Wishes & Tears (18 page)

He blinked back tears, looking up at her. He contorted his face in pain.

“What’s wrong?” Faith asked, growing concerned.

“My throat hurts! Make the fire stop!” he squeaked.

“You have a sore throat?”

“Yes.”

She released his wrists. He immediately placed his tiny hands around his neck, as if wanting to choke himself. “It hurts! Make it stop!”

“What hurts?” a concerned voice called from the hallway. Faith peered over her shoulder to see the doctor. He stood in the doorway dressed in a double-breasted wool worsted suit, matching bowler hat in his hand. As he breezed into the room, the fresh green scent of the outdoors entered with him. Faith was grateful that he had come home at a time when his services were needed. Faith rose from her seat and moved over to the side to allow the doctor space. He sat next to his son on the bed. He placed the palm of his hand on the boy’s forehead.

“He’s burning with fever,” the doctor said, wrinkling his forehead, knitting his brows.

“He’s been complaining of a sore throat,” Faith explained.

The doctor touched his son’s neck, feeling the lymph nodes. “His throat is swollen.”

“Sounds like a touch of the cold or flu,” Faith said, “Shall I get him some hot tea with honey? Oh, and by the way, I do have a bottle of Tylenol, a pain reliever. We can probably split a tablet in half to lower the dosage.”

Doctor Forrester looked up at her, a fever erupting in his eyes. “My son is ill and you have the audacity to bring up your magical quackery?”

“Say what you will, I’m just trying to help.”

“You can help by telling Bridget to prepare a mustard bath and bring up some warm water to sponge the boy’s face. I’ll prepare a tincture of guaiac and glycerine for his quinsy.”

“Quinsy?”

“Sore throat. Are you just going to stand there or are you going to make yourself useful?” He was staring at her.

“I’m going.” She moved toward the door.

Instead of feeling better, Andrew grew worse. Faith thought it had to do with the archaic medical treatment. Who had ever heard of tying a slice of bacon around the neck and sprinkling it with black pepper to cure a sore throat? Doctor Forrester grew worried when his son’s neck grew stiff and sore and he had difficulty swallowing. After examining the boy’s throat and tonsils, he grew suspicious. He swabbed the boy’s throat and analyzed the secretions under his microscope.

Faith encountered the doctor in the downstairs foyer. His face wore the pallor of death and fear glistened in his eyes. An unshaven shadow of whiskers masked his face. He looked confused and helpless.

“I should have known,” he said in anguish, hands rolled in fists at his side. “The gray membrane lesions of the throat are always a sign. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to instill panic.”

“What’s wrong? What is it?” Faith asked, her heart sinking to her stomach even before she heard his explanation.

The doctor led her into the library and slid the doors closed. His lips trembled as he spoke. “Andrew is very ill and this house must, at once, be secured under quarantine. The guests at my betrothal party and any patients I have visited since must be sent notice before an epidemic occurs. I don’t know how he caught it.”

“What is it?”

“Diphtheria. Andrew has diphtheria.”

Faith was confused. “I don’t understand. I was vaccinated for it as a child. No one gets diphtheria anymore,” she said. Remembering time and place, she threw her hands up to cover her mouth. She gasped. “Oh, no! Vaccinations weren’t administered to prevent it in 1906!”

He stared at her, as perplexed as he always was when she mentioned her relationship to the future, the future she claimed to come from.

“Woman, don’t you know that vaccinations are considered quackery, especially the antitoxin for diphtheria? They cause, not prevent disease? The diphtheria is not only deadly, it is highly contagious.”

Faith didn’t know what to say. The doctor began to pace the floor like a wild man, pumping his fists in the air. “Why Andrew? Why? Isn’t it bad enough that I lost his mother? I can’t lose him. He’s a part of her, a part of me. He’s all that I have.”

The anguish in his voice made Faith’s heart quicken. The desperate look in his eyes and the tears that soon poured forth made her swallow hard. She let him rant on about the unfairness of the situation and of a father’s love for his son.

He sunk into a leather chair, spent from a grief as near to that of death as one could get. Hands in his hair, he cried, “I’m cursed. Truly cursed.”

Faith couldn’t stand by any longer. She went to his side and placed her hands upon his quaking shoulders, rubbing them, trying to offer some comfort. He looked up at her, pleading.

“God have mercy on my soul. If Andrew dies, so shall I die.”

“Andrew will not die,” Faith said as if a fact. “You’re a doctor and you won’t let him die.”

“His life is in the hands of God.”

“Let those hands guide you,” Faith said in a soothing yet confident tone.

He met her gaze. “I read your medical book. Desperate men perform desperate acts.”

“And?”

“I am ignorant of many of the techniques and treatments mentioned. I know to prescribe bed rest and fluids, and an icepack to sooth his swollen neck. I know that recovery is slow and overexertion can be fatal. The usual treatment is a lemon juice and water gargle and a tablespoon of citrus limonum and aqua pura every two hours. In consulting your book, I do not know what penicillin or Phenobarbital are,” he said, remembering how he had scoured the book in desperation, unable to sleep since his son had taken ill. His son’s life was at stake and he had to do something. Doctors were supposed to be able to cure the symptoms of disease.

“You’re a good doctor but you’re limited by your times,” she assured him. “I have some penicillin tablets. Perhaps you can cut them to reduce the dosage.” She remembered how she had foraged through her medicine cabinet, throwing plastic vials in her backpack for transport back in time, knowing that some things just hadn’t been discovered yet, things that could save a life. Modern technology and advances in medical science were the things she knew she’d miss most about going back in time. The assurance of a long, happy life made her content to live without.

“You have the medicine?” He gazed at her as if she had discovered a cure for cancer.

“Yes. I also think it wise that I tend to Andrew. You did say that diphtheria is contagious. The last thing we need are you and other members of this household coming down with this. I only have so much medicine. I was vaccinated. I’m immune. Vaccinations do work. You’ll have to trust me, Doctor. You give me the orders and I’ll carry them out. I make no promises. We just haven’t a choice.”

“Are you certain?” He met her determined gaze. She was stronger than he thought, or crazier. “We cannot play games with my son’s life.”

“If we do nothing, your son may not have a life. With proper treatment, he will at least have some hope. It’s your decision.”

“My hands are tied. I haven’t a choice.” He hung his head as if in defeat. He couldn’t sit back and do nothing. He had to do everything he could to save Andrew whether it proved successful or not.

“Yes. Now, why don’t you get cleaned up, eat something, and get some rest. We’re doing the best we can. As Bridget says, ‘Trust in God.’”

• • •

During the next ten days, Andrew’s room was transformed into an in-home sequestered intensive care unit. On doctor’s orders, Faith suspended a blanket over Andrew’s bed, forming a tent. Underneath, she placed a croup kettle, steaming with the vapor of lime water and liquor pottassae. Andrew was able to inhale the warm, moist air. Between sucking on ice cubes, and forced liquids, he was administered alternating doses of iron chlorate of potash and whiskey. The halved penicillin tablets were given as well. Faith sat at his side, reading stories, singing, holding his hand. She explained his treatment and the reason for his isolation. He was silent and accepting. When he dozed, Faith lay back in her chair for a nap. Meals and treatments were delivered outside the door. The doctor sent notes and requested feedback that Faith posted dutifully.

The mixture of old medical treatments and the new prevented the illness from growing worse. On the tenth day when Andrew began to talk again and request food, she knew that he was feeling better. The fever had abated and his color returned to normal. Though he would remain on bed rest for several more weeks, both Faith and the doctor felt he was on the road to recovery. The room was thoroughly disinfected and aired out, the bedclothes boiled. A sense of renewal penetrated Andrew’s bedroom as well as their lives.

“I don’t know what to say,” Doctor Forrester told Faith as they exited Andrew’s room, closing the door behind. “Thanks to your care and therapies, he’s improved. I still don’t understand you or your magic but it has saved my son’s life. I shall be forever grateful.”

A lump formed in his throat as he glanced at Faith and humility filled his heart and soul. A woman, a purported time traveler, had saved his beloved son’s life. There was no doubt in his mind that if she were not a member of his household, Andrew would have died. Her magic pills, the antibiotics of the future, cured the boy. The woman was changing his life in more ways than he could count. He had to admit that all of the changes were proving positive.

“Thank you.” Faith smiled as she accompanied him down the hall.

Having his son survive one of the time’s most insidious diseases was enough to give anyone pause. They kept the secret to Andrew’s miraculous recovery to themselves.

“You were with Andrew day in and day out and yet you never caught the disease. Truly remarkable.”

“As I mentioned before, I was immunized against diphtheria and others.”

“Others?”

“Yes, whooping cough, smallpox, and polio. I’ve even had a tetanus shot. When I visited Africa years ago, I had vaccines for typhoid, yellow fever, and hepatitis.”

“Interesting, though I don’t understand. Studies have shown that current vaccines, antitoxins, are ineffective. Only recently, has the government passed a Food and Drug Act to establish minimum standards for the standardization and purity of vaccines and drugs, which may prove many to be effective.”

“In the not-to-distant future, they will be proven effective and accepted as modern medical practice,” she said.

“I will have to read my new medical guide more carefully,” he said, and turning to her, “or ask you more questions.”

She laughed.

He stopped walking and turned to face her. He looked down at her, eyes brimming with sincerity. “Thank you for the care you provided Andrew. You’ve gone well beyond the call of duty. You put your life on the line for my son. I couldn’t live without him.”

“I love Andrew, too.”

“You do?” He placed his hands on her shoulders.

She nodded, looking up at him. “If I had borne him, I couldn’t love him more. I know that’s not what a governess should feel — ”

“Shh … you’re not the average governess.”

His eyes captured hers and he wanted to melt. He was speechless. Could he actually be feeling something for her? Something beyond being a concerned and grateful employer?

He took her arm and led her down the hall to the landing of the narrow curving stairwell that led up to the servant’s quarters. He gazed up at the stairs that led to her tiny attic room and looked at her.

“I imagine you’re weary. You’ve been putting your own needs aside for Andrew,” he said.

“Just doing what was best.”

“For all that you’ve done to protect me and my household, from earthquakes and fires, to illness, I fear I’ll never be able to adequately repay you. Good night, Miss Donahue.” He took her hand in his, lifted it up and bent to plant a tender kiss on her fleshy palm. He released her hand, cast a brooding gaze her way, turned, and walked away.

Miss Constance LaDue swooshed into the house like a petite tornado. Her gaze darted about the foyer, noting the floor, the wall covering, and the furnishings. Waving her gloved hands, she announced, “I shall have my decorator come forthwith to advise.”

Miss LaDue and her lady’s maid arrived at 92 Sacramento Street for an extended visit. By the number of steamer trunks removed from an accompanied wagon, she appeared outfitted for an extended grand tour of Europe. Miss LaDue had been insistent upon thoroughly touring the home and planning for her future in it. Bridget, perceptive as she was, knew that the household was in trouble the moment she stepped into the foyer.

“Tsk, tsk,” Miss LaDue added, peeking into the parlor. “This room is an abomination. The furnishings are as common as those ordered from Sears. There is so much work to be done. I wish to go to my room.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bridget said, pointing upstairs.

Constance LaDue pivoted to face the mahogany stairwell. Her driver struggled with her trunks in the foyer, contemplating the steep stairs. Her French lady’s maid sashayed up the stairs, ahead of her mistress, with a pitcher of water.

“I must get out of these wretched clothes,” Constance complained. “The dust from the journey is just unbearable. I detest motorcars. They are such disagreeable and filthy objects.”

Bridget choked, knowing that the “journey” wasn’t that long. With her duster, veiled hat, and gloves, dirt didn’t have a chance to settle on the girl. Bridget held her tongue, rolled her eyes, and led the “guest” upstairs to the guestroom. She silently prayed that the girl would not become a permanent resident of the household. She assured herself that miracles do happen.

• • •

The coiled wire cha-changed as it made its way down the oriental runner covered treads of the front staircase. Like an alien being, it made its descent just as planned by Andrew. He sat at the top of the stairs suppressing giggles, his pudgy hands covering his mouth.

A blood-curdling scream erupted in the foyer, amplified by the high ceiling, bouncing off the walls like the Nerf ball Faith had given Andrew the day before. Miss LaDue stood shrieking as the Slinky Faith had also given the boy made its way to the bottom of the steps. Her hands trembled as she pointed to the strange wire object that seemed to have a will of its own.