When Grace first opened the door of the cabinet behind the desk that contained supplies, there was so much disarray she wasn’t even sure what the cabinet was for. After sorting, she makes a list of necessary items: envelopes for sending out bills, a roll of stamps, paper clips, several new pens, a new ream of paper, and a new ribbon for the typewriter. Finishing that task, she sits before her clean desk. She enjoys her little fiefdom, though she has arranged everything so that Dr. Lighthart and Amy can find what they need without trouble. Grace has become, in five days, adept at diagnosing illnesses. She can spot a patient with pneumonia almost as soon as he or she enters the waiting room: a certain hunching forward, as if protecting the lungs, the awful coughing, and the mouth hanging open, making it easier to breathe. She guesses the children with fevers by their glassy eyes and general listlessness. The pregnant women, even if they aren’t showing, are also readily identifiable: they almost always have hands on their abdomens.
At five o’clock, Grace makes her way into Dr. Lighthart’s office before she realizes she has no idea where the petty cash is kept. Nor can she just take the money without asking the doctor, whom she can’t find at the moment. She lingers at his desk, noting photographs at the edge. One of the doctor with a beautiful blond woman, both on skis, each wearing ski pants and a thick sweater, catches her eye. It must be a girlfriend, she guesses, since the two look nothing alike. Their smiles are exhilarating, their faces flushed.
“You’ve come for your paycheck,” Dr. Lighthart announces as he enters the room.
Grace senses a blush rising from her throat to her face.
“Actually, no,” she says. “I came in to ask for money from the petty cash box to buy supplies. Amy mentioned one, but I didn’t want to look without asking you first.”
He opens the right-hand drawer of his desk, which reveals a familiar sight: papers having been stuffed into it over a long period of time.
“I keep the cash at the bottom in a tobacco tin. There’s not enough in here to tempt a thief. I worry more about the drugs.”
He means the contents of a cabinet, hidden within a tall kitchen cabinet, which can be opened only with a key.
“Well, let’s see,” he says. “I have at least five dollars here. Will that do?”
“I should hope so.”
“I took a look at what you’ve done out front,” he says, searching underneath a pile of papers on his desk. “I’m extremely impressed. How long has it been since your last job?”
She folds her hands. “I’ve never had a job.”
“Really?” he asks, much surprised and looking up at her. His hair needs a comb. “You’ve taken to it like a, well…”
“Duck to water,” she finishes. “I was ready for a challenge.”
“You mean surviving a fire, taking care of your children, and trying to find housing wasn’t challenge enough?”
“Mental challenge was what I meant.”
“I know I have my checkbook here,” he mumbles, frustrated.
Grace can see the checkbook near the edge of the desk in front of her. Ought she point it out? Will she seem too eager to be paid? But what’s the sense of not seeing what’s right in front of her?
She slips it off the surface of the desk. “Is this it?”
She watches while he begins to write out her check, the first she has ever received. But then he stops. “Do you have a bank account?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, let me know when you do,” he says, ripping up the check. He reaches into his pants pocket and removes a large wad of cash. He counts out thirty-five dollars. She feels awkward taking the stack of money from his hand.
“I was wondering,” she says, making a sweeping motion over his desk, “if you’d like me to tidy up your desk and your office. If there are things here that are personal, please say, and of course, I won’t go near them. But I can see from here that there are papers that need to be filed.”
He examines the mound. “I can’t think of anything in here too personal. Did you read the patients’ files?”
“No,” she answers, “no more than their names and addresses really.”
“I want you to. The information doesn’t leave this building, but you should have an idea of the patients’ medical history. Also, if they’ve come from somewhere else and are first-time patients here, please make sure you have the name and phone number of the physician they used to see. Though you’d be surprised how many of them have never been to a doctor. The women have, usually, but not the men.”
Grace nods. “I’d better go. I have to get those supplies.”
“You won’t be able to get them now,” he notes, checking his watch. “Nor before you come in on Monday. Do you know how to drive?”
“I do,” she says, “but I don’t yet have a driver’s license.”
He smiles. His teeth are white. Only children, in her experience, have such white teeth. “I’ll send you out on Monday morning in my car. You can get the supplies and your license in the same trip.”
“And open a bank account,” she adds.
Dear Rosie,
I’m guessing by now that you know that we survived the fire, that Gene didn’t come back, and that I lost the baby I was carrying. It was born dead, which was a great sadness to me, but I’m determined not to write about sorrow in this letter. I’ve had enough of it. The good news is that my mother and I and Claire and Tom have moved into Merle Holland’s big house on the water, ending our homeless period. There was a fellow squatting in the house when we got here, though that’s not a fair thing to say. He inhabited the house. Seeking shelter from the fire, he saw a piano in the upstairs turret and headed for it. When I entered the house for the first time, I heard music and discovered that the man was on the second floor playing the piano. He left us when he learned that he had an audition with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. We haven’t seen him since, so I gather he got the job.
My other news is that Claire came down with scarlet fever, and as a result, I drove her (yes, Rosie! I can drive a car!) to a clinic, where there was a doctor who successfully diagnosed her and cured her. After the pianist left, and it became clear that if I didn’t find work our little family would starve, I went back to the clinic and asked for a job as the receptionist. The place was busy when I entered, and they hired me. There’s a thing going around here that’s a form of pneumonia, due to smoke and ash inhalation during the fire. It’s pretty serious, so I thought I might mention it in case Tim shows any signs—a bad cough, listlessness, loss of appetite. But since I can’t imagine Tim not eating, I’m pretty sure he’ll never get it.
Oh, Rosie, my life has changed so much in three months, you would hardly recognize it as the life I had with you. I work, my mother takes care of the kids, we live in what you and I would have called a mansion. I’ve met new people—well, a few—and I feel different. I wish I could explain in depth what I mean, but that wouldn’t be something a woman could put in writing, if you catch my drift. I hope I haven’t shocked you.
One benefit of living in Merle’s house (me in Merle’s house—can you imagine? She’d be spitting out the nails of her coffin!) is that if Gene does make it back, he might search for us here. Worse, as far as Merle is concerned, is that I have raided her closet. Rosie, you would have shrieked if you’d seen it! It’s filled with very expensive dresses, fifty at least, and five fur coats. I wear her mink hat all the time. I can’t imagine where she wore all those clothes to. I certainly never saw them, but of course when she was coming to our house or we there, which hardly ever happened, she always wore something plain. I imagine she thought herself slumming or that one of the kids would spit up on her. I never liked the woman, and she certainly never liked me, but I admit I felt like a thief raiding her closet. I feel less so now because I really do need the clothes. My mother sews and knits all her free hours, but she loves doing it, so I don’t try to stop her. One night this week I came home and saw the children in a dress and in overalls made from a navy corduroy skirt I’d seen in Merle’s closet. We don’t touch the beautiful clothes, though sometimes I wonder why not. She’s certainly never going to wear them again. If I was ever asked out somewhere nice, I think I might choose a dress. But a working mother with two children is never going to be asked out, is she, so I don’t think I need to worry about it.
I try to picture your life in Nova Scotia. I have a bad sense of geography, but I think it’s part of the Maritimes, yes? Can you see the water? Is it beautiful? Are you all living in one house, or have you and Tim managed to find your own? Please tell me about the kids—they grow so fast. You wouldn’t recognize Tom, and Claire is already a string bean. My mother makes long hems in her dresses so that she can let them out.