Rebellion by Molly Patterson

Author:Molly Patterson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2017-06-05T04:00:00+00:00

By Tuesday morning, Louisa had resolved that they needed a doctor. She sent Bert into town and he came back with a neighbor and the promise that Dr. Reynolds would follow within an hour or two. The neighbor, Mrs. Moeller, was no substitute for the doctor, even though she imagined herself one. She had never once consulted the services of a medical man; it was a waste of money as far as she was concerned. Inside the house, she took off her jacket and hung it on a hook by the door. “You’ve gave him honey?” she asked, and Louisa told her they had. Then Louisa took her into the living room.

Herbert was standing by the bed where his brother lay. Even from where she stood, she could see that Joseph’s lips had taken on a bluish tint, but his fever was high; she’d felt his head only a few minutes before and laid a cold cloth across it that was still in place. She stood now at a distance of six or eight feet, suddenly unwilling to go up to the bed.

Mrs. Moeller squatted down next to Joseph, edging Herbert away. “Go on and cough,” she instructed.

Joseph stared up at her with exhausted suspicion. No one was making him better, not even his own mother, and this neighbor was telling him to do the thing that hurt. For a full half minute he wouldn’t cough, but then it happened on its own and went on for some time. Herbert had a cloth at the ready and stepped forward to catch the globule of greenish phlegm when it came at last. “He’s been bringing up gunk since last night,” Louisa said, biting her thumbnail, “whenever he gets a fit like that going.”

Mrs. Moeller stood. “No doubt the doctor will know better what to do. But for my part, I’d say you attend to the fever and it will take care of itself.”

It was midafternoon before Dr. Reynolds came rolling up the lane in his black carriage with its high, narrow wheels. He was a large man with a bullet-shaped head, who walked as if he were continually stumbling forward and whose eyebrows, naturally angled down toward the nose, gave him a look of disapproval. Children tended to be frightened of him. He’d come out to see the family once before, and poor polite Herbert had hidden his face in Louisa’s chest.

Now the doctor took his bag from under the seat and climbed down into the yard. “It’s your youngest who’s got sick,” he said.

“My youngest son,” she corrected. “I have a daughter who’s younger.”

Dr. Reynolds nodded and gazed at her from beneath his bushy brows. “And where’s your man now?”

“Working. Do you want me to get him?”

“Oh, no, that ain’t necessary. If he’s busy, you know.” The doctor shook his head and said, “Let’s see the boy then.” Brusque, but as if it came from kindness. A doctor couldn’t afford to be tenderhearted.

As they passed into the house, Louisa told him of Joseph’s symptoms.

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