“Two full years,” Mary Augustin said. “And then I was assigned to the orphan asylum at St. Patrick’s, just before this new hospital opened. I haven’t been back since.”
Anna told her, “It’s been a while since I’ve been here too. I’m looking forward to touring the hospital.”
Over his shoulder Jack said, “Where do we start?”
Mary Augustin looked surprised at this question. “Everything at the Foundling begins and ends with Sister Mary Irene,” she said. “Nothing happens without her approval.”
? ? ?
THERE WAS A cradle in the vestibule of the main building, one Jack had heard about but never seen. A cradle like any other, at first glance, but for as long as the Foundling Hospital had existed—first on Twelfth Street and eventually in this out-of-the-way spot—there had been a cradle like this one where anyone could leave an infant, for any reason. Young girls without husbands, women with too many children to feed or no place to sleep, distraught husbands and fathers, anyone of any faith could leave an infant here to be taken in by the Sisters of Charity. Most of them didn’t identify themselves, and few ever returned to reclaim their children.
There were other orphanages for those who didn’t want their children raised Catholic, but it was Jack’s guess that for many, baptism was not too high a price for what they got in return: a place to leave a child and know it would be well taken care of.
They followed Sister Mary Augustin through a set of doors and down a hallway to an office where a young nun sat at a desk, copying out a passage from a book with medical illustrations. The conversation between the sisters was so quiet and brief that he had no idea what was happening, beyond the fact that they both left the office without a word of explanation.
Anna immediately bent over the book on the desk to look at it more closely. “Earlham and Jones,” she said. “Childhood Diseases.”
“You sound doubtful.”
She tore her gaze away from the book to look at Jack in surprise. “Not at all. This is a standard text, though the edition is quite out of date. She’s reading about damage to the inner ear and causes of deafness. Many children are written off as idiots because nobody thinks to check their hearing.”
“I’m familiar with that,” Jack told her. “My sister Bambina—the youngest—didn’t speak until she was three. Everybody thought she might be deaf, but then one day when we were eating she turned to me and said that if my fork touched her plate even one more time, she would stab me in the hand. And she said it so clearly and with such passion, there was no doubt she meant it. We all sat there with our mouths hanging open.”
Anna liked this story, he could tell by her smile.
“I think Bambina and I would get along,” she said. “But her name doesn’t suit her, does it. Baby?”
“Baby Girl,” Jack corrected. “It’s not all that unusual a name in Italy.”
She was trying not to pull a face. “But it doesn’t suit an assertive woman who stands up for herself.”
“You’d rename everyone if you had the power,” Jack said.
“No I wouldn’t. Your name suits you.”
“And your name?”
She gave him a half grin. “It is a solid, no-nonsense, appropriate name for a physician who happens to be a woman.”
Then Mary Augustin was back. Jack noted how animated the little sister was, as if this were a long wished-for homecoming. Which, he supposed, it must be, for her.
“Sister Mary Irene can see us in an hour. I’m supposed to give you a tour in the meantime. If you’d like?”
To turn down this offer would have wiped the smile from Mary Augustin’s face, and so Jack followed the two women out into the hall.
? ? ?
AT THE DOOR of the new children’s hospital Anna paused to gather her thoughts. Small infirmaries like this one were sometimes well run, but most she had come across failed the most basic test: strict adherence to antisepsis procedures as developed by Pasteur and Lister. The sisters were excellent housekeepers, but the first outbreak of measles or diphtheria would make the difference between a thorough dusting and maintaining a sterile environment painfully obvious.
At the opening of the door they were met with the familiar smells of carbolic acid, rubbing alcohol, vinegar, and potash soap. It made Jack wince, but to Anna it was familiar and comforting both.
The hall was wide and high-ceilinged, and the large windows were fitted with screens. All in all, a pleasant, bright, airy setting superior to most hospitals, including the New Amsterdam.
Sister Mary Augustin said, “There’s a separate department for the contagious and two small surgical suites. I need to find the charge nurse.”
Then she went off once again, and they were left waiting outside a ward. Jack turned to Anna.
“What illnesses would they treat here?”