The Stars Are Fire(28)
Warm becomes hot, and a line is crossed. Grace stands, unsure. Should she go to Dr. Lighthart or should she try to take Claire’s temperature herself? She lays the back of her hand against her child’s forehead. She doesn’t need a thermometer.
At the threshold to the doctor’s office, she pauses. He’s fallen asleep on his desk, pushing a manual so close to the edge that Grace is amazed it hasn’t fallen.
“Dr. Lighthart?” she calls.
The man rubs his face, and the manual falls to the floor. He checks his watch. Twelve-fifteen, Grace knows from the big clock in the room where Claire is sleeping.
He stands, his white coat wrinkled, and follows Grace. “She’s hot,” she says.
He feels the skin under Claire’s arm. “She certainly is,” he agrees. “When was the last time she had aspirin?”
“Maybe seven-thirty?”
He fetches a brown glass bottle in a cabinet. “Wake her and see if you can get her sitting upright.”
The doctor crushes the aspirin in a spoon, then fills it with water. “Do you want to do this?” he asks.
“Yes,” she says.
Grace lowers the slats and takes the spoon from the doctor while he props Claire up. She gently rubs the back of her finger against Claire’s cheek. The child opens her mouth—the trick never fails—and Grace gets as much of the medicine into her as she can.
“Give her a second to digest that, and then we’ll start the whole routine again.”
“The ice bath?”
“I know of a father who ran out the door of his house and plunged into the snow with his eight-month-old son. Saved the kid’s life.”
“A fellow who’s the husband of one of my patients brought me a plate of turkey,” Dr. Lighthart says, “and stuffing and potato. He apologized for the lack of cranberry sauce, explaining that the bogs had boiled. Needless to say, I was grateful. To make up for the sparse dinner, the guy produced a pumpkin pie. ‘Missus had an extra’ was how he put it. I don’t know about you, but I could sure use a slice of that pie right now.”
“Thank you.”
While he’s gone, Grace gazes at Claire and tries to guess his age. Thirty, thirty-five? The white coat might make him look older than he really is, but there’s a certain gravity in the face. She wonders why he wanted to exile himself to such a backwater area when, as a young doctor, he might have been drawn to a city hospital.
He returns with the pie, two plates, forks, and napkins. Touching Claire again, Grace watches as he cuts two large pieces.
The first bite of pie makes her close her eyes with pleasure. It might be the odd circumstances in which she’s eating it, but she thinks the pie the best she’s ever had—it’s a dark pumpkin, tasting of mace.
“This is delicious,” she says.
“I have to do a better job of remembering patients’ names. I didn’t recall the man’s wife’s name, but I could see her face as clear as day. The next time I see her, I’ll thank her on your behalf.”
For the first time all evening and night, Grace smiles. “And not yours?”
“When I saw you last,” he says after a time, “you were pregnant.”
“I lost the baby.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. You have had a rough go of it, haven’t you?”
“I won’t deny it.”
“First things first. Let’s get this pretty little girl well.”
Grace collects the dishes and the silverware and walks with unsteady steps to the kitchen, a long narrow room with a white wooden counter. She covers the pie and puts it into the refrigerator, which is filled with medicines and two bottles of milk. For babies? For coffee?
She locates the dish soap and sponge and washes the few items they used. She dries them with a towel and folds it neatly on top of the counter.
She has trouble with the bathroom lock, though she can’t see the need of it. Her hands shake so much that she can barely get her girdle down. When she sits, she examines her fingers, which tremble even when she clamps them together. Her face is wet with tears. She tears a length of toilet paper to wipe them off, a useless gesture since she then begins to cry in earnest. She knows she can’t stop—it’s the simple act of being alone, of closing a door. And perhaps it truly is the cumulative loss, one after another, but the tears feel different—purely physical, pure release—and when she is done, she feels better, though there has been no change in her circumstances. She puts herself together, washes her face and hands in the sink, dries herself with a towel, and stands back to examine her face in the mirror. Her eyes are swollen, the whites pink. Dr. Lighthart will know that she has been crying. Well, what does it matter? What has she got to hide now?
He has a pad of paper on his lap and a pen in his hand. Making notes.
He’s smiling when he looks up at her, but the smile fades. “What happened?”
“Does anything more need to have happened?”
He closes the notebook, clips the pen to his coat pocket. “She’s fine for the moment,” he says, “but the fever may climb again. We’ll see.”
“You should get back to your work. We’ve taken up too much of your time. Besides, you need to sleep.”
“I think you need to sleep.”