A White Room (26 page)

“And I get to make people feel better, all day,” she said.

“Is it difficult? Or…disturbing?”

She leaned forward. “School was difficult.”

“You said you went here?”

“They only teach introductory courses here. You have to go to a hospital-based school before you can apply for a nursing license. It takes about three years, and the hours are grueling, but you get to have hands-on experience with patients. The nursing students provide almost all of the hospital labor, even in surgery.”

“That’s astounding. I didn’t—”

“Ms. McKenzie!” A flustered woman I recognized as a teacher burst into the office. “Come quick.”

Ms. McKenzie stood, and I raised my hands but hesitated, unsure what to do with them. She grabbed a clipboard and hustled to the filing cabinet, yanked out a sheet of paper, clipped it to the board, and thrust it at me. “Come on. First patient.” She and the other woman rushed out.

I followed them into the main infirmary room with all the beds. I halted at the sight of a woman about my age writhing in pain. She lay on the first bed to the left with her foot propped on a stack of towels. Her shoes and stockings had been removed and her peach-colored skirt hiked up, revealing her white petticoats underneath. A piece of glass the size of a silver dollar stuck out from an open wound on the side of her right foot.

The teacher paced back and forth. “I don’t think I can look. Blood makes me faint.”

“Emeline, I need to call in the doctor for this.” She motioned to the teacher. “Mrs. Simon, come with me, please.” She touched the frantic teacher on the back and directed her toward the door. “I’ll be right back, Emeline.” As she passed me, she whispered, “Try to distract her.”

I swallowed and inched toward the patient.

The bed’s metal frame squeaked as she clenched it and shifted. She had a small round face and golden, curly hair falling out of a tousled pompadour.

I studied her foot. The shard of glass had embedded itself near her heel. Blood and dirt were caked along the side and bottom of her foot, but the wound wasn’t gushing. It glistened. I realized it didn’t bother me to look at it.

I lowered myself into a chair. “I didn’t get your name.”

“Lucille…Mills,” she said as she crinkled her face.

I wrote it down. “I’m Emeline Evans.”

She grimaced.

“What happened?”

“My friends and I were having a picnic, and I took my boots off to feel the grass.…We were being foolish, playing around, and I just stepped on it.”

I blinked and widened my eyes, surprised that she had taken her shoes off in public. Intrigued and kind of in awe, I wanted to ask her more, but I realized discussing how she’d done it wasn’t doing much to distract her. “How long have you been at Grantville?”

“Huh?” She glanced over and gulped. “Oh, um…my first year.”

“Me, too. Well, second trimester.”

Her eyebrows dipped.

“What are you taking?”

Lucille focused on her foot. “Home finances, child education.”

“Do you have Mrs. Kratz?”

She dipped her head with a swallow.

“Did she tell your class about her husband’s hair dilemma?”

She shifted her eyes in my direction. “Yes.”

“And the cream that turned his scalp yellow?”

“Yes.” She giggled and loosened her grip on the bed. “She’s not too modest, is she?”

I shook my head. “Do you think she tells everyone about it or just her students?”

Ms. McKenzie returned, her skirts shuffling. She slowed and relaxed at the sound of our tee-hees.

I shifted to face her. “Ms. McKenzie, have you ever heard of a balding remedy that turns the scalp yellow?”

She held back a mischievous smile. “So you’re taking Mrs. Kratz then?”

Lucille roared and I doubled over. Lucille even bounced her foot, but after a quick “ouch,” she propped herself up on her elbows and continued laughing. Her tears were gone and her cheeks flushed.

“Well, you got this one to pep up.” Miss McKenzie propped her hand on her hip. “I think you’d make a fine nurse after all.”

Twenty-One

July 1901

Labellum, Missouri

L
ottie’s craftiness consisted of a scheme in which she acted as the source of contact and connected families in need with me. Then I stole about town under my ridiculous pseudonym, “Mrs. Freeman.” Lottie insisted on my continued use of the name because it led people to expect someone different, not because she thought it absolutely hilarious. We crossed the “emergencies only” line immediately and never looked back.

To arrange time to see these people, I had to neglect some responsibilities and rush through other duties, such as calls. The mattresses weren’t always flipped, and the mirrors acquired a little dust, but John wouldn’t notice anything. He wouldn’t realize it if I stopped cleaning altogether. He wouldn’t notice if I served cooked toad.

During that first truly blistering-hot month of summer, I saw several women and children who were exhausted from the heat in the fields. I brought them water to drink, fed them sugary pastries and apples, and gave them damp rags to place on the backs of their necks. I mixed up an aloe jelly for their sunburns and gave them two old parasols for shade while they worked.

There was a malnourished elderly woman, her lips endlessly chapped, plagued by head lice. I soaked her hair in kerosene oil and wrapped it up like that. I told her to keep the cloth on for a full night and day, and soak again at least three times to kill the lice and their nits. After a full day, the lice died and she thoroughly washed her hair using soaps I provided. I also gave her petroleum jelly for her lips and recommended she eat eggs and milk daily to keep the skin healthy.

Lottie helped with a few calls involving a first-time mother frantic over her newborn’s colic. Lottie instructed the mother to feed more often for shorter periods of time and avoid cow’s milk. Lottie and I took turns visiting her and watching the baby so the exhausted mother could sleep or run errands. Lottie said I must always keep the baby moving gently with rocking and swaying, never bouncing. After my first deafening visit riddled with panic, I offered to do Lottie’s chores so she could take more shifts.

After seeing a few people, I realized those who couldn’t afford doctors didn’t need the advice of a professional for things no worse than minor burns and shallow cuts, which were certainly not worth the expense. My experience from volunteering and knowledge of home remedies were more than sufficient to solve most ailments. I planned to refer to John’s medical texts if I came across conditions or symptoms I wasn’t familiar with, but many didn’t need medical assistance at all. I found myself a teacher on several calls, providing—ironically enough—lessons in home care. Many people were still poorly informed regarding germs. Much of what I saw could be solved with proper nutrition, diet, and a clean household.

The Whitmays’ dilemmas stemmed from a lack of knowledge after the loss of Mrs. Whitmay, whose role, as a mother, was to tend to matters of health and hygiene. After our first meeting, I continued to look after the Whitmay children’s health, and Mr. Whitmay developed a profound trust in me. Thus when he discovered his daughter injured, he had Lottie send for me. I rushed over, and Mr. Whitmay hurried me in and pointed me toward his eldest daughter, Wendy.

The tenement felt like a hothouse, but Wendy had a blanket over her. I knelt beside her and she sat up. I tried to touch her arm reassuringly, but she pulled away. Mr. Whitmay removed the blanket. Wendy looked off blank-faced, as if she weren’t aware of the slick blood between her legs. Bright red streaked across the blanket but appeared like black smears on Wendy’s dark skin. Much of it was dry, but some glistened. I searched all over her lower body but couldn’t find anything.

When I learned she had woken that way and just turned twelve, I exhaled and smiled gingerly. I explained what happens to girls when they get older and to women every month. Mothers often waited until bleeding occurred before explaining it to their daughters. When it had first happened to me, I thought I was dying. I told her she was becoming a woman. This was pleasing to little Wendy, who must have thought she was dying, too.

The expression on Mr. Whitmay’s face suggested he hadn’t even thought of it. Women often kept their monthly bleeding hidden, so Mr. Whitmay probably didn’t know enough to recognize it. It was only natural to panic when his daughter appeared inexplicably blood-smeared one morning.

People apologized for requesting the illegal assistance, but it wasn’t necessary. Each time my knowledge went to good use,
I
was of good use. For the first time, I was not making choices for the sake of my family, my husband, or my station. I acted of my own free will. My problems were still there, but my secret, the use of my own will made the façade tolerable. I was happy. I was actually happy. It made me think of that white room. This would be the part where the woman stood on the other side and breathed in the fresh air. She knew it couldn’t last forever—eventually, everything would collapse and there would be no more air—but she didn’t care. She just breathed.

Twenty-Two

August 1901

I
pulled out my chair and sat at the dining room table for breakfast—coffee, milk, fresh berries, and flapjacks with butter and syrup. I had been craving flapjacks like our old servant Kathy used to make, and I woke up early Saturday morning so I could get started on them. Just the right amount of sunlight from outside brightened the dining room’s maroon wallpaper and created a cheery atmosphere. Even the reptile flatware seemed in good spirits. I felt cheery as well, transitioning into lighter mourning clothes. I rushed the transition a little because women wore lighter colors in summer and I didn’t want to stand out more than necessary. John sat at the head of the table eating with a book to his left. I wrote in a notebook to my right, trying to organize my thoughts. With my extra responsibilities, I found myself struggling to keep track of my daily duties.

Oh, yes, I remembered now. I wrote, “Ella
and Francis—make amends…?” I couldn’t have these women constantly watching me, waiting for a fit of hysteria. I had managed to soothe Margaret’s disapproval by spending an entire call expressing compliments and gratitude, but Ella and Francis would not be so easily pleased. Nevertheless, they had avoided me since I forced them out of my house, so maybe I didn’t have to fake friendliness. I certainly didn’t want to be friends, at least not with Francis, who—

“Emeline?”

I lifted my head.

John stared with raised eyebrows.

“Yes?”

“Did you not hear me?”

I locked onto his dark eyes. “I’m listening.”

“Well, I—” He turned those eyes down. “How have you been feeling?”

“I am well…still.”

“I am pleased to hear it.”

I went back to making notes. “I wish everyone would stop with this health nonsense,” I said under my breath.

“Pardon?”

I scratched notes as I spoke. “I’m sick and tired of people constantly prying when I wasn’t ill to begin with.”

“I find it interesting you would question a physician.”

I made a few more marks on the paper.

“Let us speak of something else,” he said.

“Whatever you like.” Inside I scoffed at the idea of having a conversation.

“Have you gotten all settled in the house?”

I looked at him, baffled. We had been there nearly eight months. “Yes.”

“That was silly.” He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “Of course you are.” He took a bite of food.

I returned to my task.

“What are you writing?”

I clung to my line of thought. “Um…notes.”

“Notes about what?”

I sighed. “Things I need to do.”

“Oh.”

I thought of a few books I should sneak out of John’s library.

“You never used to take notes.”

I recalled a text that described symptoms and attached conditions to them. What was it called?