Silent Light, Silent Love, page 12
Now, however, seeing this poor girl-woman in agony, something instinctual in him took over. In his heart, in his deepest being, he was still a doctor. His vow as a surgeon was to ease suffering, to save lives if at all possible. This poor young woman would surely die if nothing was done.
He set down his bag, and the dread and inner trembling abated. Here was his patient, and there was a job to be done.
“I need hot, boiled water, quickly, and clean rags.”
A basin was brought, and he rolled his shirtsleeves high and scrubbed his hands and arms with soap from his bag. He asked for and was given, a second basin, in which he immersed the instruments from his bag in a strong solution of carbolic acid, as Sir Joseph Lister had taught to prevent antisepsis.
He spoke to the girl softly, not certain she could even hear or understand. “Raven, I’m going to examine you, we’ll figure out together how best to help you and your baby.” He had no idea whether she understood him or not. She’d come out of her faint, but it was obvious she was nearing the end of her strength.
Careful examination proved that the baby was lodged crosswise, high up in Raven’s body. James made several desperate futile efforts at moving it, and then another contraction began. Raven was trembling, sweat pouring from her body, but her skin felt cold and clammy. Her screams were weak, her eyes glassy.
Was it already too late? If he did nothing, she would surely die. But if he operated—
James knew the decision he made at this moment would determine the rest of his life. Raven’s as well. He could not bring himself to slice up a living child if there was any alternative.
“Scrub the kitchen table and spread a sheet over it,” James ordered. “Clear everyone out except for one woman to assist me.”
11
Black Eagle, hovering in the doorway, gave swift, guttural orders. James slid his arms around the slight figure on the bed, carrying her to the table. The room was empty, but terrified faces were pressed against the single window, and the woman Black Eagle had chosen was standing beside the table.
“I’ll need more light, more lanterns,” he ordered, and the women nodded and hurried out, returning in moments with two more, which were swiftly lit as he laid out his surgical instruments. James gestured at the basin, indicating she should wash her hands and arms, which she did.
“What’s your name?” he asked her, but it was Black Eagle, standing guard by the door, who answered.
“Willow,” he said. “My sister. She understands you, but speaking, not so much.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” James said to her, and then carefully administered the chloroform to Raven, soaking a bit of cotton in the bottom of a small glass and holding it under Raven’s nose. He kept his fingers on her pulse and paid close attention to her breathing.
When he judged her to be deeply unconscious, he carefully washed her abdomen in carbolic and picked up the scalpel, aware that the child must be delivered quickly. The chloroform would soon have a dangerous effect on its breathing and heartbeat.
For an instant, he stood frozen as Raven’s face became Jenny’s, and scarlet blood clouded his vision, blood spurting out that he couldn’t stop, the slight weight of the dead blue child in his hands---
He drew in a deep breath and with an extreme effort of will banished the horrible vision. He breathed a heartfelt prayer and made a swift and confident transverse incision in the lower segment of the uterus. Blood oozed, and he blotted it away, showing Willow how to do it.
Willow made a sound somewhere between an exclamation and a prayer, but she did as he directed, after a moment seeming to anticipate what he needed.
The bag of waters broke under the scalpel’s sharp edge, and James reached in and lifted out the baby, a large, well-formed boy with a thick mop of black hair glued to his scalp with birth fluids.
Swiftly, James clamped and cut the umbilical cord, tying it off with a piece of string he’d prepared. He swiped the boy’s mouth, hung him upside down, patted the tiny back, and an outraged wail sounded in the room.
Murmurs of amazement passed between Willow and Black Eagle as James handed the crying baby to Willow, and turned back to his other patient, once again checking Raven’s pulse and breathing. The pulse was feathery, her breathing uneven, and he knew he needed to hurry.
Carefully, he removed the placenta. He’d threaded several surgical needles with silk, and now he began the painstaking, slow job of repairing the uterus. Sweat formed on his forehead, and he reached for a towel to wipe it off, but Willow anticipated his need.
It seemed to take hours of careful, small stitching, but at last, it was done, and James began the task of suturing the abdominal skin, crouching over his patient, straining to see in the flickering light.
When the stitching was at last finished, James straightened his aching back and turned to Black Eagle. “Do you have any of the herbs the women used on me, that kept the wound from developing septicemia?”
Black Eagle, now cradling his swaddled grandson, spoke at length to Willow, and from a basket, she drew out a handful of herbs. She began preparing them, pounding them into powder, mixing them with boiled water.
James was concerned that Raven was still deeply unconscious. Had he misjudged the quantity of chloroform? He’d been extremely careful, but she’d been weak before he administered it. Had it damaged her heart? He’d witnessed cases of death from anesthesia.
Willow now had the herb preparation ready, and James applied it liberally to the stitched abdomen. He then used lengths of clean cloth to bind up Raven’s abdomen, and Willow washed Raven and slipped a fresh chemise over the girl’s head and down her bandaged body.
Willow then stripped the soiled sheets from the bed and replaced them with fresh, and James lifted Raven from the table and laid her back on the bed. He again checked her pulse and her breathing. They seemed stronger, but perhaps it was his own wishful thinking.
“She will wake up?” Black Eagle’s voice was soft and anxious.
“Yes,” James answered, pretending a confidence he was far from feeling. But no matter what happened now, it was out of his hands. He examined the baby more thoroughly, confirming that the wee boy was perfect in every way. He was well formed, broad-shouldered, with long arms and legs. He opened coal-dark eyes and gave James an accusing look, which made him smile.
“He’s a braw wee mannie,” James declared before handing him back to Black Eagle.
He then gratefully accepted a cup of strong tea and a piece of bannock when Willow offered it, and the three of them waited. The tense atmosphere was punctuated now and then by the baby’s cries, but the adults were silent, watchful. James brought a stool and sat beside the bed, monitoring his patient.
It was about forty minutes later when Raven at last moved restlessly and then opened her eyes. James didn’t understand the words, but he knew what she was asking. She was calling for her baby. He felt a huge burden drop from him as Willow hurried in and settled the tightly bundled child in his mother’s arms.
Black Eagle brought a young, handsome man in, introducing him as Panther, the baby’s father. James shook his hand, congratulating him on his son.
Raven handed the baby over, and Panther’s smile stretched from one ear to the other as he looked down into the crumpled little face. He said something to Raven, and although James didn’t understand the words, their meaning was plain. It was a statement of wonder, pride, of hope for the future. It sounded like love, and it made James so lonely he could barely breathe.
It was time to go. He gathered up his instruments, cleansed them, repacked his Gladstone bag, and took his leave of Willow and Black Eagle.
“I’ll need to borrow a horse to get back to town,” he said, but Black Eagle had already arranged it. He led James outside to where a beautiful coal-black stallion was pawing the ground, annoyed at the fine, hand-tooled leather saddle on his back and the bit between his teeth.
Black Eagle said the stallion’s name, but it was unpronounceable to James. He climbed on the animal’s back, and the horse skittered and snorted. It took effort, but James brought him under control.
“Thanks, I’ll get him back to ye tomorrow,” James said, but Black Eagle shook his head.
“He is yours, Doctor James Macleod.”
James thought of protesting. He knew that Black Eagle and his tribe had little of value except for their horses, but he also knew it was bad manners to refuse a gift. Black Eagle had told him so on their long journey together.
“I thank ye, my friend.” For far more than the horse and saddle. Black Eagle had trusted him with the lives of his daughter and grandson, even knowing how he’d failed before. He’d had faith where James had none. He’d been willing to gamble, to trust, and in the process had given James something back he’d thought he’d forever lost. It was a gift that James felt he could never repay.
Black Eagle nodded once, held up a hand in farewell, and headed back into the cabin. James found the trail and rode slowly back to Medicine Hat. He had no idea how late it was. The stars were bright overhead, and the moon was low in the western sky, so perhaps morning was not far off. It had been a night of terror and realization; a night of gut-wrenching fear, and hope, and finally, of triumph.
His operating skills were still there. He’d broken through his painful barriers of self-doubt and disgust. The memory of his sister and his lost little nephew would always be with him, but the paralyzing guilt had eased, making it possible to move ahead with his life as a healer. He’d made a terrible mistake, and as a doctor and a surgeon, he’d likely make more, because he wasn’t a miracle worker. He was human, with all the human frailties.
He was ready to embrace his career again, pursue his calling with all of his energy and talent, and it was a huge relief to him. It was exciting.
The question that gnawed at him was, would the woman he loved be at his side?
12
Betsy spent the day trying to make things easier for her sister. Annie was big with this baby, bigger than Betsy remembered her being with the girls. With the twins, of course, she’d been enormous, but Noah had said that old Doc Kinsade didn’t seem to think she was carrying twins this time. She was tired and worn out, however. The baby was expected to come in the next two weeks, and Noah was furious with the doctor.
Noah had arranged months ago that Kinsade was to call every couple of days at least, but there was an outbreak of influenza, and Doc hadn’t been around in over a week. When Noah rode over to forcibly bring him to the farm, Doc’s wife said Kinsade was in bed with the flu.
Noah was torn between dragging the old doctor home with him despite the illness and not wanting to bring the influenza home to his family.
So he’d stuck close to the house. He didn’t want to leave Annie alone during the day, and he was mightily pleased to have Betsy there. After breakfast he took the twins and went off in the wagon to mend a fence that the antelope had knocked down, leaving clear instructions as to where he’d be should they need him.
Betsy, with Mary Elinora’s help, stripped and re-made all the beds with fresh sheets, and then hauled and heated water, set up the hand-operated washing machine Noah had proudly ordered from Chicago and spent most of the day washing clothes. It was chilly out but sunny, and the fresh breeze meant the clothes would dry on the outside lines.
The little girls, Nellie and Alice, brought in wood and helped carry baskets of clean clothing from the line to the table for Annie to fold. Betsy let her because it was work that could be done sitting down.
Doing the washing was hard, backbreaking work, and by the end of the afternoon, Betsy was sweaty and tired. Annie made a pot of tea and a batch of oatcakes, and they sat around the table with a jar of rhubarb jam and a dish of butter, enjoying the break. A stew simmered on the stove, and a batch of yeast biscuits was rising for supper, whenever Noah and the boys made it back.
“Someone’s coming,” Alice announced, peering out the window. The little girls raced out the door. Visitors weren’t a daily occurrence, and they were excited.
Annie went to the window and looked out. “It’s your James,” she signed.
Betsy’s heart began to hammer. Washing and pegging clothes had given her lots of time to think about her conversation that morning with Noah. He’d forced her to consider her feelings and reactions in a way she hadn’t before. But she still wasn’t sure he was right—was she using anger and her sense of betrayal to drive James away—because she was so afraid he’d leave her anyway? She hated to admit it, but it was also hard to deny it. Yes, he’d been less than honest with her. But perhaps she’d also been less than honest with herself.
She resisted the urge now to go to the mirror on the wall by the washbasin and fix her hair or sponge off her face. He could see her exactly as she was, hot, sweaty, dishevelled.
A few moments later, James came in, accompanied by the three girls. Nellie was holding his hand. He stood just inside the door, and he spoke to Annie, but his worried eyes were on Betsy.
“Good day, Annie. I hope I find you well?” He swept his hat off, and Alice took it and his coat, hanging them on a peg on the coat rack. “Betsy?”
The look he gave her was a question too complicated to answer. She nodded her head in acknowledgment of his presence, but that was all.
“Come in, James, and yes, thank you, I’m fine.” Annie gestured to the table. “We’re just having tea and scones, please join us.”
Annie brought a cup and a plate to the table, and the girls found cutlery and a chair. Annie poured and handed James the cup and the plate of scones.
James was across from Betsy, and she avoided looking at his eyes.
“The girls and I were just about to feed the chickens, if you’ll excuse us, James?” Annie struggled to her feet, and Betsy could see the little girls complaining that they’d already fed the chickens.
Betsy shot her sister a pleading look, but Annie was already herding her daughters briskly out the door.
Annie was deserting her. Betsy’s heart was hammering against her ribs as if it was determined to break free, but she tried not to show how nervous she felt. She sat with her head down for what seemed a long time before James reached across and gently touched her arm to draw her attention.
“Please, Betsy. Please, sweetheart, we have to talk,” he signed.
Something broke free in her, and she lashed out at him. “You should have told me you were doctor,” she signed vehemently. “First day we met, I asked you. You should have told me then.”
He sighed and nodded, and against her will, she saw how weary he was, how bloodshot his eyes were.
“You’re right, lass. I should have told you. I’m so sorry I didn’t. Will you let me try and explain?”
She didn’t reply, but she waited and watched his hands.
“I told you my sister died in childbirth, my wee nephew along with her.”
Betsy nodded.
“The part I left out was that it was my doing.” He went on rapidly, describing the argument with the other doctor, his certainty that Marguerite had eclampsia, that a caesarian section was the only chance to save her or her babe. He described McFee’s anger and disdain for new ideas, his father and Brian’s uncertainty.
“They finally agreed with me, and I began the operation. But Marguerite had a seizure while I was operating, and my scalpel slipped. I nicked an artery, and she bled to death in seconds.”
Betsy made a sound in her throat, horrified and shocked by what his fingers were saying. He was sickly white beneath the tanned skin. His eyes remained steady on hers, but she could see the anguish in them. “The baby wasn’t far enough along to save. His wee lungs were not developed enough. They both died, and it was my doing.”
He heaved a sigh and went on, telling her of the terrible aftermath, the other doctor accusing him of malpractice, the investigation, the trial. Worst of all was the horror of feeling that his family blamed him for Marguerite’s death, as much as he blamed himself.
“So I ran away, Betsy. I came here to Canada to forget. I told no one that I was a surgeon until I met Black Eagle. God knows why I told him, but I did.”
“His daughter. Her baby. They are alive?”
For the first time, his grim features relaxed and he smiled. “Both alive and well, she has a bonny wee son.”
“You did this same thing, this—“ her fingers stumbled over the word and she shuddered at the very thought of opening a woman’s belly to deliver a baby. “This--- Caesarian—this operation—you did it on her? On Black Eagle’s daughter?”
He nodded. “I did. There was no other way. She would have died, and the babe with her.”
“I am glad. But it was wrong of you not to tell me you are doctor, James. Hurt me very much. I feel you don’t trust me. Now I think I can’t trust you.”
He half rose to his feet, as if to come and take her in his arms, but she waved him away, and he sank back into the chair with a sigh.
“It’s no you I di’nae trust, lass. I’d trust ye with my life. Can ye no understand it’s myself I didn’t trust? I lost my confidence. I lost the certainty a surgeon has to have, the surety that whatever he attempts, he’s doing his best for his patient.”
“And now?” She’d noticed that he’d said he didn’t trust himself before.
“I’ll never forget Marguerite and the babe. I’ll never forget I made that fatal mistake. But I think I can use those memories now to be a better doctor.” He paused for a long moment, and she saw tears shimmer in his eyes. “But without ye as my wife, Betsy, my life will be empty. I promise ye I’ll not give you cause to distrust me, ever again. I’ll love and cherish ye all the days of my life. Will ye no forgive me, lassie?”
She looked at him, at the ravages the past days had created. He needed a shave. He needed a wash; there were dirt smears on his hands and down one cheek. He needed to sleep; his eyes were beyond bloodshot, and there were weary lines etched deep beside his eyes and mouth that hadn’t been there before.
