The Doctor's Undoing (3 page)

“I take it the Eckersalls didn't...”

“They did, but not nearly what they ought to have,” she said, cutting him off. “It was all I could do not to be offended. And now we're resorting to army nurses.” She made it sound like the most drastic of choices, sniffing a final proclamation of annoyance in the Eckersalls' direction. “I'd expected more of Lydia Eckersall, really.”

Mother expected more of everyone. She had good reason. There was a time—back before the war changed so much—when a single direct glare from Amelia Parker could move societal mountains. “The Parkers are a force to be reckoned with,” Father would always say when Mother had achieved one of her social victories. The name still commanded—and demanded—respect, but not on the scale it once had.

“The war has ground down many fortunes.” Daniel sighed. It was what he always told himself to ease the sting of shrinking donations. All while the mountain of need continued to grow.

“Well, not
his
,” Mother nearly hissed. “All the more reason to show some kindness to the unfortunate, I said.” Daniel huffed, and she turned to look at him, her eyes softening. He held her gaze until she backed down. “Well, of course I didn't actually
say
that, but I tell you the thought hung in my mind. You should go over there and make him see why he of all people should contribute more.”

Difficult as she was, it was hard to stay annoyed with his mother. For years, Amelia Parker had nearly single-handedly funded the causes of her choice, bending the pockets of Charleston society to her will in the name of any number of philanthropies. His father had been named chairman of the war-bond effort not so much for his persuasive skills as for his wife's. But the orphanage had always been their special project—the one to which they had given their name, and their direct supervision. Daniel's mother felt charity to be her God-given gift, and she wielded it with a boldness the Lord Himself surely admired. Her stories from after the War Between the States, her tales of generosity to friend and foe alike, were the foundation of his faith, shaky as it was.

Only it seemed as if those rules of Southern culture were shifting without this generation's permission. Mother couldn't fathom that the playing field had so shifted, and every time her application of social pressure failed to achieve desired results, she would command, “You go over there and make him see.”

“I will,” Daniel conceded, returning to his coffee. And he likely would. He could leave no stone unturned, no pocket unbeseeched, in the name of the Home. For the Home was his “gift,” a yoke settled on his shoulders by both earthly and heavenly fathers. His earthly father had since joined his heavenly one, leaving Daniel to run the Home and its ever-growing operations. “Only I doubt I'll have better results.”

Mother folded the fan shut and pointed it at Daniel. “A Parker prevails, always.” She invoked the family motto whenever Daniel expressed doubts as to his ability to call forth charity out of thin air as his parents once did.

He had begun to wonder if the adage had crumbled with Charleston's other traditions.

Chapter Three

B
y Wednesday morning, Ida had settled in sufficiently to launch a thorough examination of her new infirmary. It was a small, tidy place, brighter than the rest of the facility thanks to the traditional white of the furnishings. A wall of cabinets and a small desk, as well as three chairs and a meager examining table, completed the room. Ida had spent the past hour peering into cabinets and opening drawers, stopping far too often to wrangle her hair back into place.

She'd been here not even two full days and already the humidity had wound her curls into a bird's nest. Wasn't it supposed to be cooler by the sea? Either it was the humidity or the closed-in feeling of these buildings, but Charleston seemed to be poaching her composure. Not to mention the woeful lack of supplies—if there was one thing the army had been, it was well stocked. Not so here. Counting far too few rolls of bandages, Ida blew out an irritated breath.

“Something not to your liking, Miss Landway?”

She startled, banging her head on the cabinet. Hard. The blow sent her backward into her desk chair, nearly toppling furniture and nurse over in an undignified heap.

“Don't you knock?” she snapped, head stinging. Ida looked up, cringing in recognition as her eyes met the owner of that voice. “Pardon me, Dr. Parker, I hadn't meant to be so direct. You startled me.”

“The door was already ajar. And somehow I think you
always
mean to be so direct.”

Ida grabbed the chair arm, seeing stars. “It seems I can't find enough open doors and windows in this heat. And what's that supposed to mean about being direct?”

Dr. Parker pushed the infirmary door farther ajar and peered at her. “You're bleeding.”

Ida reached a hand up to her hairline only to feel a wet warmth that confirmed the doctor's diagnosis. “Your cabinet has teeth.” She went to walk toward the cabinet, but found rising to be a rather painful enterprise.

“Sit back down,” Dr. Parker ordered, motioning her into the chair. “I am a doctor, you know.”

“Why Dr. Parker, that could almost be called a joke.” Ida sucked in a breath as a change of expression sent a stinging pain through her forehead.

“Despite what you may have heard, I do possess a minute portion of bedside manner.” He reached into the predatory cabinet and handed back a bottle of disinfectant and a roll of bandages.

Ida took them gingerly. “I'd have preferred to discover your lighter side under more dignified circumstances.”

He turned and narrowed his eyes at her forehead. “Let's hope you don't need to discover my skill with sutures, shall we?” He made an odd motion toward his own head with his hands.

She cocked her head at the gesture, an unfortunate choice since it sent sparks of pain flying across her hairline. Furrowing her brow against the ache only made things worse.

Dr. Parker made the motion again, then finally rolled his eyes. “Your hair, Miss Landway. You'll need to move it out of the way.”

“Well, why didn't you say so?” Ida slipped off her nurse's cap and went to smooth her hair back—only to be rewarded with bloody fingers and an additional stab of pain. “My stars, but that smarts.”

Dr. Parker unrolled a swath of bandage, snipped it from the roll and handed it to her. “I'm sure I don't have to tell you to apply gentle pressure.”

“No need to tell me to be nice to my own noggin. Not when it hurts like this.” She gave the cabinet an angry look. “What in blazes bit me in there?”

Dr. Parker must have been wondering the same thing, for he was already running his hand around the corner of the shelf. “This. There's a nail that's come loose from the hinge.” He returned his gaze to her. “I don't think it's cut too deep or you'd be bleeding more than you are. You'll be spared my stitchery, I suspect, but I'll send MacNeil in here immediately to take care of this cabinet.” He leaned against the small desk. “Let's have a look.”

Looking up at him, Ida felt small. She'd tended everything from sergeants to generals and never felt ill at ease, but Daniel Parker made her jittery. Yes, he was her superior, but that didn't explain the discomfort that always walked into a room ahead of him. “I'm sure I'm fine.”

“Did you know,” Dr. Parker said as he peeled her hand away from the bandage and lifted it himself, “one of the first things they told me in medical school was that when a patient insists he's fine, he seldom is.”

“I'm not a patient, I'm a nurse.” He was close enough that she could smell the soap on his hands. She could see the spot on his cheek where he'd nicked himself shaving this morning. She closed her eyes, mentally putting a dozen miles between them before her head chose to resume swimming.

“At present, you're a patient. And a difficult one, were I asked to categorize.”

Ida heard him unscrew the top of the disinfectant bottle. “You're about to douse me with that horrid stinging stuff and
I'm
the difficult one?”

He gave a low laugh. The sound surprised her, popping her eyes open despite her best intentions. He was way too close. She squinted them shut again. “Chin up, Miss Landway.” He'd applied his “doctor voice,” the one she knew every medical professional employed when about to do something that would cause pain. “This will only hurt for a moment.”

“If you think I—” A hiss of pain cut off the rest of her thought as the disinfectant found its target. If she hadn't been seeing stars before, she saw a whole constellation now. “Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers... I'd forgotten how much that smarts.”

She felt Dr. Parker's hand take hers and guide it up to hold the gauze in place. He had a doctor's touch—precise, firm and yet a bit tentative. Theirs wasn't the classic doctor-patient relationship—at least not in this case—and his touch told her he felt as uncomfortable as she did. In a moment or two she opened her eyes to see him leaning against the table, putting the cap back on the disinfectant, wearing the echo of a grin. Not a full smile, mind you, just the echo of one.

Ida lowered her good brow. “You enjoyed that.”

“On the contrary. I'm merely glad you didn't cry. A good many of my patients end up in tears around here, so I'm grateful when I get the chance to tend to an adult.” He set the bottle down. “Genesis?”

“A trick I learned at Camp Jackson. Keeping a patient speaking helps prevent them from tensing up in pain. Some of those boys had to endure me pulling up bandages day after day, so I'd cue them if they didn't know their books of the Bible. Opened up a lot of conversation about the topic, too.”

“Are you in the habit of conversing on the nature of your patients' souls?”

Ida couldn't tell if Dr. Parker considered that a good thing. “Only when the Good Lord opens the door. I'd understood this to be a Christian institution.”

“It is, but the army is not.”

“Dr. Parker, you'd be amazed how much a man wants to talk about his soul if he thinks he's dying. Or ought to have died. I'll tell you, God is more in that army hospital than lots of churches.” Parker shook his head as if he didn't know how to respond. Now that her head felt a tad clearer, Ida thought it might be time to stand her ground. “
Is
this a Christian institution, Dr. Parker? Does God live here at the Parker Home for Orphans?”

She took some comfort in the fact that Dr. Parker thought for a moment before answering. She didn't want some rote response to a question like that. Finally, he said, “I'd like to think He does, yes.” After a second he added, “That's a rather bold question for someone who has been here two days. Why did you feel the need to ask it?”

You've opened the door, Lord, I'm walking through it.
“Because—” she dabbed one last time before taking the bandage from her brow “—were that the case, I'd think this place would have more joy in it.”

That brought a gruff laugh from the doctor. “You're expecting joy—from displaced orphans?”

“Dr. Parker, I expect joy from everyone. I believe in joy. I thrive on it. And yes, I've only been here two days, but I tell you this place is more dull gray than the army was drab green. Seems to me children are naturally happy, noisy, joyful creatures. I know they've seen hard times, but that ought not to knock all that happiness out of them. And if that
has
happened, I think maybe it's our job to give that joy back to them. So far I haven't seen that. I hope you don't mind my saying you could knock me over with the quiet in this place.”

Dr. Parker tugged on his vest. “You are not shy with your opinions, are you?”

Ida shrugged. “I'm not shy, period. If I've got something to say, I'm going to say it—provided it's worth saying, that is.”

She waited for him to reprimand her for her tongue—it had happened often enough at Camp Jackson—but he stroked his chin with eyes narrowed in consideration. “I think you have much to learn about troubled children. And I suspect your assessment of what's ‘worth saying' might differ greatly from mine.”

Ida folded her hands in her lap. Mama always said she let her mouth run ahead of her sense.

“But I do wonder if we couldn't use a dose of positive thinking around here.”

Ida looked up, feeling the first sparkles of hope light in her chest.

“You're welcome to share your opinions, but I will ask that you do me the courtesy of sharing them with me and not with the other staff. I should like to temper your...shall we say, enthusiasm...with a bit of experience and practicality. I'd like to think I am in charge for a good reason.”

Ida nodded. “You
are
in charge, Doctor. If the army's taught me anything, it's how to take orders.” It wasn't really a fib, though it was unquestionably an exaggeration. She'd been written up for doing just the opposite more times than she cared to count. But she'd been working on it—and praying on it—and would continue to do so.

“See you mind that cut for the next day or two. And stay away from Louie Oberman until you're sure it won't bleed again. The poor child vomits at even a drop of blood.”

* * *

MacNeil knocked on Daniel's study door that afternoon. “I fixed the infirmary cabinet like you asked. Found one or two other loose nails and fixed them, too.” The groundskeeper wiped his hands on his trousers. “You mind telling me what she was doing poking her head into that cabinet?”

It had been an amusing scene to walk past the infirmary and see the profile of Miss Landway bent over with her head in the cabinets. “I expect our new nurse likes to poke her head into everything.” He chose his description carefully. “She seems more...enthusiastic than I was expecting.”

MacNeil smiled. “She's a bit of life in her, to be sure. Not a bad thing, all around. Different from the others, though.”

“That's what I'm hoping. We need this one to stay.”

MacNeil nodded. “Aye, we do. I wasn't much for the last one, if you don't mind my saying. She looked afraid of everything, and little ones pick right up on such things.”

The last nurse had indeed been a disaster. A frail, delicate woman who seemed astonished by every bump and bruise. She looked far more suited to a nanny's job than to nursing fifty-eight children's daily scrapes and ill stomachs. It's exactly why he had turned to the army, thinking an army nurse would have the stalwart constitution to take on whatever harm the children encountered. “Miss Landway doesn't strike me as afraid of anything.”

“We're no battlefield. It can't be that hard for her to tend to this lot.”

“I'd say we have a rather good safety record for the number of children and the age of our facilities. I owe a lot of that to you.” He did. MacNeil was a master of repairs, cobbling together old parts and generally working wonders with precious little funding. “I can't think of anyone we depend on more than you.”

MacNeil flushed. “Don't let Grimshaw be hearing you say that. Or worse yet, Mrs. Smiley.” He leaned in. “It's my opinion Smiley thinks she's second in command.”

“Nonsense,” Daniel replied with a smile, “you are.”

This sent MacNeil into a gush of laughter. “I don't know why everyone says you're such a serious lot. I find you funny. Smart, yes, but you can make your share of jokes when it suits you.”

“Only with you.”

“Well, I'll be making no jokes with the kitchen drains this afternoon. We got one working fine enough, but the other one's giving me fits. I might need to buy some new parts.” He delivered that last line with the air of bad news. It was—the Home had endured a run of failing equipment in the past month, and the budgets were stretched already.

“Parkers prevail, MacNeil. We'll find a way to make it work.”

MacNeil nodded as he turned toward the door. “You always do, sir. You always do.”