Page 45 of Healing Hazel

“He did.” Dr. Jackson took another deep drink. “‘At least I’m making a difference.’ Those were his last words to me.” He looked up from his hands. “So, Hazel Thornton, in answer to your question, that is why I became a doctor.”

“In honor of your brother.”

“In spite of him.”

“I’m sorry,” Hazel said.

Dr. Jackson’s mouth pulled into a semblance of a smile, and his gaze focused on her. “What of yourself? What made you choose to be a nurse?”

Hazel inhaled as the memories flooded through her mind. “Lucknow,” she said. “The siege.” She saw understanding on his face and was grateful she didn’t have to explain about the sepoy uprising or what had transpired. “We—the women and children—crowded into a small room beneath the residency whenever there was fighting. We cowered there, frightened, hearing the blasts of the cannons and the shots of the rifles. Sometimes we could even hear screams. My father was out there somewhere, and I worried that he wouldn’t get to us, that we would never be rescued.” She realized she’d strayed from the point of her story, and she stopped, brushing her hands over her apron as she considered her words. “Many of the people became ill. Dysentery and cholera, I later learned, and other sicknesses, I suspect. My mother tended to them. When men were brought in, wounded from the fighting, she bound their wounds.

“I was very young, but I followed her, carrying a bucket of water or cloths or bandages—whatever she needed.”

“How old were you?” Dr. Jackson asked.

“Four.” Hazel glanced at the hole in the cake, imagining the boy who made it must be very close to that age.

“My mother was very gentle, very compassionate. I remember her voice; it was soft, musical. She spoke to people who looked frightened or hurt, and by the time she was finished, their fears had turned to calm. I admired that, admired her.” She brushed crumbs off the table. “She died shortly after. Cholera.”

“She would be proud of you.” Dr. Jackson took her hand, holding it under the table.

His touch felt different than it had before, as if by sharing their stories, they’d broken through a barrier, made their interactions more intimate and their physical contact more significant. Hazel’s shiver had nothing to do with the cool mountain air. She moved her hand so her palm pressed more tightly against his and glanced at Dr. Jackson from the corner of her eye. Did he feel it too? The thought that their paths would inevitably separate made her ache. But of course she couldn’t remain. Her father would never permit it. And if Dr. Jackson found out about her panic spells, he’d surely not trust her to care for patients. Hazel sighed. She’d thought the deepest desire of her heart had been to be a nurse, but that was before she’d met Dr. Jim Jackson, and she feared her heart would never recover.

Chapter 14

Once they’d returned from SantaRosa, Jim made his hospital rounds. There hadn’t been an attack for days, and for what seemed like the first time in months, none of the patients required more than routine care.

He stopped in the West ward to speak with Captain Bryant. The bandages had been removed from the young man’s head, and his incision appeared to be healing nicely.

“How is your pain?” Jim asked.

“Constant,” Captain Bryant said. He looked discouraged. “But I don’t want any more medicine.”

Jim lifted the captain’s eyelids, looking close at the pupils. “Is the pain localized, or does your head just generally ache?”

“It aches all over,” he answered.

“And is it worse when you read?”

“Yes. And light increases the pain as well.”

Jim nodded. “I’m afraid your symptoms are all to be expected.” He sat on a chair beside the bed. “You suffered a serious brain injury, Captain. You need time to recover.”

“How much time?”

Jim held up his hands. This type of healing was impossible to predict. “Weeks. Months. In some cases, it could take years.”

Captain Bryant closed his eyes. “There must be some way to speed up the process.”

“I’m afraid there isn’t,” Jim said. He understood the man’s frustration. Constant pain and the inability to do anything other than lay in a dark room was nearly impossible to imagine. “Like with a strained muscle, the best thing you can do for your brain is rest it. Too much activity—reading or even speaking too much—could overexert it, slow down the healing, and make your headaches worse. You should sleep often and rest your eyes, and in the meantime, there is no shame in easing your pain with medicine.”

“I don’t want to develop a dependence,” Captain Bryant said. He balled his fists. “It’s all so blasted frustrating, to feel so completely helpless.” He motioned to the stack of books on the night table. “How am I to live a useful life if I can’t even read a book?” His voice caught, and he turned his face away.

Jim wrote in Captain Bryant’s chart, noting that he no longer wanted the pain medication but to administer it if he asked. He put the chart into the holder at the foot of the bed with unhurried movements, taking his time to give the man a moment to get control of himself. “If I’d been asked when I first saw you on the ground outside the train,” Jim said, “I would have given you less than a twenty percent chance of survival, let alone of waking with a complete memory and full capacity of mind. The fever and the swelling inside your skull made your chances even more bleak.” Captain Bryant didn’t turn back toward him, but he was still, and Jim could tell he was listening. “But somehow, possibly through sheer will, you have surpassed both my expectations and Dr. Laurent’s, and I have no reason to believe that you will not continue to do so.” He patted the captain’s shoulder. “I have known you only a short while, Captain, but I am convinced you will find a way to make a life that is more than useful.”

He left the poor man’s bedside, hoping his words had provided a measure of reassurance. Discouragement was expected, but melancholy would not help the healing process.

As he passed Miss Westbrook’s bedside, he greeted both the patient and Dr. Laurent, seeing the doctor was helping her rise and take up her crutches.

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