More Than a Dream (2 page)
Had Dr. Gaskin’s mind wandered? That seemed to be happening with more frequency since the death of his extremely capable wife and best friend, Helen. She’d had that wonderful gift of making everyone around her feel better for the visit. Elizabeth knew that as much as she missed Helen, Dr. Gaskin had nearly gone down with grief, even to overuse of the bottle. So what brought him by today?
‘‘I talked with Dr. Johanson.’’
‘‘Oh.’’ Dr. Johanson was the new doctor,
new
meaning he’d only been in town four years instead of growing up in Northfield. From what she’d heard he was building a practice that was beginning to support him, his wife, and their two children. Not that there wasn’t plenty of work in town for two doctors, but people were stubborn and didn’t take quickly to someone new.
Come on.
Tell me what’s on your mind. I’m wasting precious time
. Sometimes being polite took more strength than fighting for a woman’s life in the wee hours of the morning.
‘‘And he agrees with me.’’
‘‘I see.’’
No, I don’t. Talked to him about what?
‘‘We agree that between us we could train you to be a doctor as well as any medical school could. He says he’s learned most of his medical knowledge since he went into practice anyway. You could assist in surgeries, and we’d make sure you got every possible opportunity. You know that. Why, you’ve already operated, set fractures, birthed babies, diagnosed all kinds of ailments. You go to school and you’re going to be taking steps backward.’’ His tone intensified and he leaned forward. ‘‘Besides, there’s all the guff you’ll have to take. Too many of those teachers don’t want women in medicine. They don’t think women are capable.’’
Elizabeth listened beyond the words. She knew he wanted her to take over his practice one of these days, and she also knew that he wanted what he thought was the best for her. Dr. Morganstein had offered her the same opportunity at her women’s hospital in Chicago, where she had spent six weeks working herself to a stick the summer before.
But my, oh my, I learned a lot
.
‘‘Will you think about it?’’ He tried to keep the pleading out of his voice, but his eyes gave him away.
Elizabeth sighed. To say she’d think about it just to make him feel better seemed more like a lie than a comfort. She looked up from studying the cup she held in both hands, her thumb hooked through the handle. Right now the forget-me-nots her mother had painted so carefully didn’t help. ‘‘I have thought about studying with you—I’ve thought about it a lot. I could do that and take more training with Dr. Morganstein too. So why am I so convinced that medical school is the best way for me to go? Is it a dream? Is it because I like a challenge? I know that I love school—the classroom, the competition, the discussions.’’ She set her cup in the saucer balanced on her knees. ‘‘I know one major thing. If I worked here with you, I would probably never have a chance to dissect a cadaver so that I really learn nerves and muscles and the internal organs. I want to know what the brain looks like, and the lungs.’’ She paused and rubbed her chin. ‘‘But do I need all that, or is it my insatiable curiosity that drives me? As you’ve so often said, medicine is changing all the time, and there are more changes to come. It seems to me that the more I know, the better a doctor I can be. Am I way off the path?’’
‘‘No, lass, I don’t think you are off the path at all. And you are right, I—we—cannot give you all that. Your Dr. Morganstein cannot either. But know that if you can’t get into the school you want, you have an alternative.’’ He set his saucer and cup down on the tray. ‘‘And now that I’ve given you even more to think about, I’ll let you get back to your studies. Sure do wish one of these colleges here in town had a medical program. You’ll let me know when you find out anything more?’’
‘‘Of course. Other than Mother and Father, you’ll be the first one I’ll tell.’’ She showed him to the door and took his hand before he stepped outside. ‘‘Thank you, Dr. Gaskin. I appreciate all you’ve already taught me. Without you I’d be a neophyte, most likely without the courage to even dream.’’
‘‘If I hadn’t encouraged you, most likely you’d be playing piano on the concert stage and making your mother extremely happy. Tell Cook thank-you for the cookies. She had no idea I was coming, yet she baked my favorites.’’
‘‘I will thank her for you.’’ Elizabeth watched him stride down the walk to the street, where his horse dozed in the shade of a huge maple. How much easier it would be to just give in and stay at home. She pushed her newly cut fringe up off her forehead. One of her slight rebellions and a mistake in this heat. Back to her books. She trailed one hand along the banister as she climbed the stairs, counting each one just as she had done as a child. Birds sang outside, calling to her through the open windows. The grand piano in the music room begged for attention, since she hadn’t played for over a week. Sitting at her desk, she studied three pages, realized she had no idea what she’d read, and read them again. She got up and made a trip to the necessary, returned to the books, got up and stood by the window, and watched the shadow leaves dancing on the lawn.
‘‘Elizabeth Marie Rogers, get back to work! This is downright silly. You have no time to waste, and you’re acting like a three-year-old.’’ She made a face at herself in the mirror and sat back down at her desk. She puffed upward to fluff her fringe. It would be cooler down in the study. She gathered her books and papers and trudged down the stairs, taking the seat behind her father’s desk. Three more pages, actually the same three pages.
‘‘Oh, you’ve come down here. Can I get you something?’’ Her mother paused in the doorway.
‘‘No, thanks.’’ Now Elizabeth remembered why she had stayed up in her bedroom.
‘‘It’s nice out in the backyard. I think we’ll have dinner out there. Cook has made chicken salad, one of your favorites.’’
‘‘That’s nice.’’ Elizabeth kept her finger in the text and gave her mother the kind of smile that said,
Thank you for your concern, but
please go away so I can study
.
Annabelle took the hint, and again Elizabeth had no one to blame but herself for her preoccupation as her thoughts meandered once again from her textbooks. What was happening with medical school? Dr. Gaskin had opened the basket of snakes she’d been trying to keep contained. She abhorred worrying, but at times like this it snuck out, snagged her by the stockings, and wouldn’t let go.
I don’t want a medical school that teaches only
theory. I’ve already had plenty of lectures and I can read books on my
own just as well. I want to learn all that I can firsthand
. That would include dissecting a human body, more than one if possible, and studying with a group of students, learning from and with one another. Such training would be superb. She’d read somewhere that the human body was the best teaching tool for anyone who wanted to be a first-rate physician. That same article had mentioned that artists sometimes learned anatomy the same way for their paintings.
She’d also read about the scandals of grave robbers digging up the newly buried and selling the bodies to medical schools or to others who wanted to buy one. Some states had passed laws to prevent grave robbing, but like anything else, the thieves had to be caught first. The only other source of cadavers was criminals or indigents who died without someone claiming their bodies.
The cooler room didn’t help her to concentrate.
Why hadn’t she allowed her mother to bring her something to drink? Leaving her books on the desk, she wandered toward the kitchen, stopping by the grand piano to trail her fingers over the keys. Playing the piano had always comforted her when sad, calmed her when excited, and soothed her when restless. Like now. She sat down and let her fingers find their own song. Rippling waters, singing birds—the notes flowed and danced in a breeze of their own making. After about ten minutes, she held the final note and laid her hands in her lap.
But instead of rising, Elizabeth opened a piece of music she’d been working on. It was a sonata by Chopin that she had struggled with. She couldn’t seem to master the intricate fingering. Taking the first six measures, she played it through slowly, setting the metronome to count the beats. And played it again, changing the emphasis. Liking that better, she played it through four more times before going on to the next several measures. She concentrated solely on the music, listening for the meaning, for what she wanted it to say. Note by note, rest by rest, the effort erased everything else from her mind. Her hair loosened from the bun she’d pinned into place, perspiration trickled down her spine, and yet the music beckoned her on. After playing the entire piece through again, she took a deep breath and nodded with satisfaction as the final chord faded.
‘‘Dinner is ready.’’ Cook stood in the doorway. ‘‘I didn’t want to disturb you. It’s out on the verandah.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’ Elizabeth smiled, feeling cleansed from the inside out. ‘‘I’m famished.’’
‘‘Good. Thorliff Bjorklund came by a bit ago, and now he is out visiting with your mother.’’ Cook started to leave, but spoke over her shoulder. ‘‘You might want to fix your hair first.’’
Elizabeth raised a hand to find curls dangling over her ears. ‘‘Thank you. I’ll be out shortly.’’ She trotted up the stairs wishing she had time for a real washup, just now aware of her dress sticking to her. Jehoshaphat, her gold-and-white cat, lay curled in the middle of her bed and yawned, showing teeth and tongue when she blew into her room. He uncurled in the way of all felines, arching his spine and stretching limb by limb. Elizabeth stroked his back and cupped her hands around his face, dropping a kiss on his pink nose.
‘‘Here, I’ve been working away, and you’ve spent the morning snoozing. What shall I do with you? Were there no mice to chase?’’ The comment made her smile. Jehoshaphat had no more idea what to do with a mouse than she did with a crochet hook. She washed, changed into a green-and-white gingham dress, brushed and tied her hair with a green ribbon and, humming, made her way back down the stairs. Amazing what learning a new and complicated piece of music did for her mind. Right now she wished she could go back to studying. But soon, after all, Thorliff needed to go back to work too. And he had final exams same as she did. Just that his weren’t the last ones before graduation.
‘‘And how are you today, Thorliff?’’ Elizabeth said, stepping out onto the verandah. ‘‘Ready for tomorrow?’’
Unfolding his more than six-foot length, he stood and shook his head. Thorliff Bjorklund had come to Northfield, Minnesota, to attend St. Olaf College two years earlier and had started working at her father’s newspaper, the
Northfield News,
in exchange for room and board. Now he wrote for the paper as well and was a trusted employee and confidant of Phillip Rogers. Through shared meals, walks up the hill to college, and working together at the paper, he and Elizabeth had become good friends. ‘‘I brought you a copy of an article I read on women in medicine,’’ Thorliff said with a smile.
‘‘Oh?’’ Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder as he held the castiron chair for her. ‘‘And what is their opinion?’’
‘‘You should stay home and raise children.’’
‘‘Thorliff Bjorklund, then why did you bring it for me?’’ She glared at him, ignoring her mother’s
tsk
of remonstrance.
His arched eyebrow pushed her instant ire up another notch. ‘‘I’ve already read more than enough editorials with that bias, thank you.’’ She shook out her napkin with more force than necessary and spread it in her lap. ‘‘I thought you were planning to keep your nose to the books today.’’
‘‘I was, but your father asked me to bring some things over for your mother, so here I am.’’ He took the offered bowl of chicken salad from Annabelle and helped himself. ‘‘Sounded to me like you were trying to beat the piano into submission. Having a hard time studying?’’
‘‘You have such a way with words.’’ Honey dripped from her words—rancid honey.
His chuckle made her chew on her lower lip to keep from smiling. She didn’t dare to look at her mother, knowing the frown that rode her brow.
Just what I needed. Piano time and a sparring
match with Thorliff
.
She took the bowl and dished up her own salad before passing it to her mother, who had started the basket of rolls around. When she glanced up, she caught Thorliff staring at her, his eyes blue as the skies above and the dappled shade of the oak tree catching glints of gold in his hair. ‘‘What is it?’’
‘‘Nothing. You remind me of my little sister in that dress.’’
Elizabeth could feel a blush start on her neck. Leave it to Thorliff. She sucked in a breath and huffed it out. ‘‘Have you decided what you’ll do when school is out?’’
He nodded. ‘‘Your father has convinced me to stay here so we can put
The Switchmen
out in time for fall.’’
‘‘And your family?’’
‘‘They won’t be happy, but they’ll understand. I warned them of the possibility at Christmas.’’
‘‘Astrid will really miss you.’’ Elizabeth thought of the little girl she’d learned to see through Thorliff’s tales of life in the Red River Valley.
‘‘I know.’’
Elizabeth glanced at her mother, who was shaking her head.
‘‘It’s hard when our children leave home. After having Elizabeth gone so long last summer, I know how your mother feels.’’ Annabelle buttered a roll. ‘‘I so wish . . .’’ She stopped and sighed. ‘‘At least your mother still has others at home.’’
Ah, guilt. How you sting
. Elizabeth and Thorliff exchanged glances.
Why did one person’s happiness so often seem to come at the
expense of another’s?
