Page 28 of Out of the Cold

“I was hoping to speak to Mick.”

Mary’s eyebrows went up, her expression going from general inquisitiveness to skepticism. She stepped back and swung the door wider. “Might as well come in then.”

Maggie hesitated, but she couldn’t lose her nerve now. His sister stared her down, as if daring her to enter, and she picked up her skirts and crossed the threshold.

“I’ll go find him then, shall I?” Mary asked, a bite in her tone. She turned and walked down the hallway without asking her to sit.

Maggie stood in the drafty vestibule, feeling like an interloper. She could hear the clinking of plates from several rooms away, and the low murmur of voices—first higher-pitched women’s voices, then a man’s. Her heart accelerated at such a rate she felt nauseous. Her mouth swam with saliva.

Still, no one came. A baby cried and was comforted. Someone coughed and coughed and coughed. The kind of hacking that cracked ribs. Bronchitis, consumption? She took a step towards the hallway, everything in her wanting to go to whomever it was and listen to their chest, check for fever.

Footsteps again, this time from another part of the house. She shouldn’t be here. They had their own troubles. They didn’t need her coming around, needy and confused. Clearly Mick didn’t want to see her, anyway. She must have been standing here for ten minutes at the least.

She turned to go, her hand on the doorknob. Then she heard his voice.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting. We have our hands full at the moment.”

So formal. She’d never heard him speak this way, and it chilled her more than the cutting wind.

She turned to face him. His dark eyes were on her, but they weren’t smiling as they always had before. She hadn’t realized how she’d counted on his pleasure at seeing her. So this was how it felt when someone withheld themselves. You could feel what you wanted locked away.

But she’d turned the key herself when she told him she couldn’t be what he wanted.

“You weren’t at the shop yesterday,” Maggie said. “I was worried.”

His shoulders slumped, as if he couldn’t retain his defensives any longer. “My mother’s taken ill.”

“What does the doctor say?”

“Pneumonia.” His voice cracked.

This was something Maggie knew about.

“There are wonderful treatments now. If she doesn’t show improvement, perhaps I could arrange for them.”

“Dr. Murphy seemed to think all she needs is rest.”

“That may very well be. Many patients recover with nothing but bed rest.”

“Would you...could you maybe come in and see her?”

“Of course,” she said, the familiar fear and excitement rising in her, the way it always did with new medical challenges. “I’m not a licensed physician yet, so this would be strictly my opinion.”

“But you know things Dr. Murphy doesn’t, isn’t that right?”

The coughing started up again, and Maggie’s ribs ached in sympathy.

“I’m learning the very latest treatments, and not every doctor has tried them, or even believes in them.”

“This way,” he said, heading up the stairs. “It’s not as warm up here, but all the noise downstairs was keeping her awake, so we put her in my room.”

Any curiosity about seeing Mick’s room—an event that would have been forbidden in any other circumstance—was snuffed out by the sight of the sick woman lying on the narrow bed.

She was far too thin, and her cough sounded even worse in close quarters. Mick’s eyes pleaded with her before turning to his mother.

“This is, Maggie O’Connell, Ma. The girl I told you about. She’s going to take a look at you.”

She didn’t have her stethoscope, or any other instruments. She wasn’t remotely prepared, but Mick was counting on her. She could at least make his mother more comfortable.

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