“Dr. Savard.” Sister Xavier’s voice was hoarse and brimming with impatience. Anna didn’t expect pleasantries from people in pain, but then again she was glad that Mary Augustin had been sent along as Xavier’s private nurse.
Now she smiled at both of them. “Good morning,” she said. “Come, I’ll show you to your room and you can make yourself comfortable.”
“Comfortable,” sputtered Sister Xavier. “I’m too old for fairy tales, and so are you.”
? ? ?
MARY AUGUSTIN DID what she could to put her very agitated patient at ease, but by the time Sister Xavier was settled in the bed, all color had drained from her face and her complexion was the texture of candle wax.
It was very wrong, Mary Augustin told herself, to be so happy under these circumstances. To take pleasure in an opportunity that existed only because of Sister Xavier’s pain was something she would have to confess, but absolution required repentance, and that was something she could not manage. She had been hoping for this ever since the day in Hoboken when she learned that women could be doctors and surgeons. She had tried to put that idea—that outrageous, impossible, unattainable idea—out of her head, without success.
There was a soft knock at the door and things began to happen very quickly. Later she would have trouble sorting it all out: nurses and medical students came and went, sometimes, it seemed, with the sole purpose of irritating Sister Xavier, which wasn’t very hard to do anyway. Then Dr. Savard came in pushing a cart full of equipment, trailing two assistants behind her.
Under other circumstances the look on Sister Xavier’s face might have struck her as funny, but it was only later that she could smile about it to herself. Fortunately Dr. Savard didn’t seem put out by the tone of the questions that came her way in such rapid fire. She introduced her assistants as medical students and explained the purpose of the different objects on the rolling cart: the stethoscope made it possible to listen to the heart beating and blood moving—Sister Xavier shot Mary a sharp and questioning look, and she nodded.
“And that?” she pointed to a contraption that was quite odd, with multiple arms and pads and bulbs of India rubber. “There’s a needle in there somewhere, I know it.”
“No needles,” Dr. Savard said calmly. “This is a sphygmomanometer—”
“A what?”
“A sphygmomanometer.” She pulled up the single stool in the room and sat on it. That simple act seemed to make Sister Xavier relax.
“Your heart beats to push blood through your arteries. The blood brings oxygen and nutrition to the cells,” she said in a tone of voice that had nothing schoolmarmish about it. “The force of the pulsing of the blood puts pressure on the walls of those arteries. This machine”—she touched it almost gently—“measures that. Your blood pressure.”
“And why do you need to know about my blood pressure?” Sister Xavier was trying to sound irritated, and failing. Dr. Savard had tapped her curiosity and disarmed her completely.
“It’s useful information for a surgeon,” Dr. Savard said. “It will influence the kind and duration of anesthesia we use.”
“Anesthesia?” Sister Xavier grabbed onto the word. “Anesthesia?”
At that moment Dr. Savard seemed to realize the source of Sister Xavier’s agitation.
“Did you think you would be awake for the procedure?” Dr. Savard said. “I should have made clear to you, and I apologize.” She turned to her assistants.
“Bring in one of the gas-ether regulators, please,” she said. “So I can explain the way it works to Sister Xavier.”
13
“SO,” MARONEY SAID, sliding into his desk chair and leaning back with his hands behind his head. “I see you got a private letter this morning.”
Jack let out a whistling breath. “Here,” he said, and tossed it onto Oscar’s desk. “Read it yourself.”
It was the path of least resistance, Jack told himself. Maybe he should have done this weeks ago, and saved himself the henpecking.
“Mezzanotte,” Oscar read aloud, and paused to raise an eyebrow in Jack’s direction before he went on.
Sister Mary Augustin will be here in the hospital for the next three or four days looking after a patient from the convent. Today between one and three would probably be best if you want to talk to her. Ask the porter to send for me, and I’ll arrange it.
“She signed it ‘Savard.’” Oscar looked at the back of the sheet of paper as if he’d find some explanation for such oddness there. “From this it sounds like she doesn’t like you much.”
“She likes me just fine.” Jack’s tone said that he would entertain no more questions in that direction.
Which Maroney ignored. “Is that so? And what about you?”
Jack picked up the newspaper and snapped it open. “I like me fine too.”
“Ass,” Maroney said. “What’s this about a nun?”
“She’ll make it easier to get answers at the Foundling.”