—Quillan
AS THE SLANTING RAYS of thin spring sunlight faded to gray, Carina held Quillan’s hand and prayed. “Il Padre Eterno, hear me, please. I beg you for his life. I surrender all claims to his love, to any love. If my wickedness, my selfishness has brought this evil on him, forgive me.” What if she had not asked to go home? Had left her family when she saw their hearts were hard? What if . . . ? Oh, so many what-ifs.
Mamma brought her minestrone and bread. The steam was pungent with tomato and turnips and cabbage and beans, savory with bacon and onions and basil and thyme, hearty and wholesome. But Carina shook her head. Her body floated in limbo with Quillan’s. How could she eat, how could she sleep when Quillan balanced between life and death, fever rising and consuming him.
The heat of his hand sent her heart rushing with fear. His eyes were hollowed pits, his flesh bruised and crusted with scabs, incidental injuries that would have mattered except when compared to the snapping of bones and crushing of organs. He was a shadow of his former vitality. Carina had never seen him sick, not even a sniffle. He had never complained of aches nor weariness. To see him reduced to this . . .
Was it kinder for him to die? If he were lost to her anyway, should she plead so desperately for his life? But that was her own sorrow speaking. Wouldn’t Quillan want to live? Dabbing his lips with a cloth and trickling water onto his furrowed tongue, she felt hollowed by grief until there was nothing left.
Papa checked him every two hours, even all through the night. He changed the poultice, which was all but steaming on the incision. He gave him more morphine to keep him unconscious while his body became an inferno. He removed the blanket, then the sheet, and bathed Quillan’s flesh with cool cloths. Unlike the followers of Benjamin Rush, Papa did not believe in a fever victim sweating out the toxins. But Quillan’s skin was dry, so no natural perspiration was cooling the heat that built inside. Nor did Papa bleed him as so many would. Besides, Quillan had lost enough blood on his own.
Carina watched and helped, scarcely taking her eyes from Quillan’s face, listening for each labored breath. In the morning, Mamma came with a small cup of strong espresso and cream. Carina drank it. She refused, however, the warm crusty bread with honey from Giuseppe’s bees.
“Eat it, Carina. What good is it for you to waste away?”
“I couldn’t keep it down.” And then when Quillan’s fingers quivered, she returned to her vigil, bread and Mamma forgotten.
Vittorio and Papa consulted. If the fever raged out of control much longer, they would open him up again and search for infection, cutting, cauterizing, and treating with carbolic acid again. The skin of Quillan’s belly was fiery red, but there was little pus or smell, so Papa was hesitant to interfere.
“Every surgery has both the possibility for good and great harm, Vittorio. We must balance the hope with the risk.” But he removed the bandage, treated the incision again with carbolic acid, and poulticed it. He did not rebandage it. They kept the sheet folded down from Quillan’s waist to leave the wound open to the air.
“That’s best for now. Let’s see what his body does today.”
It did nothing but burn, and though the fever rose no higher, it subsided not at all. Quillan lay as though dead, sapped by fever and lulled by morphine. His breath was shallow now with a slight wheeze. Papa raised Quillan’s head with a second pillow, but feared to move him more than that. He held vigil with Carina, reading from one scientific text or another and continuing his ministrations.
Carina’s eyes grew heavy with exhaustion. In spite of her fear, she could not hold them open. Her head nodded, then dropped to her breast. Papa’s hand restored consciousness, but he only said, “Go to bed.
I’ll wait with him.”
She looked into Papa’s careworn face. Could she trust him? They had been at odds from the day she returned, and Quillan was the center of the conflict. But looking at him now, she had to believe Papa was expending himself to the best of his abilities. She nodded and went upstairs. Sleep engulfed her almost before she had undressed and fallen in a heap to her bed.
Burn, burn, he was burning. The fire had caught and filled him. His flesh melted from his bones. His tongue cracked. His throat ached. How long could he burn before he was consumed? Eternal flames. He could burn forever. No!
Quillan heard voices, but there was something wrong with the words. They were different somehow, yet he imagined he knew what they meant. Not all, though. Some were just sounds, interspersed with the others. Fever—bones—dangerous—cool, not cold—keep him tied—might awaken soon—no, no fire—we must keep the air pure.
Air pure. He was burning, yet he smelled no smoke. Did he imagine meaning in the strange words, and what was it that was wrong with them?
He swam closer to the surface. Eye motions—not long now—pain—no more morphine. Morphine? That word had sounded right, different from the others. And then he realized the speech was Italian.
A jolt of panic sent fire through him. He fought to open his eyes. But they were as immobile as the rest of him. He had tried to shift, or thought he had. None of his limbs would move, nor, he was fairly certain, would his head. At least nothing responded to his efforts. Had he really tried, or did he just think he had?
It was too hard to figure out. He was so tired. There was something else, something demanding to be recognized. Pain. Yes, there was pain.
Starting down the stairs the next morning, Carina saw Father Esser leaving the treatment room. Panic nearly took her legs from under her.
Had Papa called him to give last rites? Was Quillan dying? Or dead?
She flung herself down the stairs as the priest passed through the back door.
She ran down the hall and crashed into the sickroom gasping, “Quillan!”
Papa spun, splashing the bowl of water down his front, and stared at her. “Santa Maria!”
With inexpressible relief, Carina heard Quillan breathing, strained and thick but not rattling and, God forbid, not stopped. And then another terrible thought occurred. She stalked inside. “Why was Father here?”
“Shh.” Papa frowned, looking behind him. “Do you want to wake him?”
Carina lowered her voice but not the intensity. “Papa, why was Father here?” Though she was willing to live without Quillan if God wished it, she would not stand for their marriage, their love to be called invalid.
“He brought me a letter.”
“What letter?” She would not be put off so easily.
“From someone you know.” Papa set down the bowl, grabbed a cloth, and wiped his shirt.
From someone she knew? To Father Esser? “From whom?”
“Father Charboneau.”
Carina’s heart jumped. “Father Antoine! What did he say?”