The Pull of the Stars(40)

Dr. Lynn set a rubber block on the ceramic table. This improves access to the abdominal cavity. Can we manage her between us or will I go fetch an attendant?

She had the far ends of the sheet gripped in her hands.

Childishly, I couldn’t bear to stand there alone in the underlit vault while she stepped out. So I said, No bother.

I seized the near corners and braced myself. The small woman was heavier than I’d expected. My back tightened; I arched it a little to relieve it. The two of us got Ita Noonan onto the ceramic and rolled her to one side, then the other, to remove the browned sheet and set the rubber block along her spine.

A little pink leaked out of her nose. I dabbed it away.

The doctor was already rolling the surgical lamp across the floor. She trained its light on the body and clicked it up to its very brightest.

I began to undo the tapes of the nightdress; I lifted and tugged. Rather ashamed to bare Ita Noonan so to the air.

I stationed myself across from Dr. Lynn with my fountain pen and paper.

She murmured, Livor mortis, the blue of death.

She put her fingertip to Ita Noonan’s livid arm, which went white at the spot. After twelve hours, she remarked, it’ll stay blue even when pressed.

I pointed out, The body doesn’t seem stiff yet.

That’s due to the cold down here, Nurse.

Really?

It may sound rather back-to-front, but it’s the metabolic processes of decomposition that cause rigor mortis, whereas a low temperature slows down decay and keeps the cadaver soft.

Purple was pooling in patches on Ita Noonan’s shoulders, arms, back, buttocks, the backs of her legs. Bruising above her elbows from where I’d tried to revive her. (So often we had to mete out indignity on a body in a vain attempt to keep it breathing.) Dr. Lynn let out a breath. What a wreck. Practically toothless at thirty-three, and that huge leg must have given her constant pain.

I considered the devastated terrain of Ita Noonan’s belly, which had been pushed up from plain to mountain a dozen times.

Did you know, said the doctor, we lose half again as many lying-in cases here as they do in England?

I didn’t.

Mostly because Irish mothers have too many babies, she added as she unrolled her blades. I rather wish your Holy Father would let them off after their sixth.

I almost laughed at the image of Dr. Lynn—Protestant socialist, suffragette, republican firebrand, in her mannish collar and bluestocking glasses—demanding an audience with Pope Benedict to press her point.

She glanced up as if to check I wasn’t offended.

I said, Ready, Doctor.

Now, I don’t think we’ll chance a cranial cut, as they’re hard to cover up.

I was relieved; I’d helped peel back a face before, and it was one of those sights I wished I could unsee.

Dr. Lynn’s finger rested on Ita Noonan’s hairline. This weird flu. I’ve seen it start with thirst, restlessness, sleeplessness, clumsiness, a touch of mania—then, afterwards, a blurring or dulling of one or more senses…but alas, none of this shows up under the microscope.

I volunteered: For a few weeks after my own dose, all colours looked a little grey to me.

Then you got off lightly. Amnesia, aphasia, lethargy…I’ve seen survivors with shakes and others frozen to living statues. Also suicides, far more than the papers will admit.

I asked, They do it in the delirious phase?

Or long after, even. Hadn’t you a patient jump to his death last week?

Oh. (I felt gullible.) We were told he’d slipped from an open window.

Dr. Lynn set her scalpel by Ita Noonan’s left shoulder. I’ll start the trunk incision here and the family will never spot it. God bless the work.

I watched the skin part in a deep, clean arc under the limp breasts. Barely a trickle of blood.

She murmured, Never easy when it’s one’s own patient.

I wondered if by one she meant herself or me.

If you don’t mind my asking, Doctor, with your interest in research, why aren’t you on staff at one of the big hospitals?

Her thin lips twisted wryly. None of them would have me.

She cut straight down from breastbone through navel to pubis, finishing the capital Y.

I was offered a position some years ago, she added, but their medical men shied away from the prospect of a petticoated colleague.

I knew it wasn’t my place to comment, but…Their loss!

Dr. Lynn nodded to acknowledge that. She added crisply, And on the whole, my gain. Shifting my tent has let me encounter and study all the ills that flesh is heir to.

She snipped on, adding, Besides, I’d have been cashiered by now anyway for my commitment to the cause.

My face was suddenly hot. I’d assumed the doctor would keep a veil drawn over her other, underground life. Since she’d brought it up, I made myself ask, So it’s true, then, that you were with the rebels on the roof of City Hall?

She corrected me: With the Irish Citizen Army. I took over as commanding officer when Sean Connolly was shot putting up the green flag.

A silence.

I said unevenly, I got some experience with gunshot wounds during that week.

I’m sure you did, said Dr. Lynn.

A woman who was with child, a civilian, was brought in on a stretcher and bled out before I could stop it.

Her tone was sad: I heard about her. I’m sorry. One of almost five hundred killed that week, and thousands injured, mostly by British artillery.