The Immortelles (31 page)

Elena straightened up with astonishment. “He did! That's fine!”

“It's fine because I'm not having him.”

Elena Madariaga was not adapted to the hard way of life that her family now had to endure. Her brow wrinkled, and she said hurriedly, “Damita, you must think about that. Why, he could give you everything.”

“No, he couldn't, Mama.”

“Certainly he could! He has enough money to buy a place in town and to make this place pay.”

“That's not everything, Mama.”

Elena studied her daughter's eyes, then shook her head. “You've always had a romantic streak in you, but I'm worried about the future.”

“We'll be all right. Yancy will see us through.”

Elena sat down. This had come as a blow to her.

“It'll be all right, Mama,” Damita said and sat down beside her. She put her arm around her mother and hugged her. “Yancy won't let us down.”

Elena tried to smile. “I always thought you were more interested in Dr. Whitman, but he hasn't been out for a while. Have you quarreled with him?”

“No, but I expect he's very busy. The yellow fever's spread again in New Orleans.”

“Mercy, I hope it doesn't get out here. That's one blessing of living outside of the city. We're safe in the country.”

“I don't think that's exactly true. The Wilsons' cook is down with what they think is yellow fever. They're only three miles from here.”

“Don't talk like that! I can't bear to think about that awful sickness.”

“All right. I've got to go see about getting supper started. What would you like, Mama? Ernestine will teach me how to fix it for you.”

“I'm so tired, you could scrape it off with a stick,” Elmo Debakky moaned. He and Jeff Whitman had entered the house and now stood inside the foyer. They had both been working long hours to care for the yellow fever victims. The number of dead had risen throughout May, and it was still rising. Both of the men were depressed; they had lost fifty-nine patients that week. “There's starting to be a panic over this epidemic,” Jeff said wearily. “People are leaving the city as fast as they can. I suppose they're wise.”

Indeed, the population of New Orleans was leaving by the hundreds, on cart, wagon, horseback—any way they could flee. The very poor had to walk, leading their children by the hands and carrying what they could in their free arms. The streets were strangely quiet, for the cake sellers, the knife sharpeners, the fish peddlers stayed at home, frightened or sick. Slowly, the business of New Orleans was grinding to a halt, and even the bars, which were usually full to capacity at this time of the year, were deserted.

The two men filed into the kitchen, where Rose met them. “I fixed you something to eat,” she said.

“I'm not hungry,” Jeff said.

“Sit down and eat,” Debakky said firmly. “You have to keep your strength up.”

Jeff sat with Debakky and ate, but his thoughts were focused on how insidious the yellow fever was. It came on so gradually: just a little headache or just a slight chill. Then the body temperature began to rise, and very soon a fever struck. The patient's eyes grew bloodshot, and he suffered tremendous thirst. Often a victim experienced a false recovery, followed by an even worse bout with the sickness. The victim's face grew dark, blood oozed from his lips, gums, and nose, and he vomited a dark substance: the “black vomit” that was proof of the disease.

Rose hovered over the two men, urging them to eat more. “What can you do for these poor people?” she asked.

Debakky shook his head and said, “People are trying all sorts of crazy remedies. Some of them drink lime water.”

“That's right. Some have even swallowed sulfur, and others put onions in their shoes,” Jeff murmured. “All useless, of course.”

“I've heard that some are being bled. Does that help any?”

“Of course not!” Debakky exclaimed. “It makes it worse.”

Jeff said, “I suppose Charissa has gone to bed.”

“Why, no, she hasn't come home yet.”

Both men looked at Rose, surprised. “Hasn't come home?” Jeff repeated. “She left the hospital at four o'clock. I made her go home to take a rest.”

“Why, I haven't seen her, Dr. Whitman.”

“I suspect she's gone to help at the church,” Jeff said heavily. “Quite a few of our members are down with this thing.”

“She can't go on like this,” Rose said. “She's a strong young woman, but she's pushing herself too hard.”

Jeff did not even hear Rose. He sipped his tea, lost in his thoughts, then noticed Debakky rising to go to his room. Jeff bid him good night, stood, and walked into the parlor. He sat down in a plush leather chair and leaned his head back, weariness and ache in his bones. He didn't intend to, but he dropped off to sleep.

He awakened with a start. He realized someone was coming through the front door. Scrambling to the foyer, he met Charissa. “Where have you been?”

“I stopped by the church, and Pastor Harris told me about the Johnson family. They're all down and have no one to help. I felt I should go.”

“Is it yellow fever?”

“I'm afraid so—one of the children and Mrs. Johnson. Poor Mr. Johnson, he's worried sick.”

Jeff listened as she described the situation and said, “I'll go by tomorrow and see what I can do. Come along. I'll bet you haven't eaten a bite.”

“No, I meant to stop, but I didn't
have time.”

“Rose has gone to bed, but I'll scare up something.” He took her arm, and they walked down the hall together. “You sit down there,” he said when they entered the kitchen. He began to rattle around, gathering pots and pans, and Charissa smiled at him. The fine doctor was helpless in the kitchen, but he wanted to do it.

Once he had concocted a meal, he brought it to Charissa, sitting down across from her. She looked depleted, and he shook his head. “This is terrible, Charissa.”

“We'll make it, Jefferson.”

For a time he was silent, and when he spoke, his words surprised her. “I think I made a mistake in coming to New Orleans. We should have stayed in St. Louis.”

“Why, are you unhappy here?”

Jeff shifted uneasily and ran his fingers through his thick hair. “I guess
unsettled
is a better word. Do you like it here, Charissa?”

“Not really. I always liked it better in St. Louis.”

“I'll tell you what,” he said, and his eyes brightened. “When this epidemic quiets down, let's go on a vacation.”

“A vacation! Where?”

“How about England? I've never been there, and I've always wanted to go.”

Charissa was astonished. He had been so caught up in his pursuit of Damita that he never thought about things such as vacations or traveling. But now he was plainly discouraged, and she felt compassion for him. At the same time, she felt a spark of hope.
If he got away from Damita, perhaps he could think clearly. She'd make the worst wife in the world for him, but he can't see that.

“That would be very nice.”

Jeff smiled. “Good! We'll talk about it later. Now, you go to bed. You're exhausted.”

Two days later, Charissa returned early from the hospital. Rose met her at the door and said, “We have a visitor. It's Miss Madariaga. She's here to see Dr. Whitman.”

“Did you tell her that he wouldn't be back tonight?”

“No, I didn't. I didn't know it.”

“Thank you, Rose. I'll talk to her.”

As soon as she entered the parlor, Charissa saw Damita sitting stiffly on the sofa. Something was wrong, Charissa knew, and when Damita rose, she asked, “What's happened?”

“It's Mama. She's very sick, and Yancy is, too.” She bit her lip and added, “And three of the slaves. I'm afraid it's the fever. Is Jeff coming?”

“No, I'm sorry, he's not. He had to go see some patients over at Metairie. He said he wouldn't be back for two days. There's quite an epidemic there.”

Damita seemed to shrink. “Is Dr. Debakky here?”

“No, he's working overtime at the hospital.”

Damita whispered, “I'm so afraid.”

“The doctors are all so hard-pressed with this thing,” Charissa said quietly. “He'll come when he returns.” She saw that Damita was pale and her hands were trembling. “If you'd like, I'll come and see what I can do. We'll leave word for Jefferson.”

Damita stared at her, her eyes wide. “After what I did to you? Why would you do that?”

Charissa disliked Damita but knew that this was something she must fight. “It's what God's called me to do, to help the sick.”

“You must hate me, Charissa!”

“I did once, but God is taking that away, a little at a time. Let me get my things together, and we'll go at once.”

Chapter twenty-three

As soon as Jeff stepped inside the door, Rose greeted him anxiously. “Dr. Whitman, Miss Madariaga was here.”

Jeff had taken off his hat and was about to hang it up. He stopped and turned. “When was this?”

“It was the day before yesterday. There wasn't any way to get word to you.”

“What's wrong, Rose?”

“It's the yellow fever. Her mother and the gentleman who manages the plantation are down with it. And several of the slaves, I think.”

“I wish I'd known that. Will you tell Miss Charissa that I've left for the Madariaga plantation?”

“Oh, she's already gone, Dr. Whitman.”

“Gone where?”

“She went back with Miss Madariaga to help with the nursing.”

Jeff put his hat on and said, “I'll have to go right now.”

“Doctor, take something to eat.”

“I'll get something there. Thank you, Rose. If anyone asks, you tell them where I am.”

Rose followed him outside and watched him call out to the groom, “Hold it, Jimmy! Don't unhitch those horses.”

Damita had been dozing slightly in a rocking chair, but a sudden noise awoke her. She straightened up and leaned forward to look at the figure on the bed. Yancy Devereaux's face was a waxen, yellowish color, and perspiration flowed from him. She laid her hand on his forehead.
Fever's up again.

She dipped a cloth in the basin on the table and began to bathe his face. She thought about calling Charissa, but there was really nothing that a nurse could do.
Nothing a doctor can do either,
she thought grimly. A single sheet covered the powerful body. He had lost weight, she knew. She thought of how, at times, the chills shook him so violently that she was afraid, and she wanted to hold him on the bed to keep him from falling.

As she bathed his face, she heard him whispering. Pausing, she leaned down and put her ear close to his lips, but she could not make out the words.

Though Yancy remained seriously ill, Elena had made progress; she had not improved, but she had not worsened either. Damita had helped Charissa take care of the slaves as well as she could, and now, as she continued to bathe Yancy's face, she thought how strange it was that Charissa had come. She felt a strong sense of shame as she realized how unselfish her former servant had been. She had said to Charissa once, “It must be terrible for you, being in this city where you were a slave.” Charissa had simply smiled and said, “I don't let memories tell me how to feel. If you do that, you're at the mercy of the past.”

Her words had remained with Damita, and she recognized that she was guilty of such things. Looking down, she thought of how often she had remembered the shipwreck and how she had almost given herself to Yancy Devereaux.

Just then Yancy began to toss and turn, trying to throw off the cover. His eyes fluttered, and he spoke, but he was in a delirium.

Without warning a terrible fear came to Damita. She was not a young woman given to fears, but as she looked at the drawn face of Yancy and thought of her mother, the thought seemed to explode somewhere inside her:
They could both die—mother
and
Yancy!

Chilled to the bone by the thought, Damita struggled to push the fear away, but it became stronger.
I'd have no one, not anybody! I'd be all alone!
She had never contemplated such a fate, for she'd always had her parents for support, but the very thought of being alone in the world was unbearable, and she clenched her hands together and closed her eyes.
Please, God—don't let them die!

The prayer rose to her lips, but even as she tried to pray, she suddenly became aware that the fear of losing her mother and Yancy was not her only danger. I might die, too—I nearly died when the ship went
down, and if I had, I would have been lost forever!

Damita groped her way to the chair and sat down, collapsed actually. She was suddenly weak. She had always taken religion more or less for granted, had trusted in the fact that she had been sprinkled as a child, had been fairly faithful to observe the habits taught by her church—but as she sat in the semidarkness of the room, she
knew
that all this was nothing!

How long Damita sat in the chair and struggled with her fears, she could never remember. Gradually, she thought of people she had known who had spoken of Jesus as a
friend
. She had never understood this, had doubted if it could be.

Now she suddenly knew that the form of religion was not good enough. A longing was born in her, and as it grew, she knew that she had to have God in her life. She had only a faint concept of how to find God, but she knew that somehow Jesus was the key.

God, I don't know how to pray—I'm afraid, and I've led a selfish life. But I want to change! How I want you, God!

She began to sob and said, “Jesus, help me! You're the one who died for sins—forgive me.”

The struggle went on for what seemed like a long time—but it came to an end. Damita ceased to sob, and a sense of rest came to her. She never knew how to describe that feeling, but it was there.