, no matter how minute.

But when Dr. Russell asked her to sit down, she braced herself for the worst. “Your children are suffering from malnutrition,” he said simply.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “They have plenty to eat.”

“Yes, they have food, but the chronic diarrhea and vomiting prevent them from taking any nourishment from it,” he explained.
“Their abdomens extended from gas, their general pallor and weakness, their poor growth—these are symptoms I would expect to see in children who have an inadequate diet due to poverty and neglect. As I’ve seen, however, your other two daughters seem perfectly robust and healthy, and presumably they enjoy the same nutritious meals as their siblings.”

“They do,” said Rosa.

Dr. Russell frowned thoughtfully. “You say Ana and Miguel have no trouble keeping down tortillas, rice, and oranges.”

“Corn tortillas,” Rosa clarified. “Flour tortillas don’t agree with them. I haven’t made those in years.”

“Then I encourage you to feed them only tortillas, rice, and oranges until we get to the bottom of this,” said Dr. Russell. “I realize that doesn’t sound like a very well-balanced diet, but your most important duty now is to get some nutritious food into them.”

“Of course.” Rosa would have agreed to feed them bread and water ten times a day if Dr. Russell thought it might save them.

“When I was in the service, I worked with a physician who once described seeing a similar affliction in children in Chicago.” Balancing on his crutches, Dr. Russell fell silent, thinking. “We lost touch after I was wounded and sent home, but I believe he’s with Stanford University now.”

“Could you consult him?” asked Lars.

“Certainly. It could take some time to verify his whereabouts and get in touch with him, but once we do, he may very well be able to advise me on how to help your children.”

Dizzying relief washed over Rosa, but the doctor’s unexpected words of hope did not lessen her sense of urgency. “Could you please try to find him now?”

“Of course, the moment I’ve finished my rounds.”

“Could you find him
now
, please?” asked Rosa, more insistently. “I realize you have other patients who need your care, but I’ve already lost four children, and if I lose Ana and Miguel while I’m waiting to hear from a doctor you knew in wartime nearly a decade ago, I won’t be able to bear it.” And if his former colleague could not help them, Rosa needed to know that too, so she could seek help elsewhere, so she did not let her hopes lift her up so high she would not survive the plummet back to earth.

“Very well, Mrs. Ottesen,” Dr. Russell said. “If you and Mr. Ottesen would care to join your children outside, I’ll see what I can do.”

Lars’s strong right arm steadied her as they walked back to the waiting room, where Marta was entertaining the younger children with a story about a bold prince and three valiant princesses who escaped the clutches of an evil sorcerer by transforming themselves into bears. Rosa cuddled Miguel on her lap and held Ana’s hand as she waited for Dr. Russell to return.

The minutes passed with excruciating slowness, but at last the doctor appeared in the corridor, smiling as he swung toward them on his crutches. “Dr. Reynolds is with Stanford Hospital in San Francisco,” he said. “He was in a lecture when I telephoned, so I had to leave a message with his secretary and wait for him to call back. Not only did he recall the cases in Chicago he had told me about years ago, but he’s also currently treating several children afflicted with the same illness.” His smile broadened. “He’s observed excellent responses to a regimen created by a doctor in New York. He’s going to tell me more about it, and I’ll see if we can put your children on a similar course of treatment.”

Rosa hardly dared believe what she was hearing. “There’s a cure?”

“I don’t know if it’s fair to call it a cure when we haven’t even identified the condition, but it does seem to be an effective treatment.” Dr. Russell took a folded piece of white paper from his pocket and handed it to Lars. “Dr. Reynolds’s credentials, as well as his address and phone number, should you have any concerns about his qualifications.”

Rosa hadn’t any; his status with the university hospital was enough to impress her, and she had no other options. “When can we begin treatment?”

“I’ll need time to consult with Dr. Reynolds and to arrange the regimen. I think it would be reasonable for us to schedule an appointment a week from tomorrow.”