Promise to Cherish (3 page)

She picked up Sonny’s chalk and slate on the floor next to his bed. As a young boy, deaf and dumb, he was sent to the Children’s Ward. There he’d been taught to write a few simple words in order to communicate. She blinked back hot tears when she saw what was scratched onto the slate.

Cold.

“Let me assure you that you are not to blame.” Ms. Phancock released such a heavy sigh Christine could feel the weight of it around her. The administrator made a fist with her hand and pursed her lips.

“Ma’am?” She laid the slate back down on the frozen floor.

“We need more workers.” Ms. Phancock’s fist pulsed up and down with each word. “You and the rest of the staff cannot possibly do more than you already are.”

Christine agreed, of course, as she looked at the tragedy before her.

She found herself sorry that Sonny’s nakedness was so visible, more than Wayne’s. Of course, they often had more naked patients than clothed ones. Keeping patients clothed was difficult if they were incontinent or when they displayed erratic behavior. But this time it seemed worse. He wasn’t just asleep or behaving dangerously. He was a human being who was lying naked in front of everyone coming in or near the room. She untied her apron and draped it over his lower body.

“What are you doing?” Nurse Minton asked as she strode in. Christine looked up at the older nurse. Her hair was already coming out of her severe bun, as if she’d been working all day instead of only a few hours.

“He deserves some dignity.” Christine turned to her superior.

“Thank you, Nurse Freeman,” Ms. Phancock said. “You’re right.”

Nurse Minton remained quiet.

“Can we tell the state what’s happening here? Maybe they will find a way to get us the help we need.”

“That sounds about as likely as a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.” Ms. Phancock sighed as she spoke. She patted Christine on the shoulder and told her that Gibson from the morgue would be there soon, then she left.

The two nurses remained in the room, silently together for several pregnant moments.

“Did you record Rodney’s insulin shock therapy today?” Nurse Minton finally broke the quiet.

“Nurse Minton, we have a real tragedy here, and you want to talk about insulin treatment?”

“We are nurses, Freeman. This is our job.” Her voice came out harshly, and even the old, jaded nurse seemed to realize it and cleared her throat. “I’ve been around long enough to know this is part of the job—though terrible, I understand. I also know that we have to keep the ward running regardless; otherwise another tragedy will be right around the corner.”

Christine nodded. Minton was right. She turned toward the older nurse and stifled a loud sigh. “Yes, Rodney got his insulin treatment.”

“Did his anxiety and aggressiveness subside? I was dealing with the other hall and haven’t checked on him yet.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Subsided was putting it mildly. Rodney had gone into a coma from the massive dose of insulin. He had lost all control several hours earlier when the doctor had come to see him about his outburst the night before. Like a frayed rope under too much strain, he snapped. “Tonic-clonic seizures continued for several minutes post therapy. He’s being observed for any aftershocks now.”

“Fine.” Nurse Minton looked at Christine out of the bottoms of her eyes, with her chin up and nose in the air. The older nurse was no taller than the younger, but looked down at her
in any way she could find. Tall women were typically placed on men’s wards with the expectation that they would be able to better handle the larger male patients.

“Dr. Franklin has a standing order of barbital for him. If he wakes up agitated I will administer it. Dr. Franklin said to keep him in the restraints until he returns.” The use of the sleeping drug was a mainstay in the hospital.

“I’ll leave you to deal with Gibson and the morgue; I’ll get back to the patients. We still have a full day.” The older nurse started walking out of the room.

“Nurse Minton, don’t you wish there was more we could do? You’ve been here for years and I’m new, but I already feel so helpless.”

“Adkins said you were idealistic.” The older nurse’s mouth curled into an unfriendly and mocking smile. “Idealism doesn’t work in a place like this. Look around, Freeman. This facility is its own town, with its own community. You know that. Do you think the state is going to listen to you, a woman just barely a nurse? Your very meals depend on the garden the patients maintain and their harvest and canning in the fall. Why do you think it’s like that?” She paused for a minuscule moment, appearing not to want an answer from Christine. “Because no one wants to bother with the patients. No one wants to even believe they exist, including the families that drop them off. They want to go on with their nice simple lives behind their picket fences and pretend this beautiful building isn’t more prison than hospital. Besides, even if we had more clothing for the patients, what we really need are workers. There’s just too many patients and not enough of us.”

They’d been over capacity for a long time without any help in sight. The war had taken so many of their staff away while an excessive number of patients poured in—some of them soldiers returning from the war and unable to cope.

Without another word, Nurse Minton walked away but turned back after several steps.

“Adkins says you sing hymns to your patients.” One of her eyebrows arched and a crooked smirk shifted across her lips.

“I think it helps their nerves,” she said pushing up her glasses though they had not slipped down her nose.

“Sing all you want, as long as you’re getting your work finished.” The nurse turned and walked away.

“S’cuse me, ma’am,” a deep voice said a few moments later.

Christine’s eyes caught Gibson’s. He was holding one end of a canvas stretcher and a younger man held the other. Gibson was a tall, brawny colored man with a voice that was gravelly yet still somehow kind. His cottony hair and eyebrows reminded Christine of summer clouds. His eyes, on the other hand, haunted her.

Gibson’s job was to gather the deceased and take them across the hospital grounds to the morgue. If warranted, a doctor would perform an autopsy before the patient was prepared for burial. In that brief moment she returned to a hot August day when she had observed an autopsy. Half her class fainted. Christine nearly had herself. The odor, sight, and sounds, mixed with the humidity, made her fantasize about running away from the school.

Now, in the frozen days of winter, Christine wanted to pretend she was somewhere else. She shuffled awkwardly back toward the wall near the windows, her knees locked. She could not watch them take the bodies away, not like this. Without a word, she pushed past them and left the room. She ran to the opposite end of the hall and leaned against the stairwell door.

CHAPTER 2

E
li Brenneman blew warmth into his hands. They were chapped and calloused. He and several other Civilian Public Service campers had been digging fence posts for what seemed like a month. How this satisfied the government was beyond him. Requiring hard labor from thousands of men, without paying them a dime, had nothing to do with the war effort—but there were worse options for him. Several inches of wet snow had fallen while they worked. The rubber boots he wore sunk into the slush along the ditch. He wiggled his toes, trying to keep them from going numb. He would have to write to his
mem
for another pair of socks.

The sun settled deeper into the sky. It was late afternoon but he wasn’t sure what day of the week it was. Days rose and fell, one after another, and were each the same except Sundays. Since they didn’t work on Sundays, it was the slowest day of the week. The dark winter evenings seemed to last an eternity—it made him so stir crazy he couldn’t even sit still to read a book. Sundays made him miss the comfort of his Amish settlement in Sunrise, Delaware. He’d been away for several months and missed the steady lifestyle of his community. The world beyond
his home was not as wonderful as he’d imagined, especially as a conscientious objector living in a country at war. Going into town wasn’t even allowed because of the dangers. Conscientious objectors were not liked.

The relief he’d experienced when his draft appointment had arrived pricked his heart. He had wanted to leave his community—his family, even. But when he arrived at the camp he realized what he really wanted to leave behind was himself. He dug the posthole digger harder and deeper thinking about his disloyalty to those who depended on and loved him. He had taken up with the Civilian Public Service almost joyfully, even making jokes about it. He had gotten himself in too deep back home—with girls, his influence, his lack of responsibility. The one thing he was good at was running the farm. But still, he left without a care.

He yanked his hat off and wiped away the sweat. The dampness around his head made him colder. Eli pulled the hat deep onto his head. The labor camp work was more draining than anything he’d ever done. Being raised on a dairy farm had always been demanding, but the rewards of the labor made it worth the effort. Here he was working merely to pacify the government. It was just work to keep them busy and away from home. Surely there was more meaningful work they could do.

“Brenneman,” a loud voice called from a short distance away.

Eli turned to see one of the camp directors waving him into the administrative building.

“You in trouble again?” one of his fellow campers said with a chuckle as Eli ran in.

Eli didn’t feel much warmer once inside the administrative building but was glad to be out of the wind. He went into the office and waited for the director to acknowledge him before he sat down. Stewart Blunt was a nice man, older with deep lines in his brow. He was thorough and friendly, but there was always
a measure of sadness around his eyes. Eli watched as Stewart looked over a document with a grimaced face, mumbling as he read the words. It sounded like a buzzing bee. Eli had to keep himself from laughing. Mr. Blunt cleared his throat as he stacked the documents against the desk and then looked up at Eli with a smile.

“Eli, please, have a seat.” He gestured to the seat in front of the organized aluminum desk.

Eli sat and his mind spun. Why was he called into the office this time? He’d been in there often. It was a running joke among the other campers that he was always in trouble, but he never was. In reality he hadn’t done anything to get himself into trouble, but the idea usually followed him regardless. He’d once been asked to keep morale up when there had been some unrest regarding the campers in the nearby communities. Another time the director asked Eli to manage the crew building a new chicken house. Yet another time to head up the building of a new fence.

“We have an opportunity and I think you’re perfect for it.” He paused. “There’s a unit being detached to Poughkeepsie, New York. Thirty men. You’d be thirty-one.” He paused and looked back at the document. His mouth moved while he mumbled what he read. The buzzing returned.

“What’s in Poughkeepsie?”

“Hudson River State Hospital. It’s for the mentally unstable, the insane, the feeble-minded. They are over capacity and under-manned.”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I’d be any good working in a hospital.”

“Well, these jobs usually are a mite more specialized. Many of the men in the unit have some college education or experience working in hospitals before. But I think you’ll catch on. So you’re being transferred.”

“How would I even fit into this group? I only have an eighth-grade education.”

“You’ll receive training and attend classes once you arrive at the hospital. And, let me assure you, this unit will be there to enrich the lives of the patients and offer custodial care. You’ll bathe them and help them eat—keep them corralled, so to speak. I don’t think you need anything more than human kindness to do this kind of work.” The man grinned a little. “We have detached units all over the country working in hospitals like this and reports are saying that not only are the hospitals appreciative of the service, but the campers are feeling useful. They say that the job is very rewarding. This is an all-Mennonite unit, so you’ll be fine in that regard. You have proven yourself here and you are a very strong young man.”

“Strong?”

“Yes, apparently they are really looking for people who are tall and strong to help with the unruly patients. When I read that, I instantly thought of you.” As if handing Eli a compliment, his smile grew wider.

Eli’s shoulders sagged. They only needed his brute strength? Was that all he was good for? The fact that he’d been asked to head up some of the building projects came to mind. He inhaled, and for the first time in his life he found his mind and heart longing and praying for God’s peace.

“When do I leave?” he sighed.

“April.” The director stood and put a hand out to Eli.

Eli shook the director’s hand and after signing a form turned to leave.

“Oh, Eli, here’s a letter for you. It was missed earlier.” The older man’s furrow lifted momentarily as he smiled and handed Eli the envelope. “Looks like pretty handwriting—sugar report?”

Eli nearly rolled his eyes at the mention of
sugar report
. Sim
ply any letter from a girl did not make it a sugar report, which, in the CPS, were letters from wives and girlfriends. Matilda did not fit into these descriptions.

“Not quite,” he answered back as he grabbed the letter and stuffed it into his back pocket. “Matilda’s just a friend.”

After his duties and their evening meal, he retreated to the barracks. There were several conscies setting up a Monopoly board and a few others writing letters or reading. He went to the sink in the corner of the room and washed his face and hair. The cool wind that coursed through the broken window nearby chilled him. His wet hair was icy.

“Hey, Eli, you coming?” One of the men he worked with held up some Monopoly money.

He shook his head. “Not tonight.”

The group moved on with the game without him.

He reached his bottom bunk and pulled out Matilda’s letter. She’d been true to her word and written him faithfully. He’d also been true to his word and barely wrote her back; in both letters he’d written in the two months he’d been away he closed it with
Your Friend
hoping it would remind her that there was nothing special between them. Her letters always covered all the district’s news. One letter even described his brother Mark and Sylvia’s wedding down to the sliced almonds that decorated their cake. It wasn’t a month after he left for the CPS that they were quickly married. He’d always known that Sylvia wasn’t the girl for him, but dating her made Mark angry. Why had he done that? Of course Mark hated him.