The Grass Widow Read Online Free PDF
Author: Nanci Little
gave him leave to go on. “When did she take sick? I know she was in town yesterday.”
“Yesterday afternoon, before dark.” She glanced at the stove and bit her lip, as if the teapot shattered across its surface had meant much more to her than someone else’s china. “I’m terribly afraid for her,” she said softly.
He ventured a step into the room. “I don’t mean to question you,” he said gently, “but all of this steam—”
“My father is a physician” —a faint smile twitched to her, there and gone— “Doc to his townsfolk. His specialty is ailments of respiration. Have you heard of hydrotherapy? It has enjoyed some success in cases of pneumonia and bronchial influenza. I knew nothing else to do to try to save her.” She sank to a chair at the table, resting her head in her hands for a moment before she looked up. “But I’ve forgotten my manners,” she said wearily.
“Please sit down, Doctor. I fear I can’t offer you tea.”
“I’m terribly sorry I frightened you. I’ll replace the teapot at soonest.”
“You mustn’t even think to. My clumsiness isn’t your obligation.”
“It is when I caused it, and no matter. Please tell me about your hydrotherapy. I’ve heard of it, of course, but not for this.”
“Autopsy of such patients shows that their lungs are stagnated with blood, and so congested with mucus that—in effect—they drown. The steam is lighter than the mucus, and helps separate it when inhaled so all may be expectorated. Thrice daily, woolen pads are boiled, wrapped in a dry cloth, and applied to a chest protected by a towel. When the fomentation cools, the chest is wiped with a cold cloth, and another pad applied, until three applications, which creates reflexive increase of circulation, relieving stagnation. Oil of eucalyptus stimulates expectoration of bodily poisons—clove will work as well—and I beg of you, Doctor, don’t approach her with leeches.”
“I’m no Philadelphia doctor.” He saw the dry flicker of her smile before he applied himself to thinking through what she had said. It was so simple he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it himself—but, he supposed, discoveries sat under all noses, patiently awaiting the one that might sniff them out. “Damn!
Begging your pardon, Miss, but this town has buried fourteen we might have saved, all loved and lost for want of naught but more modern medicine. It makes sense, your hydrotherapy.”
“Save the fifteenth.” Her voice was gentle, her utter weariness showing. “My Cousin Joss means more to me than you could possibly imagine.”
He could imagine. Effie had said the girl was with child, and Effie had a gossip’s vicious eye for such things; it was a common enough reason for Eastern girls making sudden visits to distant kinfolk in the west. And her father a physician? Why not a simple abortion and be done with it? If needs be and she allows, I’ll send her home relieved of this burden. She hadn’t even had time for a proper toilette, he knew: her clothes had been but lightly brushed, her hair hastily re-pinned; she wore that pinched, contained look of gritty efficiency women got about their mouths when their lives went to hell all at once.
“As she does to me, Miss, so help me more. What of food?
Liquids?”
“All you can force, but only when the patient is lucid; there’s danger of choking. Good fat chicken stock, spiced with oregano and sage, garlic if you have it, onion if not. The steam and spices help break up fluid in the lungs, and the fat gives strength if the patient can’t accept meat. Food is fuel; fever burns it. If the stove goes out, you’ve lost your patient.”
“But you’ve no chicken on to stock.”
He meant no offense, but her response held a privileged chill:
“I’ve experience in neither catching nor killing chickens, sir.”
“I’ve plenty of experience in both. Do please allow me to deplete the Bodett brood.”
And they both had the same
“Yesterday afternoon, before dark.” She glanced at the stove and bit her lip, as if the teapot shattered across its surface had meant much more to her than someone else’s china. “I’m terribly afraid for her,” she said softly.
He ventured a step into the room. “I don’t mean to question you,” he said gently, “but all of this steam—”
“My father is a physician” —a faint smile twitched to her, there and gone— “Doc to his townsfolk. His specialty is ailments of respiration. Have you heard of hydrotherapy? It has enjoyed some success in cases of pneumonia and bronchial influenza. I knew nothing else to do to try to save her.” She sank to a chair at the table, resting her head in her hands for a moment before she looked up. “But I’ve forgotten my manners,” she said wearily.
“Please sit down, Doctor. I fear I can’t offer you tea.”
“I’m terribly sorry I frightened you. I’ll replace the teapot at soonest.”
“You mustn’t even think to. My clumsiness isn’t your obligation.”
“It is when I caused it, and no matter. Please tell me about your hydrotherapy. I’ve heard of it, of course, but not for this.”
“Autopsy of such patients shows that their lungs are stagnated with blood, and so congested with mucus that—in effect—they drown. The steam is lighter than the mucus, and helps separate it when inhaled so all may be expectorated. Thrice daily, woolen pads are boiled, wrapped in a dry cloth, and applied to a chest protected by a towel. When the fomentation cools, the chest is wiped with a cold cloth, and another pad applied, until three applications, which creates reflexive increase of circulation, relieving stagnation. Oil of eucalyptus stimulates expectoration of bodily poisons—clove will work as well—and I beg of you, Doctor, don’t approach her with leeches.”
“I’m no Philadelphia doctor.” He saw the dry flicker of her smile before he applied himself to thinking through what she had said. It was so simple he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it himself—but, he supposed, discoveries sat under all noses, patiently awaiting the one that might sniff them out. “Damn!
Begging your pardon, Miss, but this town has buried fourteen we might have saved, all loved and lost for want of naught but more modern medicine. It makes sense, your hydrotherapy.”
“Save the fifteenth.” Her voice was gentle, her utter weariness showing. “My Cousin Joss means more to me than you could possibly imagine.”
He could imagine. Effie had said the girl was with child, and Effie had a gossip’s vicious eye for such things; it was a common enough reason for Eastern girls making sudden visits to distant kinfolk in the west. And her father a physician? Why not a simple abortion and be done with it? If needs be and she allows, I’ll send her home relieved of this burden. She hadn’t even had time for a proper toilette, he knew: her clothes had been but lightly brushed, her hair hastily re-pinned; she wore that pinched, contained look of gritty efficiency women got about their mouths when their lives went to hell all at once.
“As she does to me, Miss, so help me more. What of food?
Liquids?”
“All you can force, but only when the patient is lucid; there’s danger of choking. Good fat chicken stock, spiced with oregano and sage, garlic if you have it, onion if not. The steam and spices help break up fluid in the lungs, and the fat gives strength if the patient can’t accept meat. Food is fuel; fever burns it. If the stove goes out, you’ve lost your patient.”
“But you’ve no chicken on to stock.”
He meant no offense, but her response held a privileged chill:
“I’ve experience in neither catching nor killing chickens, sir.”
“I’ve plenty of experience in both. Do please allow me to deplete the Bodett brood.”
And they both had the same