Page 39 of Healing Hazel

In the East ward, he paused at the now-empty bed where Jakinda had died, and considered what Hazel had said the night before. Jim understood her words all too well. He’d experienced the same feelings with patients he’d believed without a doubt he was meant to heal. There were times he’d felt guided by something larger than himself in the surgery, certain his movements were being choreographed by a divine being. And when the patients hadn’t survived, he’d wondered if it had all been an elaborate work of his imagination. Or possibly he had only his own pride to blame for his frustration. It was extremely arrogant to believe himself a performer of miracles.

In the end, it was Dr. Laurent’s advice that had eased his conscience when he’d come upon Jim after a particularly tragic loss—a young boy who’d gotten caught in the crossfire at Custoza. When the lad was brought to the Red Cross Hospital, Jim had rushed to help him, removing shrapnel from his hip and closing the lacerations in record time. The wounds had been clean, the instruments sterile, but somehow, over the next hours, infection and fever had developed. The boy had died from sepsis within twelve hours.

Jim had stood by the boy’s bedside, searching through the chart, trying to discover where he’d gone wrong, when Dr. Laurent joined him.

“I can’t understand it.” Jim heard the crack in his own voice. “I followed the procedures exactly. I know I did.” He rubbed his eyes.

“Zhen, you can set your mind at ease.” Dr. Laurent took the chart from Jim’s hand and set it on the bed.

“But he should have lived,” Jim said. “I should have been able to save him.” His throat ached with the shame of failure.

“We must allow God to make zhat decision,” Dr. Laurent said. “Or, if you prefer something less spiritual, you may call it fate or providence. We do not control zhese things. A doctor can do no more zhan give his very best effort to the patients in his care. After zhat...” He raised his eyes to the heavens. “It is out of our hands.”

Jim could see the wisdom in his friend’s words even then, but it had taken him years to arrive at the point of believing them. For so long, he’d felt that if he’d only worked faster or arrived earlier or noticed a symptom sooner, he could have saved another life. And each life he’d lost weighed on him.

Gunshots interrupted his thoughts then, sounding in the hills, followed by some blasts, but they didn’t continue into the sounds of a battle. The noises had become regular over the past days, as if the Carlists and the Spanish Army were restless in their camps. Jim could sense a battle brewing.

In the afternoon, padre de Leon returned from his trip into town, accompanied by the priest from Santa Rosa, padre Cavallero. The men had traveled by donkey, and when Jim came to the entry hall to greet them, he could see they were both weary from the journey.

Lucía and some of the other nurses had arrived in the hall before him. The head nurse knelt, kissing each of the men’s hands and receiving a blessing in return.

Jim greeted the men as well, shaking hands with padre Cavallero. “It is good to see you again, padre. I hope Santa Rosa is somewhat recovered.”

“The people of the village are resilient,” he said. “We are very grateful for your help, Doctor.”

“You must be hungry and tired,” Lucía said. “Please, follow me to the kitchen, or if you prefer, I will have supper delivered to you after you rest.”

“It can wait,” padre Cavallero said, waving his hand as if he couldn’t be bothered with such matters as his immediate comfort. “Where is the baby?”

Lucía looked at the other nurses, raising her thick brows in a question.

“I believe she is with Hazel,” Camila said.

“Will you bring the baby to me?” the priest asked. “And once I have seen her, I hope you will spare me a few moments, Doctor.”

Jim inclined his head in agreement.

Lucía flicked her fingers toward the passageways, and Camila and Sofia hurried off down different passageways in search of Nerea.

While the women were gone, Jim brought chairs from the doctors’ office and convinced the priests to sit.

Padre de Leon was particularly grateful. He was not as young as his companion, and the journey had been taxing to his body. He sat with a wince and a groan, rubbing his lower back and muttering that he would prefer to walk next time.

A few moments later, the other nurses returned with Hazel. Her apron was damp and the baby’s hair wet. She must have been giving Nerea a bath.

Padre Cavallero rose when he saw them, holding out his hands. “Ah, there she is.” When Hazel came close, he cupped the baby’s face, kissed the top of her head, then took her in his arms, grinning.

Hazel watched his movements closely, looking very protective, as if she didn’t fully trust the man to hold the baby without dropping her.

Nerea clasped the beads that hung from the priest’s neck, holding them tightly in her fist.

“You look very well, my child,” the priest said, hefting her as if to judge her weight. “Healthy.” He lifted his gaze to Hazel. “You have cared well for her.”

“Not only myself,” Hazel said in her broken Spanish. “We all”—she looked around the chamber at the others—“everyone tends to her.”

“I am very grateful for it,” padre Cavallero said. He turned back to the baby, adjusting his hold so he could see her face. “This, the youngest member of my flock, is a beacon of hope to the village. A sign of God’s love.”

The baby put the beads in her mouth, and the priest laughed, carefully prying them from her grip.

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