said his father worked too hard and his blood pressure was too high.
“No, no, I’m just a little tense, I guess.”
There was no one in the world whom he could trust more than this friend who was searching him now with inquiring eyes, but he couldn’t, he didn’t want to, talk about Mary.
If only his mind were clear again as once it had been! If only the work were all he had to think about! But he trembled inwardly: trembled at seeing the name of the Meigplant in the weekly paper, forwarded from home; trembled at seeing a patient named Fern, a fat woman with a brogue and abscessed tonsils.
He trembled when the mail came. She sent a card from Lake Champlain:
Visiting here for a few days. Love
. He read it over and over, studying the shape of the words. She wrote in backhand. He wondered what that meant, whether it said anything about her personality. Then a card came that had a picture of an ocean liner. It had been mailed from Cherbourg. He imagined her walking in the rain on a cobbled street. He ached for her. It was a definite physical ache in the chest. One could understand why the ancients had believed that the heart was the seat of the emotions.
His own emotions came close to the surface. He broke off with Harriet, in a scene that he had wanted to keep gentle but that she made angry. His desire for her, for anyone but Mary, had drained away, as if a sluice had been opened.
A tragedy took place in the hospital when one of the nurses killed herself. She had been going with Dan Ritchie, resident in orthopedics; he had promised to marry her, then changed his mind. The horror of this shook Martin deeply. How the suffering must have cut to make a human being want to die! But he thought he could understand it. He felt that he had grown enormously in understanding.
And he was thankful for being overworked. It was the only way he would get through the winter.
What he saw first on the stretcher was a young girl in a tight pink sweater and skirt. It crossed his mind that she looked like a girl who would be named “Donna” or “Dawn.” And on a necklace of cheap beads her name was spelled out: Donna. She had been run over in the rain. Her face was gashed and her arms, which she must have flung out to save herself, had been crushed.
Standard procedure, he thought, accustomed as he was by now to quick judgment and quick action. Neurosurgery later to save the ulnar nerves. Useless hands, otherwise.Patch the face while waiting. Sedation, of course. Local anaesthesia. He called out orders. Black silk. Fine needle.
“This won’t hurt,” he said.
Never did this before. Where to find a surgeon Saturday night? Common sense. Trick is: very, very small stitches. Careful. Careful. Suture. Tie. Knot. Cut. Again. Suture. Tie. Knot. Cut.
When he was finished, the pathetic face was crisscrossed with black silk and he was sweating. He leaned down.
“Donna? I’m all through.”
She was, mercifully, half asleep. “Will my face be all right?”
“Yes,” he said confidently.
The mouth, large and cherry-colored, quivered. “Do you promise I won’t be scarred?”
“I promise.”
“Will I be a cripple, Doctor?”
“Of course not,” he said. And forgive me for the lie because I really don’t know.
They had cut the pink sweater off. Somebody began to cut the necklace.
“No,” Martin said. “Don’t do that.” And he pulled the clasp toward the front to unfasten the beads. They would be precious to Donna.
After she had been wheeled upstairs he kept thinking of her, and the next morning was still thinking of her. Mentally, as was his habit, he constructed her life. She lived in a walk-up and worked in the five-and-ten. For lunch she ate a tuna fish sandwich and a chocolate soda. She stood in line at the funerals of movie stars, chewing gum in wads. He felt an indescribable sadness. Some patients did that to him. What would become of her with paralyzed hands?
Dr. Albeniz was to operate in the forenoon. Martin
“No, no, I’m just a little tense, I guess.”
There was no one in the world whom he could trust more than this friend who was searching him now with inquiring eyes, but he couldn’t, he didn’t want to, talk about Mary.
If only his mind were clear again as once it had been! If only the work were all he had to think about! But he trembled inwardly: trembled at seeing the name of the Meigplant in the weekly paper, forwarded from home; trembled at seeing a patient named Fern, a fat woman with a brogue and abscessed tonsils.
He trembled when the mail came. She sent a card from Lake Champlain:
Visiting here for a few days. Love
. He read it over and over, studying the shape of the words. She wrote in backhand. He wondered what that meant, whether it said anything about her personality. Then a card came that had a picture of an ocean liner. It had been mailed from Cherbourg. He imagined her walking in the rain on a cobbled street. He ached for her. It was a definite physical ache in the chest. One could understand why the ancients had believed that the heart was the seat of the emotions.
His own emotions came close to the surface. He broke off with Harriet, in a scene that he had wanted to keep gentle but that she made angry. His desire for her, for anyone but Mary, had drained away, as if a sluice had been opened.
A tragedy took place in the hospital when one of the nurses killed herself. She had been going with Dan Ritchie, resident in orthopedics; he had promised to marry her, then changed his mind. The horror of this shook Martin deeply. How the suffering must have cut to make a human being want to die! But he thought he could understand it. He felt that he had grown enormously in understanding.
And he was thankful for being overworked. It was the only way he would get through the winter.
What he saw first on the stretcher was a young girl in a tight pink sweater and skirt. It crossed his mind that she looked like a girl who would be named “Donna” or “Dawn.” And on a necklace of cheap beads her name was spelled out: Donna. She had been run over in the rain. Her face was gashed and her arms, which she must have flung out to save herself, had been crushed.
Standard procedure, he thought, accustomed as he was by now to quick judgment and quick action. Neurosurgery later to save the ulnar nerves. Useless hands, otherwise.Patch the face while waiting. Sedation, of course. Local anaesthesia. He called out orders. Black silk. Fine needle.
“This won’t hurt,” he said.
Never did this before. Where to find a surgeon Saturday night? Common sense. Trick is: very, very small stitches. Careful. Careful. Suture. Tie. Knot. Cut. Again. Suture. Tie. Knot. Cut.
When he was finished, the pathetic face was crisscrossed with black silk and he was sweating. He leaned down.
“Donna? I’m all through.”
She was, mercifully, half asleep. “Will my face be all right?”
“Yes,” he said confidently.
The mouth, large and cherry-colored, quivered. “Do you promise I won’t be scarred?”
“I promise.”
“Will I be a cripple, Doctor?”
“Of course not,” he said. And forgive me for the lie because I really don’t know.
They had cut the pink sweater off. Somebody began to cut the necklace.
“No,” Martin said. “Don’t do that.” And he pulled the clasp toward the front to unfasten the beads. They would be precious to Donna.
After she had been wheeled upstairs he kept thinking of her, and the next morning was still thinking of her. Mentally, as was his habit, he constructed her life. She lived in a walk-up and worked in the five-and-ten. For lunch she ate a tuna fish sandwich and a chocolate soda. She stood in line at the funerals of movie stars, chewing gum in wads. He felt an indescribable sadness. Some patients did that to him. What would become of her with paralyzed hands?
Dr. Albeniz was to operate in the forenoon. Martin
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