Bridget (The Bridget Series) (5 page)

Bridget’s Mother had
never been on a train. She was as nervous as if she was flying like a bird to the moon. She brought with her an apple pie. Bridget’s Mother had always enjoyed the happy times when the two of them would sit at the table peeling the apples and making pies.

She wiped a tear away when she realized that Bridget was going to be living 25 miles away and they might never again bake a pie together. Pa drove her to the train station and even stayed until the train began its journey.

The train seats weren’t as hard as the buckboard or the stagecoach. Bridget’s Mother took a window seat so she could enjoy the scenery. Some of the passengers nodded or smiled to her and she began to relax. The train jerked and suddenly they were moving. The scenery whizzed by. Bridget’s Mother wondered how fast they were traveling. It seemed that the fastest horse with the best rider wouldn’t have been able to keep up.

The train engineer came down the aisle, looking at and punching tickets. When she asked him how fast they were going he nonchalantly said, “Oh, about 30 miles per hour.”

“Thirty miles per hour!”

“Don’t you worry. We’ll pick up speed. You’ll be at your stop on time. We should be there in 45 minutes.”

Bridget’s Mother chuckled to herself. He thought she had been complaining that they were traveling too slow. “My, the world is getting fast,” Bridget’s Mother replied as she put her ticket back in her purse. She watched in disbelief as the fields, cattle and grass almost blended into one long mural.

Bridget was waiting at the station when the train pulled in. Several passengers got off and for a fleeting moment Bridget was worried that her mother wasn’t on the train. Since her mother wasn’t spending the night, there wouldn’t be a suitcase, so where what she? What had gone wrong? Suddenly, Bridget jumped up and down and waved as she saw her mother carefully step down the train steps tenderly cradling a bundle in her arms.

“I brought you an apple pie.”

“I’ve sure missed your pies! The food at Greenview isn’t anything like yours.”

“Where will you eat when you move in with this new family—the Schmidts?”

“Mrs. Schmidt is suppose to be a great cook. Their house always seems to smell like cinnamon or oranges. You’ll like her and I can’t wait for her to taste your apple pie!”

Bridget motioned for one of the buggy drivers and they headed for the Schmidt home. They would go there first so Bridget’s Mother could meet the family and see where Bridget would be living. Then Bridget and her mother would head over to the graduation. Dr. and Mrs. Schmidt would also be there, since he was one of the sponsors.

Bridget would also be working for Dr. Schmidt who was not only the first town doctor, but a very important physician at the hospital, which was the only hospital within a 50 mile radius. Bridget’s job would be to manage his office. Typing his patient and hospital notes, filing and running errands. Dr. Schmidt was also bringing in a new associate, a young doctor who was coming from Boston. Bridget would also type his medical notes. She didn’t know what all that entailed, but she was eager to start.

Dr. Schmidt’s office was between his home and the hospital, about two blocks on either side, so it would be easy for Bridget to make the daily trip from office to hospital and back again. Dr. Schmidt and his wife had almost the biggest house in town. Bridget thought maybe the mayor’s house was a little bigger, but not by much. The house had plenty of room for guests or boarders. Bridget would have a bedroom on the ground floor. Mrs. Schmidt was a kind woman who loved to fuss over people. Rumors had it that she was a great cook. If you stayed in her home she’d serve you a breakfast you couldn’t begin to finish—but did because it tasted so good.

Mrs. Schmidt greeted Bridget and her mother with open arms. “Welcome, welcome. Come inside.”

“My mother brought you one of her apple pies,” said Bridget nodding for her mother to give the pie to Mrs. Schmidt.

“Oh, what a pleasure. How nice of you to bring it all this way. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble for you to balance it on your lap for the entire trip.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned towards the kitchen. “Come in here and I’ll put the pie by the stove so it can get nice and warm while I get out the plates.”

The three ate warm apple pie, washing it down with milk and coffee. They spoke of lighthearted pleasant things—how the train trip had been and how well Bridget had done in school. And, Mrs. Schmidt thought that apple pie was the best she had ever eaten. Bridget’s Mother felt good about Bridget staying there.

Bridget’s room was large. There was a nice bed, a table and bowl for washing and a bureau, plus a closet. Bridget was delighted to see a full length mirror. There were even nice pictures on the wall. She felt secure and was glad her mother had been able to come to her graduation, and see where she would be living.

“We hope you’ll be happy here,” said Mrs. Schmidt putting her arm around Bridget’s waist as she gave an approving look to Bridget’s Mother. “If you need anything, you just ask. Dr. Schmidt is very pleased with how well you did in school. You can be a big help to him. He’s a wonderful man, but he does have the worst handwriting anybody has ever seen,” she said with a hearty laugh. “So, if you can’t read his handwriting, don’t be afraid to ask him what it is that he wrote down.”

Bridget and her mother headed over to the school building, which is where the graduation would be held. Mrs. Schmidt was waiting for Dr. Schmidt to come home from the hospital. Then they would also walk over to the school.

The graduation ceremony
was beautiful. All of the graduates sat on stage. Feet on the floor, erect, shoulders back, and hands folded in their laps.

The instructor spoke of the difficult program in mastering the typewriter, learning to properly file and manage what they called short hand. To emphasize that, she mentioned that at the beginning of the program the class was almost twice as large. Many couldn’t pass the weekly tests and dropped out.

Then, in alphabetical order, the name of each graduate was announced. She would stand, walk across the stage, receive a flower and her diploma, then return to her chair.

“Miss Bridget Hansen … Miss Bridget Hansen,” repeated the instructor as Bridget sensed others on the stage turning to look in her direction.

Bridget jumped up. They had to read her name twice before she realized they meant her. For so long she had been ‘Bridget Riley’, then ‘Bridget the Orphan Train Girl’. Now, it was simply ‘Miss Bridget Hansen’.

She looked at her diploma and there it was in beautiful script writing:
Miss Bridget Hansen.
She really was a Hansen. For a fleeting moment she thought of her original parents and hoped they wouldn’t have minded that she no longer used the name Riley.

After the ceremony there was a nice reception with tiny sandwiches, cookies, punch and coffee. Bridget enjoyed introducing her classmates to her mother. “Sarah, I’d like you to meet my mother.” Not my adopted mother, but ‘my mother.’

“So, you’re Bridget’s mother,” smiled a woman as she came over to chat. “I’ve heard so many lovely comments about your daughter.”

Bridget’s Mother smiled and relaxed. For everyone, it was a very good afternoon.

Taking her mother
to the train was a bittersweet experience. “I plan to come home once a month,” Bridget said, offering her mother an encouraging look. “If I watch my budget, I should be able to afford the 50 cents fare. I could take the Friday night train and then return Sunday.” “That would be wonderful,” was her mother’s soft, choked up reply.

“This has been such a special day. And, do you know, not once in this town has anybody called me ‘Orphan Train Bridget’. It’s always ‘Miss Bridget.’”

“I noticed that, too. We were introduced as mother and daughter, not ‘Mrs. Hansen and her Orphan Train daughter’. That’s such a special feeling—being somebody’s mother. Being your mother. I wish it had been that way in town. But, you just can’t stop some people from talking. There are people who don’t want you to be happy. People who get joy out of hurting others.”

“That’s one of the best parts of being here, that maybe I’ll be able to stop being ‘Orphan Train Bridget’ and be just ‘Bridget’.”

“Something else, too. Maybe this is where you are going to meet your special fellow. Remember the apple peels,” smiled Bridget’s Mother. “Keep your eye out for a man whose name begins with “D”.

B
RIDGET had never been inside
a hospital. She already knew that people only went to the hospital if they needed surgery or caught something that somebody else could catch. Most gun shot wounds were taken care of in the doctor’s office. If a horse or a fist fight got the better of you, then you’d go to the hospital to have the bones set. Most of the small surgeries, like taking out tonsils, were done in the patient’s home using the kitchen table. Mostly, you tended to yourself at home.

For a moment Bridget wondered if the parents she had when she was small died in a hospital or somewhere else. Then she forced herself not to think about that. Every since she moved here nobody had called her ‘Orphan Train Bridget’, so Bridget surmised that nobody in this town knew about her past. Maybe she would be able to just be herself.

The staff took pleasure in being able to show Bridget around the hospital offices. There was a special location where she could pick up mail that needed to be dropped off at the post office and check to see if any mail had arrived for the hospital. There was another box where the doctors would place their written notes for Bridget to type.

Bridget learned she was fortunate to be living in a time when so many improvements had occurred in the medical profession. Hospitals were now safe, because doctors learned they needed to wash their hands.

A man named Joseph Lister discovered how antiseptics would prevent infections. Doctors were then taught that before performing surgery, they must clean not only their hands properly, but also clean their instruments with the antiseptics.

Before Joseph Lister had come along, doctors would operate with dirty instruments. Most patients would live for a couple of days and a few struggled on for months, but would then die from infection.

The hospital officials were in awe of the medical advances which had occurred just since the beginning of the 1800’s. Bridget got out her pad and paper and took notes.

Soon it became apparent to Bridget that doctors liked to get credit. It seems that an American surgeon, Crawford W. Long, used ether as a general anesthetic during surgery but, unfortunately, didn’t publish that fact. Then along came dentist William Morton who did the same thing, but wrote down what he had done and published the information. He got the credit.

That was one of the reasons Bridget was at the hospital. To make sure that Dr. Schmidt and any other doctor received the credit they deserved. She was to document everything.

Even doctors who didn’t do research wanted to make sure there was a record that they had washed their hands and cleaned their instruments.

Bridget felt that someday every doctor’s office would have a typewriter—and somebody who knew how to use it. Bridget was beginning to comprehend that her job was important. Gradually, Bridget was awakening to the thought that she could matter, both to herself and to others.