Chasing Secrets

  The egret lifts its pterodactyl wings and takes off, its thin legs dangling behind. And there—just beyond the bird—I see a broken oar in the reeds. I trudge through the muck, tug the paddle pieces from the mud. There is one about the right size! I wash it in the bay, the water sloping into my boots. Then I run up to the house to boil water. Papa makes me boil everything.

  On the porch, I notice a spittoon, along with small cages of animals. Mice, squirrels, a raccoon.

  In the back room, Papa has clean sheets and towels around Mrs. Jessen. He’s talking to her in that comforting way he has.

  Caroline is huddled in the corner of the front room, her brown hair matted with snarls and snot, her eyes wide. A pulse beats in her small forehead. My father says a patient must have faith in you. But how do you earn trust? If Caroline is anything like the girls at school, I’m in big trouble.

  “You’re going to be fine,” I say.

  “Get away,” she spits.

  Papa has his hands full with Mrs. Jessen. If Caroline runs from me, there’s no way I can get the metal form with the gauze mask over her nose so that I can pour the chloroform one drop at a time. Papa instructed me precisely how to use it—chloroform can be deadly.

  I move closer. Her arm hangs like a Z. How can an arm look like that?

  “You ain’t a doctor.” Her whole body caves around her arm, protecting it from me.

  “I can do this. I’ve done it before,” I lie.

  “Leave me alone. My father’s a policeman,” Caroline kicks out at me, her foot catching air.

  “Calm her down,” Papa calls from the back room. “Then give her the chloroform, carefully!”

  Caroline cowers behind an old loom. “Stay away.”

  My eyes search the house for clues about her. Then I remember the animals on the porch. “What is your raccoon’s name?”

  She won’t answer.

  “Is your papa a policeman in Larkspur?” I ask.

  “San Francisco.” I can barely hear her over her mother’s moans. Tears flood Caroline’s eyes.

  Then I understand. Caroline is more afraid for her mother than she is for herself. I know how that feels. For a split second I feel a sting, because Caroline’s mother is here with her and mine is dead. Then I whisper, “He won’t hurt her.”

  Caroline quivers. “He’s hurtin’ her now!”

  “She’s having a baby. It hurts a lot. But he’ll help her. He knows how.” I work at making my voice comforting.

  The tears spill down Caroline’s cheeks, making pink lines in her dirty face. “No,” she hiccups, her shoulders convulsing, but her eyes are watching me.

  “Yes,” I say. “It’s always this way. It’s painful when the baby comes.” I try to sound calm. I’ve never attended a childbirth before, but I know this much.

  Caroline eyes me. “God’s doing this to her?”

  “No. God’s taking care of her. Some things in life just hurt. But your mama’s in good hands now.”

  I sense her agreeing with me more than I see it.

  “My papa is a good doctor. He’ll bring her through this.”

  Her eyes absorb this.

  “He will. He’s delivered hundreds of babies. He knows what he’s doing,” I say as I pray for a normal birth.

  She nods. The hand of her good arm creeps forward, finger by finger to touch me.

  I take the last step to her, wiping the hair gently from her face.

  We’re up half the night, pulling a small person out of Mrs. Jessen, which is like getting a boulder out of a pickle jar. Impossible…but somehow it happens.

  After my father finishes cleaning the afterbirth, the creature looks more like a baby and less like a gnome. Papa says they don’t cry much the first day, but this baby’s cries pierce holes in my eardrums. My father isn’t right about everything.

  Mr. Jessen is home now, out back chopping wood in the morning light. Mrs. Jessen and the new baby, Thomas, are sound asleep. I was asleep, too, curled up in a chair, when Papa woke me. “We have to get going, or we’ll owe another day’s charge for the buggy.”

  Mr. Jessen is a big man with a hearty handshake. “Much obliged, Lizzie,” he tells me when he comes through the door, bringing in the smell of chopped wood.

  “Looks like you got yourself some help there,” Papa says, and nods toward the back bedroom.

  Mr. Jessen grins. “Gonna be a while before I can get much work out of him.”

  “True enough, but he’s got a fine set of lungs. I can vouch for that.”

  “That he does. Thanks, Jules. I know it’s a slog for you to come all the way out here. But given what’s been going on in the city, the farther away the better.”

  “Something I should know about?”

  “Restaurant down on Sutter stinks to high heaven. Got incense burning to mask the smell. Finally opened up the wall. Eighty-seven dead rats in there.”

  Papa rocks back on his heels. “Any explanation?”

  “Rats dying in a wall…happens. It’s the quantity that bothers me.”

  Papa sighs. “Could be anything.”

  “I know it. Keep your eyes open. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “I sleep with them open.”

  “I’ll bet you do.”

  —

  Before I leave, I check on my patient, Caroline. She’s sleeping peacefully, her hair fanning out over the pillow, her arm set on the broken paddle piece. Jing’s bandages are rolled neatly around her arm, anchored by her thumb. Not bad for my first broken arm. I only wish Caroline went to Miss Barstow’s. I imagine her telling the other girls. This would impress them, wouldn’t it?

  I climb into the buggy, badgering Papa with questions. “How was I supposed to know how to set a broken arm and calm a terrified little girl?”

  Papa’s long legs search for a comfortable spot in the cramped buggy. He has to duck when going through doorways and punch extra holes in the stirrup leathers to make them long enough for his legs. I hope I don’t get that tall.

  “You figured it out, though, didn’t you?”

  I can’t help smiling. I like being good at this. “Why are you teaching me? Billy was supposed to be the doctor.”

  “Why are you learning?”

  “There are no girls in medical school.”

  “There are a few.” He smiles tenderly, taking a lock of my hair and putting it on the right side of my part. “You did well.”

  I soak this up.

  “Just don’t forget that everybody reacts to chloroform differently. Always pay close attention to the small things.”

  “Are there charts that tell you exactly how much by age and by weight?”

  “Yes, but don’t be a slave to charts. You don’t want to be one of those physicians who operate with an open atlas before them.”

  “I’m to operate now?”

  He flashes a boyish smile. “Not this week.”

  I know what he’s saying, but what if I make a mistake? Too much chloroform can kill a person.

  “Does Dr. Roumalade have charts?”

  Dr. Roumalade is the doctor for people who live on Nob Hill. He makes house calls, like Papa does, but he also has an office, with a room just for people to wait. You have to be a high-muck-a-muck to see Dr. Roumalade. If you’re a railroad king and get sick, he’ll move in with you until you get well.

  “Yes, but I’m certain he uses his eyes and ears more than his charts.”

  I bet he doesn’t get paid in blackberry jam and hand-woven blankets, the way Papa does. It’s easier to get your fee if the outcome is good. For his healthy baby boy, Mr. Jessen probably gave Papa a few dollars besides the jam and the blanket, but I don’t know for sure. Grown-ups don’t give straight answers about money.

  “Why is Dr. Roumalade Aunt Hortense’s doctor, not you?”

  “It would be awkward,” Papa says.

  “And what was Mr. Jessen talking about, anyway? Eighty-seven rats dying.”

  “Hygiene is not what it could be in some of our
eating establishments.”

  “But so many!”

  “I’ve got my hands full worrying about human diseases. I can’t keep track of rat ailments, too, Lizzie.”

  —

  After the boat ride through thick wet fog, Jing appears in front of the Ferry Building.

  I scurry ahead of Papa and climb up into the buggy behind Jing. “How’d you know what ferry we’d be on?”

  “Magic,” Jing says, and smiles. His eyebrows move an awful lot. They tell you more than his lips.

  The buggy rocks as Papa climbs in. He slides his bags under the seat.

  “Does Dr. Roumalade travel as much as you do?” I ask.

  “Nope.” Papa gives me a dry smile. “He sends inconvenient patients to me.”

  Jing slaps the lines, and Juliet leaps forward.

  “Everything okay at home?” Papa asks as we pass a mule and wagon. Hee-haw, the mule warns; we’ve come too close.

  “At home, yes, sir. But Chinatown is under quarantine.”

  “Chinatown.” Papa shakes his head.

  I watch up ahead, where a policeman on horseback manages the overflowing line of people waiting for the cable car. “What’s the quarantine for?”

  “The plague,” Papa says.

  “The plague? Right, Papa.” I laugh.

  “It’s true. The fact that nobody’s seen hide nor hair of it is apparently beside the point. A lot of Sturm und Drang for nothing.”

  Jing nods, but I don’t. What is Sturm und Drang?

  “Why is the quarantine happening, then?” I ask.

  “Just the word shakes everybody up. Plague victims die a hard death.”

  “Do they all die?”

  “Death rate is fifty percent. Nearly wiped out Europe during the Middle Ages.”

  “Is it because of the rats?”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions, Lizzie. You know better than that.”

  “There must be some reason they think we have the plague.”

  “There was an outbreak in Hawaii. But there hasn’t been a single confirmed case here.”

  “Why did they quarantine Chinatown?”

  “Well…they’re not going to quarantine Nob Hill, now, are they?” Papa winks at Jing.

  Jing smiles.

  —

  Aunt Hortense hurries out the second she sees us, like she’s been watching through the window. Sometimes she looks so much like Mama, it feels like a twist of the forceps on my heart. But when she opens her mouth, she’s Aunt Hortense again. “Thank goodness you’re safe,” she says.

  “Do you think I’d let anything happen to my Lizzie?” Papa asks.

  “Promise me you won’t take her with you for a while,” Aunt Hortense pleads.

  “What are you concerned about, Hortense?” My father’s voice is patient, as always.

  “When was the last time they quarantined a part of the city?”

  “I can’t recall.” Papa climbs down from the buggy after me.

  Aunt Hortense fans her face. “My point exactly.”

  “Is Karl worried?”

  “Not a bit. Look, humor me, Jules. I don’t want to take chances with our Elizabeth.”

  Papa nods. “Of course. She’ll stay home until this dies down.”

  “Thanks.” Aunt Hortense kisses Papa lightly on the cheek.

  “Wait….Papa!” I whisper when we are out of earshot of Aunt Hortense. “We didn’t go near the quarantine today, and we’re not going tomorrow, either, are we?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then there’s no reason for her to be worried. Come on, Papa. What am I going to do at home?”

  Papa slips his spectacles off and cleans them with a cloth he keeps in his breast pocket. “Your aunt does a lot for us. If a small thing like this can make her happy…”

  “But you’re the doctor, and you’re not worried. Why do we have to listen to her?”

  “Because she’s your aunt and she loves you.”

  One word from Aunt Hortense and my whole weekend is ruined. I kick the cobblestones so hard it hurts my toe.

  Saturday morning I hear the snap of Papa’s bags closing without me. I watch through my window as he hurries across to the barn, hunched forward in the foggy morning, a bag in each hand. A few minutes later, the buggy wheels squeak and Juliet’s hooves click, clack on the cobblestone.

  Great. I’m stuck here all day with nothing to do and no one to do it with.

  For a second I wonder what the girls from Miss Barstow’s are doing. Then I come to my senses and take out my journal. I like to write poems, just as my mama did. She wrote a poem about me when I was little. It’s one of the few things I have from her.

  I have a little girl named Lizzie,

  So busy she makes me dizzy.

  She thinks our pets are ill

  And prescribes a doctor’s pill.

  Now our cat’s in a drunken tizzy,

  All because of our little Lizzie.

  I’m glad Mama had a sense of humor, but I wonder what else she thought about me. Too tall? Too awkward? Too many freckles? Would she be happy that I can saddle my own horse and put together the loose bones in Papa’s bone bag to create a skeleton by myself?

  Papa says Mama let me do as I pleased more than Aunt Hortense thought she should. Funny how when Mama was alive, I never thought about her. She was like the back of my head—my parietal bone. Always a part of me. Now I wish I’d paid more attention to her.

  After she died, Billy and I did everything together. We put on magic shows of tricks Jing taught us. I was his assistant. He tried to saw me in half for the neighbor kids. I had to stay rolled up in an apple crate while he sawed away. Other days, I sawed him. We won two sarsaparillas and a bag of butterscotch candy for that once. He taught me how to ride bareback, how to climb, and how to keep from hurting myself when I jump down from the loft. Now Billy is a grouch who won’t even eat supper with us.

  He’s trying to earn money for a horseless carriage, and that’s all he thinks about. I don’t know why he wants a stinky old motorcar when he can have a horse.

  I watch him test a bike he’s repaired. He rides it across the cobblestones, then comes to a skidding halt to check the brakes. He charges a nickel to change a bicycle tire. He will have to change an awful lot of tires to buy an automachine.

  I take John Henry out of his stall and begin brushing him.

  Billy hops off the bike and leans it against the barn door. “Don’t make Aunt Hortense crazy,” he says. Last Thanksgiving, Aunt Hortense caught me riding Juliet in my overalls. She was so mad, you’d think I’d robbed a bank. Papa started taking me on his calls after that to get me out of Aunt Hortense’s hair.

  “I’m just grooming, not riding.”

  He snorts. “I’m taking him anyway. Why are you here? I thought you’d taken my place as Papa’s little helper.”

  “Aunt Hortense pitched a fit, so Papa said I had to stay home. She thinks I’m going to catch something.”

  Orange Tom skulks by. He has dirty pumpkin-colored fur, eyes the color of overripe pears, and a paw with an extra finger.

  Billy goes into the tack room for the harness.

  “Quit following me,” he barks.

  “I’m not following you. I’m walking in the same direction.”

  Billy lifts the collar over John Henry’s head. He can harness John Henry to the wagon in his sleep. It’s harder than it looks. I’ve tried.

  I watch him load the bicycle he fixed into the back of the wagon, climb up, and pick up the lines.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “Nowhere,” he snaps.

  “Gosh, Billy, can’t you at least tell me that?”

  “Nope.”

  —

  In the house, I unlace my boots, slip them off, and slide in my stocking feet to Papa’s library. I kneel on the rug to look at the bottom shelf of journals, searching for articles about interesting diseases. I dream of the day when the girls at Miss Barstow’s come down with cholera and I??
?m the one who saves them.

  I look up the plague. The antidotes are wild. Eat snake, wear camphor or dried toads in a locket, fill an amulet with arsenic, keep your farts in a jar, and take an ice water enema. I look up “enema.” “The injection of fluid into the rectum.” I can’t wait to tell Aunt Hortense.

  Jing has gone to market; tall, curly-haired Maggy whisks the cobwebs from the ceiling of Papa’s library. “Miss Lizzie wishes she could go with Mr. Doctor,” Maggy mutters.

  “I sure do,” I tell her. “What about you, Maggy? What do you wish?”

  She doesn’t answer. What does Maggy wish for? I have no idea.

  There’s got to be something better to do than watch Maggy dust. I take the journals up to my room and keep reading. Maybe if I know all about the plague, I can convince Aunt Hortense there’s nothing to worry about.

  Symptoms, I write. Fever, swelling in lymph nodes, black-and-blue marks, chills, headaches.

  —

  When the clock strikes four, Papa, Jing, and Billy are still gone. Papa is often out on calls for days at a time. I don’t worry about him. Billy comes home late a lot of nights too. But Jing should be back by now.

  I’m reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn yet again when I hear a noise up on the third floor, where the servants live. Maggy Doyle has a way of being everywhere at once, like a dust storm. Still, I thought she was downstairs.

  “Maggy!” I yell.

  Not a sound from up above.

  Could Papa be back? I would have heard him in the barn. Must be Jing. I jump off the bed and head for the stairs.

  Maggy appears in the hall. “Miss Lizzie?”

  “Is Jing home?”

  “No.”

  Sometimes houses just creak. Maggy’s curly head disappears down the stairway, and I go back to reading in my room. But there it is again—more like shuffling than creaking.

  Rats? Mice?

  Orange Tom usually takes care of them.

  I tiptoe down the hall to the stairway that leads to the servants’ floor. The stairs are narrow, dark, and steep, and the stairwell is stuffy.

  The door at the top is closed. I turn the crystal handle, and the door swings open.

  The third-floor hall looks like the second-floor hall, but there’s no furniture, no pictures, and the rug is worn thin. Heat rises, so this floor should be warm, but the windows are wide open. In front of Maggy Doyle’s closed door is a mat, as if this is the outside. Jing’s door has a paper lantern hanging from the knob.