A Fall of Marigolds (6 page)

AS
Dolly and I reported to island three’s nurses’ station early Monday morning, I secretly hoped I would be assigned to Andrew Gwynn’s room so that I could watch him without being noticed that I watched him. As it turned out, I was assigned the children’s measles ward and Dolly was to take Ward K, where the male scarlet fever patients were. Dolly piped up immediately and asked the matron whether we could switch. The matron in the contagious wards, a birdlike woman named Mrs. Nesbitt, wanted to know why. Dolly said she liked being with the little ones and besides, she had the scarlet fever ward the last rotation. Mrs. Nesbitt frowned, her storklike features looking even more pointed as she pouted, but she made the change on her schedule.

“See you at noon,” Dolly said cheerfully when she and I and the other nurses began to disperse for our posts. With my eyes I thanked her.

I made my way to Ward K, donning a high-necked cloak over my uniform to keep any stray particles of infection off my clothes. Inside the ward, the beds were now filled, mostly with immigrants who’d been in steerage on the
Seville
. Some lay abed, clearly with fever; some sat and ate their breakfasts; some stared off into space as they sat or lay on their cots, unable to summon any joy for the new day. At the far end of the room, I could see Andrew Gwynn still in his bed. A breakfast tray next to his bed appeared untouched.

The nurse who had been on duty during the night met me at the entrance, rattling off the conditions of the men who were now in my care.

“These three here”—and she pointed to a trio of black-haired men who lay shivering in their beds—“they came down with the fever Saturday night. Doctor saw them yesterday afternoon. You’ll want to wear your mask when you care for them. Those on that wall say they are still feeling fine, no fever, no swollen glands. Those four down there”—and she pointed to the back of the room, including Andrew Gwynn’s bed—“all seem to have come down with it since yesterday. I suggest a mask. The others will be released tomorrow if there’s no other sign of disease. Doctor is due to make his rounds around ten. That one on the end”—she pointed to Andrew’s bed—“he’s not eaten anything yet and I’ve not been able to get down there to help him.”

I nodded as I made my notes. The other nurse left and I slowly walked the length of the room, wishing those sitting on the edges of their beds a good morning and stopping at the bedsides of those who lay with fever to see who was awake and in need of something. I purposely saved Andrew Gwynn for last.

I approached his bedside while placing a gauze covering over my nose and mouth. “Mr. Gwynn,” I said softly. “It’s me. Nurse Wood. Would you like some breakfast?”

Andrew slowly turned in his bed to look at me. His face was flushed with the beginnings of fever and he raised a hand to his throat, grimacing as he swallowed.

I knew without the doctor having been by yet that the fever had Andrew firmly in its grasp. If this was his second day with it, then I could expect to have two weeks, closer to three, to decide what I would do with Lily’s letter. Andrew’s languid stare alarmed me a little. Grief would play a part in his battle with the disease; grief always played a part in whatever followed it.

I leaned over him and placed my hand on his brow to gauge his temperature. His skin was warm. He reached up to grab my wrist.

“Don’t,” he whispered.

I lifted my hand, surprised that my touch had hurt him. “You have the headache already, Mr. Gwynn?” The headache didn’t usually show up until the third or fourth day.

“Don’t get close. Sick. I’m sick.”

He was worried my touching him would send me to my bed. He’d probably held his hand to Lily’s brow just like I had held mine to his. And now he lay riddled with contagion.

“We are very careful here, Mr. Gwynn. I wash my hands a dozen times a day when I’m on the ward. They are beet red by the end of the day.” I laughed lightly, but he only winced as he attempted to swallow again.

“How about a little breakfast, Mr. Gwynn?” I continued. “You will need your strength. And the doctor will ask why I was unable to get you to eat. You don’t want him to be cross with me, do you?”

He turned his head to the breakfast tray. “Can’t. Swallow,” he murmured. His Welsh intonations accentuated the clipped words.

I surveyed the contents of his tray. The scrambled eggs and toast would be impossible. I reached behind him and pulled on his pillow to raise his head. “Let’s try a little of the vegetable broth, shall we? Can you sit up a bit?”

Andrew slowly adjusted his body to a sitting position. I pulled the tray closer to him and handed him his spoon.

“It’s actually pretty good,” I said brightly. “Not too salty, not too bland.”

He grasped the spoon and raised his arm. But when his hand began to tremble he lowered it.

“Did you eat anything yesterday?” I asked.

“Wasn’t hungry.”

“When was the last time you ate, Mr. Gwynn?”

He closed his eyes. “Don’t remember.”

I thought back to what his last few days had been like. If Lily’s final hours were also the last of the voyage, and if he’d stayed at her bedside, it was possible he hadn’t eaten in four or five days. I moved the tray and pulled up a chair to the side of his bed. I reached for the bowl of vegetable broth and the spoon that Andrew held loosely in his hand.

“Let me help you.”

“No,” he whispered.

“Yes.” I placed a cloth napkin under his chin and dipped the spoon. He hesitated before opening his mouth and allowing me to feed him.

He took his time swallowing, screwing his eyes shut. “Can’t eat,” he whispered when he’d finished.

“Yes, you can.” I ladled another serving. He obeyed.

The warmth of the broth massaged the inflammation in his throat bit by bit. As he took more from the spoon he began to wince less. His eyes were still glassy but he kept them open and trained on me. I found myself looking back at him. I fumbled for something to talk about.

“I would ask you what it’s like to be a tailor, except I’m sure it hurts to talk and you need to eat anyway,” I said nervously. “I’m sure it’s very intricate work, being a tailor. You must enjoy it very much.”

Andrew blinked and shrugged. “It’s what I do.”

I held the spoon aloft over the bowl. I could hear in his voice the same stoic resignation that I had in my voice when a person asked me what it was like to be a nurse.

“I know just what you mean,” I said. “I’m a nurse because it’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. My father’s a doctor in Pennsylvania. I’ve helped him in his practice since I was ten.”

“I started sewing buttons when I was eight.”

I smiled at this, this new little thing we had in common. While I continued to spoon more broth I told him about my parents, my easy-to-please sister, and before I knew it, my childhood longing for the bright lights and colors of the city, and that nursing had gotten me there.

“New York,” he whispered, and again I sensed that underneath his words was an emotion I could keenly identify with. He had wanted New York, too. Tailoring would get him there.

“Yes, New York,” I murmured.

He lay back on the pillow and I made no move to encourage him to stay upright. For a moment we were both lost in the wonder of what we’d wanted and were willing to do to have it.

“May I be finished?” he finally said.

I looked at the bowl. He had eaten more than half. I placed it back on the tray. “I’ll have the kitchen send up a more sensible lunch for you, Mr. Gwynn. No more toast for a while.”

“How long?”

“How long before you can have toast?”

Andrew shook his head slowly. “How long will . . . Lily was gone in four days.”

“We’re going to take good care of you, Mr. Gwynn.” I stood and reached for the small basin of water at his bedside, where a cloth lay folded on the rim. I gently plunged the cloth into the water and wrung out the excess. I placed the cloth on Andrew’s brow, drawing out the heat with the coolness of the damp fabric.

He closed his eyes. “If she’d become sick later in the voyage she’d be here getting well. Yes?” He opened his eyes and looked at me, clearly expecting me to answer his question.

“Scarlet fever affects people in different ways, Mr. Gwynn. Many people do survive.”

“But not all.”

“No. Not all.”

“I don’t even know if there is someone I should write to,” he said. “I don’t know if there are cousins or aunts or uncles. She told me her parents are dead and she has no brothers or sisters. But surely there is someone I need to tell.”

“Uh, perhaps. Perhaps not.”

“How can she have no one in the world? There must be someone I should tell.”

His voice was becoming raspy. The warmth of the broth on his vocal cords was dissipating.

“Shhh, Mr. Gwynn. Time to rest now.” I held the cloth with one hand and adjusted the pillow with the other so that he could recline. “Comfortable?”

Andrew nodded.

“I need to see to the other patients in the ward now. Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No, thank you, Nurse. And thank you for . . . everything else.”

I colored a bit. I felt the rosy shade warm my cheeks. “You are welcome.”

“You’ll keep the pattern book safe for me?”

“Of course.”

He closed his eyes with another whispered word of gratitude.

As I walked away it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen the scarf near his bed. I hoped it was tucked away inside the cabinet of his bedside table.

•   •   •

AT
midmorning Dr. Treaver arrived to make his rounds.

Dr. Treaver, who had arrived on the island the same month I had, reminded me of my father in many ways, not only because he was about the same age and was a doctor like my father was. He had a soft voice like my father’s, smoked the same pipe tobacco—I could smell the distinctive fruity blend on his clothes—and had the same neat, precise script. I never had any trouble reading Dr. Treaver’s orders. I couldn’t say the same about some of the other doctors on the island.

He arrived a few minutes after ten with another doctor trailing behind him. I was helping a young man get back into his cot after using the toilet. I washed my hands quickly and met them at the nurses’ desk.

“Ah, Nurse Wood, nice to have you back on the ward,” Dr. Treaver said, in his cotton-soft voice. He motioned to the doctor behind him, who looked to be a little older than me, with reddish-brown hair, shiny gold spectacles, and a ruddy pencil mustache. “This is Dr. Randall. He’s a new intern and is just learning his way around the island. Dr. Randall, Nurse Wood.”

I shook the new doctor’s hand. “Very pleased to meet you, Doctor.”

“Dr. Randall just finished his training in Boston,” Dr. Treaver continued, and an unbidden image of Daniel Borden rose to the forefront of my mind. Daniel had also studied medicine in Boston. I pushed the image away. “I am taking him around to meet the patients in the wards today. Tomorrow he’s on his own.”

Dr. Treaver smiled and Dr. Randall laughed lightly. “I hope I don’t get lost in the wards,” Dr. Randall said. “This place is bigger than it appears from the docks.”

Dr. Treaver started to head to the first bed. “Ah, well, the nurses here will keep you from falling off into the water. Nurse Wood knows her way around.”

I retrieved my cart of supplies and the washing basin from behind the desk while the doctors donned cloaks over their clothes and put on masks. As we made our way around to the men on the cots, waiting a time or two for an interpreter to arrive, I caught Dr. Randall looking at me, sizing me up, or so it seemed. I kept my eyes glued to the patients, not wanting to encourage his stares. When we arrived at Andrew’s cot, I retrieved the chart from the foot of the bed and dutifully recorded what Dr. Treaver dictated as he palpated Andrew’s swollen glands, checked for early signs of the telltale rash, took Andrew’s temperature, and gazed down his throat. Dr. Randall turned to me while Dr. Treaver listened to Andrew’s heart.

“So I hear you escaped the Triangle Shirtwaist fire.”

Three words that did not belong to my in-between place fell onto me like hot embers. Triangle Shirtwaist fire. I startled at their sizzling presence and nearly dropped the chart in my hands. Andrew turned his head to look at me.

Only a few of the other nurses knew what had sent me to the island. The topic never came up outside our sleeping quarters, which was exactly how I wanted it. My reason for taking a nursing post on Ellis was no one’s business but my own. I desired very much to ask the new doctor how in God’s name did he know this, but that is not what I said.

“Um, yes, Doctor.”

“That must have been quite a terrible scene. I read about it in the
Globe
. One hundred forty-something dead?”

“Yes,” I mumbled, searching for a way out of the conversation.

“And you were on the sixth floor of the building? That’s just two floors down from where the fire began, isn’t it?”

The air around me was growing warm. I felt a line of sweat appear above my brow. How did he know? Who had said this to him? Certainly not Dolly. Not Dolly. She would never. Not Dolly.

I could see Andrew staring at me, one eyebrow crooked in consternation.

“How very fortunate you were to have made it safely out,” Dr. Randall continued.

He sounded genuinely glad for me, but I could think of nothing else to say except to ask him where he came by this information.

“Who told you this?” I asked.

Dr. Treaver looked up from Andrew, surprised at what must have seemed like a disrespectful question from me. He probably expected me to say something like, “Yes, I am so very grateful I made it out safely.”

Dr. Randall hesitated only a second. “One of the nurses in the children’s ward this morning.”

Not Dolly. Please not Dolly.

“Carter. Nurse Carter, I think was her name.”

Ivy.

I nodded, wordless.

“I’m sorry, Nurse Wood. You appear to be shaken. The topic came up quite by accident. I mentioned the fire and your colleague said there was a nurse here who survived it. My apologies for bringing up the matter. I only wished to say I am glad that you survived.”