At the New Amsterdam she had already assisted in the setting of a broken ankle; she had debrided and dressed lacerations and burns, recorded temperatures and pulse rates, sterilized surgical instruments, the variety of which was astounding. She gave shots and enemas and emptied her share of bedpans. She learned the names of instruments: bistouries, tenotomes, tenacula, curved and straight scalpels, forceps and bougies and probes. Twice already she had been allowed to assist the circulating nurse during surgeries: one to correct an umbilical hernia, and another to remove a tumor of the breast. Which reminded her, of course, of Sister Xavier, who had been her patient the first time she had come to the New Amsterdam.
She wondered if she would ever miss Sister Xavier the way she missed some of the others, and decided that it was unlikely. In fact every time she asked a question—and she took every opportunity to do just that—she thought of Sister Xavier’s scowl and she had to suppress a grin.
The freedom to ask questions was the best thing of all, better than the kind generosity on Waverly Place, better than the bed overrun by pillows, better than the simple uniform that let her move unrestricted, and the freedom from the bonnet she had never learned to like. She was careful not to overtax people; she portioned out questions, watching for signs of irritation or distraction, and withdrew.
Of course she also sterilized bedpans, folded sheets and towels, ran errands, fetched medicines from the pharmacist in his little warren of rooms, took care of charts, and filed endless amounts of paper, but none of those things bothered her. She wanted to be of help; she wanted to be indispensable, so that no one ever considered sending her away.
When her shift ended at three, she was going to walk to the Woman’s Medical School and present herself to be interviewed as a prospective student. In her pocket she had a sealed letter of reference from Dr. Savard (Anna, as she was supposed to be called outside the hospital). Then she would walk back to Waverly Place and change out of her uniform while Lia and Rosa and Chiara—fourteen years old but just as impetuous and full of energy as the littler girls—interrogated her about her day, half in English and half in Italian. She would help wherever she was needed until dinnertime, and then she would be at the table with all the good people who had taken her in as if she were a treasured niece rather than a stranger who had come to their door without warning.
She wondered when things would start to go wrong.
? ? ?
DINNER AT AUNT Quinlan’s table had never been quiet; she liked discussion and debate, gossip and news of the world, and most of all, she liked stories. Sometimes she told her own. If the table discussion was particularly loud Auntie Quinlan could bring about a magical silence by raising a single finger, which signaled her willingness to talk about her childhood or her years living abroad or her own children.
But this evening they were all lost in their own thoughts. Anna studied the faces around the table one by one, and her attention came to rest on Elise. The girl had been pushing herself at an inhuman pace since she arrived; Anna reasoned that she had finally exhausted her energy, something that would be fixed by an early night. Just then Elise looked up, saw Anna studying her, and dropped her gaze again, as if she had been caught doing something forbidden.
“All right, Elise,” Jack said suddenly. He had been studying her too, it seemed. “What’s wrong?”
“I am perfectly well.” She produced a stiff smile.
“She’s not,” Lia said. “She’s not well, but she wouldn’t tell me.”
“Folks have a right to their privacy,” Aunt Quinlan said. “And we don’t plague people we like and care about at the dinner table.”
“I’m not placking her,” Lia said, sniffing. “I’m worried.”
Elise closed her eyes briefly and then, opening them, looked at Anna directly. She said, “I spoke to Dr. Montgomery at Woman’s Medical School today.”
Anna drew in a deep breath. “Well, that explains a lot. She told you that you’d never make a doctor and to put away foolish dreams.”
Elise’s mouth fell open. “How did you know?”
“Because,” Aunt Quinlan answered for Anna. “Dr. Montgomery says the same thing to every young woman who comes asking about enrolling.”
“She told me I was far too enamored of what little intellect I had.” Anna could smile at the memory, these many years later. “And she was just getting started.”
Elise looked both affronted and relieved. “But why would she say something like that to you?”
“Because I was too enamored of my intelligence,” Anna said. “Small or large.”
Jack said, “Surely not.”
She elbowed him, and the girls giggled.
“If it’s any comfort to you, Elise, the more insulting she is, the more she hopes you’ll succeed and do well. But she’s superstitious.”
Chiara made very large eyes. In a whisper she said, “Maloch, Zio Jack.”
“We don’t allow the evil eye at this dinner table,” Aunt Quinlan said to her. “But if it makes you feel better”—and she tossed a bit of salt over her shoulder—“Dr. Montgomery is protective,” she went on, speaking to Elise. “If she can scare you away, she thinks you didn’t belong in the first place.”
“Oh,” said Rosa. “Like Billy Goat Gruff.”
“Just like that,” said Aunt Quinlan. “She’s daring you to cross the bridge, Elise. Are you going to back away?”
Some color came back into her cheeks. “No,” she said. “Not when I’ve come this far.”