They Called Her Mrs. Doc. (23 page)
He normally left the house with his hat in one hand, his black bag in the other. Now he lifted his hat from the peg and surprised her by handing it to her.
“I’ve heard of women who wore the pants in the family,” she teased, looking down at the hat she held in her hand, “but this is ridiculous.”
He grinned, picked up his medical bag and said simply, “My mother taught me that a gentleman does not put his hat on in the house.”
“So?”
“So—walk me to the door—and put the hat on me.”
Cassandra began to laugh but she did as bidden. As soon as he had stepped through the door onto the back porch, he turned, kissed her and tilted his head toward her. She placed his hat on his head, pulled it down over his eyes and laughed as she returned to the dishes.
At first Cassandra felt nervous and awkward as she tried to follow Samuel’s careful instructions, but it wasn’t long until compassion for the patient took over. Instead of praying for herself and her own ordeal of dealing with cuts and bruises and aches and pains, her prayers soon turned to petitions for those she tried to help.
“God, be with little Margaret. That is such a nasty burn and for such a little one.” “Father, help old Mr. Marshall. He’s almost blind and I’m not sure we can clear up the infection in his eyes. You touch him, Father.” “Lord, give Mrs. Collins strength to deal with her pain each day. Her hands are so twisted I don’t know how she can hold a spoon. Yet she must care for the needs of her elderly husband.”
And on and on it went. Patient after patient and prayer after prayer.
Some days she came home so exhausted, emotionally as well as physically, that she began to wonder how her husband had endured all the years of intense giving.
Samuel noticed her weariness. “Let me read the children their bedtime story,” he’d say, or “Vivian, Mama needs a bit more help tonight. She’s had a long day.”
The children did not seem to mind the tasks Samuel added to their responsibilities. It rather surprised Cassandra and made her realize that their youngsters were growing up.
Joseph had the job of bringing in wood and water for the kitchen and keeping the sidewalks shoveled. The girls shared in the meal preparation, setting the table, and doing the dishes. Thomas and Peter cared for the pets, cleaned the shoes for school the next morning, and put away all toys that had been played with that day. Each child was responsible for making beds. Cassandra was never sure of their system. They worked it out among themselves, trading the job back and forth, but Cassandra never found an unmade bed after they had left for school in the morning.
The winter days passed, and Samuel assured Cassandra almost daily that his arm was healing nicely. But she didn’t like the way his fingers swelled on occasion, or the fact that he moved restlessly at times when he didn’t think she was looking.
At last the day came when he said the cast should come off, and the task was assigned to her. She was sure that her hand would slip and she would cut him, but somehow the plaster fell away as it was supposed to do and there was his arm again, thin and pale and ugly looking. Cassandra was not prepared for the sight and in spite of her toughening from nursing chores, she nearly fainted.
But Samuel did not seem the least concerned. He tried to move his arm, working the fingers of the hand to test the mobility.
“I think you did a good job, Red,” he grinned at her.
“Samuel—it looks—looks sick,” she countered, still feeling the horror of the sight before her.
“That’s normal,” he replied without a flinch. “It takes a while.”
Cassandra turned away and cried out to God in silent prayer, “Please, God, let it be all right. We need him whole again. We have endured about as long as we can on our own strength. The family needs him now. And his patients need their doctor. I can’t do what needs to be done, Lord.”
When Cassandra turned back around to face Samuel, he was still flexing his fingers, working them this way then that—tightening, relaxing, lifting, bending.
“Needs a little exercise and it will be as good as new,” he assured her, and Cassandra prayed that he might be right.
Cassandra did not get back to her kitchen duties as quickly as she had hoped. Samuel still needed her in the office. His fingers were getting more usable, his arm a bit stronger, his hand able to accomplish one more little task with each passing day, but the progress still seemed to be painfully slow.
So Cassandra hurried through her morning chores and went to the office for a few hours each morning and again in the afternoon.
“I don’t know how you do it,” said Virginia one day as she placed two of her freshly baked pies on Cassandra’s kitchen table. “Here I am at home all day and I can hardly keep up.”
Cassandra sighed and poured steaming tea from the china teapot.
“I’m not doing much of a job of it either,” she admitted dourly. “I feel that the children are being cheated of a mother—and the people of the town are being cheated of a doctor.”
She sat down heavily in her chair. She was tired.
“Nonsense,” said Virginia. “The children have never said one word to me about feeling cheated. In fact, I think they really are quite proud of you. I heard Chrissie boasting to her friends the other day about your care of the little girl with the dog bite.”
Cassandra paled at the mention of the case. It had been horrible, and it had been all that she could do to follow Samuel’s orders in the stitching. But Samuel’s fingers still did not work properly, and the child would have been terribly scarred had the stitching not been done. Even now, Cassandra prayed that God would take her bungled work and perform His own miracle.
Samuel had praised her work. “I couldn’t have done better.” Then he had teased. “Your mama’s lessons in needlework have paid off.”
Cassandra was too drained of energy to have a quip ready in response.
“I just hope her arm won’t be too scarred,” she managed to say to Virginia now.
“Her mother is most pleased with how it is healing,” said Virginia and stirred sugar in her tea.
“You know, Virginia, if it wasn’t so totally exhausting, I might even—well, not enjoy—but at least get satisfaction from working with Samuel. When you see the needs of the people—well, I have learned to understand why he feels the way he does about practicing medicine.”
Virginia nodded. “I can well understand,” she said simply. “I sometimes wish I had something that important to give.”
The words stayed with Cassandra as she unpinned her hair and let it fall about her shoulders. There were a few gray hairs among the red. Her mother had told her that red-headed people sometimes grayed prematurely. Cassandra studied the strands and mused, “Am I graying early, or am I really that old?”
She did not wish to answer her own question. But she had noticed no sign of gray among Samuel’s heavy locks.
She turned her thoughts back to Virginia’s words.
Some
–
thing important to give
. She repeated them again and again to herself, trying to discover and sort out the full meaning.
I wonder if any human being really has something more im
–
portant to give than another—or is it just a little less showy,
she pondered.
“I know Samuel is important to the people of town,” she murmured, “and Morris with his drugstore, and Pastor and Mrs. Ray—but I wonder if old Mr. Marshall with his watery eyes and shaky hands isn’t giving just as much in another way. The children love his stories and he always has time for them.”
Samuel came in just then and looked inquiringly at her. “I’m just wondering,” she explained, “what it means for people to have something important to give.” He still looked puzzled, and she went on. “Like Mr. Stockwood, for instance. Can’t imagine how many folks he’s helped by providing nails and screens and doorknobs and butcher knives. And Miss Everly, with her stern ways but her real love for the children she teaches—and even Mrs. Clement, with her sharp tongue and sharper eyes. I know there’s a good many times that she gave me cause to think. Is any one of these people more important than the other?” She paused and Samuel watched her face carefully.
“No, I don’t think so,” Cassandra answered her own question. “We just have different roles to play—but if we are doing our job properly, then God uses our bit to help the whole. We all have something important to give. Whether it be little in our own eyes or in the eyes of others, or whether it be great. I know that Virginia has certainly given generously to me over the years. I don’t know if I could have struggled through those first years without her, and her wise and continual spiritual encouragement—I need it even now. And she watches the children when I have to help in the office. I know that if I’m not around when they come home from school, Virginia will be watching out for them. That’s been a real comfort on busy days.”
Samuel came over and put his arms around her.
When they prayed together before retiring that night, Cassandra said, “Thank you, Father, for Virginia. And for Pastor and Mrs. Ray, and old Mr. Marshall and even Mrs. Clement—and every member of this little town—this community. We need one another. Might we never forget to give our ‘important something’ for the good of us all.”
Samuel’s “amen” echoed hers.
After another exhausting day, Cassandra and Samuel arrived home from the office one evening to find five forlorn children sitting on the back step.
“You can’t go in the kitchen,” said Peter, happy he could be first to tell the news. “It’s full of smoke.”
“Did you have a fire?” asked Samuel, concern edging his voice. Cassandra rushed on ahead to peer through the window at the damage.
It was difficult to see in the room, for the smoke still hung heavy in the air.
“What happened?” asked Cassandra, fearing the worst.
“Vivie,” said Thomas simply.
“Vivie, what happened?” demanded Cassandra. “Are you hurt?”
Vivian seemed unsure if she should cry, beg mercy, or thrust out her chin in defiance. She chose to do all three.
“I was baking,” she said with a sob, her chin lifting with a stubborn set. “I didn’t mean to burn it.”
“Is that all?” said Cassandra with a sigh of relief.
“She used all your eggs,” accused Thomas.
“She was making an angel cake,” said Peter proudly.
“Angel food cake,” corrected Vivian in spite of her tears and with strong emphasis on the missing word. Joseph sat a little apart, looking disgusted with the whole affair. Christina, with motherly concern, had been trying to comfort them all.
“Where did you learn about an angel food cake?” asked Cassandra curiously as she leaned over to brush away Vivian’s tears with her hankie.
“I heard Mrs. Stock wood telling Mrs. Clement. She said they are delicious and that you use lots of eggs and beat and beat—”
“She used all the eggs,” put in Thomas again.
“Angel food cakes are difficult to bake,” said Cassandra, straightening up and tucking away her hankie. “You should have waited for Mama—”
“But I couldn’t,” wailed Vivian, the tears flowing again. “It was a surprise cake.”
